The Serpentine Road Read Free Page A

anguished, naïve, painted flames behind it, a tear falling from its eye. The fawn, engulfed by pathos, pleads: ‘Only YOU can stop bush and veldt fires.’
    He finds Park Terrace, draws up short of the misty blue flashing lights ahead of him, swings open the car door, feeling the wind take it away from him, and struggles to slam it shut. Behind him, the eponymous little park at the road’s end with its Umbrella Pines seems unscathed, and he sees no flames from the foot of the Mountain where the fire must have blazed during the night. He turns back, walks with the wind, engulfed in smoke, towards the scene.
    ‘Fucking fires,’ he mutters, cupping his hands around the tip of a new cigarette, emerging choking into the square of marked police vehicles. The cylinder ignites and he draws deeply. He turns to a uniformed cop, flashes his ID.
    ‘Day doesn’t begin till the poison meets my lungs.’ He waves the cigarette at the officer between the ‘v’ of his fingers, strides on through the haze towards the house wrapped in police tape. He pauses, takes two further drags, flicks the butt into the gutter and spits on the road. He trots up the stairs, passes through a wide front door, sees a group of Cape Town Central officers in the palatial hallway.
    ‘Who thinks they are in charge here?’
    The men shuffle to face him, fall silent. He hears footsteps on the wide staircase, suspended seemingly in midair, wide plains of white marble tapering down to the ground floor. Two sets of cheap shoes, crisply pressed grey trousers, white shirts and navy ties appear in fifteen centimetre degrees. The taller man, a broad black African, fit and muscular, snorts, tilts his chin at De Vries.
    ‘Of course it would be one of you.’
    De Vries meets his eye.
    ‘Who are you?’
    ‘Nkosi. Lieutenant Sam Nkosi.’ He holds out his hand.
    ‘Step outside with me, Lieutenant.’ De Vries turns from the proffered hand, walks back to the front door, onto the street. As he passes the wide mirror in the hallway, he sees the eyes of the other officers turn towards to Nkosi.
    De Vries waits, stares up at the mountain, his back to the property. When he hears footsteps behind him, he turns.
    ‘I am Colonel de Vries of the Special Crimes Unit . . .’ He observes Nkosi’s blank reaction. ‘If you know who I am, your attitude is misjudged. If you don’t, then I’m telling you now, Lieutenant: I’m taking this case from you.’
    ‘I know that,’ Nkosi says.
    ‘Where are you from?’
    ‘Central.’
    ‘Before that?’
    ‘Pretoria.’
    ‘Nobody likes this system. But it works. Chalk it up to experience. What do I need to know about the scene?’
    ‘I have walked it with my Sergeant to check it. We have touched nothing.’
    ‘I hope not.’
    ‘Been done right.’
    ‘Good. I’ll base my opinion of you on your word. Give me a card?’
    Nkosi shakes his head.
    ‘I don’t have one. I have been here six months and they still have not been printed.’
    ‘Write down your cell-phone number, Lieutenant, in case we need you. Then take your men away. Tell them no one discusses the scene. I rely on you to enforce that order. You understand?’
    ‘Yes.’
    De Vries looks past him, involuntarily taps his right foot.
    ‘Don’t make me say it, Lieutenant.’
    Nkosi’s eyes remain blank.
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    As the Cape Town Central officers leave, they stare at him. He knows his reputation and he judges that they wear the anticipated expressions: curiosity, fear, some little distain. De Vries scrutinizes each of them, coloured and black officers, makes them lower their eyes. Finally, Nkosi appears, walks slowly down the stairs and pauses in front of him.
    ‘You might want to talk to me, sir.’
    ‘Might I? Why?’
    ‘I know who the victim is.’
    De Vries snorts.
    ‘So do I.’
    ‘I met her a week ago.’
    ‘She say who wanted her dead?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then, Lieutenant, we will talk.’ He looks at a small sheet of folded paper in Nkosi’s hand.