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Moti’s a big wheel in Port Elizabeth and that’s not just because the suits who run City Hall hang on his every word. But Moti’s got a problem. His not-so-favourite son-in-law has gone AWOL. And that matters because his daughter is distraught, or so he tells rich but mentally troubled PI Sol Nemo.
Sol takes the case but soon faces complications because of Anton’s missing wife and pregnant girlfriend. Soon too, the outline of a major conspiracy starts to unfold involving various parties including an unsettling interest from State Security. Sol comes to realise it’s dangerous to pursue enquiries when his every move is being watched.
By then though, Sol’s motivation has become personal. You see there’s an obligation to a young woman who’s literally been scared to death and one also to some of the Eastern Cape’s most disadvantaged citizens who are being ruthlessly exploited.
All in all, it’s a confusing picture and that’s to say nothing of the absent Anton who remains out of sight until suddenly he needs Sol’s help. It’s only then the truth emerges, but is it the truth and nothing but, or is it some version of it designed to beguile and deceive?
Extract
Chapter 1
As soon as I realised where Moti lived, I should have turned the car round and headed home. Only hubris, influence and money, a lot of money, could have authorised a development on land designated a nature reserve by the regional government in Cape Town. And the fact this compliant administration was headquartered in the capital of the Western Cape should have set additional alarm bells ringing. The truth was Moti’s real power base rested hundreds of kms away in PE, where he was on prattling terms with the suits who ran City Hall.
But, on that fine February morning, I wasn’t ahead of the game. In fact, I wasn’t in the game and to be honest I wasn’t even in the ballpark. And that was all down to my low mood and a tension headache.
At the end of my journey, close to Plettenberg Bay, I pulled the Mustang off the highway and halted in front of a pair of wrought-iron gates. They were anchored to pillars set within an impenetrable screen of thorn and wild fig that ran as far as the eye could see on either side. Beyond the gates lay a track of beaten earth which led downhill between walls of scrub until it was lost to sight. In the distance, I discerned a crane mast with a long jib which, framed against the wide blue yonder, was lifting a steel girder.
Given the cloudless sky, I shouldn’t have been surprised by the heat when I opened the car window. But I’d been sitting in the car’s air-conditioned cabin for over three hours so the hot air that hit my face was a shock. Stretching my arm across to a white box mounted on a post in front of the gates, I opened it and lifted the receiver inside.
The phone rang a long time before I heard the one word, ‘Ja?’
‘I’ve an appointment at ten,’ I said. ‘My name’s Nemo.’
‘Come again.’
‘My name’s Nemo. Sol Nemo.’
‘Wait.’
With the eight pots of the Mustang’s five litre engine burbling merrily beneath my right foot, I waited. Idly, I watched as a vervet monkey ran from the branch of a wild fig and perched itself on one of the pillars. When he yawned, I found myself reciprocating and when I scratched my nose he followed suit. I knew then the mystics were right when they say we are all One.
‘No Nemo,’ said a tinny voice at last from the other end of the line.
I focused with an effort, my headache worse. ‘The meeting was fixed two days ago,’ I said. ‘I’m here to see Mo…’ I quickly corrected myself. ‘…Mr. Matsunyane.’
‘Not site services then?’
‘Site services?-No, I’m a private investigator.’
‘Wait.’
‘Again?’
‘I guess.’
Eventually the gates opened, and I began the long descent down the hillside. The track ran more or less straight for half a kilometre with a few passing places along the way. At the bottom there was a wide plateau cleared of vegetation above the sea. It was dominated by the high mast of the crane and parked near it was a long five-axle artic carrying girders. As I watched, a couple of black guys standing on the back of the lorry pulled in hawsers from the crane’s jib and attached them to one of the steel joists. The men were dressed in shorts and T-shirts but wore hard hats and heavy-duty gloves. On the far side of them, I noticed Kwikspace cabins, several vehicles and an array of building materials including timber frames and fancy aquamarine tiles. Standing around a trestle table, three men were poring over what I assumed were blueprints or plans.
As nobody paid me any mind, I left the car in front of a single storey building of tired appearance and walked through a small loggia and open double doors. These were matched by others on the far side and, unchallenged, I strode across a carpeted lounge and out onto an expanse of tiered decking bordered by low bushes. The distant sea lay below me with a view all the way down to the Southern Ocean and Antarctica. Despite this, the breeze that ruffled the long hair at the nape of my neck was warm and an antidote to the intensity of the sun.
I turned my face away from the brightness and found my eyes drawn to the scene farther along the cliff face, or rather to the area below it. On the rocks, about ten metres above the sea, a vast concrete plinth had been laid and steel uprights sunk into the rock beneath. The girders I’d seen on the artic were being transferred by the crane to a holding area at the side of what was becoming a large construction site.
My musing as to what the building might in future look like was interrupted by a figure I saw out of the corner of my eye. He was built like a sumo wrestler but dressed like a waiter in a white shirt, open at the collar, and a pair of black pants. The pants and the 44 Mag Ruger he carried in a shoulder holster matched the colour of his skin. To match mine they’d have been tobacco brown.
‘We got a doorbell,’ he said shortly as he moved in, before planting himself in front of me. I recognised the voice I heard on the phone.
‘Door was open,’ I said.
‘You Nemo?’
‘I guess.’
I think for not much more than the price of a match, he’d have slugged me into the middle of next week. But he decided against and instead gave me a look that would have vaporised granite.
Looks are like words though: they don’t break bones. Hell, he had the appearance of a waiter, and I needed a service. ‘Could I trouble you for a glass of water?’ I asked sweetly.
Large podgy hands became fists and a vein in the man’s neck throbbed like a puff adder with St.Vitus’s dance. ‘You trying to be funny?’
I ignored him. ‘Yeah, and some aspirin wouldn’t go amiss,’ I added, flashing a smile that usually melts hearts. ‘I am sorry, but I’ve got the bitch of a headache.’
He pondered that one for long seconds. ‘You better hope, Nemo, I forget your name real quick,’ he said at last. With that he turned on his heel and, at a speed surprising for a man of his size, I watched as he propelled heavy buttocks towards a low table and half a dozen cane chairs. On the far side was a glass door which he flung open before disappearing inside.
He was gone a while. A while during which the pain in my head started to pulse with the regularity of a metronome. Concluding I was dried out wasn’t difficult, but I was also as tired as a marathon runner grinding out those last hundred metres. The cause was my recurring problems with sleep. Shrinks variously ascribed it to any one of several disorders but the root cause was anxiety. It left me swallowing pills, and sometimes taking sedatives; anything to kill the churning in my stomach and feelings of suffocation.
My new-found friend returned eventually at the same speed at which he’d left. I took the aspirin with the water he thrust in my face and then let him direct me to a gap in the bushes. ‘Take the path to the steps,’ he ordered. ‘Walk down to the beach. Moti will meet you there.’ He squared up in front of me. ‘But, before you go,’ he said aggressively, ‘I’m gonna take your piece.’
The piece was a Beretta Tomcat in a soft pouch pushed into the waistband at the back of my shorts. It was concealed by my T-shirt and because the weapon’s small and light you needed sharp eyes to spot it. Very sharp eyes.
I retrieved the gun and passed it over. The contempt in his eyes plain, the man laid it on the palm of his hand where its insignificance was exaggerated. ‘What’s this for?-Icing crickets?’
I ignored him and then, under his lowering eyes, found the path that descended steeply before leading onto cement stairs. I paused at the top to view a rocky foreshore and an area behind where it looked as though somebody had imported truckloads of sand to make a beach. Discreetly posted on an outcrop of rock was an armed guard cradling a rifle like it was his first born. I took no notice of him because beyond chairs, tables and a damask red umbrella was a tidal pool where I noticed someone bathing.
Descending the steps, I strolled towards the water. Closer to, I discerned the bald head of a man, but his face was turned away, so he didn’t see me. As I watched, he launched himself across the water, his arms turning over and over in a lazy crawl. At the far end of the pool and beneath a buttress of red sandstone, he lifted himself out and retrieved a white towel. In a leisurely fashion, he dried himself off and not until I raised an arm in a silent greeting did he acknowledge me by waving. With a further gesture of his hand, he indicated I should join him by the chairs and beach umbrella.
We converged over the sand from our separate directions at the same time. By then he’d draped the towel round his neck and composed his features into an expression of overblown friendliness. Such displays instil in me suspicion, but I went along with him as he pumped my hand and declared with a broad smile, ‘Thanks for rocking up. It’s a pleasure to meet you, man. Mind if I call you Sol?’
I shook my head and pushed my shades up onto the top of my head. At his invitation, I sat down opposite him under the umbrella and accepted an iced tea from a portable fridge. As he passed it over, I noticed the large ruby in a silver mount on his little finger.
‘Really bin looking forward to this, Sol’ he went on. ‘My people say you’ve got the juice.’ Then, like a cloud suddenly obscuring the sun, I saw his face fall and his smile evaporate. This denied me further contemplation of implants that showcased our Rainbow Nation’s dentistry at its extortionate best. ‘Pity we have to hook up this way,’ he added.
‘I was told this is about your son-in-law,’ I prompted, sipping my drink. Sitting in the shade and with the aspirin beginning to work its magic, I was already feeling better.
Moti would have answered but his cell sang out. In that instant, I ceased to exist because without excuse or apology he glanced at the screen and took the call. I gleaned nothing from the exchange in Zulu, except an appreciation of his quick temper.
The interlude though gave me an opportunity to look him over. No doubt, there were many that would have envied me my opportunity. Celebrity these days has its legions of fans and getting up close and personal is the dream of every camp-follower who believes physical proximity somehow sprinkles a little stardust. Like the poor, the deluded are ever with us.
Moti was shorter than me but must have been at least 20 kgs heavier. Dressed in Bermuda shorts with a contrasting blue and yellow diamond pattern, his sleek and muscular torso reminded me of a well-nourished porpoise. On the other hand, his wrinkled and pockmarked skull which sat on a neck of loose skin invited other comparisons; the one that stood out was a Galapagos tortoise.
But, if there was doubt about whether Moti might ever shed weight, in the matter of his name, shedding those excess syllables had been ruthlessly addressed. The catalyst had been the press who’d quickly determined that even if they could spell Mahumapelo Matsunyane it kinda stymied snappy headlines. Who exactly had come up with the handle Moti was lost in the mists but there was no understating its grab factor. Headlines like Moti donates a million; Moti wins mega Metro contract; Moti brokers a settlement all made for saleable copy.
My host ended the call at last and threw the phone down onto the table. He was angry about something, so angry he’d forgotten about me.
‘Problems?’ I asked with my usual rapier-like insight.
My voice brought him back from the place his mind had sent him. ‘Nothing I can’t pack away,’ he said dismissively. ‘But your being here now’s real timely.’
‘How so?’
‘Call was from my head honcho. He’s been sniffing around some cash issues in one of my companies. Seems the smell’s all bad.’
‘How does this concern your son-in-law?’
‘He’s been siphoning off the dough.’
‘You sure?’
‘Sure!-What you mean am I sure?’
I ignored him. ‘What are we talking about?’
‘North of five million bucks. But it’s not that.’ Moti’s expression became mournful. ‘No, it’s the abuse of trust.’
‘And there’ve been other incidents?’
Moti looked puzzled. ‘You got an angle on this I don’t know about.’
It was my turn to be confused. ‘If this is the first one, how come you asked me here?’
‘I thought the meet was explained.’
I shook my head.’ I was told it was highly confidential. Me, I was travelling to Plett anyway. I’m taking time out.’
Moti levelled his gaze, his eyes the colour of obsidian and the whites streaked with yellow. ‘My son-in-law’s missing, Sol,’ he said flatly. ‘Has been for over a month. That’s why I need help. It’s uber urgent.’
‘OK,’ I said, ‘now I understand. What are the police doing?’
‘SAPS don’t stress in these cases. Not unless a party’s at risk.’
He was right. I knew that from having worked for Detective Services for years. Resources had always been stretched and that meant choosing priorities. I guessed someone like Moti might be able to pull strings for a while but the relentless pressure from the daily toll of murders, rapes, armed robberies, abductions and so forth would soon have pushed any plea of his out of mind.
I drained the tea and levered myself upright in the chair. There was a large envelope sitting on the table. It had been there throughout our discussion and yet again my eyes alighted on it. ‘That’s the low-down,’ said Moti, following my gaze.
I lifted the envelope and opened it. ‘What’s your son-in-law’s name?’ I asked.
‘Anton van Zyl.’
In the act of retrieving the envelope’s contents, my hand stopped. Van Zyl is a Dutch name while Matsunyane is Zulu. In the bad old apartheid days, marriage between members of different racial groups was illegal. It was the sort of proclamation that had echoes of those chilling enactments the Nazis signed off in Nuremberg between world wars. Decades on in SA and the law has long since changed, but behaviour by and large hasn’t. Marriage across the racial chasms remains remarkable because of its infrequency.
The envelope contained a photograph and a sheet of paper. ‘When was the picture taken?’ I asked.
Moti shrugged. ‘I don’t recall, but he’s not changed much.’
Van Zyl was handsome and stared boldly into the lens of the camera. He was tall and slim with fair hair parted at one side and was dressed in a blue sports jacket and beige chinos. Open-faced with a high forehead and strong jaw, he wore heavy glasses with black frames. He looked like a school teacher or college lecturer.
‘What were the circumstances of his disappearance?’
‘After a while he got missed.’
‘You were that close?’
Moti grimaced. ‘Our paths used to cross but it wasn’t planned.’
I looked down at the sheet of paper in my lap. ‘OK, I’ll start with your daughter,’ I said. ‘Is the PE address the marital home?’
Distracted by trying to work out where exactly Anton’s home was, it took me a few seconds to realise Moti hadn’t responded.
When I did lift my eyes, I found his countenance cemented into a mask, his dark eyes bulging and dangerous. ‘No way you shoot the breeze with my daughter,’ he hissed. ‘Namzano’s bin real choked up by what’s happened and…’
I put up a restraining hand, but it only halted the tirade momentarily before he was off again.
I let it all wash over me and waited for him to regain his composure. When he had, I said quietly, ‘Namzano may hold the key to this. And even if she doesn’t, I’m sure she’ll know something. It’s essential I talk with her.’
Moti breathed hard before I witnessed a transformation. The congestion in his face vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Soon, I was treated to a renewed display of his pearly whites as he expanded his lips in a wide smile. ‘I’m real sorry, Sol,’ he said ingratiatingly. ‘Really, I am. Namzano’s my only child so I find this whole thing uber painful. My baby’s health’s so fragile. Bin that way a while. As of now, I gotta say she’s not around. She’s been in Europe a time now. Anyways Anton’s walkout isn’t connected to Namzano.’
Later, I came to understand the significance of what he said but, at that moment, I attached no importance to it. ‘What’s Anton’s line of work?’ I asked.
‘Project management.’
‘In one of your companies?’
Moti nodded.
‘What would have motivated his stealing?’
‘Why would I know?’
I smiled into his vexed face. ‘What I meant was did he need to steal?’
‘What’s your point, Sol?’
‘I’m just working up a background, that’s all.’
‘He’s dough of his own, but who’s to say? Some guys just can’t help themselves, can they?’
‘Is the timing significant?’
Moti shrugged and sculpted his face into an expression of paternal concern. ‘This is about my daughter, Sol. It’s about Namzano and her happiness. I only mentioned his ripping me off as you were here.’ He paused and scratched his sleek stomach with a manicured fingernail. ‘It pains me, but it’s not the whole reason Anton’s no bro.’
‘How’s that?’
‘He puts it around. You know what I mean. He’s been at it for years.’
‘Maybe he’s run off with someone,’ I ventured.
Moti spread questioning hands and the ruby on his finger sparkled for an instant as it caught the sun. ‘Beats me, but it’s a line. You might get bites from fishing the places he hangs out.’
I looked down at the sheet of paper and saw the names of two golf clubs, a gym, a glider school, and a racquets club. All the locations were in the Eastern Cape. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Picked it up from the house. I had it searched.’
‘There’s no financial stuff.’
‘Could be he lifted it when he took off.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, but I was distracted. The thing was I’d now heard enough to decide whether the job was for me. I came to a decision. ‘I’ve gotta tell you this isn’t for me. I reckon it’s going to take time to find your son-in-law. Maybe a lot of time. And time’s not something I’ve a lot of right now. Not for this sort of case.’
Once more, I got the eye-bulging routine as Moti’s peepers registering something I call hatred. ‘So why the fuck are you here?’
This sort of kak doesn’t faze me. What messed with my head was being sleepless at three in the morning. ‘I’d no idea what this was about,’ I said.
Moti wasn’t mollified. ‘You think I’ve got time to socialise! Time’s money, man.’
‘I heard that someplace before,’ I said coolly, making to get up. Making to get up that was until his voice interrupted and I sat down again.
‘I can really make it worth your while,’ Moti said, his face once more cast into an expression of empathy, indeed bordering on supplication.
‘Making it worth my while doesn’t really come into it,’ I said. Fact was I’d inherited a fortune from a father who wanted nothing to do with me. Even after giving up most of it, I was still left, as they say in the circles I don’t move in, very well-heeled.
‘You telling me my bucks ain’t gonna swing this?’
‘That’s right. Thing is I work pro bono.’
‘That’s no problem,’ said Moti chuckling. ‘You can work for me for nothing.’
I smiled thinly. ‘The people I work for have nothing, so I charge nothing.’
From his expression, it seemed Moti thought this a novel idea. But he hadn’t got where he was by being a dunce in the art of negotiation or by being slow on the uptake. ‘Suppose we work this out different,’ he suggested.
I shrugged. ‘Before we get to that: why me?’ I asked.
‘Like I said, you got the juice and besides you know PE.’
‘There’s other guys.’
‘I want somebody trained like you but who goes his own way. Other guys are up to no more than snapping back door men and sleepwalking checks on new hires. I need a pro and your record’s ace.’
It wasn’t flattery made me take the job: it was the size of the charitable donation I extracted. I did that with no compunction after Moti boasted about what he was worth.
Before we parted, he gave me the keys to the house and the codes for the security system. It also prompted him to direct my attention to the construction site below the cliffs. ‘What do you think of my little project?’ he asked proudly, a sheen of sweat glistening on his bald pate.
‘I’d say you’re building too close to the water.’
‘Only if you’ve no faith in modern building techniques.’
‘Faith’s not something I place a whole lot of trust in.’
He shot me a hard look and clapped me patronisingly on the arm. ‘You mind your back,’ he said, before his hand gripped my elbow, ‘and be sure you keep me in the loop.’ With that, his features dissolved into a smile. ‘You and me, Sol, are gonna become real close.’
Somehow, the prospect left me distinctly underwhelmed.