Hansen, the nightclub manager, sat in the interrogation room under the fluorescent light, on the most uncomfortable chair that Masondo’s assistant had been able to find at short notice. He was perched on the edge of its cracked wooden seat, resting his elbows on the cold steel table in front of him and, cupping his chin in his hands, was staring miserably at the wall.
After the time he’d wasted at the EMS headquarters trying to locate Nick Kenyon by tracking his cellphone, Masondo was in no mood to take Hansen’s attitude. One suspect giving him the run-around was bad enough. Two was simply not going to happen.
Masondo did his best to conceal his impatience. He closed the door behind him and strolled over to the cushioned seat opposite as if he had all the time in the world. Pulled the chair out and sat down with a sigh. First, he read the note that his assistant had handed him as he’d left the office. Rachel Jacobs’s vehicle had been found abandoned with a smashed driver’s window in City Deep. His assistant had arranged for the car to be towed to the Langlaagte police station, where they would examine it for fingerprints and other clues.
So Nick Kenyon had been right. Rachel Jacobs had been in danger. Masondo had already reported her as missing and asked Crime Intelligence to get a triangulation on her phone’s signal. Hopefully her vehicle would yield further evidence.
Masondo reread the note and slipped it into the dog-eared file on the table.
Then he took a copy of TIME Magazine from his briefcase and started reading about the latest news on the US elections. It appeared to be a three-horse race. Democrats Barack Obama and Hilary Clinton and the Republican candidate John McCain, who wasn’t nearly as interesting. He supported the young, charismatic Obama, of course. A black president of the United States. Now that would be something. But the feminists were saying if Obama was voted in, it would be a blow for women’s rights. He supposed that meant if Hilary Clinton were voted in, it would be a blow for black rights. So perhaps they should find another woman, a black one, to join the race.
He was engrossed in the report when he heard a tentative throat clearing from the young man opposite him.
‘Detective, are you going to interview me?’
‘No.’
‘Um, but you brought me in here and you see I’m rather busy …’
‘I don’t care how busy you are. I’m running ahead of schedule so I’m taking my coffee break, in here, right now. And no, I’m not going to interview you until I’ve finished reading this magazine.’ Masondo treated the man to a mirthless grin.
Hansen took his elbows off the table and started fiddling with the zip of his jacket.
A constable knocked on the door and brought a steaming mug of coffee over to Masondo’s side of the table. Strong, sweet, no milk. Just the way he liked it.
He turned a page and took a gulp of the sugary brew. Amazing what the genealogy experts had discovered. Obama was related to Brad Pitt. Clinton was related to Angelina Jolie. They didn’t mention McCain. Probably nobody cared enough to trace his ancestry.
Hansen pulled the jacket’s zipper up and down its runners a few times. Then he gave the telltale signal that Masondo had been expecting and watching for out of the corner of his eye. He extended his left arm, twisted his wrist round and looked at his watch.
Nothing like pressure of time to encourage a source to talk.
Hansen spoke again.
‘It’s just that I’ve got to get back to the nightclub pretty soon to organise a pickup. Important stuff, and I’m the only one that can handle it.’
‘Police work is important stuff.’
‘Yes, I see that, sir.’
Sir. Now there was an improvement.
‘I’m finding it difficult to believe you don’t know who owns the business you work for.’
‘Well, it’s strange, I know, but …’ Hansen’s voice tailed off. His finger pushed the zipper up again and guided it down.
‘You see, what I’m thinking is this.’ Masondo took another gulp of coffee. It was excellent. He’d have to ask the constable to show him the jar it came from, then he could buy this brand to drink at home. ‘What I’m thinking is that you’ve been told not to disclose the owner’s identity to the police.’
Hansen’s brow furrowed in a deep frown.
‘But at the same time, you’ve been told to run the nightclub,’ Masondo continued.
‘Well, yes.’
Masondo put down his cup and spread his hands. ‘There you have it, my friend. You are between a rock and a hard place, as they say. You cannot run the nightclub from here. We can detain you for up to forty-eight hours if we believe you are a suspect, and not cooperating with the police is reason enough for being a suspect. So now you have to ask yourself, which of the two choices is going to serve your employer better?’
He propped his elbows on the table, leaning closer to Hansen. ‘You see, if there’s a reason why you shouldn’t reveal the owner’s identity – such as, for instance, the fact he is a criminal, or is wanted by the police – we will find out at some stage. It’ll take us a little more time, but we will find out.’ He made a show of checking his own watch. ‘I suppose it all depends on how many important pickups you have to deal with in the next forty-eight hours, and what will happen if you aren’t there to handle them.’
Masondo could almost see Hansen start to sweat under his thick leather jacket. He knew he had him now. If Hansen lied to keep his job it wouldn’t help him, because Masondo would return to Rhythm Town and pick him up again. If Hansen told the truth and did a runner, it wouldn’t matter either. And if Hansen told a lie and did a runner – well, somebody had to keep the nightclub going. Eventually, the owner would be forced out of hiding. In effect, all Masondo needed to do was wait.
He watched while, with a series of exaggerated frowns, Hansen arrived at the same conclusion. There was another piece in TIME Magazine he’d earmarked for when he’d finished the elections article. About global warming and the survival of the polar bears. He wanted to read that. Masondo had never seen snow. The only time he’d travelled overseas had been to a police conference in London last November. No snow but lots of rain. Rather like the current weather in Johannesburg, only colder and gloomier. He was concerned that by the time he’d reached a high enough pay grade to plan a ski trip for him and his wife, there’d be no snow left in the world at all.
Masondo closed the magazine and slipped it into the folder. His instincts told him that Hansen was about to start talking. Which meant it was time for him to start listening.
Hansen cleared his throat. Masondo waited. He’d seen the man’s reaction to Nick’s presence, and the mention of his brother Paul. While Masondo wasn’t one to jump to conclusions, he thought he had a pretty good idea of what the nightclub manager was going to tell him.
However, when Hansen started to speak, Masondo later admitted that he hadn’t expected him to say what he did. Not in a million years.