Malgas said, ‘What’s that? Oh Jesus God in heaven! Don’t shoot me!’
Schalk and Bheki looked at each other and burst out of the office to see Porky at the counter waving a gun, Malgas still in the outer half of the shop with his hands up. He saw them and gaped.
Porky was blocking their path. ‘Get out of the fucking way!’ yelled Schalk. Porky didn’t move. Schalk put his hand on Porky’s shoulder. Porky jerked in surprise and the gun went off, the recoil sending him spinning back into Schalk and Bheki. Malgas clicked open the latch and ran.
By the time they reached the street there was no sign of Malgas. They didn’t bother to go after him. There was no point. Trevor Malgas would vanish in an instant into the teeming mass at the station market, be on a bus or train before they reached the end of the street.
Porky joined them. ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing?’ demanded Schalk.
‘Protecting myself,’ said Porky, pouting, ‘just in case. You should know…’
Schalk wanted very much to punch Porky in the face, needed willpower to avoid it.
Bheki went back to the shop. ‘Have a look,’ he said. Schalk, still fuming, pushed past Porky and went in.
Bheki laid out the contents of the suitcase. One Apple MacBook, one iPad, two iPhones and a TomTom, all wrapped in a soft blue woman’s coat. A woman’s handbag, empty except for a couple of tissues. A leather wallet, empty. Two passports, June Fanmeier, 51, and Michael Fanmeier, 56, same address, Toronto, Canada.
‘Hotel,’ said Bheki, ‘probably while they were sleeping. Maybe next time they’ll use the safe.’
Schalk took the passports. Then he turned and, using his big body, forced Porky backwards till he had nowhere else to go; pushed him hard against the shop counter. Brought his face down till it was right up against Porky’s, hissed. ‘I’ll have your balls for this.’
‘What? I didn’t have anything to do with that!’ Porky tried to wriggle out from under. ‘I wouldn’t accept shit like that! Typical police incompetence, blaming innocent people for the hopeless way they do their job. I want my lawyer. Now!’
Bheki touched Schalk’s arm, shook his head almost imperceptibly. Schalk felt very tired.
Bheki said, ‘Mr Goldberg. I don’t think Malgas will return, but just in case, we’re going to watch the shop.’ He stared at Porky, who opened his mouth and thought better of it.
‘These Canadians are going to think South African cops are just wonderful,’ Bheki continued, zipping up the bag. ‘I’ll find out where they’re staying.’
Schalk said, ‘Give me the cameras. You sure that’s all Malgas brought you?’
Porky was still blustering. ‘Yes! What–’
‘This is a murder case, Porky. You an accessory?’ Schalk edged forward again.
‘No, no…’ Porky put the counter between them, piled the cameras on it. Neither Schalk nor Bheki moved. Slowly, Porky extracted a laptop from a drawer, added it to the heap. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I swear.’ He didn’t meet their eyes.
‘Where’s the gun?’ asked Schalk.
‘No gun. There was no gun,’ said Porky. ‘You got to believe me, there wasn’t any gun.’
Outside, Schalk asked Bheki, ‘What was going on there? You and Goldberg in the passport business together?’ Bheki didn’t take offence. He smiled. ‘You really want to know, Captain?’
‘No, probably not,’ replied Schalk.
Strictly speaking, Schalk should have handed the laptop over to the IT guys. But they were new and so far he wasn’t impressed. And he didn’t have the weeks it would take for them to get things done. On the other hand, Maxie Myerson. He could have got a job at NASA so Schalk asked him to take a look. Maxie cradled the laptop like a baby.
Schalk collected his messages from Tiny Qoma; one to call a Sylvia Natinsky. He recognised the name. Sylvia was CEO and founder of SN Security, a big national security firm offering everything from surveillance to bodyguards and much more besides, no questions asked.
He dialed the number and was put through straight away. Sylvia’s voice was pure South African princess, a drawling screech, the sound of fingernails on blackboard. ‘Hiiiii! Thanks for calling baaacck! So I’m talking to the famous Captain Lourens, hey?’
‘What can I do for you, Ms Natinsky?’
‘Sylvia, please. It’s rather what I can do for you. I’ll get straight to the point. I saw you on the news just now, about that farm murder, and it gave me an idea. How would you like to double, triple your salary?’
‘Who wouldn’t?’ So she was recruiting. The last thing he needed was to be a bodyguard. ‘Ms Natinsky, thanks for thinking of me–’
‘You haven’t heard what the job is, yet.’ Sylvia was amused. ‘I’m considering you for a national, senior post with SN Security. You won’t be some low-level guarding rich people’s luggage. If you’re interested, come and see me and I’ll tell you more.’
Wouldn’t hurt to listen. ‘Right. As you can imagine, things are hectic right now. I’ll ring you in a couple of days, say the end of the week?’
‘Sure.’ Don’t leave it too long. Call me! Byeeee.’
He switched off his cell. It wasn’t the first time he’d been approached but perhaps he should take this one seriously. It would give him more time with Elsa, for a start. That what you want? More time with Elsa? Really? He swatted the thought away.
He spent what was left of the day shuffling dockets, Pieterse’s murder front of mind. Nothing new, nothing he could do right now. He was fiddling, avoiding going home. So much for spending time with Elsa. As he started to pack up, Colonel Zangwa rang, talking and clinking of glasses behind her. ‘You still at work? I need someone at an election rally, St George’s Cathedral.’
‘Aren’t there cops down there already? Isn’t Fortune looking after that?’
‘Yes, but it’s our patch. I want someone from our unit. We need to show we’re on top of this so take Sergeant Mbotho with you. Captain Fortune can’t come, he’s with me, at drinks for the ERTF. That’s how I heard about the rally.’
‘The task force? The one supposed to support the election? Wouldn’t it be better if they looked after this…’ Schalk stopped. He was telling Zangwa something she already knew.
On the stairs he ran into Mbotho and Jamal, back from the home invasion. ‘Sergeant,’ he said, ‘with me.’ He’d be able to see her in action and at least he wouldn’t suffer alone.
It was quicker to walk, so they set off down Roeland Street. Schalk told Mbotho to go on ahead. He stopped, turned away to phone Elsa, made the usual apologies, kept it short. He didn’t want Mbotho knowing his personal affairs.
He clicked off his phone and caught up. ‘What’s the story with the home invasions?’
‘Bad,’
