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

Twenty-Four

The security gates at the northern entrance to the docks were abandoned, like a vengeful tornado had swept through and left no survivors. The booms had been cast aside like spent matchsticks, and the spikes were still up, but Robyn mounted the pavement and scraped the side of the jeep on the remains of the motor housing for the boom, and we got through with all four tyres intact.

The only lagoon I could think of was to the north, a bird sanctuary and wildlife reserve called Rietvlei, well away from the gentrified and polished waterfront arcades and five-star hotels. The road travelled beside a stretch of beach battered by the winter winds from the north-west, which swept the sand up to form dunes that ominously spewed sand into the air like smoke from underground furnaces. The sand spread itself over the crumbling tar road that limped up the coast. As we drove, a thin layer of the stuff swirled about in our headlights as if the road was not solid at all.

We drove on past warehouses and factories that belched dark smoke that spread over the reclaimed marshland beyond the industrial area. There were no signs anywhere of the truck. When we reached Rietvlei we had a good view of the beach. It was deserted. I had been wrong about the lagoon.

“Keep going,” said Chandler, his voice tight with pain and frustration.

We drove a further twenty minutes up the west coast before Robyn announced it was useless and swung us about in a tight U-turn. We headed back in silence, searching for some sign of where Hendrik could have taken the truck. Kenneth had mentioned a lagoon on a beach, but on the stretches of road that clung to the beach there was no lagoon, and the only patches of water that might be called a lagoon were away from the sea. I was wondering whether Hendrik had turned south instead of north when Robyn cried out, “There!”

We were beside the Dieprivier, where the river widened because its mouth was silted up. Across the water a single blue light flashed.

“Milnerton golf course,” said Chandler. “This must be the lagoon.”

As we crossed the bridge over the river a helicopter approached along the shoreline, the bright beam of a spotlight connecting it to earth like it was a toy on the end of a shining metal pole. A glow of lights augmented the pink horizon beyond it. A string of flashing blue lights – police vehicles making their way along the small track that ran along the perimeter of the golf course. The helicopter circled above the glowing lights like an insect looking for a place to touch down. More police vehicles came from behind us. Robyn slowed and allowed them to pass, then pulled over onto a patch of no-man’s-land on the edge of the golf course. A huge gash had been ripped out of the fairway where the truck had ploughed across it, and into a sand dune.

We approached the scene on foot. The police vehicles formed an outer rim, their headlights shining inward. The epicentre of the disaster was the huge semi-trailer. It was leaning forward like a wounded elephant on its knees, the front of the cab buried in sand. The crate with the lions had ripped free of the restraining straps and was tilted to the side, wedged into the sand at one corner. The lower section of the crate that had held the boxes of weapons was empty, a gaping black hole. Police officers were crawling over the back of the truck, stepping over the sprawled body of Kenneth.

We stood outside the ring of light with a pair of early morning joggers who gaped at the scene of devastation. A police officer was standing beside his vehicle, speaking into the radio microphone, and gazing with morbid horror at Kenneth. Neither Fat-Boy nor Hendrik were anywhere to be seen. The driver’s door of the truck was hanging open. There was no unconscious figure slouched over the wheel. No large black man being treated for a gunshot wound. It had taken us too long to get here.

“Where is he?” asked Chandler. “Did he run?”

The helicopter suddenly produced a clattering of blades as it moved away from us, the solid beam of light focused on the road, and ranging from side to side. We watched it travel slowly along the coast.

“They’ve taken him,” I said. “He wasn’t up to running.”

“Why would they take him?” asked Chandler.

I didn’t know the answer to that, but a nasty suspicion was nagging at me. There was only one reason I could think of that Hendrik or Roelof, or both of them, might take a wounded black man with them.

“We’ll find him,” said Chandler, and he gave us an encouraging smile, although the strain in his eyes betrayed the truth. “We’ll find him.”

“I didn’t realise you were such an early riser,” said Andile Dlamini when he eventually answered my call.

“I need to know where those weapons are going,” I said. “Are you tracking them?”

“Not me,” said Andile, as if such a thing was beneath him. But he heard the urgency in my voice. “They came in on schedule last night?”

“They did.”

“I’ll call in and see what they say.” He hesitated, then added, “What’s up, Gabriel? Why are you in such a rush?”

“They’ve got someone with them,” I said. “A friend of mine.”

“I’ll call back,” said Andile, and ended the call.

We had parked in a gap between dunes from where I could see the wind flick white horses up from the waves where they flashed pink and orange for a moment as the sun crept through under the cloud. Robyn had been looking at Chandler’s arm and she said it didn’t look good. He was losing a lot of blood and couldn’t lift it.

“It’s more than a scratch,” admitted Chandler. “I’ll need it looked at. You two go find our boy. I’ll get myself fixed. You