Murderous by David Hickson (best ereader for comics .txt) 📕

“I’ve been reading about it in the papers,” I said.

“You were nervous,” he said. “At the roadblock.”

I sipped at my whisky, adopted a calm expression and gave him a confident smile. Fehrson’s eyes held mine steadily, looking for the gaps.

“You buy into that theory?” he asked. “That Breytenbach is privately funding all the road blocks simply to make it impossible for the thieves to transport the gold?”

“I think it’s a load of nonsense.”

“It is only a matter of time before they catch them.”

“If there are any thieves. It might just be an elaborate insurance scam.”

Fehrson sighed and looked out at the rain sweeping across the apron. He lacked the conviction to accuse me directly.

“Khanyisile has a lot riding on this,” he said. “She is hoping to pull a rabbit out of the hat and prove the worth of the Department before it is closed down.”

“How long does she have?”

“A month, two at the most. They have cut the umbilical. We are coasting on what is left in the tank, then it is all over.”

He turned back to me, and his clear, blue eyes warned that, perhaps for the first time today, he was speaking the truth. “I am giving her full control, Ben. But the truth is I am handing her the reins to a horse that has four broken legs. This Van Rensburg business has ruined us. However, if we can prevent a repeat of Minhoop, it could prove to be our saving grace. Khanyi has some risible idea that you can do the impossible. I tried to disabuse her of that belief, but you know what she is like. Do not let her down, Ben.”

A sleek, black Mercedes nosed its way out of the hangar and across the apron towards us. Fehrson finished his whisky and checked his jacket pockets to be sure that he had not misplaced anything. He’d be travelling back to their office in the heart of Cape Town in style. I had a ten-minute walk through the rain to my rusty Fiat with its broken heater. I had not thought to bring an umbrella.

Three

The Cape Peninsula is a small barnacle attached to the southernmost tip of Africa, surrounded by water on three sides, and on the fourth side by a range of mountains that prevent the rain clouds from heading inland, forcing them to dump their heavy loads over the city of Cape Town and surrounding suburbs. For some reason, the winter rains always take Capetonians by surprise. They pride themselves on being in touch with the natural world: they like to stare for long periods at the flat-topped Table Mountain and track the capricious weather on their barnacle in great detail. But every year major highways are flooded, and in the smaller streets one has to ford rivers created by inadequate drainage, avoiding people clustered around cars that haven’t made it, their hazard lights blinking through the curtain of falling water.

My apartment is in Three Anchor Bay, a jumble of houses and apartment blocks built up the slopes of the rump of Lion’s Head, the smaller mountain to the side of Table Mountain. There is never any parking nearby, and so I was thoroughly drenched by the time I reached the front door. I left a trail of water on the stairs and dripped all over the welcome mat as I discovered that I couldn’t insert my key because Robyn had left her key on the inside of the lock when bolting the door behind me.

I rang the doorbell, hoping that Robyn hadn’t been drinking. She had been teetering closer to the edge of the abyss the past week, and I had seen the warning signs. The hunger in her eyes, the irritable moods as she denied the growing need within her. The days her will collapsed and she could not stop, then the crushing shame that followed. She had been in bed when I’d left that morning, had grumbled when Khanyi’s call had woken us, and had sat up and watched me dress, her short hair tousled and her eyes sleepy. She had pulled the duvet around her and insisted that she was not getting out of bed until the weather improved. I had hoped it might be a good day. But I’d seen the desperation in her eyes and had known that trouble was coming.

I could hear no sign of movement in the apartment, and so I pressed the doorbell again. My neighbour’s door opened, and an anxious head poked out.

“Is everything alright, Ben?”

“Robyn must have her headphones on,” I said, and gave the button a prolonged push as I smiled.

My elderly neighbour’s face tightened a little. Robyn was beautiful, well-mannered and refined. She was everything a protective neighbour like Mrs Hutchins could approve of. But Robyn was also fiercely independent, struggling with an addiction to alcohol, had a criminal record, and had served time behind bars. These details must have expressed themselves subtly because Mrs Hutchins, whose son had taken his own life during military service many years ago, and who assumed a motherly role for all men within range, could read those signs. She appeared to like Robyn, but there was something she could not quite put her finger on, and I saw it pass behind her eyes whenever Robyn was mentioned.

My door opened, and Robyn stood there. She was dressed in an elegant eastern-style high collar square-cut dress like an Oriental business woman. She smiled at me, and the relief at seeing her sober was a physical sensation that caught my breath. Her black eyes danced a little. They were damp and red. She had been crying.

“I’m sorry, darling,” she said, then turned her smile to Mrs Hutchins. “We’re thinking of you today, Mrs Hutchins,” she said and her face was solemn.

I was confused for a moment until I remembered that Robyn had told me today would have been the fortieth birthday of Mrs Hutchins’ late son.

“Of course we are,” I said.

“Thank you, my