Gallows Hill (4 page)

‘Okay.’ Riedwaan held his hands up. ‘Who are your partners?’

‘Mpumalanga Holdings Corporation,’ said Williams.

‘You tell Mpumalanga Holdings then about the discovery of human remains,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Age and
origin as yet to be determined means that nothing will happen until this has been assessed. Heritage laws. This is now an archaeological site, not a building site.’

‘Cape Town’s so full of fucking heritage,’ said Hond Williams. ‘You dig, you find someone who was brought here as a slave. Jo’burg – it’s nothing. Someone dies, cops come, open a docket, take away the body. Finished. Here, you
find some old bones and the whole place goes mad. For what? It’s old history. Just move them, or leave them where they are, and we build. Give people some work. Make money. What you want? Who cares about people nobody even knew they’d forgotten?’

‘Hey, remember: I’m in charge, Hond.’ Riedwaan stepped closer. ‘So I ask the questions.’

Williams stood his ground, but his body was tense. There
was a hardness to Riedwaan’s frame – earned on the street rather than in the gym – that made men much bigger than him take stock, think of a back-up plan.

‘We have this little issue of the law,’ Riedwaan continued. ‘Here in Cape Town, we hold onto it still. For what it’s worth.’

‘So, what’re you telling me?’

‘That these skeletons will need to be exhumed.’

‘Look at them, Captain
Faizal,’ said Williams. ‘They’ve been dead two, three hundred years. You want to delay construction for that? We can just cover it over. Put up a plaque.’

‘Saying what, exactly?’ asked Clare.

Hond Williams gave her a dismissive glance and turned to Riedwaan

‘I know what happens,’ said Williams. ‘These history people bankrupt the developer. Last time they wanted the whole site handed
over as some kind of Peace Park. We had guarantees that there were no graves here.’ Williams stabbed the air with a finger. ‘Guarantees!’

‘What did they cost you, those guarantees?’ Clare persisted.

Williams looked at her again. A cold. level stare, perhaps deciding that it might be worth his while to remember her after all.

‘How long?’ asked Williams, eyes on Riedwaan again.

‘As long as it takes,’ Clare answered. ‘You’ll have to wait. Your owner will have to wait too.’

‘You be careful how you speak to me –’ A vein pulsed in Hond’s neck. His dog growled.

‘Who is he?’ asked Riedwaan. ‘Your new owner? Who is Mpumalanga Holdings?’

‘You fuck with me, Faizal.’ Williams was speaking to Riedwaan, but he looked at Clare. ‘And she’ll pay.’

‘Are you threatening
me?’ Riedwaan lit a cigarette, flicked the match.

‘You know who you’re dealing with,’ said Williams, turning on his heel. ‘I don’t need to threaten.’

‘Hond.’ Riedwaan addressed Williams’s back. ‘I made a mistake with you once before. I won’t make it again.’

‘Neither will I, Faizal. Neither will I.’

The Noon Gun fired on Signal Hill. A thud echoed across the city bowl, the moment
of silence in its wake bisecting the day. The wind had picked up, and eddying sand and plastic whipped across the site.

Williams climbed into the Hummer – its wheels showering the crowd with gravel – and disappeared down Ebenezer Road.

‘I’ve got to get to the mortuary,’ said Clare.

‘Watch yourself.’ Riedwaan caught her arm as she turned to go.

‘I’ll be fine.’

Riedwaan watched
Clare as she walked through the crowd clustered behind the police cordon. When she disappeared round the corner he turned to the tired-looking uniformed cops. Cloete and Dreyer were sharing a tub of KFC that was a substitute for the breakfast they’d missed and a lunch break that probably wouldn’t materialise.

The sun, suspended in the heat-bleached sky, bored into the crown of Clare’s head
as she made her way back to her car. It was cooler in the shadow of the highway. She had parked in the far corner of the lot. Expensive cars everywhere, but no one about. Even the security guards had been drawn by the angry hum of the crowd at Gallows Hill. She walked to the car, her footsteps echoing. Her remote beeped, and the car lights flashed twice. Clare’s hands shook as she opened the door.
Lined up on her seat were a torch, matches, a map of Cape Town, two peppermints, a tampon, a razor blade.

The objects were neatly arranged, as if they were an artwork. She picked up the familiar objects, forgotten, as they’d accumulated in the cubbyhole. Sinister, now that they had been exposed. All hers, except for the razor blade.

‘Dr Hart.’

Clare’s stomach contracted. Fear. Nature’s
early warning system, with which she’d long-since allied herself. She threaded her keys through her fingers, a makeshift weapon, and turned to face Williams.

‘Faizal knows where you are?’ He blocked her view of the parking lot. The dog moved towards her.

‘Get out of my way.’

Williams did not move a muscle.

‘Some advice, Dr Hart. Be careful.’

The smell of him was feral, despite
the aftershave.

‘This is a police investigation,’ said Clare.

‘Such a pretty pussy-cat,’ He stepped closer to Clare. It cost her, but Clare did not flinch. ‘Full of fight. I like that. You tell Captain Faizal that it would be best for him, best for you, if he made this go away.’

‘There are dozens of skeletons there,’ said Clare. ‘Whatever you do to me, it’s not going to happen.’

‘Tell Faizal he gets one warning.’ Williams brought his fist lightly against her pubic bone, smiling as she stepped back. ‘This is it. He’ll understand.’

Clare slammed the door. She accelerated to twice the speed limit. Then she jumped lanes and headed for the mortuary.

‘The watchman?’ Riedwaan glanced at his notebook.

‘I checked his papers,’ said Dreyer. ‘Looks like he bought them cheap from that Nigerian working in Long Street.’

Riedwaan walked over to the the man leaning against an outbuilding. His hands were curled around a tin mug.

‘I’m Captain Faizal.’

The watchman looked up at Riedwaan with eyes so black one could not see the pupils.
Across his forehead was a gash, roughly stitched, roughly healed. A machete blow. On his neck another, the skin lumpy and pale. The watchman shook the hand Riedwaan extended towards him. He took the cigarette too.

‘You find the body?’ asked Riedwaan.

The watchman nodded.

‘You called the police?’

He nodded.

‘Who else did you call?’

‘My boss,’ said the watchman. ‘He say I
must call if something happen. This happen.’ He pointed to the spot where he’d found the dead woman. ‘So I call. First time.’

‘What are these for?’ Riedwaan pointed to the trenches the watchman had been digging.

‘The big boss is coming from Jo’burg, he wants palm trees planted. Ones here and ones there. It makes nice photo when they start construction.’

A frame for the photograph of
the area where they would be breaking the ground for the new building. The one place where, if you aimed past the palms, you would have a glimpse of Signal Hill.

‘Looks like the ground-breaking happened already,’ said Riedwaan.

The watchman looked away.

‘When was this cleared?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘Saturday,’ said the man. ‘Building company want to start job quickly.’

‘No building
is going to happen here,’ said Riedwaan.

The watchman looked down. As far as he could tell, the man who had hired him knew people who could make things happen if and when he wanted them.

‘Not with these bones here,’ Riedwaan said more to himself than to the man facing him.

‘I come from Rwanda, Captain. I know the bones of the dead. These ones have been dead for a long time. No one
knows who he or she were,’ said the watchman. ‘No one cares. Slaves, criminals. Poor people dead too long. Just bones for dogs.’

‘Who’s your boss?’

‘He was here,’ said the watchman. ‘With the dog.’

‘Hond Williams.’

The man shrugged.

‘Who pays you?’

The watchman looked down, weighing up his options. Deciding that it was better to deal with the devil in front of him. Short-term
survival strategies.

‘The money comes in the bank,’ said the watchman.

‘Let me see,’ said Riedwaan.

The police had scattered his belongings during a routine search, and he’d just packed them back into his bag. He dipped his hand inside it and came out with a wallet, extracting a deposit slip that he handed to Riedwaan.

Riedwaan glanced at it, then he called the manager at Standard
Bank to cash in an old favour. He gave Riedwaan the name of a trust account operated by a law firm in town. The name rang a bell – Riedwaan took that as a mark against them. He only remembered the names of crooked lawyers.

Twenty minutes later, he was parking his motorbike on the Keerom Street pavement. The High Court was at the end of the road, and lawyers hung about like crows around road
kill. There was always business for them in this part of town, and the place was jammed with expensive cars.

Riedwaan found the attorney’s office without difficulty. Malan, Tshabalala and Partners. A whole floor to themselves. Wood panelling, leather seats, free newspapers. Coffee. A secretary who knew how to wear heels, even if she didn’t look like she could type. Riedwaan showed his badge.

‘I’m here to see Mr Malan.’

‘You have an appointment?’ the woman asked.

‘I do now,’ said Riedwaan. He opened Malan’s heavy oak door.

‘Can I help you?’ asked Malan. Powerful shoulders, grey crew cut.

‘Riedwaan Faizal, Gang Unit. I’m here to discuss some building work with you.’

‘I’m a lawyer,’ said Malan, looking at his watch. ‘I split my time between here and Jo’burg, so
I don’t have much time. I have a couple of important client meetings now.’

‘I’d shift priorities if I were you,’ said Riedwaan. ‘You’ve been busy in Johannesburg. Your clients have their sights set on the Mother City now, I see.’

‘Do you object to progress, Captain Fagan?’ Malan smiled. His eyes were cold.

‘The name’s Faizal,’ said Riedwaan. ‘I’d remember the name if I were you.’

‘I’ll try my best,’ said Malan. ‘Now, tell me how I can help you. I’m sure you’re a busy man too.’

‘I’d like to speak to your client,’ said Riedwaan, laying a card on the table. ‘Nothing formal. Just a chat about development. About land, about council permission. Can be a sensitive subject, as you probably know.’

Malan considered his options.

‘You’re seeing them this evening?’ guessed
Riedwaan.

There was a reptilian stillness about Malan’s large frame.

‘Tell them,’ said Riedwaan, ‘that I want to talk about Gallows Hill.’

‘My client has no comment to make at this stage,’ he said.

‘Malan, you’re the lawyer. Just a lackey in the end, like all lawyers. No matter how many silk ties you wear.’

‘That place will hang you, Captain Faizal,’ said Malan.

Clare shook the vending machine at the entrance to the Salt River Mortuary.

‘You okay?’ asked Raheema Patel, wearing a gown and a pair of white Wellingtons. She gave the side of the machine a tap, and a Coke rolled out.

‘Thanks,’ said Clare. ‘I’m fine. Just a bit rattled. You want a Coke?’

‘Sure,’ said Raheema Patel. ‘It’s the only lunch we’re going to get here.’

Clare slotted
in some more coins and handed the drink over.

‘What happened?’

‘Oh,’ said Clare. ‘I just had a little run-in with a gangster who says he’s the head of security for the building site.’

‘That guy in the Hummer?’

‘Yes,’ said Clare. ‘Not my favourite person today.’

They walked to the change rooms. The anthropologist handed Clare a gown.

‘Would you like a mask?’ she asked.

‘Thanks, but I’m fine with dry cases,’ said Clare.

‘Same here. That’s why I stick to the cold cases.’

Clare wrapped the gown around herself and locked her bag away.

‘What did he want?’

‘Williams?’ Clare took a sip of her Coke. ‘He wants Riedwaan to make this whole business go away.’

‘I’m sure he does. Are you going to tell Captain Faizal what happened?’

‘I don’t think
so,’ Clare said. ‘He’s got a lot to deal with. And when he’s angry, he doesn’t always think straight.’

‘That old bergie woman, Eva Afrika, dying there, it’s blown that whole little scheme out of the water. I bet they thought they’d get far enough ahead with the building for it to be too expensive to stop. Developer gets a fine, developer pays, everything just carries on. That’s how it happens
where I come from.’

‘Are you from Jo’burg?’ asked Clare.

‘I am, for my sins. And for your sins,’ she pushed open the door and said, ‘Prof Friedman’s here.’

The Gallows Hill crate lay in the centre of a white table.

‘You two ready for this?’ Solly Friedman handed them both a set of gloves and opened his notepad.

‘Let’s do it,’ said Raheema Patel.

Friedman lifted the remnants
of the lid off the crate. Inside lay the skeleton, her splintered cranium next to a patella. The bones were covered with a dark fabric that clung to the pelvis and the shoulder blades. A faded high-heeled sandal stuck to the bones of the left foot.

‘I’d give anything to know what happened to her other shoe,’ said Clare.

‘You’ll find out, Clare,’ said Friedman. ‘But first things first.
Let’s get our single-slippered Cinderella undressed.’

‘Clare, you’ll do the notes?’ asked Raheema Patel.

‘Sure.’

She took the notepad. The professor had inked the date at the top of a new page – the script that of a generation taught to shape its letters, to compose its thoughts before recording them. Clare welcomed the soothing routine, the order. It would distract her from the anxiety
that had settled in the pit of her stomach after her confrontation with Waleed Williams.

Friedman lifted the fabric sticking to the skeleton. As he laid it out it disintegrated, leaving behind a rusty zip. He eased off the shoe and laid it alongside the scraps of cloth.

‘No legible markings,’ he said. ‘It looks about size five. Your size, Clare?’