Nick had been to Johannesburg Central police station a couple of times in the past, but never in the back of a police vehicle. At nine p.m. the parking lot was mostly empty and the station quiet. A short queue of people at the front desk waited for a tired-looking constable to assist them.
Masondo led the way up two flights of stairs and along a corridor.
‘Wait for us in this room.’ He unlatched the bolt that Nick noticed was on the outside of the door.
He pushed the door open, then pulled it closed immediately and turned back. The room was already occupied.
‘Sorry. We’ll go to the next one.’
Nick had caught a glimpse of Laki inside, still in his work clothes, sitting at a table and watching the door with an expression of worry and fear combined.
They’d brought him in too. It was about Louis Trichardt, then. Definitely Louis Trichardt.
The latch to Interview Room 2 clicked back and Nick walked inside. The air was stale and his footsteps sounded loud on the tiled floor. The door closed behind him.
Nick sat in a plastic chair in the same position as Laki, facing the door and resting his elbows on the wooden table. The room was small and square, perhaps four metres by four. An old cork notice board pierced with innumerable holes ran along the right-hand wall. It was empty apart from a typewritten notice affixed to the far corner with three rusty drawing pins.
He hadn’t dreamed the police would trace him, hadn’t bothered to discuss with Laki what they would ever say if they were asked. He was sure, in the circumstances, Laki would tell the truth. Which meant he would be forced to, in order to prevent any further complications down the line.
He hadn’t gone looking for trouble, and he’d only shot the men in self-defence. Not that this would prevent the endless hours in court, the lawyers, the accusations. It might not prevent them from digging around in Nick’s past, which wouldn’t help him either, because, as Rachel had pointed out, people who had worked as mercenaries were not generally regarded as fine, upstanding members of society.
However, he wasn’t under arrest yet. The police hadn’t produced a warrant or laid any formal charges against him. He’d cooperated, gone with them of his own accord. Surely that would count in his favour?
Nick was so tired he wanted to fold his arms, rest his head on them and go to sleep. Not a good idea right now, though. He’d just have to sit on the hard chair, fighting to keep his eyes open, and wait for the detectives to return.
About half an hour later the latch rattled and the door swung open. Masondo came in first, carrying a tape-recorder. The other detective followed, with a shorthand notebook and a brown folder containing a sheaf of official-looking forms.
‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Mr Kenyon,’ Masondo said. They sat down opposite him. ‘We’ll need to complete this paperwork, and then we will be asking you some questions on tape. If you wish to request a lawyer you may do so, but it will delay the process.’ He made a show of looking at his watch.
Nick shook his head. ‘Not necessary.’
After the paperwork was filled in to Masondo’s satisfaction, he switched on the tape recorder. His partner poised his pen over the notepad.
Here it comes, Nick thought.
‘Mr Kenyon, you attended the accident scene involving the car belonging to Mr Abraham Jonas,’ the detective said.
‘Yes.’
‘Please tell me what you found there.’
Nick blinked in surprise. This wasn’t what he had expected. This wasn’t about the killings. Relieved, he forced his thoughts back to that rain-soaked night.
‘We arrived about ten minutes after the crash had occurred. There was just the one car involved. From the damage, we reckoned that the driver had been speeding before he lost control. At least that’s what it looked like, because it must have rolled several times over a distance of about fifty metres.’
‘The driver wasn’t in the vehicle?’
Nick shook his head. ‘No sign of him. You can check my accident report. The windscreen was gone. He must have been thrown out of the car. Or she. Whoever was driving.’
‘And the driver was nowhere to be seen?’
‘We checked as far as we could, but it was pitch black and pouring with rain. And Natasha, the passenger, was in a critical condition. We couldn’t risk a delay. We had to get her to hospital.’ Nick cleared his throat.
Masondo leaned forward, elbows on the table.
‘Mr Kenyon, are you absolutely sure that the passenger, Natasha du Toit, was not driving? Could she not have moved over from the driver’s side to the passenger seat after the accident? If she was drunk, perhaps, and not wanting to be liable for the crash?’
‘No way,’ Nick said.
‘Why are you so sure?’
‘She was pinned down by the engine block. Besides, with injuries like that, she couldn’t have moved. It would have been physically impossible. Check the bloodstains in the car. You’ll find blood all over the passenger side from the lacerations in her legs.’
‘Next question.’ Masondo’s voice was taut with barely controlled emotion. Excitement, tension, the thrill of the chase – Nick didn’t know. ‘Did the driver intimidate or bribe you or your partner to let him go before the police arrived? Was the driver alive and well at the time of the accident and permitted to escape, or perhaps inadequately supervised and allowed to make his escape?’
Nick stared at the man uncomprehendingly.
‘Nobody walked away from that crash,’ he said. ‘The driver was missing. We never found him, although Laki – my partner – looked hard. To be honest, I really thought we’d find his body. At that speed, I didn’t think he’d have survived being thrown clear.’
He stared at Masondo. Masondo stared back at him. In the silence, the hiss of the tape recorder was the only sound.
Then Masondo reached across and pressed the ‘Stop’ button. The harsh overhead lighting cast downward shadows on his features. His shoulders sagged and he gave a deep sigh. He looked as if he’d aged ten years during the time it had taken to conduct the short interview.
‘Thank you for your cooperation,’ he said. ‘You’ve confirmed what your colleague has just said. We didn’t think it was a likely scenario, but we had to ask.’
‘Why?’ Nick risked the question.
Masondo didn’t answer immediately. He turned to the junior detective and gave him instructions about packing the equipment away. The man hurried off.
His colleague gone, Masondo became more talkative.
‘We’ve got a problem with the car’s owner, the man we suspect was driving at the time of the accident.’
‘Abraham Jonas.’ Nick remembered the name.
Masondo waited for Nick to leave the interview room before switching off the light.
‘He has a record,’ the detective continued. ‘He did time in Modderbee some years ago, and now he’s wanted again in connection with a number of serious crimes. Murder, robbery, assault.’
Nick saw again the vivid image of Natasha, her throat gaping wide, the threadbare hospital sheets black with blood. He shuddered.
Masondo continued. ‘A witness confirmed Jonas was with Natasha when they left a venue about twenty kilometres from the crash site. Now Jonas has disappeared. We’d be glad if we found his body, believe me, but we haven’t. One of my team had a theory that he might have intimidated paramedics at the accident scene, which is why we brought you in.’
Nick shook his head. ‘He didn’t.’
‘I know. It was a long shot. We’ll go to the press with it now, hope someone comes forward with information. I was wondering, though, when we questioned your colleague. He looked as scared as hell, so I thought he might be guilty of something.’
‘Probably just frightened to be in a police interrogation room,’ Nick said, keeping his face expressionless.
Masondo nodded. ‘So it appears, Mr Kenyon.’
They walked out of the building and into the parking lot. Masondo opened the doors of the unmarked Ford. This time Nick rode in the front.
‘Have you been able to contact Rachel Jacobs?’ Nick asked Masondo as they turned onto the highway. A taxi with a single flickering headlight and no taillights rattled past in the fast lane. Masondo shook his head as he watched it disappear into the darkness ahead.
‘No,’ he told Nick. ‘I tried calling her several times today, but her cellphone seems to be permanently switched off.’
‘I’m worried about her. We were supposed to meet up last night but she checked out of her guesthouse in the afternoon, a day early. She didn’t leave a message.’
Masondo thought for a moment.
‘If she checked out of her lodgings early, I assume that she had a reason for leaving. Give it till tomorrow. If she’s still impossible to contact, we’ll file a missing person report.’
Back home, Nick climbed out and thanked Masondo for the ride. He was about to close the door when another question occurred to him.
‘The venue where you said Jonas and Natasha had been. Where was it?’
The detective frowned. ‘A nightclub in Newtown. Rhythm City? No, no, that is the television soapie. Rhythm Town, that’s the name. Good night, Mr Kenyon.’
He revved the engine and drove off into the dark.
Tired beyond exhaustion, Nick couldn’t sleep. How could he, with Rachel missing and Paul at large, and with Masondo’s revelation that Natasha and Jonas had been at Rhythm Town that night. They’d obviously sped away from the nightclub early on that stormy Sunday morning and crashed shortly afterwards. A couple of hours later, as the club was closing, Khani had been gunned down by armed robbers.
What the hell was going on?
Nick’s pillow felt lumpy and hard. He punched an indentation in it for his head, turned one way and then the other. Irritable, he kicked his duvet onto the floor. Seconds later, he heard the whine of a mosquito. He fumbled for the can of Peaceful Sleep he always kept on his bedside table, then realised he’d thrown the empty one away a few days ago and forgotten to replace it. He reached down, retrieved the duvet and pulled it up over his head, covering his body completely so that the little bastard couldn’t bite him.
The downy bedcover was too warm for the summer night. His legs grew slick with sweat. It was like being in a miniature oven. He could throw it off again but he knew the mosquito would be waiting.
Outside, he heard the rumble of thunder. Another storm was brewing. After the first flash of lightning lit up his window and rain began drumming down onto the roof, cooling the air and drowning out the mosquito’s whine as well as Nick’s own troubled thoughts, only then did he slip into a deep and dreamless slumber.
At first, he didn’t know what had woken him. It wasn’t the rain, which was falling even harder. It lashed against his window, flung in sheets by the wind as if somebody was aiming a fire hose at the glass.
For a confused instant he thought he was back in Sierra Leone, in the middle of another of the interminable thunderstorms they’d endured there.
He sat bolt upright in the darkness.
His cellphone was flashing and vibrating loudly on the bedside table. He grabbed it and checked the display, praying it was Rachel.
Relief surged through him when he saw her name on the screen. He stabbed the connect button and shouted, barely able to hear over the relentless tattoo of raindrops against glass.
‘Rachel? Is that you?’
‘Nick.’ He could hardly hear her; the connection was terrible.
‘Are you all right? Where are you?’
She said something, but her words were lost, distorted by the poor cell reception and drowned out by the storm.
‘Say that again,’ Nick shouted. He scrambled out of bed and away from the window, shoving the phone so hard against his ear that one of the buttons depressed with a deafening beep. He snatched it away again. ‘I can’t hear you. There’s a huge storm here.’
‘… in danger,’ he heard her say, her voice suddenly clear and terrified through the filter of hissing, crackling, glooping noises. ‘… need to get out.’
‘Jesus, Rachel.’ Nick was gripping the phone so tightly he thought he might crush it. He yelled down the mouthpiece as if his words alone could protect her. ‘Why? Where are you? Are you in Louis Trichardt or Jo’burg?’
Nothing. Some underwater noises. He listened for more, eyes wide, teeth clenched, trying to will her words out of the mouthpiece.
More nothing. Then the connection vanished and he was left listening to the triple-beep that signalled a dropped call.
He called her back, fingers clumsy with haste. The reception was fine here. Four little bars. More than enough for clear communication. Hers must be up to shit, and there was nothing he could do about it.
The call rang through to voicemail.
‘Crap,’ Nick yelled. He tried again. Another seemingly endless wait. Another voicemail.
‘Call me, Rachel,’ he shouted once the automated voice finished its instructions. ‘Just call me. I’ll come and get you, wherever you are.’ He hung up and stared down at the phone as if its glowing display held all the secrets to her whereabouts.