I watch as a young female constable drives up the long hill to the old garrison of Fort Napier. The grey stone walls contrast sharply with the rolling fields of green stretching out in front. The constable parks her yellow police van and stops briefly to look at the panoramic view of Pietermaritzburg nestled below before buzzing on the security button.
‘Wie’s daar?’ crackles an Afrikaans voice.
‘Polisie,’ replies the constable and seconds later the heavy iron door creaks open to allow her in.
Her brown police issue shoes pad behind an armed guard. The fort is deceiving from the outside and instead of grey stone, a number of red brick buildings lie within the grounds. The windows are barred and a barbed wire fence surrounds a twenty-metre rectangular swimming pool which squats in the centre of the compound. I follow them towards the largest of the red brick buildings. After a reinforced steel door, we continue down a long corridor and through three more iron security gates. I smile to myself as I pass straight through the high security.
The constable is ushered into an office and told to wait. She perches obediently on one of the wooden chairs and places her knees together like a dutiful schoolgirl waiting to see the headmistress. I study her face. She’s quite pretty in a flat face kind of way. Her hair is cut into a short blonde bob and she’s got nice pale blue eyes although they’re hidden behind black framed glasses. She’d look a lot better with contact lenses and longer hair. I wonder what made her become a policewoman?
The door creaks open and a middle-aged khaki-clad officer with a beer paunch comes in. So far everyone is white. I wonder if they’ve admitted any black or Indian patients yet or employed any black staff. I guess the new South Africa will take a little time to change.
‘I’m Superintendent Coetzee. What can I do you for?’
‘Constable Pienaar. Inspector Govender from CR Swart has sent me to collect some information on one of your patients, a Mr George Mannering.’
The superintendent pulls down his mouth. ‘Ja, okay. Is it something I should know about?’
‘A possible murder case, but as yet we have no proof. Inspector Govender just wants to look into Mannering, and then if there is nothing to go on, to close the case.’
‘Okay. Just wait a bit and I will find his file. Viljoen!’ he shouts at the door.
The door opens and a young guard stands to attention. ‘Kry gou vir my die leer vir George Mannering.’
Minutes later he’s back with a brown cardboard file. The superintendent hands it to the constable. ‘Have a look through and if you need copies let me know. Mannering was admitted to us last week after a major psychotic attack.’
‘Do you think he is capable of murder?’
The superintendent gives a cynical laugh. ‘Agh, anyone is capable of murder given the right circumstances, don’t you think?’
The young constable meets his direct gaze but says nothing. She pages through the file and then hands two of the pages to the superintendent. ‘Can we just have copies of these two pages, asseblief.’
‘Viljoen!’ shouts the superintendent again. The door opens dutifully. ‘Maak twee afskripte van hierdie.’ He hands him the pages and they wait in silence. The young police constable remains upright while the superintendent’s eyes flicker over her like a lustful St Bernard eyeing a bitch on heat. Another arsehole … where do they all come from?
I scan my eyes over the page the constable is holding – a list of dates and places with a woman’s name and the letters GBH after each. My heart sinks. George obviously has a history of attacking woman. ‘Highly intelligent and dangerous. Holds a BSc in Pharmaceuticals from Rhodes University.’ I frown at the words. Did Karlos know this? I think back to Shaloma. There were quite a few times when he chatted quietly to George. I thought he was just being kind but perhaps he was fishing, looking for another marlin, so he could plan his next careful move.
The evidence against George is mounting. I guess in some ways he’s the perfect stooge for Karlos. He’s psychotic, in a mental hospital, has a history of violence. He’s not only a perfect choice, but no public prosecutor is going to take up the case as long as he stays in Fort Napier. I wonder how Karlos got hold of his Trithapon. He must’ve planned it all so carefully. George is listed as highly intelligent and cunning but he’s got nothing on Karlos. The constable reads through the pages again and looks up. ‘I think maybe I must speak with him.’
The superintendent purses his lips together for a second. ‘He’s heavily drugged. He may not make much sense.’
‘I think it’s best I ask a few questions.’
‘Ja, ok. Come with me.’
The superintendent opens the door and leers at the young constable as she passes through. He follows a step behind, his eyes fixed on her arse. They pass through a series of locked steel doors and up two flights of stairs before going down another long corridor which ends with a steel double door. An armed, khaki-clad guard says, ‘More, Superintendent.’
‘Maak oop.’
The guard gives a salute and unlocks the heavy doors. Two male nurses, clad in white but with truncheons strapped to their belts, jolt up out of their chairs. The ward is dimly lit with four sleeping patients.
‘Goeie more, Superintendent,’ they utter in unison.
‘Bring Mannering na die kantoor,’ barks the superintendent, marching past the beds to a wooden door at the end of the dormitory. He ushers the young constable in and I see his hand brush against the small of her back.
The room’s obviously an office, with an old wooden desk and three wooden chairs, which look like typically government issue. The young constable seats herself stiffly on the nearest chair. Her face looks like an enraged bullfrog’s and it’s obvious she’s not enjoying the fat superintendent’s interest.
The male nurse brings in a sleepy George. He rubs his head while his glazed eyes dart from the constable to the superintendent. He’s obviously drugged and even thinner and paler than when I saw him last. His black hair stands up, giving him even more of a rook-like appearance than before. He’s dressed in light blue hospital pyjamas and has a plastic hospital label securely fixed around his left wrist.
‘This constable would like to ask you a few questions, Mr Mannering. Please have a seat.’
The nurse eases George down onto the remaining spare wooden seat and stands resting his hand on George’s shoulder. George’s left eye twitches and a small rivulet of saliva dribbles down from his mouth. His tongue peeks in and out as if he’s trying to catch a fly. I shiver with distaste. He places his trembling hands in his lap while his eyes continue to flit from the superintendent to the constable and back again as if he’s watching a tennis match.
The constable clears her throat and takes out a small notepad. ‘Mr Mannering, I believe you were a patient at Shaloma at the time that Miss Melissa Windsor was a patient there also?’
George sits rigidly staring at her.
‘Is that correct?’
‘You must answer, Mr Mannering,’ says the superintendent. He leans in towards George, one hand resting on his fat thigh, and frowns intimidatingly at him.
George’s eyes dart back to the constable before giving a curt nod.
‘You are aware that she is now deceased?’
George’s left eye twitches madly at her words but he nods again.
The constable studies him through narrow eyes for a few seconds. ‘Do you have any idea what caused her death?’ she asks in a slow, measured tone.
George’s eyes widen and his tongue stops halfway out of his mouth. He sits frozen before answering in a voice barely above a whisper, ‘She was drinking again.’
The constable continues to stare at him before pulling down her mouth and leaning in towards George. ‘Did you have anything to do with her death, Mr Mannering?’
George’s head jerks back. ‘No … no, no …’ he croaks. His mouth drops open and his tongue flops forward as he shakes his head from side to side likes he’s in a trance. ‘No … she died from drinking. She died from drinking. That’s what they said. She died from drinking.’ He continues to repeat the words, the pitch of his voice rising until he jumps up from the chair and screams, ‘Why are you asking me this … why?’
The superintendent motions with his eyes for the nurse to take George away. George begins to scream and squirm. The second nurse rushes in and they manhandle the writhing body of George to his feet and drag him out of the office with the high pitch of his scream still heard. Both the superintendent’s and the constable’s faces wrinkle with distaste. The screaming comes to an abrupt halt. The constable and superintendent exchange a look of relief.
‘Ja, well, sorry. I don’t think that was much help,’ says the superintendent pushing back his chair. ‘Maybe you must wait a few weeks till we stabilise him. The psychiatrist will be here later and I’ll talk to him about this.’
The constable sits for a few seconds with an expression of deep thought across her face. ‘Ja, maybe that’s best. Thank you for your time, Superintendent.’
‘Agh, no problem,’ says the superintendent, leering down at her again. ‘Come, I’ll show you out.’
I follow behind as they pace back down the corridor. George certainly doesn’t look good and it’s obvious he’d never be deemed fit enough to go to court. Karlos certainly choose his pawn well.