Roadkill, p.9
Roadkill, page 9
Delport was standing at the door, holding a mug. “Here you go, sir.”
“Now we’re talking, Delport! How many sugars you put in?”
“Only four. Like you said.”
“Since when do you listen to me? It’s all horseskak. You go to one quack and he says you’ve got type two diabetes. You go to another and now all of a sudden you’ve got type one. Who do you believe, Delport? Quack one or quack two?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
“None of them, that’s who. Especially if it’s one of those Cuban commies flooding the market. You do know why they’re here?”
“Not exactly.”
“Because they can’t get a job in their own country. And you know why they can’t get a job?”
“Because of unemployment in their home country?”
“No. Because they’re not qualified, that’s why!” Truter tapped his temple. “You have to use this, Delport. It’s called logic thinking.” He drew an imaginary line across the floor. “That’s why I am here, and you are there. You sure you put in four sugars? I can hardly taste it.” He cocked his head to one side. “Am I imagining it, or did you say Lemon Cream?”
“Oh, ja. I’ll go fetch them.”
“Fantastico. And then I say we get off our poepols and do some graft for a change. What you say to that?”
Truter shook the last Lemon Cream from the pack. He took a slurp from his Good Morning Handsome mug, swirling the contents back and forth, savouring the Lemon-Ricoffy sensation.
“Carry on, Delport?”
“I was just saying, it’s incredible you finding Mr Johnson’s running shoe in the veld.”
“Nothing incredible about it. It’s what we call normal police work.” Truter lifted the mug, draining the dregs, and immediately regretting it. There was only one thing worse than cold coffee: cold coffee mixed with sludge of Lemon Cream.
“What’s the next step from here? Must I inform the family?”
“Don’t be crazy, man. Next thing they’ll want to know where the other shoe and the rest of him are. We don’t want to give them false hopes. It’s simple, Delport. We first find the guy, dead or alive, then we inform them.”
“I understand, sir, but it’s just that Brigadier Duminy keeps phoning. I thought maybe we could give them something to show we are working on it.”
“What the! Does the Potch toss think I sit on my gat watching TV all day? Stuff him, Delport. He gets his missing person when he gets his missing person. You understand me?”
“I understand.”
“Good.” Truter stared into the bottom of his mug. “So what else is on the slab?”
“Pretoria also phoned.” Truter clamped down on his jaw. Now what did they want from him? Forever breathing down his neck, watching, waiting, hunting for the jugular. “Sir, I might be wrong, but I’m more and more convinced there’s an undercover investigation going on.” Truter’s guts tightened. What were they investigating undercover? So-called police brutality? Nowadays you had to offer your suspect tea and a slice of milk tart before interrogating him. It had become so bad you weren’t allowed to lay a finger on them if they didn’t cooperate. For fok sakes, whose side was the Commissioner of Police on anyway? “Sir?”
“Carry on, I’m listening.”
“The way I see it, there’s a connection between the stats they’ve been asking us for and the investigation.”
“And what might that connection be, Delport? Besides your overactive imagination.”
“Well, it’s just the type of stats. They are very specific and—”
“Like what?” Truter was already regretting his decision to work with head office on this one. If it weren’t for the prospect of tucking into a juicy Kulula air hostess …
Delport wiped his superior’s coffee dribble off the fax paper. “Like, for instance they want a breakdown of our mortality records by MVAs, pedestrian accidents, deaths in the home, death by natural causes … that type of thing. And then for each of these they want the specifics. Time of death, exact location, race, sex, age, employment status, insurance policy details, which we don’t have. Maybe you want to take a look?”
Truter leant across and patted his deputy on the shoulder. “Delport, do I look like I have time to waste on this rubbish? It’s your baby. You and your paperwork, it’s no wonder you don’t get anything done.” He clicked his fingers. “What else you got for me today?”
“Just a small petty crime issue,” said Delport, reaching under the counter.
“No such thing as petty crime, and don’t you forget it. Today’s petty criminal is tomorrow’s mass murderer!”
Delport moved on quickly. “Jan Dissel was found drunk and disorderly wearing this K-Way jacket.”
“The little bliksem.” Truter hated to admit it but he had become oddly fond of the Dissel brothers. Not that his affection prevented him in any way from applying the full force of the law. “Where’s he now?”
“Working off his babalaas in the cell. He must have taken some bad stuff, because he’s been carrying on non-stop about a dead white man in a caravan.”
“That’s the Blue Train talking, Delport. It methes with your brain. Get it? ‘Methes’ with your brain? I should have been a bladdy comedian. You know how much those guys make? Mega bucks.”
“We could try track down the owner of the jacket, because it comes from one of those Cape Union Mart stores you find in the cities.” Delport peeled back the collar. “It has the name SJ Aldridge.”
“You checked the pockets?”
“Yes, sir. The only thing was a cash receipt from a Wagon Wheels in Krugersdorp. You think it belongs to a tourist?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But who cares, anyway? If it’s a tourist he’s already doer and gone. Did that cross your mind? No, it didn’t, Delport. What size is it?”
“Large.”
Pity, thought Truter. There was no ways he would fit into a Large. “Give me the jacket, because I know exactly what you’re thinking. You’re thinking if Sergeant Truter can sniff out a missing person’s takkie in the veld, he can then sniff out a SJ Aldridge. Not so, Delport?”
24
Cliffie Abrahams woke up feeling like a new man. Not one to dwell on the negative, the last few weeks were already a thing of the distant past. Like his stepdad Norm would have said, it wasn’t about the cards life dealt you; it was how you played the hand. Leaving PE was the best thing he had done, because a fresh start was all that was needed to end the bad run of debt and outstanding warrants. He should have done it months ago.
A warm fuzziness coursing through his veins, Cliffie rolled out of bed, adjusted his morning glory, and strolled over to the window to greet the new day. Rhino Room was a total score, what with its own shower and toilet and view over the back garden. From behind the mesh curtain he surveyed the plunge pool – he would definitely be hitting it later with a couple of cold ones – Meissner’s brak giving its balls a go, and the wifey at the washing line. As she reached over into the basket Cliffie caught a flash of white fleshy thigh; the bulge in his skants stiffened. It was time he took matters into his owns hands. With that, he headed for the shower.
Scrubbed and dressed in his Nashua sales rep outfit – black pants, white short-sleeve collared shirt, black shoes – Cliffie ambled into the dining room, where he encountered Otto Meissner waiting expectantly.
“Tops of the morning to you, Mr Abrahams! How did you sleep?”
“Like a baby, sir. Very comfortable beds you have here.”
“We don’t mess around.”
“I can see that.”
“I hope you have an appetite.”
“That I do.” In fact, Cliffie was ready to chew off the hind leg of a donkey.
Meissner drew an arc across the buffet table. “We have … stewed fruits, corn flakes, guava juice, crackers and cheese, hardboiled eggs, Polony and ham slices, as much toast as you want, mixed fruit and apricot jam, all you can drink coffee and tea. Don’t be shy, my friend.”
“Nice. Very nice.”
“Coffee now or later? … Excellent. Now and later.”
Meissner headed into the kitchen, and Cliffie got to work on the buffet, stuffing his plate and mouth at equal pace. He sat down and assumed position, ready for battle. Meissner came in, set down the mug of coffee and pulled up a chair in front of him. He eyed Cliffie’s loaded plate.
“So, my friend, what’s the plan for the day?” Cliffie shovelled a spoonful of corn flakes into his mouth, buying extra seconds. He hadn’t expected the guy to come out firing so early. “No rush, take your time.” Meissner waited patiently while Cliffie chewed.
“Mind if I steal one of those paper tissues next to you?” Cliffie wiped his mouth, refolded the serviette. “The plan? Well, let me see … First, I must check if my Avis car is sorted, then I think I’ll go to the bank to … to organise my finances. We’ve got some big package tours in the pipeline … with some big deposits that must come in, that type of thing.” Cliffie popped a Salticrax into his mouth, thinking fast. “The American tourists pay top dollar for our Off the Beaten Track tours.”
“Is that what you call them? Very interesting …”
“Like I was telling you last night, they’re mad for this type of thing, especially the Americans. I must tell you, Otto, these prunes with the strawberry yoghurt are damn good.” He stood up. “Time to move on to second course.”
“Now that you mention it, I can actually see it.”
“What?”
“Wealthy Americans arriving in Kombi buses. This area must be perfect for them, don’t you think?”
“Oh, ja, it’s huge business,” said Cliffie, wandering back to the table with his plate overflowing with ham and cheese slices, the leftover boiled eggs, and a tower of white bread.
Meissner seized the gap. “It sounds like a good market for me to get into?”
Cliffie mopped an egg yellow with a corner of bread and popped it into his mouth. He sat back, chewing contemplatively. “A good market? It’s more than a good market, Otto. Every time I think we’ve hit max, a call comes in for another tour. It’s mad.” He pulled out his cellphone – a Nokia 6210 with a crack down the middle of the screen. “Now that you remind me, I must check in quickly with HQ to find out where things are at.”
“Go for it.”
Cliffie strolled across to the bar with his mug of coffee. He dialled his own number, and held the phone to his ear, leaning up against the counter. Taking a sip, he gave Meissner a thumbs-up.
“Morning, Beverley! How things? … Ja, also all good my side. I’ve been made extremely comfortable … What’s that? … Yes, top-drawer people. Unbelievable hospitality. Listen, Bev, I would love to chinwag all day, but is Victor in the office yet? … Well, please put me through.” Clifford winked at Meissner. “You must meet this guy; a total nutcase. Sorry … Hey, Victor! How goes it? … Excellent, excellent… Listen, this line isn’t so good. Can you tell me when my Avis car’s arriving? … That’s not what I want to hear, Victor … You tell them they better get their act together if they want our business … That’s right, tomorrow morning by the latest. And another thing, where are we at with the down-payment from the Belgiums? Has it come through? … Vic, I don’t care about promises; I care about money in the bank. And it’s not like we’re talking huge money. If they can’t afford the two-bar, then they shouldn’t be partnering with us … I’m going to the bank this morning, and I expect to see the cash … Okey-dokes, you let me know as soon as you hear something. I’ll be back in the office by lunchtime tomorrow … Pub lunch at Squires Arms? Now we’re talking, Vic. Anyways, we’ll speak later. Ciao!”
Cliffie strolled back to the table. The guy hadn’t budged – his ears were glowing pink. Like a juicy peach hanging from the tree, he was ripe for the picking.
“Sorry about that, Otto. Where were we, now?”
25
“You hit a cow or something, because this radiator’s dead in its moer, pal.”
The mechanic stood back from the Fortuner, enjoying his moment of schadenfreude.
“Can’t you maybe weld it? Even if it’s just temporary—”
“Do I look like Jesus and his loaves? Come, put your hand under here. You feel that Glenda Jackson crack? You lucky it didn’t unpeel on you like a ripe banana. I won’t even bother charging you for a welding stick.”
“Have you then got stock of new radiators?”
“Plenty, pal.”
Relief flooded Steve Aldridge’s face; there was a God after all. “That’s great. That’s really great. For a moment I was worried—”
“Nissan bakkie? Plenty. Isuzu? Plenty. Tata? Plenty. Toyota Fortuner? Zilch. I have to order it.”
“Are you serious, Mr Swanepoel? But how long will that take?”
The mechanic examined his hands. “What was it you said you hit again?”
“I didn’t actually see it, but it must have been a buck.”
Swanepoel rolled the clump of hair between his fingers. “This is no buck; way too soft … Too hard for a meercat or jackal … Feels more like bladdy human hair.” He held the clump up to the light. “Maybe you’re right, maybe you killed baby Bambi. And you didn’t even stop to see if it was still alive? Hard core. Seriously hard core.”
Aldridge squirmed under the mechanic’s penetrating gaze. “I did try look for it, but—”
“My daughter will have you for breakfast if she hears this story. She doesn’t even eat chicken; I’m talking mega bunny hugger.” Swanepoel wiped his hands on his blue overalls. “If we order the thing today, it’s minimum two days to get here, three hours to fit.” He tapped his head. “That’s if all goes to plan, touch wood. Which is never. You order a O-ring from these idiots? They send you a wedding ring. Then, if the agents get it right, the transport guys cock it up. Why? Because nobody in this country can tell their arses from their ears. My advice to you? Plan for three days, give or take a month on either side.” Swanepoel flashed a jagged row of nicotine yellow at Aldridge. “Anyways, what’s the rush? You’re on holiday.”
“But is there no way we can speed things up with a courier?”
“Speed things up? You think this is Joburg or Bloemfontein where you can get what you want by waving your magic wand. If you want to break down in the country, you must learn the ways of the country.”
“I understand, but thought maybe—”
“This is with a transportation company, sir. What you take me for? Some interbreeding clown playing a banjo. If that’s what you’re thinking, maybe you must take your car elsewhere.”
“Sorry, that’s not what I meant, Mr Swanepoel. I appreciate everything you are doing, I really do. Please order the radiator, and I’ll pay you the full amount now.”
The mechanic softened his tone. “Not to worry, pal. I trust you, and you trust me. You pay me when the radiator arrives.” He rolled his fingers. “You want my opinion? No ways in hell it was a buck you hit.”
Back on the pavement outside Swanie’s Diesel Repairs, Aldridge squinted into the North West glare. Beads of cold sweat trickled down his back. First the open caravan door, now this – it was too close for comfort. What if there was more hair stuck in the grill? What if the guy opened his big mouth to other customers? What if …
Bordered by industrial palisade on one side, burnt veld on the other, the street felt eerie and deserted. Across the road, a crossbreed Alsatian-something on a tight chain eyed him from behind the fence. Aldridge glanced back uneasily. Swanepoel was now standing at the workshop window, talking to someone on the phone. This was most definitely not going according to Tarryn’s grand plan.
Weaving around the potholes, Aldridge quickened the pace.
Three days for the radiator to arrive, maybe longer – there was no ways he would survive three more days of this. His mind was racing, grabbing at straws. There had to be another option. Like, they could hire an Avis car from Pretoria or some other town – an Avis car with a big boot – then drive into the middle of nowhere, take care of business, and only come back when the car was fixed. Yes, they would have to transfer him from the caravan to the boot, but they would do it late at night and make sure nobody saw them. It was risky and terrifying as all hell, but not half as risky and terrifying compared to doing nothing.
Aldridge rounded the corner into unfamiliar territory. Again, he could feel them – the eyes, watching him from behind dark windows. Hurrying on, he stayed close to the shadows of the giant blue gum trees growing out the tar. Up ahead, a green plastic banner draped loosely above the road.
EDENDAL AGRI FEES. 24–26 OCTOBER.
ALL WELKOM! ANNUAL POTJIE SHOWDOWNE! FOOD STALLS GALORE! MISS EDEN!
SAPS DEMO!! MUSIC! BEER TENT! AND LOTS MORE!
To the front he caught a glimpse of the church steeple piercing the rooftops; it meant the guesthouse had to be close by. A horse on the home trot, Aldridge broke into a shuffling jog. He hadn’t run for ages, but that was all going to change when he got home and joined Planet Fitness. He would sign up for their life membership, because that’s how committed he was. Breathing hard, he slowed the pace; Rockies sandals weren’t the best to run in.
He was now back in familiar territory. He recognised the cafe on the left, and the four-way stop where that mangy dog had blocked the road. If he remembered right, the Eden sign was just a bit further on. He suddenly felt hungry, like he could eat one of those thick sirloin steaks dripping in cheese-and-mushroom sauce that they served back home at the Black Jackal. In fact, that’s what he would do – take Tarryn out for a meal on the town. His treat. It would do her good. Help her relax before he unveiled his Plan B.
Up ahead, Eden’s razor wire shimmered under the hot haze. The Jurgens looked lonely and forlorn under the blue gum trees. The knot in his gut tightened. It was pushing it, but if they got their act together and ordered a car from Avis Nelspruit, they could be on the road before midnight; it wasn’t impossible. Because, like that American guy said, IMPOSSIBLE was just another word for I’M-POSSIBLE. Tarryn could make some excuse about her mom landing in hospital. She was better with these things than—Aldridge came to a frozen halt.
