The Top Prisoner of C-Max Read online

  ‘Leave the knife where it lies.’

  ‘Give me the knife and the five hundred and I’ll go and you’ll never see me after this.’

  Ashton threw the small roll of notes across the room. It landed at his brother’s feet and stopped against his shoes. Hall glanced down and, as he did, the driver’s licence card landed next to the money. The dog growled again. ‘Good throw,’ Hall said.

  ‘Pick them both up carefully and get out. Keep away from the knife.’

  Hall picked up the money and the driver’s licence. ‘I’m going to need my knife.’

  ‘Get outa here. When you outside you can have the knife.’

  Hall started towards the hall, but stopped before he reached it. ‘There should also be a message on your computer for me.’

  ‘I printed it out. It’s in amongst the money. You’ll find it there.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Now, fuck off. For two seconds while you in the hall I won’t be able to see you. If you not on the stoep in three seconds where I can see you, I’m coming and this time I will pull the trigger.’

  ‘And my knife?’

  ‘Get outside, down by the gate. I’ll throw the knife.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry. I’m not coming back. I’m never coming back.’ Hall had never forgotten the padlock on the inside of the shed where his brother slept as a teenager or a great many other indications of his brother’s knowledge of him. He did not even pause in the hall. He crossed the stoep and went down the path without looking back. Behind him he heard the little dog’s shrill bark.

  With an effort Ashton rose from the chair and moved to the window. He threw the holstered knife in the direction of the gate where his brother was waiting, but closed the window before it landed. He watched his brother pick up the knife and holster. Carrying them in one hand, he set off in the direction of the city centre. Ashton stayed at the window until he was out of sight around the first corner. It was only then that he became aware of the presence of his wife, next to him. In her right hand she had the point two-two that she usually kept in her handbag. ‘Did you give him the money?’

  ‘Yes, and my driver’s licence.’

  ‘Is he coming back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Any time. We gotto get outa here now. We can go to your sister’s place.’

  ‘For how long, do you think?’

  ‘I dunno. He’ll be back inside in a few months max. Then they won’t let him out again. We gotta stay at Margaret’s till then.’

  ‘Oh God, Ash. Are you sure they won’t let him out?’

  ‘With his record? Absolutely I’m sure,’ Ashton lied. He knew how erratically parole decisions were made and that there was no telling how long his brother would be inside next time. ‘Next time they’ll keep him inside for good,’ he told his wife.

  Ashton’s wife was not convinced. She knew that other criminals may rob you and even hurt you, but they would stop at that. Oliver was different. He would never stop. Nothing would be enough for him.

  TWENTY-THREE

  SOLOMON RIEKERT had been a twenty-five-year-old detective constable back in 1994 when the apartheid government fell. During the early years of transition, he had been a problem to his officers, twice getting into fights with black constables and three times being reported for insubordination by black officers.

  Now, seventeen years later, Riekert was still a constable. He liked to think that this was because the department was now run by a bunch of useless black racists who would never let him get ahead. The truth was different though. He was a man of limited intelligence and deep prejudices that clouded every aspect of his judgement. No sensible management was ever likely to promote him.

  His view of life had made his immediate seniors wonder about the wisdom of giving him Jonas Mahlangu as a partner. It seemed a recipe for utter disaster. At their first meeting Mahlangu appeared to hate Riekert as much as the white man hated him.

  For a few days they barely spoke to each other. Then they were called to a flat where an armed man was holding his wife and children hostage. By the time they got to the scene, he had already opened fire on two uniformed men, wounding one of them.

  Both Riekert and Mahlangu had one quality that other policemen admired, which from that day on, to the surprise of all who knew them, led to something akin to friendship between them. Both were fearless. With Mahlangu leading, they stormed the flat where the hostages were being held, killed the hostage taker before he could decide on a course of action and freed his family. Afterwards the wife told a newspaper reporter that she had been more afraid of those two policemen than of her crazy husband.

  As for Riekert, an aspect of his view of life changed. For the first time he accepted that being dark-skinned did not automatically preclude a man from being a good cop. ‘You’re a fucking good kaffir,’ he told his partner. It was the finest compliment he could come up with. Officers had long since been forbidden to use that word, but all Mahlangu said about it was that he should be more careful, someone was going to get him into trouble if he kept on talking that way. Riekert thought about that, then said, ‘You’re fucking good for a black bloke.’ Mahlangu left it at that.

  Mahlangu was driving when they got the message about a dangerous parole violator called Oliver Hall who may be hiding out with his brother in Jeppe. Hall had been on the run long enough to have reached his brother’s house. A message had come from the deputy commissioner for the province that they should treat it as an emergency.

  Throwing the car into a U-turn that was so sudden several other road-users had to give way in order to save their lives or at least those of their vehicles, Mahlangu’s foot pressed hard down on the accelerator pedal. Five minutes later he braked violently to a stop outside the home of Ashton Hall. Before the car had reached a complete standstill, Riekert was out and running, gun in hand. Mahlangu, who took a moment longer because he had to stop the car and remove the keys, was behind, but not by much.

  The front door was standing slightly ajar. It banged open with the force of Riekert’s shoulder. A woman appeared in front of him, but was swept aside, making hard contact with a wall. At almost the same moment a small white dog hurtled towards him only to be met by the point of his boot. A man was reaching for a gun that was lying on the desk in front of him. Riekert’s revolver crashed against the side of his head and he went down hard, his gun rattling to the floor. ‘Oliver Hall, you bastard,’ he snarled, ‘what does your parole say?’

  ‘I’m not—’ Ashton tried to protest while the action end of Riekert’s revolver crashed against his head a second time.

  ‘Don’t fuck with me, Hall.’ Riekert’s left hand had him by the collar while his right brought the gun down again just above Ashton’s right ear. ‘You fuck with me, you’ll regret it.’

  The woman’s shrill voice broke in. ‘He’s not Oliver. We scared of Oliver.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Mahlangu told her.

  ‘Bastard,’ Riekert snarled and hit Ashton again.

  ‘Stop hitting him. He’s not Oliver,’ the woman screamed.

  ‘You going to tell me the truth now?’ Riekert wanted to know.

  Ashton’s eyes had closed and he was in no condition to tell Riekert anything. His wife tried to reach him. She was afraid of the two policemen, but her anxiety for the life of her husband was greater.

  Hall finished his beer. The hotel was not the worst in the city. It had once been among the best. It had survived Jeppe changing from residential to light industry and now it was trying to survive the change from light industry to petty crime. The barman was a grizzled old former fighter who ran illegal dogfights as an added source of revenue. He had suggested another beer, but Hall turned it down. ‘Maybe later,’ he said.

  He was no more than five hundred metres from Ashton’s home. The thing to do was to give them just enough time to relax, to believe he would not be coming back. But not too much time in case they decided to take off and go to ground
somewhere else. He was sure that this thing about the car’s radiator being out was bullshit. He wanted that car. They may set up roadblocks, but all you had to do was stay off the main roads. You could easily get round them via the back roads.

  He slid the beer glass across the counter and got up to go. ‘See you later,’ he told the bartender. The former fighter watched him go.

  Hall walked slowly back down Marshall Street towards Ashton’s home. There was no need to hurry, he told himself. He expected them to be leaving, but they would take time to pack.

  It was only when he reached the corner of the street where Ashton lived that he saw two parked cars with police markings. They seemed to have been parked hurriedly. One had two wheels on the pavement and the other stood at an acute angle with the pavement.

  The twilight was deepening. Behind him a high garden wall of dark face brick provided some shelter. People had appeared on the streets from the houses round about to see the reason for the disturbance. As he watched, an unmarked car came past and stopped. Two plain-clothes men got out and started into the house. The front door was open and for a second he could see them clearly. The one who led the way was a big man, broad in the shoulder and some two metres tall. Hall did not believe he had ever seen him before. His recognition of the small, wild-haired man who followed was immediate. ‘Christ Almighty,’ he muttered. ‘Gordon. What the fuck is he doing here?’

  Hall back-pedalled unhurriedly until he was around the corner. Then he walked steadily in the direction of the city centre, his hands in his pockets. This was no time to appear to attract attention.

  When Yudel and Freek entered the house, four policemen were standing over the body of a man. Freek had to push one of the uniformed men aside to get a clear view of the body on the ground. Yudel dodged between two large officers to follow him. The face of the man was bloated, his features obscured by blood from injuries to his head. He was not conscious. ‘What the hell is going on here?’ Freek addressed his question to the entire group.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ A white cop had taken a step towards Freek.

  It was unreasonable, but Freek expected to be recognised by his men, all the men in the province. ‘Brigadier General Freek Jordaan,’ he said with a coldness that was felt by all in the room. ‘And who the hell are you?’

  ‘Detective Constable Solomon Riekert.’ This time he took a step back, gesturing to Mahlangu. ‘My partner, Jonas Mahlangu.’

  ‘And this man?’ Freek was looking at the body on the floor. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Oliver Hall’s brother,’ Riekert said. His voice had adopted an obsequious, whining tone. ‘He wouldn’t talk.’

  Yudel looked at Riekert’s face. If you want the deputy commissioner’s sympathy, you’re not doing this the right way, he thought. From somewhere else in the house he could hear a woman crying and a dog barking.

  ‘Is this your doing?’ Freek was moving closer.

  Riekert took another step back. ‘The bastard wouldn’t tell us anything,’ he whined. ‘It’s his own fault.’

  ‘You mean he did it to himself?’ Freek roared. ‘He hit himself on the head? Tell me he’s not dead.’

  ‘He’s not dead,’ Riekert obliged.

  ‘He’s all right.’ Mahlangu came to his partner’s aid. ‘As soon as he comes round, he’ll be good.’

  Freek turned on Mahlangu. ‘Oh, you’re an expert on head injuries, I see.’

  ‘Deputy Commissioner, it’s just a hit on the head.’

  ‘How many hits on the head?’

  ‘One,’ Riekert said, but looking at the head in question, that seemed unlikely. It was clear that he was bleeding from more than one place. ‘Maybe two, three max.’

  Yudel knelt next to Ashton Hall’s body. ‘Maybe six or seven.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Freek roared on. ‘You could get nothing out of him so you fucked him up so good that nobody else can either.’

  ‘He’ll come round—’ Riekert tried again.

  Freek was gesturing towards the back of the house. ‘I hear a woman and a dog.’

  ‘It’s his missis,’ Riekert said. ‘The dog is just a little cunt licker.’

  ‘Christ Almighty, is that how you’re going to describe the animal in court?’

  ‘No.’ Riekert looked offended. ‘I mean just a small white dog. That’s what I meant to say. A small dog, a Maltese poodle, I think.’

  Freek’s patience with those of his men who behaved like fools had never been a notable characteristic. He pointed to the front door. ‘Get out of here, both of you. Tell your station commander that you’ll be reporting to me at 0800 hours tomorrow. And see that you’re in my office at that time.’

  Neither Riekert nor Mahlangu thought that further explanations would be useful. They retreated anxiously in the direction of the front door. Flight would, at least for the moment, get them away from a very angry deputy commissioner of the province.

  Freek waved a hand at the two remaining policemen. ‘Get him to hospital, Jo’burg General. Immediately. And I want a guard on him, all night and tomorrow, until we find his brother.’

  It took both policemen and Freek to lift Ashton and carry him out of the house. In the meantime, Yudel had disappeared. Now he came back, leading the woman whose crying they had heard. Her face was far too wrinkled for her forty years on the planet. She was carrying the dog. A series of muffled sobs was issuing from her. The dog was snarling at Yudel. ‘Where’s Ashton?’ The words took an effort. ‘What happened to Ashton?’

  Yudel had one of her hands in his. ‘They’ve taken him to hospital. We’ll take you there to be with him.’

  ‘Will they hurt him again?’

  Freek bent over her to bring his face close. ‘Don’t worry, ma’am. They know I’ll kill them if they do.’

  ‘They won’t hurt him any more?’

  ‘No, absolutely not,’ Freek said. ‘Are you Mrs Ashton Hall?’

  She nodded as she spoke. ‘Please don’t let them hurt him again.’

  ‘They won’t. I promise they won’t. But you must tell us, was Oliver Hall here today?’

  She nodded again. The sobs were still coming.

  ‘How long ago was he here?’

  ‘Not long. Not long. Ashton doesn’t want him. We scared of him.’

  ‘For good reason. But I need you to think. How long ago was he here?’

  ‘An hour I think.’

  ‘Do you know where he’s going?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I know nothing.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He wanted our car.’

  ‘And you gave it to him?’

  ‘No. Ash thought he’d be coming so he hid it away.’

  ‘Did he tell you why he needed the car?’

  She shrugged through her sobs. ‘Can we go to the hospital now – to Ashton?’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE BENGUELA CURRENT, which fows up the west coast of southern Africa, starts in Antarctica, making the water uncomfortably cold for most people. Beloved Childe was not most people though. She had been wading in the shallows of Scarborough beach for more than an hour, sometimes allowing the incoming waves to splash up to her thighs. She found the cold invigorating.

  Almost everything Beloved did seemed calculated to challenge her and draw her beyond the safe places in which other people felt comfortable. The cold water was just one of those challenges, if a minor one.

  Half an hour before, a young man, no more than a year younger than her had come down the beach and tried to engage her in conversation. She had barely looked at him. ‘Get lost, sonny,’ she had said. He was a sensitive soul and Beloved’s dismissive tone and choice of words were not lost on him. He disappeared back up the beach without another word.

  It was almost dark by the time Beloved left the water’s edge, picked up the cloth bag she had left on the dry sand and started towards the track that led to the bungalow. The dunes on either side of the track were covered with low scrub. She calculated that there
was enough distance between the scrub and the track. If any misguided male lay in wait it would be too bad for him.

  The bungalow was as she had left it, the front door ajar and a light burning inside. She had already been warned by the neighbours that this was not the Midwest of the United States and you could not leave your doors unlocked.

  Beloved stopped some distance from the bungalow. She had listened to Yudel’s message on her voicemail and had been surprised by the concern in his voice. He was an innocent and, like all innocent men, he saw her as an innocent too.

  She wondered if Oliver Hall could be in town already. He had only violated his parole that morning. It was not likely that he was already here, but it was not impossible. If he had got a flight he could be waiting inside. No, she told herself, not yet, almost certainly not yet.

  The headlights of a passing truck flashed across the windows of the bungalow and were gone. Beloved crossed the remaining distance to the front steps and went up them without hesitating.

  Abigail had spent the day in court. Most of the time she had been waiting for the judge to deal with another matter. It was afternoon by the time she got so far as to read the charge sheet of the case in hand. The afternoon had been unusual, in that Abigail was not normally given simple robbery cases to prosecute, and she was also not usually reprimanded by a judge.

  She had been given the robbery case because the police suspected that the group was part of a larger organised crime ring. The reprimand had come about as a result of her comments about the nature of the crime. ‘The accused robbed a filling station, Your Honour,’ she told the court. ‘They did this despite the fact that we are in the middle of a strike at the fuel companies and the filling station had not received fuel for a week and had not been functioning for the previous twenty-four hours. The state feels that they are a disgrace to the South African criminal community. It seems they would be better at their chosen occupation if they kept up with the news.’