The October Killings (34 page)

The driveway was in better shape over the last few meters than it was lower down the slope. It was the only way to approach the building, and Abigail had come too far and too single-mindedly to pause now. She walked up the middle of the drive. Had it not been for the weariness in her legs, she would have run up the front steps. The steps were made of heavy wooden beams, something like the railway sleepers of bygone years. They were still as sturdy as ever as she climbed them slowly and entered what remained of the hallway.

Half of the roof had collapsed and she could see the sky in places. There was enough light for her to make out three doorways leading off the hall, one on either side and another at the back. She went right first, down a broad passage, stumbling over material from collapsed roof sections. In places the floor had rotted and she had to be careful to avoid holes. The passage led to a row of rooms that had probably been bedrooms. Even in the gathering darkness it was clear that none of them had been used recently for human habitation.

Back in the hall, she looked out over the scrub but could discern no movement other than a gentle rustling of leaves in the slight evening breeze. The passage on the left of the hall led to what had probably been living and dining rooms, one of them large enough to have seated fifty or more people. But here too there was no sign of recent habitation.

For the first time since she had left the town planning office, Abigail felt some doubt. From the moment Lou-Anne Hamid had shown her Vyefontein's plans she had been certain that this was where she would find Leon. But there was no sign of human presence. If he was not here, she had made no progress at all. And Bishop was free. And she would not find Leon, at least not today and not alive.

She had been so sure. Could she possibly have been wrong? Yudel too believed that Leon was here.

The door at the back of the hall led into another passage and a kitchen that had a floor area bigger than most suburban houses. The equipment and shelving were gone, but the sinks and a single marble work-surface remained. Here too there was no sign of recent occupation.

She stepped out of the kitchen's back door. In front of her was a cutting into the steep bank that had been necessary to make a level site for the house. It was covered in grass and scrub with just a few bare patches that had eroded into shallow
dongas
. Without thinking, Abigail turned and walked along the back of the house, stepping carefully through the long grass. For the first time she considered the possibility of snakes. She tried to see where she was stepping, but there was too little light to see through the grass.

She reached the corner of the house and turned back, walking more quickly. Halfway back to the kitchen door she stopped again. Level with the ground, and hidden by vegetation if you were coming from the other direction, she could just make out a trapdoor and, next to it, what looked like footprints in the sand.

The trapdoor opened easily and a steep flight of stairs led into the basement. Abigail realized that she was looking into what had been the wine cellar. She stumbled down the stairs too hurriedly and had to reach for the side wall to steady herself. It took a while before her eyes became accustomed to the deeper darkness in a small room where only the faintest light came from the trapdoor. A scrambling sound and a sudden movement to her right caused her to turn and crouch in readiness. Something small dashed to a corner and disappeared into a crack, probably a rat. The room was empty, except for a small pile in a corner. She took something that felt like cardboard from the top of the pile and brought it close to her face. It looked like fast-food packaging. And this time it was not a hundred years old.

Another door led deeper under the house. Abigail entered a vault that disappeared into almost total darkness, seeming to run the length of the house. She touched wooden shelving, empty wine racks that had somehow survived. She almost called Leon's name, but stopped herself. There was no knowing who else might be listening. Another scrambling movement reached her.

The impulse to call for Leon rose within her again and now there was no stopping it. “Leon,” she called, keeping her voice low. “Leon, Leon.”

The muffled, scuffling response was, to Abigail, unmistakeably the sound of someone who was tied and gagged. Holding back was impossible. “Leon!”

Abigail found herself stumbling in the direction of the sound, down a narrow corridor between the wine racks. She bumped into a rack and was thrown across the corridor and into a second rack. The darkness had become impenetrable and she knew she was going too fast, but slowing was impossible. She cannoned off a rack and fell, landing on the relative softness of a human form. The force of her landing threw Abigail off Leon and onto the concrete floor beyond. Her fingers found the tape that was gagging him. She worked her nails under the end and tore it free.

“Abigail,” he whispered. “I knew it would be you.”

*   *   *

Abigail led Leon out of the house and onto the front steps. They moved slowly, picking their way in the darkness. At almost the same moment Freek and the six men from the flying squad broke cover, the beams of their torches shining through the stiff thatching grass. Seven torch beams found Abigail and Leon. Freek could see Leon turning repeatedly to look at her. “That woman,” he muttered. “Giving her instructions is a waste of breath.” He came slowly up the steps of the house to meet them. “Mr. Lourens, I presume,” he said. The members of the flying squad were all applauding. “I think that's for you,” he told Abigail. “Take a bow.” He shook Leon's hand. “Glad to see you, friend.”

Leon shook his hand, then turned again to look at Abigail.

“Thank you for coming,” Abigail said to Freek.

41

Yudel Gordon had started the drive back to C-Max as soon as Freek and his men left for Vyefontein. In a few moments at the Tshwane West police station the many uncertainties of the last week had disappeared.

For the first time, he understood it all. He did not believe that the core of the matter was going to be decided on a smallholding on the side of the Magaliesberg hills. But that was where Abigail had to go and she had Freek and his men to back her up.

He had the C-Max number in the memory of his mobile and called it up as he drove. The dull-sounding voice of the warder, who had been given charge of the switchboard, answered. “Yes, corrections.”

“Give me Head Warder Bogopa,” Yudel said.

“He's not here,” the bored voice told him. “He works day duty.”

“Who's in charge now?”

“Who's calling?”

“Yudel Gordon.”

“Who?”

“Yudel Gordon. I'm the prison psychologist.”

“Oh.” It seemed that a moment of recognition had dawned. “But you were retrenched. I'm not allowed to give that information to…”

“For God's sake, man, I'm under contract now. I just want to speak to whoever's in charge.” Yudel was entering a main artery and the Saturday evening traffic required his attention. Speaking on the mobile was becoming a bad idea.

“Hold on.” Before Yudel could respond, the man was gone. His voice came on again some thirty seconds later. “You're not on the list.”

“What list?”

“You're not on the list for access. Sorry, Gordon.”

“Listen, I just want to speak to the man in charge tonight.”

“I don't know where he is. Phone back later.”

“But…”

The connection went dead and Yudel dropped the phone onto the seat next to him. Since when do they have a list? he asked himself.

Almost immediately the phone rang again. It was Rosa. “I'm sorry it took me so long, but it was hard to find anyone to ask. They did have a Patrick Lesela, but he left in August without giving proper notice.”

*   *   *

Prison psychologist Patrick Lesela was seated primly at the desk in his office, his knees touching each other and his hands flat on the desk's surface. His head was tilted slightly to one side, as if he were listening for something. His face seemed to be at rest and devoid of expression.

A few doors down the passage, he heard the sound of voices as the members of the changing shifts compared notes or discussed the weekend's football or the possibility of a pay rise. He looked at his watch. It was almost seven forty. He waited until the hands showed exactly that time, then he rose and moved unhurriedly toward the door.

He paused for only a moment in the doorway, saw that the passage was empty and then turned in the direction of D Block.

*   *   *

From where he was sitting on his bunk, Marinus van Jaarsveld heard the key turn in the cell door. He knew that it would be unlocked for some sixty seconds. That was the time it took the duty warder to walk to the end of the row and back. After that it would be locked again, and if the cell was found empty it would be the night shift man, who was now going off duty, who would have to explain.

He knew also that the changing of shifts in C-Max took some fifteen minutes. The night shift had all arrived by seven forty-five and were waiting in the outer staff office. The senior warder of the new shift would be studying the log book and would be pleased to find that the night had passed without incident.

This was the time when there were the fewest warders on the cell blocks, most of them congregating around the duty room. With the arrangements that had been made, he would have a clear run out of D block and into the passage that led down to the inner gate and then through it. The only possible problem would be at the outer gate itself. If he had to, he would use the Makarov then. The bribe, split between three warders … the Makarov and a little care would get him right out of the prison. And Annette, who looked so innocent that no one would suspect her of anything, would be waiting in the parking area in a vehicle that carried the Department of Correctional Services logo.

Van Jaarsveld had already changed into the white T-shirt and jeans that had been smuggled in with the Makarov. He left the cell and walked unhurriedly as far as the first gate. Behind him a murmuring had started as some of the prisoners saw him go and took note of what he was wearing and the Makarov in his right hand. He was carrying the gun loosely behind his right thigh, his arm extended, just out of sight of anyone coming from the front.

*   *   *

In the main control room, warder Ephraim Nkosi was studying the lights on the control panel. He had been on all day. His eyes were tired and he knew that his attention was wavering. But he was sure that the light that indicated that the main gate to D Block was open had flashed on for a moment. Perhaps it was his weariness playing tricks on him, but he doubted it. Tired or not, he had seen the light come on for just a moment.

This was only Nkosi's second shift in the control room and he was determined to do everything right. He called the sentry box at the gate to D Block. There was no answer. The warder should have been there. If he had gone for a leak he should have let Nkosi know.

Nkosi's next move was to call the duty room. The first ring went unanswered. As in most gatherings, no one held himself responsible for answering the phone. All the warders were either too involved in what they were saying, or waiting too eagerly for a chance to say something.

Nkosi tried a second time. Again there was no immediate answer, but he let it ring. After almost a minute a voice came on. “Ja?”

“Nkosi here. Someone just came through the gate to D Block.”

“Who?” The voice sounded irritated.

“It's Nkosi here, from the control room.”

“Who passed through the gate?”

“I don't know. The gate opened and closed again.”

“Phone the gate.”

“I did. Nobody's answering.”

“Well, I'm going off duty.”

“Get me someone from night shift then.”

Without answering Nkosi's request, the warder on the other end of the connection could be heard, facing away from the phone, shouting for anyone on night duty.

All the time he had been speaking, Nkosi's eyes had been fixed on the light that monitored the position of the gate to D Block. Now it stayed dark. Unless he was hallucinating, someone had passed through the gate, either going in or out at a time when it should have been closed. Using his second phone, he called the sentry box at the gate to D Block again. There was still no answer. He let it ring, but there was nothing.

“Yes, what's happening?” The voice was coming from the group in the duty room. The noise he heard in the background, the many assertive voices, sounded more like a party than a changing of shifts. Nkosi recognized the voice as belonging to one of the older sergeants, Sergeant Malgas.

“Nkosi here…”

“Yes, my bro'.”

“The gate light at D Block came on a moment ago.”

“Have you called the gate?”

“There's no answer.”

“Try again.”

“I've tried twice, sergeant, and it's still ringing there now.”

It took a moment for the sergeant to digest this piece of information. “Where's that bastard?” he said.

“I think we should send someone up,” Nkosi said.

“I'll go myself.”

“Sergeant.”

“Yes?”

“I don't think you should go alone.”

“Do you know what's happening there?” Now the sergeant's voice carried the sharp edges of both authority and suspicion.

“No, sir. I just think you should take someone.”

“I know what I'm doing.”

“All right, sergeant. Sorry. I just…”

“Don't worry, my bro'. I will take Sibiya with me.”

*   *   *

Van Jaarsveld felt that he was safely through the gate to D Block. He had had the workings of the monitoring system explained to him. If you went through it quickly and the operator in the control room was not looking directly at the board, he would never know that anything had happened. And most of the time, when they were looking at the board, the operators were three-quarters asleep. There was a ninety percent chance that he would make it though undetected, they had said.