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

The ankles stopped. Khanyi looked down at me like she was deciding whether to crush me beneath one of her imitation Jimmy Choo heels.

“So that’s it. You’re here on time and dressed like a pimp in order to ask me not to use your real name. The seventh floor told me you took one of their fake IDs. Freddy something or other.”

“Freddy Moss,” I said.

“You know you’re not allowed to do that, you don’t work here anymore. For goodness’ sake, Gabriel, has anyone told you there’s something wrong with you?”

“You’re the first today.”

“Must you always be so devious?”

“It’s an operational necessity,” I said. “You asked me to look into the Van Rensburg situation in an unofficial way. It would be easier if I don’t have officials greeting me in their presence using different names.”

“One day you’re going to look in the mirror and not remember which person you are.”

I smiled. Sometimes Khanyi could be remarkably perceptive.

The Attic spanned the full width of the old building, all the way from the arched window over Greenmarket Square to the exposed brickwork with original block and tackle at the far end. The building had been a trader’s warehouse in the nineteenth century and a clever architect had won awards for deciding that the space would be enhanced by exposing the rafters, hanging lights like spacecraft from them, and polishing up all the old equipment that the original trader had used to hoist goods up from the ground level so that the place felt like a mix between a modern meeting room and a museum. Some poor sods had carried the better part of a three-hundred-year-old oak tree up here and created a rough-hewn table that could seat a crowd; there was enough space left over for a flip-board, a screen, a ceiling-mounted projector, and a table for refreshments. And there was room for Fehrson to pace up and down before the huge arched window that came down to the floor, because that was how he liked to do his thinking. He was pacing up and down when we arrived, wearing his English country gentleman outfit: a tweed jacket, tie with the working man’s steel tiepin, and monogrammed handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket. He pushed his left wrist forward like he was shadow-boxing and consulted his wristwatch.

“On time!” he said, not bothering to conceal his amazement. His look of incredulity deepened as he took in my appearance. “Is this really Ben Gabriel you have brought with you, Khanyisile?” he asked with a mocking tone to raise a laugh.

“It is not,” said Khanyi, which was her way of dealing with my deviousness. “It is Freddy.”

“Freddy Moss,” said Andile Dlamini. “Good to see you.” The police captain rose from his seat and gave me an encouraging clap on the arm as we shook hands with a rueful smile to show that he understood my difficulty around names. I might as well not have lurked in Giuseppe’s, drinking coffee and waiting for Khanyi’s arrival. I might as well just wear a tracking device and allow Breytenbach and other interested parties to tune in whenever they felt like finding me.

Fehrson had the confused look of a man who wonders whether he has been calling someone by the wrong name for many years. But he dismissed it as another one of my unfathomable oddities.

“Hit the coffee button, Khanyisile, my dear,” he said, demonstrating his ability to speak the vernacular. He was still young enough to use words like ’hit’. Khanyi pressed the intercom button on the table as we took our seats. It squawked.

“Belinda,” said Fehrson. No response from the intercom, which crouched like a sulking animal on the table.

“We were thinking of coffee,” said Fehrson. The intercom didn’t respond for a moment, but then it emitted a further two squawks. “Yes, dear,” said Father, “biscuits would be much appreciated.”

He beamed at Andile. “Getting high tech here,” he said, as if communicating electronically with someone else in the same building was a recent technological breakthrough. Andile looked duly impressed.

“Captain Dlamini has some conundrums,” Fehrson said to me in a tone that suggested he was sharing Andile’s personal medical problems. “He asked us to include you in this morning’s meeting.”

“I see,” I said. Fehrson didn’t sound as if he approved of Andile’s request to have me included.

“The country is happy, of course,” said Andile and he smiled confidently to get things off to a jolly start. It looked as if he had managed to get a little sleep in the few days since I’d last seen him. But he hadn’t managed to iron his crumpled suit, and his breath revealed his lack of progress towards kicking the cigarette habit. I didn’t hold that against him. “Very happy,” he repeated. “The entire country would have the man we’ve arrested hanging from a tree if they had a chance.”

“I can imagine,” I said.

“Nqobeni Nyambawu,” said Andile, in what sounded like a vocal warm-up exercise, commencing with a sound like two pieces of wood knocking together at the front of the first word.

“That is the man they have arrested,” said Fehrson helpfully.

“They call him Q,” said Andile.

“One can see why,” I said.

“Works at the Village of Future Hope,” said Andile. “More than works there. He is an alumnus. He’s their poster child. Their biggest success story. One of the first to go through their program. First-class matric, studied economics at university.”

“And he’s the person who walked into the church with an automatic weapon?” I asked.

“He might be,” said Andile with less conviction than the news reporters had suggested. “We have DNA that places him in the church.”

“The DNA is considered conclusive?”

Andile nodded. “The boffins say it’s definitive. Nqobeni was in that church.”

“But he denies it?”

“Not at all. He has confessed.”

“A voluntary confession?” asked Fehrson.

“Entirely voluntary.”

Fehrson gave a disbelieving laugh. Khanyi glared at him warningly, and Fehrson’s laugh turned into a cough.

“What is the problem then?” asked