The Top Prisoner of C-Max (33 page)

‘They want you outside,’ Dlomo said.

He stumbled through the door, looking wildly round for the cause of the disturbance.

I should have killed him, Dlomo thought. Why didn’t I kill him?

The constable ran in the direction of the gate and suddenly the driveway was empty. The three ex-convicts had thought better of waiting for the evening meeting. Moloi was also out of sight. From the meeting room a young male voice, quivering with emotion, called to him. ‘Mr Hall, Mr Hall, we mean you no harm.’

Coming back in here was a mistake, Dlomo thought. But this is nothing. If I have to take a bullet, I’ve taken one before.

But the time to move was now, while the young boer was alone. He knew that others would soon be coming. The Makarov was in his right hand.

Dlomo paused a moment too long. Up at the gate two cars had come to a stop. Six men were coming down the tarmac, two of them in police uniforms. A big man in plain clothes was leading. Dlomo had never seen him before, but he recognised the one just behind him. What the fuck is Gordon doing here?

It was too late now, but he told himself he could still break loose if he took them by surprise. I’ll take them at a charge, he thought. They’ll never expect it. I’ll come out firing. They’re the ones who’ll be in trouble. Surprise is on my side.

His thoughts were not true thoughts. He knew that. They were going to kill him. As soon as he came through the door, they were going to kill him. Beyond his conscious thoughts, he knew that to be true.

Dlomo burst through the door running. Moloi was pressed against the wall of the building, the young policeman behind him. That was why he had not been able to see them. The other cops were coming down the drive. He fired at Moloi, but the movement of his running threw his aim out. The bullet sung away into the night. He stumbled briefly, then raised the gun for a second shot. But in that moment Moloi fired.

The bullet caught Dlomo in the solar plexus, stopping him in mid-stride. He sat down hard. He saw the thirty-eight in Moloi’s right hand. It was still pointing at him. Very slowly he sank back until he was prostrate on the ground. He no longer had the Makarov. He’s going to kill me now, he thought. The brown boer is going to shoot again and kill me. Looking directly upwards, the sky above him was clear. Despite the city lights, his attention was held by a single bright star.

Yudel was the first to reach him and crouched next to him. ‘Jesus Christ, Elia. It didn’t have to be like this.’

Dlomo gasped softly. The pain in his gut was hindering his breathing. ‘What the fuck do you know about how it must be?’

‘Just stay where you are. Lie still.’

‘Lie still? I can’t move. My feet are dead. I can’t feel them.’

From the Freedom Foundation, the boy’s voice reached them, raised high in fear. ‘They’ve killed her. They’ve killed her.’

The night was closing in on Yudel. He rose slowly, looking for the source of the cry. The boy was on his knees at the door of the foundation. His words beat like a jackhammer against Yudel’s temples.

Beloved, he thought. Dear God, he’s killed Beloved.

Scarborough

TONIGHT
was going to be the night of her life. Without any rational reason, Beloved believed it. She had prepared for it with more care than she had ever prepared for anything.

Everything was just as she had imagined it should be. From the wine in the silver ice bucket to the orchids at the bedside and the candles, just four of them in the bedroom, it had all been arranged with the greatest possible care.

The aspect that was most striking was her own appearance. She had spent hours creating an effect that held something of both innocence and depravity. Her golden, ankle-length gown fitted so close that it could have been moulded onto her. It was completely backless, ending at the smallest hint of her buttocks’ cleavage. In the front it came up to her neck, ending in a narrow strap around her neck. A peep-hole in the lower chest area revealed the lower curve of perfect breasts, unencumbered by the armouring of a brassiere. The outline of her nipples was visible through the fabric. She had arranged her hair so that one lock hung over the left side of her forehead. If her head tilted just a fraction to the right, the lock formed a curtain over her left eye. Her skin, wherever it was visible, was a warm gold, slightly richer than the colour of the dress.

Beloved was not one to spend excessive time in front of the mirror, but this afternoon she had spent hours to achieve the effect she wanted. And she was pleased with her efforts. She was also not one to suffer false modesty. Since she was thirteen, she had known how her proximity affected men and she had used it to her advantage on almost every day of her life since then.

But what if he doesn’t come? she thought. What if the police have picked him up? What if he doesn’t come tonight or never comes?

No, that was not possible. He was coming. She had to believe it. Deep in her very soul, she had persuaded herself that she could feel his approach. He was coming.

Abigail knew the road from the airport to the address on Beloved’s email. She had driven past Scarborough on a number of occasions, but had never stopped there. She did not anticipate a problem finding Sea View Crescent. The place had no more than three or four streets and none of them more than a few blocks long.

She had entered the office of the first car-hire company that had no other customers at the reception desk. ‘I need a car,’ she told the girl behind the desk.

The girl was chewing. On each upward stroke her mouth opened wide enough to reveal the gum inside. ‘What kind?’

‘I don’t care what kind. Just give me a car.’

‘I meant small, medium or large?’

‘Not small. But for Christ’s sake hurry.’

The girl looked offended. ‘Please don’t blaspheme,’ she said.

‘God-al—’ Abigail censored the rest of her blasphemy. ‘The car,’ she said slowly. ‘Get me the car quickly.’ She took a fifty from her purse. ‘This is yours if I have the car in two minutes.’

The amount was large enough to eradicate religious considerations. ‘I’ll try, ma’am,’ the girl said.

The car suited Abigail well. She was comfortable behind the wheel and the controls were positioned well for her. As she drove, she found Freek’s number on her cellphone and activated it. She knew that Yudel rarely carried a phone. As far as she knew, he did not even possess one.

An impersonal female voice came up on the connection, telling her that the number she had dialled was not available and suggesting that she try again later. She could not know that Freek had been distracted by the committee that had met them at the airport and had not switched on his phone after disembarking.

The route Abigail had decided to take was no more than sixty kilometres and most of it was outside the city. The first third of the distance was high-way, but after that it was slow mountain road, one tight corner following close upon another. It would take at least an hour to get there.

After leaving the highway, the road climbed through the wooded slopes on the east side of the mountain, across a saddle, then down the long tortuous slope into Hout Bay. She resisted the temptation to hurry. It would not help Beloved if she crashed the car.

She passed through the village, the mountain to her left and the Atlantic on the other side. There was no moon and the water was only visible by the reflections of the lights from the houses on the far side of the bay. Ahead was the climb up Chapman’s Peak Drive. Abigail allowed herself a little more pressure on the accelerator, trusting the steep gradient to keep the car on the road

Only a few hundred metres from the bottom of the pass, a closed gate brought her to a stop. Next to the gate, on the other side, a wooden sentry box was in darkness. A sign read: Closed for Road Clearing. Abigail pressed down hard on the hooter. No one appeared at the first blast. She tried again, then a third time.

A man in an old army greatcoat appeared out of the sentry box and waved for her to go away. As he turned to go back inside she again pressed the hooter. He took a step towards the gate and waved again, more angrily this time. Abigail pressed the hooter a third, fourth and fifth time. At least I have his attention, she thought. She got out of the car.

Before she reached the gate the watchman was shouting, ‘Pass closed, look what the sign he say.’

Abigail approached in determined fashion, waving her Department of Justice identification card. It gave her no special powers, but sometimes it impressed people. ‘I must get through. This is an emergency.’

The watchman did look impressed, but he shook his head. ‘No, sister. You can’t go. Is rocks, is rocks. Is rocks everywhere.’

Abigail had both hands on her hips. ‘What are you telling me, my brother?’

‘Is rocks. Is rocks all over. Can’t go. They clear first.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Abigail said, more to herself than to him. ‘How do I get there now?’

‘Must go other side, Old Cape Road.’

Getting to the Old Cape Road would mean driving back up the valley, across the neck and down onto the highway she had left half an hour before. The extra distance would take another hour, she thought. ‘Are you certain I can’t get through?’

‘Is rocks. All rocks.’

Abigail tried Freek’s number again, but the same voice told her that the number was still not available. She turned the car round. On the way back up the valley she pressed the car hard, holding onto each gear until the engine was racing. This time she gave no thought to possible crashes.

The car that had belonged to the tyre-repair man was parked just off a sand track a kilometre outside Scarborough. Hall had left it there and approached on foot. He found Sea View Crescent easily. At a glance, he could see that the place suited him well. A few houses were spread down one side of the street while the other was filled by brush-covered dunes, the sand spilling across the tarmac in places.

The bungalow, a long, narrow structure of stone and thatch, would have looked inviting on any night. Tonight it held a special invitation to Hall’s own style of orgy.

For an hour he had been sitting on the slope of a sand dune in dense scrub. Inadvertently his right hand reached for the holster where the knife hung. From his position he could see the front of the bungalow. The room behind the door of the house was well lit. A faint, rather unsteady glow lit the windows on the far left. He stared at them for a while, before he realised it was candlelight. So why candlelight? Is she entertaining some bloke? he wondered. And will I have to handle him too?

Beloved appeared at a window. The lace curtains had been drawn back. Hall must have glanced away for a moment because the window had been empty and now she was standing still in light from inside the room. Her arms hung loosely at her sides and she was clearly alone. He could see the outline of her nipples and the part of her breasts that the dress was designed to reveal.

You won’t have them for long, he thought. Enslin Kruger was clear about that. That was how Gordon had to see her. If he did not see her for himself, he would certainly see the police photographs.

She would not be standing that way, if someone else was with her, Hall told himself. She’s alone. Maybe she’s waiting for me. While he watched, she turned and went deeper into the house.

The nearest street light was a feeble incandescent lamp at the end of a long block. Very little of its light reached the street in front of Beloved’s bungalow. The nearest other dwelling was opposite the street light. Its windows were in darkness. Hall emerged carefully from the scrub where he had been hiding. For a while he stood motionless, then, when he was sure he had not been seen, he walked in a wide curve to the back of the house. Through another uncurtained window he saw the electricity distribution box mounted against the kitchen wall at about head height.

And now it was time. He returned to the front door.

In her bedroom Beloved was ready for her visitor. The steel security gate she had installed two days before gave her control of who entered. It was locked, but could be unlocked by the remote device that lay on the side table next to her bed. The bedroom door stood open.

Anyone at the front door would only see into the spacious wood-panelled living room. Once she let him past the security gate, he would be able to look down the narrow hallway that led to her bedroom. He would see the bed and he would see Beloved reclining across it.

No curtains were drawn in the front of the house, but in the bedroom every blind was tied into place. Beloved wanted no uninvited spectators tonight.

The only light in the bedroom came from the four candles behind her. They revealed no more of her than the golden outline of her hair and one shoulder, against the relative darkness beyond. The light in the living room was strong enough that the moment he entered the hallway she would see him in silhouette. He would be staring into the light of the candles, but would see enough of Beloved to arouse more than interest. He would not be able to see her right hand, which was hidden behind one of the cushions, or the point three-eight Glock she was holding.

Beloved had seen Hall the moment he left the scrub. She knew that he had gone to the back of the house, but had not seen that as significant. She was waiting for him when the doorbell sounded.

A flick of the remote button unlocked the security gate. She heard his feet on the floor as he came in. The gate clicked closed behind him. The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of a car coming up the road from the direction of the city and the barking of a distant dog. But Beloved heard neither.

He had to be standing just inside the front door, waiting for some sign or movement from her. But that was fine. When he moved he would have to step into the light and he would then be a perfect target. Beloved had practised many hours and fired many rounds waiting for this moment. She had adjusted the gun’s backstrap system until it fitted her hand perfectly. She knew that at this range she could hit a target far smaller than Oliver Hall ten times out of ten. It was only the intensity of her concentration that left her unaware of the way her skin was sweating where it pressed against the polymer frame of the gun.