first impression was, you needed to get it down before you lost it. He’d nearly finished when Mbotho reappeared. He decided it was now or never, they had to have it out. But she got in first.
‘I wish to apologise,’ she said, fixing her eyes on the wall behind Schalk’s head, ‘I should not have spoken as I did.’
‘No, you shouldn’t.’
He could see Mbotho getting fired up all over again. She controlled it, asked, ‘Are you going to take action against me?’
The station’s equal opportunity process flashed through Schalk’s brain. ‘I’m thinking about it,’ he said. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘I found out about the Black Friday families. And the askaris.’
‘That was quick.’
‘I got it from the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. It’s all on the web.’
‘Start with the askaris.’
Mbotho stayed standing, consulted her notebook. ‘There were three askaris, the ones,’ she added bitterly, ‘who betrayed our people by becoming secret agents for the regime. One of them committed suicide even before the TRC. The other two got amnesty. One of those two died in a car crash last year. It was in the news. The last one, he’s still alive, lives in Khayelitsha. Vusi Modise.’
The name gave Schalk a small jolt. He remembered Modise, the cloth cap, the attitude. Not so cocky at the Commission. Modise gave his testimony softly, in monosyllables, keeping his head down.
Schalk said, ‘Phone?’
Mbotho shook her head. ‘Just an address.’
‘What about the families?’
Mbotho flipped pages. What she had was light on detail. Eight dead boys, eight families. Too much to ask for them to be in the same place 30 years later.
Raj Jamal came bustling up, important. ‘There’s been another home invasion,’ he said to Mbotho. ‘I can see you’re busy. I’ll handle the locals alone.’
Schalk’s cell rang. He held up a finger while he answered. Sergeant Bheki, an address, a pawnshop in Durban Road, Bellville.
‘Go with Jamal,’ he told Mbotho, ‘and keep looking for those families.’
The Durban Road of Schalk’s childhood was changed beyond recognition. They’d lived there, he and his mother, in a flat above the paint shop. The sleepy commercial strip was gone. Now Durban Road heaved and shimmered in the heat, people cramming the pavement in front of table-loads of clothes, cheap appliances, cooking pots, stock spilling onto the street. Signs seemed brighter against a blue sky, Smart Fashion Wholesale/Retailer, Zam Zam Restaurant, Used Camping. The furniture store had become a mosque, the muti shop at the station, where they once played mbaqanga music, had grown into a full-blown market. You could be anywhere in Africa.
Bheki met Schalk outside the pawnshop. ‘How did you know where to go?’ Schalk asked.
‘This place,’ said Bheki. ‘Lots of stuff goes through here, drugs, car parts, other things.’
‘Never heard of it. You let it carry on?’
‘If we shut it down it would just move somewhere else. And the guy owes me. He says he’s got cameras.’
The shop was tiny. Chicken-wire covered the windows, bars covered the wire. Schalk remembered it from before, when it was Goldberg’s Tailoring and Alteration. They buzzed for entry. Inside, the original fittings were intact, oak counter and shelves designed to hold bolts of fabric. Now floor-to-ceiling steel bars split the shop in two, and glass – bulletproof probably – made a hutch at the counter. There was a small hole, big enough for one hand only.
The owner came to greet them. He was short and skinny, hair gelled to a crest at the top of his skull. He was too old for it. In his tight jeans and long pointy shoes he looked like a gnome in a leather jacket. But familiar.
‘Schalk!’ he said, ‘my man! Howzit? I heard you were a cop.’ He came into focus. Evan Goldberg, nickname Porky. Fat boy. Former fat boy. Porky had been in Schalk’s class in high school. Prick then, prick now.
‘Ja, well,’ Schalk replied. ‘I hear maybe you’ve got some stuff for us?’
Porky unlocked a gate in the bars and ushered them through, locked it behind them and took them into the back office where a screen monitored the entrance and the street outside. He saw them looking. ‘Man,’ he said, ‘I been robbed so many times, man, finally put in proper security. Alarms, CCTV too. Country’s going to hell, man, every day something else.’
‘Have you got footage of this guy?’ Schalk asked.
‘Sure.’ Porky took two cameras from a shelf. ‘This is what he brought in.’
‘Who?’
‘Malgas.’
‘You know him?’
Porky looked shifty. ‘No, man, of course not. I had to take his name down. Like I told your friend here…’ Goldberg gestured to Bheki, ‘he said his name was Malgas, he had these cameras. And of course I wouldn’t want to receive stolen goods. But I didn’t know they were stolen.’
Total bullshit, of course. The shop wasn’t made into Fort Knox for the belongings of the desperate poor.
‘How much did you give him?’
‘A thousand rand.’ The buzzer went and all three of them looked at the screen. Standing outside was a thin young man with a small, wheeled case behind him. It was Malgas, even to the lightning-bolt hairstyle.
‘That’s him!’ said Porky. ‘What must I do now? What if he knows it was me who tipped you off ?’
‘How can he know?’ said Bheki. ‘Look at the bag. You can see he’s got things to sell.’ But Porky was hopping from leg to leg. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be right behind you.’
Schalk considered. No cover in the shop. He said, ‘What do you usually do? Let them in with their stuff, to the back?’
‘No, never. They show me what they’ve got. If I need to handle it, I send them outside first. Then I bring it in and then they can come back. You can’t trust these coons.’
Next to Schalk, Bheki shifted, Porky oblivious.
‘Okay,’ said Schalk. ‘We’ll wait in the office. This time you bring him through behind the counter. We’ll come out and take over. Understand?’ Porky hesitated, nodded.
The buzzer went again. Schalk gestured to Porky, who pressed a button. The front door clicked open and the young man pulled the case through. Porky went out.
Malgas said, ‘Morning, boss.’
‘What you got there?’
The camera didn’t cover the shop and Schalk and Bheki couldn’t see what was happening. They heard Malgas zip open the case, say, ‘Look!’
‘What?
