of support. Radebe held up his hand. ‘I understand your outrage. And I want to say one word to you.’ He lowered his mike.
The crowd grew still, on a knife-edge. Schalk and Mbotho were part of it now, shoulder to shoulder, expectant.
Radebe nodded slowly, twice. He returned the mike to his mouth, took his time. ‘That word,’ he said, ‘that word is sorry. Sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry we let you down for so long, we who had in our trust the responsibility of building a country of hope, a country where people help everyone, not just themselves. I am sorry we broke faith with you. Most of all, I am sorry we betrayed ourselves and what we stand for. Because the ANC stands for you, all of you. We stand together with you. We were, and we are your voice, and we lost our way. Now we want to get back to the right path and I ask you to give us a chance to redeem ourselves.
‘If I am elected, the time of corruption is over. Over. Corruption is dead and gone. Not just small corruption, the corruption of petty bureaucrats, but corruption at all levels, in government and in business also. I will not promise miracles – change takes time – but I will promise recovery. I will promise infrastructure, services, a narrowing of the gap between rich and poor. My government will be held to account. We will be transparent. We will hold public meetings, we will make our financial records available to all. We will protect you, your money, your land, your spirit. We will heal your – our – wounds. That is my promise. That is what I will give you, with my words and my deeds.’
He was either the best actor in the world or he meant business, and Schalk inclined to the latter. So did the crowd, all of them with Radebe now, even EFF supporters nodding in agreement.
Radebe held up his mike again. ‘However,’ he said, ‘I remind you I am not here to speak tonight. This is not my platform. That would be most unfair. We have come not to listen to me, but to hear from Reverend Toebroek.’
Radebe bowed slightly. ‘Reverend, we await your message. Please, continue.’ He walked slowly down the steps and turned back to face Toebroek, a general with his army at his back.
Schalk thought he detected a note of amusement. Radebe’d just given a convincing election speech. Handing over to Toebroek was a risk but if it worked Radebe would come away the winner.
The Reverend Toebroek moved forward but at that moment the crowd swiveled towards the sound of vans careening down Wale Street, sirens screaming, lights flashing. The backup summoned by Mbotho had arrived and out of their vans charged the cream of Cape Town SAPS, ready to save the day. When they saw there was nothing to save they joined the throng, turning their faces towards Toebroek.
Toebroek was thrown. He stumbled over an opening sentence. He gathered momentum but there was no electricity. He rambled, about whites being the only ones able to run the country, about corrupt black governments, blacks in general. About how whites were being systematically ostracised, killed even, their murderers allowed to walk free.
‘The conspiracy stretches through the length and breadth of this our country. Even yesterday, just yesterday, one of ours was murdered in his own home, necklaced, just like they do to each other, they can’t control themselves…’
Radebe motioned to a man next to him, perhaps a bodyguard, and left. That was the end of it. People were drawn along in his wake and drifted off in twos and threes to enjoy the late-summer night. The boy with the rifle reappeared and Schalk considered whether to haul him in. It wasn’t worth the pain. He walked through the thinning crowd to where Winnie Mbotho, rolling a cigarette, leaned against the plinth of the Smuts statue.
She didn’t see him until he was close. She glanced at her cigarette, put it in a pocket, smartened up. He grimaced. ‘They kill you, those things. Time to go, sergeant.’ They started the walk back up Roeland Street. Neither commented on the rally.
Gradually the crowd around them thinned. Mbotho was quiet for a while, then turned to Schalk and said, ‘Nothing I can do about it, you know.’
‘About what?’
‘Being black and being a woman.’
Not that shit again. ‘Seems to me,’ he said, ‘being black and being a woman puts you in the front seat these days.’
‘That’s what you think. I just want to let you know I’m not going to make a complaint.’
Schalk walked on, head down. Next to him, Mbotho kept pace, leaned in, held up a forefinger. ‘I’m good’, she said. ‘Very good. I was part of the drug clean-up in Muizenberg.’
They’d reached the corner of Buitenkant Street. Outside the bookshop they came to a natural stop. ‘Listen, Sergeant,’ said Schalk. ‘Nothing against you personally. But I’m in charge of this case, and that means managing a team. You’re part of that team. Not my choice, but there you are. And a team is only as strong as its weakest link. I don’t know you. I don’t know how strong or weak you are. I’m waiting to see.’
Mbotho threw her hands up. ‘With all due respect, Captain,’ she said, ‘with all due respect, my impression is you’re not giving me a chance. You’re writing me off before I can show you what I can do. You’re making me beg for what is my right. And I conclude that is because of my colour or my sex.’
Christ, she was irritating. ‘Did all your senior officers put up with this cheek? Did you talk to all of them like this?’
Mbotho realised she’d gone too far, tilted her head away. ‘No. Only – yes. Sometimes. I just get so, so frustrated.’
‘Not as much as me,’ he muttered. ‘Now come on, Sergeant.’ They walked in silence the rest of the way.
Before he left the car park, Schalk made a call. Nkosi answered immediately. Schalk told him about Trevor Malgas. Nkosi said, ‘Concentrate on Malgas. Keep in touch,’ and hung up.
Elsa was in the front room, watching Australian Masterchef. She didn’t greet him. She was used to his being late, it couldn’t be that.
He put some Dettol on his arm, cracked open a Castle while his food was heating. Then he took the tray in. The program had finished and something else was starting, something with doctors. ‘Switch it off,’ he said, ‘tell me what’s the matter.’
‘Ag, Schalk, I’m just moeg. Tired. Sometimes I think, what’s it for, why am I even here, what good am I to anyone?’
Schalk put his tray down. He’d heard her talk like this before and his heart sank. He hoped she wasn’t starting the slide into what he thought of as her black hole. In his mind he saw an actual hole, a narrow shaft descending into the heart of the earth, Elsa already inside, hanging on the edge by her fingertips, looking up at him for rescue.
Every couple of years Elsa went into a deep and hopeless depression. Twice she tried suicide, twice they brought her back to life. Medication kept her balanced but lethargic, couch-bound, nothing left of the bright, smart woman Schalk had fallen for.
It was Elsa’s black hole that changed Schalk’s life, stopped his life, if he was being honest, dissolved his marriage and took away his friendships, the braais with the rest of the guys, the Klippies and coke after work, the general naughtiness to let off steam. Not that he’d ever been at the forefront of what homicide detectives got up to, but he used to be one of the gang. Used to be, not anymore. Nobody said anything. They must know and pity him, and he hated the thought of that.
Now he concentrated on finding
