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

A disappointed silence settled over us. Fehrson looked at the window again, but it had little to offer in the way of comfort. Heavy black clouds had rolled in over the city, and it felt as if an endless night was settling in.

“I’m pleased that the Department has been reinstated,” I said. “That counts as a positive.”

Fehrson grunted.

“That is an aspect of the operation that could be considered a success,” agreed Khanyi. “And the White Africans have announced they are disbanding. The police have seized the collection of weapons on the Van Rensburg farm and the vast stash of weapons at Newlands Stadium.”

“And the fear of genocide has faded?” I asked.

“It has,” said Khanyi. “Although ironically the United Nations have raised the level of genocidal threat to white South Africans. Nothing to do with Minhoop, however. The Minhoop killings were murder.”

“And one could argue that we did prevent a repeat of Minhoop,” I said.

“Hmmph,” said Fehrson, then he turned to me. “Five hours,” he said. “I am expected to believe that this man was wounded in the course of the same abortive operation? What on earth do you think a man with three broken fingers, two broken ribs and a gunshot wound to the leg was doing for five hours?”

“I cannot imagine.”

“And we have this request here.” Fehrson riffled through the papers in the folder in front of him. “Here we are: Mister Riaan Breytenbach has made a claim from his hospital bed … something about government employees involved on that day in assisting in the perpetuation of a crime … let me see …” Fehrson frowned and adjusted his spectacles. He ran his finger down the page. “Request permission … search a warehouse … gold bars … docks … It is all very confusing.”

“The department will be responding to Mister Breytenbach’s allegations?” I asked.

Fehrson removed his spectacles and placed the paper to one side.

“Regrettably,” he said, “… no. We know of no government employee who might have been engaged in any such activity over that period.”

“That’s a shame,” I said.

“There will be no medals,” said Fehrson, “no ceremonies, or anything of that sort. Honestly, I will be happy when we have swept the whole debacle under the carpet.”

“I will endeavour to do better next time,” I said.

Fehrson gave a mocking laugh. “There will be no next time, my lad. This really is the end of the road for us. There was a time when I thought you showed promise. Perhaps it is a sign of my age, but everything nowadays seems so slap-dash, just messy incompetence. There was a time when I could rely upon a job to be done properly. None of this accidental blowing up of prominent society members.”

“It would be unfair to place all the blame on Gabriel,” said Khanyi.

“Would it? We never used to have operatives whose feelings were hurt or who protested the fairness or otherwise of our just criticism. It is the quality of operative that is the problem. Not what it used to be.”

“Perhaps,” I suggested, “that is because your levels of remuneration are not what they used to be?”

“Ah,” said Fehrson, and he straightened himself in his seat and gave a meaningful look at Khanyi. “Over and above your friends’ medical expenses which, with reluctance, I will bear, we do have your remuneration.” He nodded to Khanyi, who withdrew a printed sheet from the folder before her and passed it to me like it held the secret to life itself.

“A ten figure remuneration,” said Fehrson, and he chuckled at his little joke. “Ten figures,” he repeated when neither Khanyi nor I joined in the hilarity.

The phone number that Khanyi had smudged with her pink highlighter only a few short weeks ago was clearly displayed, and all ten digits of the number had been transcribed in bold black pen so I could read them without my glasses. I looked at the number and wondered whether I still wanted to know who it belonged to. When I had first seen it, I would have done anything to know. Now I wasn’t so sure.

“I’ve given you the address as well,” said Khanyi, and she showed me all her teeth to cover her embarrassment.

“Do not spend it all at once,” said Fehrson, still convinced that his joke was a good one.

Chandler cooked for us on the double gas stove and convection oven that he’d insisted I install in the warehouse. A company of Italian fitters had arrived in an old truck and set to work installing the fully operational kitchen, with oak island to seat ten, right in the centre of the warehouse floor. It had surprised them that the kitchen needed to be operational because they had always believed that movie sets had to look good but never actually work. I had explained that our movie was going for verisimilitude and they had smiled and not asked questions about my fingers or bandaged leg.

Chandler insisted on the kitchen because he expected that Breytenbach would intensify his search for us and didn’t share my confidence that Fehrson’s Department would not be assisting him. Chandler also paid for the kitchen because of the unfortunate failure of our expected good fortune, which was something we all tacitly agreed not to mention. But as we finished the vincis grassi, the pasta dish that Chandler described as what ‘lasagne dreamed of becoming’, Fat-Boy broached the subject.

“If the customs people called Breytenbach and told him they’d found all his gold in those boxes, why was there no mention of it in the papers? They’d been going on about it enough before.”

“Perhaps it was orders of Piet van Rensburg,” said Robyn. “He still pretty much controls the media, and when they’d squashed all the rumours about the damaged nephew, he would have put a clamp on the whole story, including the weapons and maybe the gold too.”

“But the roadblocks … his people crawling all over the place.