43

Masondo pulled up at the Stronghold Security entrance boom and waited for the overalled man to bring him the entrance register. As he wrote his name down, he glanced at the last entry. He was not amused to see that it had been completed by a Captain Masondo an hour previously.

Masondo pressed his lips together. He wasn’t claiming to be unique, but he was certain there was no other captain with his name in the Johannesburg police service. Someone was up to mischief.

He was about to hand back the register when a thought occurred to him. ‘The person who signed in before me,’ he indicated the entry. ‘Is he still here? Or did he leave?’

The overalled man peered solemnly down at the handwritten column.

‘That man, he left just now. Perhaps five minutes ago.’

Masondo stared down at the writing again. His own name had been completed in an impatient scrawl, but the car’s number plate had been written in a more careful, precise hand. He was willing to bet that the man at the boom had filled in the number plate himself. In which case, unlike the name, it was probably correct.

‘What type of car?’ he asked.

The overalled man considered for a moment. ‘A Toyota Corolla. Blue.’

‘Thank you.’

Masondo braked as soon as he was past the entrance boom and got onto the radio. He called in the offending vehicle and put an alert out to officers in the area. Anybody who saw a blue Toyota with this number plate must pull it over and inform him immediately. This deception might be nothing, but it could be something important. Either way, he was going to track down this false Masondo if he could.

He was about to drive on down to the building when his cellphone rang.

‘Captain?’ It was his assistant back at the station.

‘Yes?’

‘The team that went back to Pretoria West to check the storm drain.’ The man stopped speaking and waited expectantly for a response.

Masondo took a deep breath and tried to muster the ragged remnants of his patience. How long would it take his assistant to learn to give him a complete report on what was happening, without requiring feedback at every breath?

‘What about the team?’

‘They found something.’

Masondo’s head started to pound. He waited. Still no response. ‘Found what?’ he snapped.

‘They found three more bodies, sir.’

‘What?’ Now his words were immediate, instinctive.

‘Three more,’ the assistant continued, encouraged by his boss’s reaction. ‘But they’re old bodies, sir. Not new ones. They’ve been hidden deep inside that drain for a few years already, the pathologist thinks.’

As Masondo put his notebook back in his pocket, he saw movement behind him. An emergency response vehicle had pulled up at the entrance boom. He scrutinised the vehicle in his side mirror, then climbed out of his unmarked and strolled over.

The driver busy filling out the register was Nick Kenyon.

Masondo sighed heavily and rested his right elbow on the open window frame. The response vehicle smelled clean, of antiseptic and of new car. He glanced at the GPS and the radio unit on the dashboard, noticing that this vehicle was fitted with better equipment than most police cars. The fact didn’t surprise him, since the EMS company that the paramedic worked for was, after all, a private enterprise.

‘We meet again,’ he said.

Noticing he had completed his entry – using the correct name, Masondo was pleased to see – he took the register from him and handed it back to the overalled man.

Nick stared back at him, his expression grim.

‘So we do.’

‘Why are you here? Is somebody in this building suffering a medical emergency?’

‘No. I’m on standby. From tonight, officially, but I started a few hours early.’

‘Your dedication to your job is impressive, Mr Kenyon, but you didn’t answer my question. Let me ask it again. Why are you here?’

Masondo’s shadow was sharp and crisp against the white door. Then it vanished as the sun was swallowed by the storm clouds that had crept across the sky. Behind him, he heard the rumble of thunder.

Nick fixed Masondo with a frosty glare.

‘I’m here because it’s the only place I can think of where my brother could be.’

‘Ah. The elusive Paul Kenyon.’

‘Yes.’

Masondo had an idea. ‘What vehicle does your brother drive?’

Nick thought for a moment.

‘I’ve never seen his car. But a friend of mine said he visited her restaurant recently in an old Toyota. Blue, I think.’

Masondo felt a number of small muscles in his face relax. Until they did, he hadn’t even realised they were tense. He nodded once.

‘Thank you.’

He was about to turn away, but Nick’s gaze pinned him to the spot.

‘Why are you here?’ the paramedic asked.

Masondo didn’t have to answer him, but he knew it was sometimes useful to reveal information, as it allowed him to watch the person’s reaction. Nick Kenyon might no longer be a prime suspect, but Masondo was still suspicious of the lengths he had gone to evade police questioning earlier in the day.

‘I’m here to question a suspect. The owner of Rhythm Town,’ he replied.

Nick stared back in blank amazement. ‘The owner of Rhythm Town works here?’

Masondo nodded, regarding him closely. ‘Apparently, yes.’

‘Who is he?’

‘It’s a she. A lady called Ms Anderson.’

‘Ms Anderson?’ Kenyon frowned, gazing suspiciously back at him. From the tone of his voice, Masondo guessed the name was familiar to him.

‘Yes. Ms Tayla Anderson is her name. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’

Kenyon gaped at him for a horrified moment. Then he interrupted Masondo, although his words didn’t seem to be directed at the detective.

‘Tayla. God, I don’t believe it. Tayla’s involved.’

With a screech of tyres the emergency vehicle accelerated towards the office block. Masondo didn’t move his arm out of the way fast enough and the door frame of the departing car smacked him hard on his funny bone.

Clutching his elbow and swearing in a manner that caused the overalled man to retreat back into the safety of his guardhouse, Masondo shuffled back to his car to radio another urgent message through to headquarters. All available vehicles on the road, now.

The hunt for Paul Kenyon was on.