Gun Dealing (The Ryder Quartet Book 2) (13 page)

After three or four minutes the man
returned to the car. There was a pause as they discussed what he had seen. Then
they drove off, slowly, up the hill, in the direction of the old main road.

17.35.

Nyawula and Cronje were wrapping up
for the day.

‘That’s about it, Piet. Thanks for
pulling that together for me. Ryder said he’d have another look at it all
tomorrow. He’s got a lot on at present, so he’ll appreciate your work on it.’

‘No problem, Captain. Jeremy also
told me he’s got a big dinner on tonight. His wife’s business, along with some
family from overseas, and stuff.’

‘Yes, so I understand. Anyway,
thanks, Piet. I’ll be off now.’

‘Pleasure, Captain. You got a night
off for a change, Captain?’

‘Anything but, Piet. Drinks and
dinner with a Lieutenant-Colonel, a Brigadier, and a
 
Major-General. Can you think of anything
worse?’

‘Not really, Captain. Well, maybe. My
parents-in-law are coming for dinner. Again.’

‘Hmmmm. Want to swap places, Piet?’

‘
Yislaaik
!
No way, Captain.’

‘Sure? You’d find the senior officers
can be a real barrel of fun, Piet.’

‘No, Captain. Sorry. When I said
no way
I wasn’t talking about me and the
generals. I meant that I wouldn’t want you to go through the experience of
eating with my in-laws.’

‘Oh. OK, Piet. I see. That bad, hey?’

‘S’why I spend so much time in the
office, Captain.’

‘OK, Piet. Don’t stay too long,
though. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Bye, Captain.’

22.30.

The ten people seated at the Ryders’
dinner table were finishing dessert. Three of them were relatives visiting from
England and staying overnight with the Ryders. Fiona’s widowed cousin Jennifer
was in her fifties and she was accompanied by her two late twenties-something
children. Harry and Katherine were both young architects in England and Fiona
had thought it would be useful for the three of them, while on holiday in South
Africa, to meet a few of her own architect friends in Durban.

Mongezi was a senior partner in the
firm, and his wife Ntombi was a chartered accountant. Ivan was there alone. He
was a highly regarded architect and distinguished academic in urban design and
planning at the University of the Witwatersrand, and visiting consultant to
their operation in Durban. Busisiwe was a junior in the firm, in her
mid-twenties and in Fiona’s opinion the most talented young architect in town.
Her husband Hans was an academic in mathematics at the University of
KwaZulu-Natal. Fiona and Jeremy made up the ten. Their two children were away
for the mid-term with friends at a farm in the Midlands, they had explained to
the guests. Along with the dog, who was never happier than when near a herd of
sheep.

The evening had been warm and
convivial, and Harry and Katherine in particular had seized on the opportunity
to learn about the local scene and current interests in Built Environment
projects. Katherine and Busisiwe exchanged contact details and there was talk
about an intended ongoing email relationship. Harry and Hans also got on
superbly.

The babble of separate conversations
slowly began to converge toward a point at which a single strand naturally and
without ostentation from the speaker becomes more interesting than others. The
focus of the table was now on the sixty-something Ivan, a gentle and elegant
man. He was in mid-flow, in response to a question from Ntombi about Nelson
Mandela. The mere mention of the name had silenced the other conversations and
all eyes were now on Ivan.

‘Well, Mandela had us eating out of
the palm of his hand. He was so utterly charming and disarming on each of the
occasions he visited. Especially on that incredible night in September 1991
when he received his honorary degree. We’d been told that the timing was not
exact, but his security people would bring him to the side entrance at some
point mid-way through the event.’

They all listened with rapt attention
as Ivan continued.

‘The planning was impeccable. At the
given moment the Vice-Chancellor would interrupt the graduation proceedings, at
whatever point they had reached by then, by standing and announcing to the
audience
Ladies and Gentlemen, the
President of the African National Congress.
It had been arranged that
Mandela would then walk onto the stage from the wings, shake hands with the VC,
then go straight to the podium to begin the formalities that would culminate in
his address. A standing ovation was expected, to fill the time from the
entrance to the commencement of the action. All very carefully planned and
stage-managed. But guess what happened next? It was an amazing moment. Having
taken his place at the podium, with the applause dying down, Mandela saw Gerrit
Viljoen in the front row of the audience, and - ’

‘Who?’ asked Jennifer.

‘Minister of Constitutional
Development at the time,’ Fiona whispered to her. The whisper was particularly
hushed, as a signal to Jennifer, who had asked her question in full voice to
the whole table, rupturing the attention. Ivan continued.

 
‘So immediately leaving the podium he
walked straight over to the edge of the stage, leaned over, and said
Hullo Gerrit. How very nice to see you!
It was one of the most incredible moments, former Chairman of the Broederbond,
and…’

‘That’s just what I do!’

Ivan stopped, and turned. Everyone,
hanging on his words, also turned, in some surprise and with some irritation at
the interruption of Ivan’s captivating story.

‘I’m sorry, Jennifer, what was that?’

‘I said that that is exactly what I
do.’

‘Sorry. Do what?’

‘When I have a speech to make to a
large audience.’

‘Um… I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘When I give speeches to large
audiences I find it useful to relax everybody by finding someone in the
audience and going over to greet them. Just like Mandela. It makes everyone
feel at ease. I remember when I spoke at the Albert Hall...’

Jennifer’s son Harry raised his eyes
to the ceiling and smacked his open right hand irritatedly against his
forehead. Her daughter, Katherine, just groaned and dropped her head, almost
onto her plate. Others sat with their mouths somewhat open.

‘Please go on, Ivan,’ Harry said. ‘I
think for the moment we should hear about Nelson Mandela instead of mum’s
prowess as a public speaker.’

‘Um… where was I...’

‘Mandela greeted Viljoen,’ Harry
offered.

‘Oh, yes. Well. Anyway. It was quite
a moment...’

Ivan tried to get back into the story,
and did, to some extent. But the moment had passed and the structure of the
narrative was ruined. The nuance had been lost through Jennifer’s intervention.

Ivan was perplexed. Harry and
Katherine were embarrassed and furious. Fiona despaired. Jennifer was
oblivious. She turned to Mongezi, opposite her, and started telling him about
her Albert Hall fame. The rest of the table began to start up different
conversations about Mandela.

The tone had changed, so Ryder
tinkled a glass and suggested that they all move through to the living room or
spill out onto the patio to have coffees and whatever else might take their
fancy. There was a hubbub of conversation as they all stood up from the table
and started moving through. Mongezi took the opportunity to escape from
Jennifer by asking someone where the bathroom was. Fiona walked through with
Harry, who was
apologising
for his mother. Katherine
took Jennifer by the arm and hurried her out ahead of the others, whispering
agitatedly at her. Someone was asking someone else what Jennifer did for a
living.

Ryder couldn’t help thinking about a
formal dinner he had attended in England some years before, where Jennifer had
been present. She had arrived a little late as a guest at a large black-tie
dinner table in The Liberal Club. The host was in full flight with a short but dynamic
and passionate speech to the fourteen or sixteen guests, and nodded graciously
to Jennifer as she arrived, a little sheepishly, to take the only remaining
seat at the long table. Which was the one next to Ryder. As she sat down she
whispered to him, asking how long the speaker had been going.

‘Started a minute ago,’ he whispered,
swivelling
his body away from her and turning his
attention back to the speaker.

‘I’ve hosted quite a few events here,
myself,’ Jennifer had said.

Startled, he had turned back to her.

‘I’m sorry?’ he had whispered, as
quietly as he could.

‘I said I’ve hosted a number of
events here. I’ve been a member...’

‘Shhhht!’ offered the guest opposite
Ryder, trying to put a stop to the oral history of Jennifer’s club membership.

‘How rude!’ Jennifer had whispered in
his ear.

He didn’t turn this time, and did not
reply, but kept his attention fixed resolutely on the speaker, hoping that the
shusher
opposite would therefore see him as an ally and not
an adversary.

‘I once had dinner here with Lord...’

‘
Shhhh
!’
went another guest, halfway up the table, turning irritatedly and staring at
Jennifer.

This had some impact, and with some
difficulty Jennifer had kept quiet for the remainder of the host’s short
speech. But she made up for it after that, and Ryder and those placed around
her then had to endure an evening of torture as she delved into anecdotes about
her various meetings with the great and the good. Ryder noted that every single
person around Jennifer, including himself, had left the table to go to the
toilet during the course of the dinner.

It had become a real problem among
her friends and family. There was not infrequent discussion about it. Jennifer
seemed unable to listen to a speaker, or hear a brief social anecdote or story
or snippet of interesting information without seizing any opportunity to insert
her own experiences, social standing and reputation into the narrative.

It was a great pity, thought Ryder,
because when he had first met her he thought she was at heart a warm and
generous person, intelligent and charming, elegant and gracious. What dreadful
experiences had she endured as a young person to make her feel undervalued?
What was the driver that prompted her to insert herself as the narrative
centre
in any social discourse?

But for now, thought Ryder, Fiona’s
carefully selected liqueurs and coffees and chocolates proved to be successful.
Whatever Katherine had said to Jennifer on the way through from dinner had
produced the desired effect, and she had retreated into the background to some
extent. The highlight of the evening was Mongezi capturing everyone’s attention
and gathering them all into a group standing in the living room, before
toasting Fiona and announcing the details of her latest achievement in securing
one of the biggest design contracts in the firm’s history.

‘Fiona Ryder,’ said Mongezi, raising
his glass, ‘has put our firm on a trajectory that will not only secure our work
for a decade but will also play a key role in the transformation of the Built
Environment we see all around us. It has been a magnificent experience working
with her, and tomorrow we’re attending a signing ceremony where we’ll be handed
an enormous
cheque
. I shall be insisting that the
photographers show her and not me receiving the
cheque
.
She has not only led us to this moment. She has bossed us, and cajoled us, and
persuaded us to get better and better at what we strive to do.’

Amidst toasts and laughs and jokes
about not believing it until the
cheque
had been
cashed, Fiona graciously accepted the compliments, sharing the glory, as
always, with her colleagues, pointing out the crucial roles they had all played
in the exercise, especially Busisiwe, and generally deflecting the accolades
from herself and onto others. Harry and Katherine
marvelled
at it and looked, simultaneously, at their mother to see whether she was
absorbing any lessons. They couldn’t tell whether she was or not.

Then the alarm went off.

22.45.

Nadine Salm was with her assistant in
the laboratory. Earlier in the afternoon they had put together the information
on the slugs recovered from the KwaDukuza cop homicides and the passing
motorist who had been hit by a bullet. They had then had dinner together before
coming back to the lab for further meticulous recording and the generating of
computer-aided diagrams, simulations and animated reconstructions. They had
worked well into the evening.

There was no question in their own
minds that three SIG Sauers were involved in the massacre, but they had to
resist the temptation to move from being lifters and recorders of evidence to
becoming the testers of that evidence. Nevertheless, they worked painstakingly,
going through records of past homicides, looking at possible connections
between different weapons recovered from different crime scenes, and generally
building up a picture for themselves of what connections there might be.