The October Killings Read online

  This was only Nkosi’s second shift in the control room and he was determined to do everything right. He called the sentry box at the gate to D Block. There was no answer. The warder should have been there. If he had gone for a leak he should have let Nkosi know.

  Nkosi’s next move was to call the duty room. The first ring went unanswered. As in most gatherings, no one held himself responsible for answering the phone. All the warders were either too involved in what they were saying, or waiting too eagerly for a chance to say something.

  Nkosi tried a second time. Again there was no immediate answer, but he let it ring. After almost a minute a voice came on. “Ja?”

  “Nkosi here. Someone just came through the gate to D Block.”

  “Who?” The voice sounded irritated.

  “It’s Nkosi here, from the control room.”

  “Who passed through the gate?”

  “I don’t know. The gate opened and closed again.”

  “Phone the gate.”

  “I did. Nobody’s answering.”

  “Well, I’m going off duty.”

  “Get me someone from night shift then.”

  Without answering Nkosi’s request, the warder on the other end of the connection could be heard, facing away from the phone, shouting for anyone on night duty.

  All the time he had been speaking, Nkosi’s eyes had been fixed on the light that monitored the position of the gate to D Block. Now it stayed dark. Unless he was hallucinating, someone had passed through the gate, either going in or out at a time when it should have been closed. Using his second phone, he called the sentry box at the gate to D Block again. There was still no answer. He let it ring, but there was nothing.

  “Yes, what’s happening?” The voice was coming from the group in the duty room. The noise he heard in the background, the many assertive voices, sounded more like a party than a changing of shifts. Nkosi recognized the voice as belonging to one of the older sergeants, Sergeant Malgas.

  “Nkosi here…”

  “Yes, my bro’.”

  “The gate light at D Block came on a moment ago.”

  “Have you called the gate?”

  “There’s no answer.”

  “Try again.”

  “I’ve tried twice, sergeant, and it’s still ringing there now.”

  It took a moment for the sergeant to digest this piece of information. “Where’s that bastard?” he said.

  “I think we should send someone up,” Nkosi said.

  “I’ll go myself.”

  “Sergeant.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t think you should go alone.”

  “Do you know what’s happening there?” Now the sergeant’s voice carried the sharp edges of both authority and suspicion.

  “No, sir. I just think you should take someone.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “All right, sergeant. Sorry. I just…”

  “Don’t worry, my bro’. I will take Sibiya with me.”

  * * *

  Van Jaarsveld felt that he was safely through the gate to D Block. He had had the workings of the monitoring system explained to him. If you went through it quickly and the operator in the control room was not looking directly at the board, he would never know that anything had happened. And most of the time, when they were looking at the board, the operators were three-quarters asleep. There was a ninety percent chance that he would make it though undetected, they had said.

  Now that he was through, he was certain that no one had noticed. From where he stopped, he had a clear view down the main passage almost as far as the duty room, but the passage was empty. No one was coming up to investigate and the daily chores, the floor scrubbing, the removal of plates, the laundry, were long past.

  He could see the gate that cut off the cell blocks from the administration offices. That too was deserted, just as he had been promised. He knew it was also monitored in the control room, but he would pass through it with as little trouble.

  As van Jaarsveld watched, the gate at the bottom of the passage opened, then closed again. It was a moment before he recognized the figure coming slowly up the passage in his direction. It was that snot-nose of a psychologist, Lesela. What was the useless little cunt doing in the cell blocks at this time of night?

  * * *

  The city traffic was at its densest as Yudel passed through the western suburbs on his way to C-Max. This was the side of the city that was least favored by the residents and where growth was slowest. It was no more than a fifteen-minute drive after eight at night on most nights, but on Saturday nights it took twice that long.

  He ran a few traffic lights, but at most intersections traffic from the side streets interfered with his progress. Only when he reached the inner city, and the direction of the traffic was largely against him, did he make better time.

  Much had become clear to Yudel in the last hour. The fact that there was a second house at Vyefontein built in the Cape Dutch style clarified where Lourens was being held. Yudel had little doubt that Abigail and Freek would find him there. He also had little doubt that Lourens would be unguarded and unharmed. There was enough reason to believe that this had always been Bishop’s intention.

  Despite his capture, Bishop had successfully led them down the path that he wanted them to follow. The show he had put on for Abigail’s benefit, face twitching and hands shaking, were all aimed at giving Lourens to her. Yudel was sure that he had never been the target. Then there was the drunken singing just before Bishop escaped, too much like the singing just before the prisoners were freed in Ficksburg. An identical diversion was not the sort of coincidence Yudel could believe in. Quite possibly the similarity of the two incidents rested not only in the same song, but in the same singer. If Bishop had an associate, this would explain a great deal about his effectiveness. In Yudel’s mind, it also explained something about an academic and prison psychologist who knew little about prisons and less about psychology and who would be working in C-Max where Marinus van Jaarsveld was being held. Mr. Lesela’s credentials needed examining and his actions needed monitoring. And both needed to happen soon. Lesela was no psychologist. The department would have checked his credentials and been satisfied with them. If the qualifications were real—and they probably were—the man who now presented them as his own was not Patrick Lesela.

  And Leon Lourens was not the only member of that raiding party still alive. Van Jaarsveld would always be a far more satisfying target than Lourens.

  He took the zigzag at the top of Schubart Street and went under the train bridge. A few hundred meters ahead on his right he could see the main Pretoria Central Prison. Immediately beyond the prison was the street that led past the warder’s houses and recreational facilities. Yudel paused for oncoming traffic, swung the car into the side street and stopped at the barrier of the security checkpoint. A prison officer, wearing an expression that reflected the mixture of arrogance and suspicion that was an integral part of the job, approached him from the guard box. “Yes?” The single word held a question and was accompanied by a little upward jerk of the chin.

  Yudel had never seen the guard before. Christ, he thought, where did they find you? And you’ve probably got the same list. “My name is…” he started. At that moment he saw a sergeant in the guard box whom he had known for most of his years in the department. He got out of the car and started toward the guard box.

  The guard grabbed at Yudel’s arm, but only managed to get hold of his sleeve. “Hey, where you going?” Yudel shook himself free and reached the barrier. “You can’t just walk past me,” the guard was shouting.

  “Piss off,” Yudel said over his shoulder. “Sergeant Maake,” he shouted.

  Maake appeared from the guard box, peering at Yudel over a pair of reading glasses. “Mr. Gordon?”

  “I’m under contract now. I need to get into C-Max immediately.”

  “Is his name on the list?” The guard, suffering the indignity of being ignored b
y a white man whose name was probably not on the list, sounded determined to keep Yudel out. “If he’s not on the list, he’s not allowed in.”

  Sergeant Maake looked from Yudel to his junior and considered the matter for only a second. “Mr. Gordon may go in.”

  “Is his name on the list?”

  “Open the boom,” Sergeant Maake said.

  Yudel was already getting back into his car.

  “You should check the list.”

  “Open the boom.”

  The boom slid open and Yudel drove through. There were a few more twists in the road before he reached the parking lot in front of C-Max.

  42

  Warder Nkosi was studying the lights on the control console as if hypnotized by them. He had heard nothing more from the sergeant who had said that he would investigate what was happening at the gate to D Block. He had wanted to phone the duty room again to check, but in the civil service you did not check up on your seniors to make sure that they were doing their jobs properly.

  He did call the gate at D Block again, for the third time now, but there was still no answer. A fourth and fifth call had the same result. He reached for the button that would call the duty room, but withdrew his hand. They were probably up there by now. Everything was probably fine up there.

  Almost as he withdrew his hand the light that monitored the gate to D Block came on again. This time it stayed on. That meant the gate was open. The sergeant had probably arrived there, he thought. When he entered, he may have left the gate open.

  But no, that was supposed never to happen. The standing orders laid out clearly that the gates to the cell blocks had to be closed at all times. In fact, all gates throughout the prison had to be closed, locked and guarded all the time.

  Nkosi got up and went to the door. From the doorway he could see most of the main passage that led up to the cell blocks. The gate into D Block and the passage beyond was just out of sight. He could hear the sounds of utensils clanking in the kitchen and the voices from the duty room, but both were some distance away. He could see that the door to the duty room was open, but the doorway was empty. The sounds from the cell blocks themselves were no more than a distant murmur. Other than that, the prison was silent and the passage itself was empty.

  He looked toward the duty room again and saw Warder Sibiya appear in the doorway. He was smoking a cigarette and, as Nkosi watched, he leaned against the doorpost, obviously in conversation with someone inside.

  They haven’t left yet, he realized. How could they not have left yet?

  He ran back to the control console and this time he did call the duty room. Sergeant Malgas, whom he had spoken to earlier, answered. “Ja, duty room.”

  “Sergeant, that gate is standing open now. The light is on all the time.”

  “Standing open? Are you sure?”

  “I’m looking at the light and it’s on.”

  “I’ll check.”

  “I think you should go now, sergeant.”

  “Don’t give me orders, my man.”

  “The light’s on all the time and standing orders say…”

  “I know the standing orders better than you do. I’m going.” Before Sergeant Malgas hung up, Nkosi heard him shout. “You, Sibiya, come.”

  The day shift men at the outer gate all knew Yudel well and had been on duty when he was invited by the commissioner the week before. They let him in, although his name was not on the list.

  Once inside, he ran down the passage toward the duty room. As he reached its door, Sergeant Malgas and Warder Sibiya were coming out. Yudel recognized them both. “Have you seen Lesela?” he asked the sergeant. “The psychologist?”

  “No, sir. But I can’t help now. Something is wrong at the gate in D Block. It seems to be open.”

  “D Block?” Yudel said. “I’m coming with you. But take your firearms.”

  The sergeant stared at Yudel. What he was seeing was a wild-haired and wild-eyed little man who looked as if he had not slept for a week. “Why?” the sergeant asked.

  “I’ll take responsibility. Just do it.” Yudel took a step down the passage in the direction of D Block. “I’ll go on ahead.”

  “No, sir. You come with me.” The sergeant’s manner was decisive this time. “If I have to take firearms, you are not going on ahead.”

  Even Yudel could not deny that Malgas had a point. Moments later, Warder Nkosi tore himself away from the console to see Yudel, the sergeant and Warder Sibiya running down the passage toward D Block. He saw that both the sergeant and the warder were wearing sidearms.

  The passage to the entrance to D Block had never seemed so long to Yudel. The other two men, both at least ten years younger, were ahead of him. He wished they were carrying their firearms in their hands, instead of in their holsters. He saw Nkosi’s head appear in the doorway of the control room for a moment, and then disappear as he quickly withdrew it. Up ahead, the phone at the gate to D Block was ringing in short bursts, interrupted by half-second pauses.

  By the time he turned the corner, the two younger men were at the open gate. The warder responsible for the gate was not there. The passage to the D Block cells turned sharply to the left. As far as Yudel could see it, it was empty. That damned phone was still ringing. The sergeant answered. “All right, Nkosi. You can stop now. I’ll let you know when I know what’s happening.” Then the sergeant was speaking to Yudel. “Before we go farther, just what do you expect to see around that corner, Mr. Gordon?”

  “Sergeant, I expect to see Mr. Lesela endangering one of the prisoners. I believe he will be armed.”

  Malgas nodded. Without speaking, he and the warder removed their firearms from their holsters. “Now, Mr. Gordon. You walk five paces behind us. No closer than that.”

  The two walked slowly, staying close to the inside of the corner and passing just beyond arm’s length of the cells. Yudel followed a little less than five paces behind, doing his best to follow the sergeant’s instructions. As they came around the bend, he walked in a wider arc than the two warders. The need to see what was in the rest of the passage was simply too great.

  As they rounded the corner, they could see van Jaarsveld. He was seated with his back to the door of his cell, his legs stretched out in front of him, his arms resting loosely at his sides. He could have been a man sleeping next to the family swimming pool on a Sunday afternoon. Sergeant Malgas and Warder Sibiya continued at the same pace as before. Both were glancing from side to side, looking for the possibility of an open cell door.

  From the distance at which Yudel first saw him, van Jaarsveld seemed to be wearing a sweater that was colored red down the left hand side and white down the right. He had covered half the distance to the prisoner before he realized that the red was blood, and van Jaarsveld was sitting in a pool of blood that spread almost to his feet. It was only when he got within arm’s length of the dead man that Yudel could see how deeply the piano wire had cut and where it had severed the carotid artery.

  43

  Nkosi answered the phone at the first ring. “Put me through to the main gate,” Yudel said. “Immediately.”

  “Yes,” an alert sounding voice answered from the main gate. Clearly, word had got round that something was happening.

  “It’s Gordon here. I think Mr. Lesela, the new psychologist, may be leaving the prison. You have to stop him and hold him.”

  “He’s just left.”

  “Are you sure? How long ago?”

  “Yes, he’s gone. Maybe a minute, maybe less.”

  Yudel rang off and called the control room again. “How do I get through to the security barrier?” he demanded.

  “Putting you through,” Nkosi said.

  A moment later Sergeant Maake answered from the guard box at the security barrier. “Perimeter gate.”

  “Sergeant, it’s Yudel Gordon here. Has this Lesela, the psychologist, come through there?”

  “I think that’s him here now.”

  “Stop him. I think he’s kille
d a prisoner.”

  Yudel pulled his head away as the handset of the telephone in the guard box crashed to the ground. He heard Maake shouting, but he was not speaking English and Yudel could not follow the words.

  * * *

  The man who went by the name Patrick Lesela knew that the security barrier was the last hurdle to cross. He knew also that he had little time before van Jaarsveld’s body would be discovered. And finally, he knew that he dared not hurry. Anything that looked like desperation would arouse suspicion.

  As he rounded one of the bends in the road a bicycle, ridden by a child from one of the warders’ houses, swerved in front of him. He swung the car wide to avoid the child, but a look of distaste crossed his face. After all these years, he still hated bicycles. The memory of the shattered bicycle that he had saved so hard to buy, lying in the dust at the gate of the Bishop farm, had cured him of that means of transport.

  At the security barrier he realized immediately what was happening. He heard the excited shouting from the guard box and saw the other guard turn toward him and reach for his firearm.

  He had already assessed the strength of the barrier. Originally, it consisted of a light plastic tube that would easily be swept aside by any vehicle, but some alert senior officer had replaced it with a heavy steel gate.

  He knew that his chances of smashing through the gate were slight, but it was clear that by this time they had found the old killer’s body. He pressed hard down on the accelerator pedal as he engaged the clutch. The car leaped forward at almost the same moment that the guard stepped onto the pavement and drew his firearm.

  The force of the car hitting it lifted the gate off its railing. It rose and bent with the weight of the car, but settled on the bonnet, steel shafts puncturing the bodywork and shattering the windscreen. Stunned by a blow he had taken on the car’s door frame and partially blinded by shattered glass, the man called Lesela found the door handle and rolled out onto the pavement. He ran for the pedestrian gate, his right shoulder digging into Sergeant Maake’s stomach as the sergeant tried to block the way. By the time he was through the gate, the other guard was already firing. Yudel had put the guard in just the right frame of mind for dealing with someone trying to run the barrier, especially a psychologist. For the moment the car provided some cover.