In the Midst of Wolves Read online

  ‘And then the gang war happened?’

  ‘And then the gang war happened.’ Creed shifted in his chair. ‘I had been friends with the Godfathers for two or three years before I actually joined them.’

  ‘Why did you join them?’

  ‘Because … I wanted to belong to something.’ This wasn’t a recent epiphany. Creed had realised this when doing intense self-reflection in his second year of clinical psychology studies. ‘I was tired of being alone. I wanted to belong to a group. To a pack. The Godfathers became my wolf pack. But less than a year after I got this tattoo,’ he pointed to his chest, ‘all hell broke out. An old gang, the NBKs, wanted their territory back from us and were willing to kill to get it. And they did.’

  ‘But you didn’t get involved?’

  He shook his head. ‘I tried. I wanted to. Captain, our leader, had called us all to meet at Lester’s place to arm ourselves and to prepare to hit back. I remember I was about to leave, when Josh and Lizzie stopped me.’

  ‘How?’

  Creed licked his lips. ‘They begged me not to go. Josh was in Bechet High School at the time, two years behind me, so he knew everything that was going on between the GFs and the NBKs. So did Lizzie. So did everyone in Sydenham, actually. I was literally at the door when they pleaded with me not to go. They asked me not to die, because they couldn’t lose me too. Not after they’d lost their father. They forced me to choose one family over the other. And I chose them.’

  ‘Tell me about your family.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure you know everything you need to know about my family in those files of yours.’

  Dr Tlau looked up from her notes. ‘I know the facts about your family, Nick. Their timeline and general demographics. But that’s not what I’m asking you for. What I’d like to know is how you feel about them. Your sister, for instance. You said the last time we met that you were here because of her. Tell me about Elizabeth.’

  Creed smiled. ‘Lizzie is an angel. I know many big brothers will say the same about their sisters, but in my case, she really is. The most kind-hearted person I know. She’s the vice-principal at my old high school in Durban. Bechet. Soon she’ll be the second-youngest principal in the school’s history. Do you know who the youngest was?’

  Tlau shrugged.

  ‘My mother.’

  ‘I see. So, your sister moved into the same profession as your mother. Were the two of them particularly close?’

  ‘We were all close.’

  ‘And your relationship with your mother?’

  ‘I never respected a person more. Nobody could have been braver or stronger than my mother.’

  Dr Tlau didn’t respond.

  Creed continued. ‘Her mother was Indian. She died while giving birth to her. Her father was a cop. A white cop. So you can imagine the … complications back then in the Sixties in South Africa with apartheid. My mother was lucky though, as she was light-skinned. My grandfather had managed to pass her off as white in her adolescence. He put her in a whites-only school, then sent her to the University of Port Elizabeth, where she studied anthropology and Egyptology. She said that was when her eyes were really opened.’

  ‘Really opened?’

  ‘About apartheid. The whole system. The inner workings. By mistake, she got caught up in a protest march by students and never looked back. She immediately dropped out of the posh, whites-only university – she felt it unfair that she was getting the benefits of a good education when other people weren’t simply because she was fair-skinned – and went to a non-white teaching college. She got her degree, but she really became a full-time activist and a part-time teacher. My mother’s life consisted of protesting and getting arrested. She often tasted the mace and the pepper spray, felt the dog teeth and hose. The whole nine yards.’

  Dr Tlau scribbled something down, then looked up. ‘Your grandfather couldn’t have been too happy about this, being a policeman and being white.’

  ‘Oh, he wasn’t happy, but not for the reason you might think. My grandfather was a good man. Yes, he was a white cop, but he wasn’t a cop because he agreed with the politics of the government; he wanted to help people. The reason he didn’t like what my mother was doing wasn’t her political philosophy but the dangers it put her in. The personal risk involved.’

  ‘Your mother died six years ago. Is this correct?’

  He felt the grain of grit in his throat grow larger and larger until it was a stone of grief. Creed swallowed hard in an attempt to digest the tears.

  ‘Yeah. Cancer. She’d been diagnosed with stomach cancer a year or so earlier. She went for aggressive chemotherapy and fought it head on, as was her nature. Lizzie moved back home to help take care of her during the bad days. This was while I was in the States getting a big head and Joshua was on some assignment in some shit hole. Maybe Colombia? Or Bolivia. I know it was South America. Anyway, a year or so later, she beat the cancer to a pulp, or so we thought. I remember when she phoned to say she was sick again. It had come back. I asked her if she wanted me to come home and she said no. She said she’d be fine; that they’d just start the treatment again. Fifty-six hours later, she died.’

  ‘And you weren’t there?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘I wasn’t there.’

  He reached across the coffee table and took a sip of water. If he couldn’t swallow that fucking stone, he would drown it.

  ‘Do you blame yourself?’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ he spat. ‘I didn’t cause the fucking cancer. I just should have been there to see her one last time. To help Lizzie with her. Both Joshua and I should have. I shouldn’t have asked if she wanted me to come back; I should’ve just come back.’

  Dr Tlau sat, watching him impassively. ‘Your mother left the family house to Lizzie, instead of you, the eldest child. Did this not cause animosity between you and your sister?’

  ‘She actually left each of us an even share of the house. It was the only thing of any value that she ever owned. Joshua and I sold our shares to Lizzie.’

  ‘Sold your shares?’

  ‘Yeah. We offered her our shares for a decent price too – a pot of chicken breyani. I think we got the better deal. Lizzie deserved the house. She deserved everything. She was there when we weren’t, and not only at the end but always. While we were trotting about overseas, she stayed at home to look after her.’

  Dr Tlau jotted down some more notes. ‘Tell me about Joshua.’

  He smiled. ‘My brother is a brainless twat.’

  Dr Tlau remained stone-faced.

  Creed smiled. ‘Seriously, my brother’s great but he’s the dumbest smart person I know. He could have been anything he wanted, and I mean anything. He has the brains to pick any career he wanted but he decided to join the army. Said he was doing it because he wanted to be like Dad. He barely knew that fucking man, and if he had, he would have known that our father hated the army. In fact, I’m pretty sure my father would have been pissed off if he knew that Joshua had joined the people he’d been fighting all those years. But anyway, he joined the SANDF and became a recce. A member of the South African Elite Special Forces Brigade. He was a sniper, like our father. Or rather, is a sniper.’

  She looked confused. ‘I thought he left the army?’

  ‘He did. He reached the rank of second lieutenant before leaving to join a private security firm in the States. I think he just got bored. He wanted to see more action. So that’s what he’s doing now, protecting some American interests in Afghanistan. Putting his life on the line so that some fat Yank bastard can get rich from all that oil.’

  Dr Tlau scribbled something down. ‘I take it from your tone that you’re not happy about that.’

  Creed shrugged. ‘I’m not happy about it. But, hey, that’s what he wants to do. And he’s good at what he does. A brilliant shot, just like our father.’

  ‘Speaking of your father, I was …’

  ‘Actually, Doc,’ Creed interrupted, ‘I’d rather not speak of tha
t man today. I think that’s all the time we have.’ With that, he stood up. ‘Thank you, Doc.’

  18

  Tracey Wilson stifled a yawn at her desk. She was exhausted. Her eyes burnt as if the room was filled with a harsh smoke. She looked away from her laptop and stretched her arms, groaning loudly as the bones in her back gave an audible crack. The Daily Standard newspaper offices, or Hades, as staff called it, had been thinning out for the last hour.

  It was just past five in the afternoon – the time when most people would punch their time cards out. But Tracey wasn’t most people. She didn’t believe in time cards. When she had first been employed by The Daily Standard, she had insisted that her desk be set up in the middle of Hades. Although she’d been offered a more coveted workspace, closer to the window, she had wanted to be in the middle of the action. At the centre of this world. In the core of hell.

  From her workplace she could see Felix Sherwood, editor in chief, on a telephone call in his fishbowl-like office. A portly man, he was quick to laugh, as he was doing at that moment. His bushy grey moustache stretched as he sat behind his desk and tossed his head back in mirth. The only other staff on the floor were Hugo Reeves, a young reporter who was greener than spring grass, Colleen Singh, the editor of the lifestyle section, and Blessings Radebe, a sports writer and freelance television reporter.

  ‘Working late, I see.’

  Tracey jerked in her seat, startled by the voice behind her.

  ‘My word. You fucking scared me, you ass.’

  David Sousa grinned. ‘You were always the jumpy sort. Too much caffeine, I think.’

  She scoffed, ‘Too many assholes around, I think.’

  The senior accountant’s smile faltered. It was a smile she had once considered attractive, but now it repulsed her. ‘You busy?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘I was hoping we could get a drink. For old times’ sake.’

  ‘Don’t you mean, “Why don’t you and I go fuck for old times’ sake?”’ she muttered.

  He chuckled, ‘Well, if that’s what you’d prefer …’

  She wanted to slap him hard across the face.

  ‘Probably not the best time to be making jokes, right?’

  ‘Oh no. Please, continue with the jokes. I’m sure your fiancée enjoys them as well.’

  His smile left his face. ‘This has nothing to do with Karen. It’s about us. About you and me.’

  ‘Really? Like it was about us when you didn’t tell me you were engaged to someone else?’

  ‘You didn’t ask me if I was engaged.’

  ‘Silly me for thinking that you’d have mentioned it by, let’s say, our fourth date.’

  ‘I wasn’t with Karen when we started. Not technically, anyway. We had broken …’ He sighed. ‘Look, I’m trying to sort things out. My head and my heart are confused. One minute I want Karen, the next I want you. When I asked you out, Karen had just broken off the engagement. I didn’t know I would develop feelings for you. And I didn’t know she would want to reconcile later.’

  ‘And you couldn’t have told me when she did?’ She raised her palm. ‘You know what? Don’t answer that. I don’t care.’

  ‘This isn’t easy for me, you know.’

  She laughed bitterly. ‘Poor you.’

  His eyes flashed with anger and he shook his head. ‘Why must you be so damn difficult?’

  ‘Why don’t you go fuck yourself? Or maybe you’d like me to chat with Karen about the three weeks we were together? Does she know about that, David?’

  David appeared to be searching for something to say but came back empty-handed. He pursed his lips, adjusted the laptop-bag strap on his shoulder and walked off.

  She watched him disappear around the corner.

  ‘Son of a bitch.’ With a trembling hand, she took a sip from her coffee cup. She cringed; it was cold. She debated whether she should make herself a fresh one, but decided against it. She was incensed – furious at David, but more furious with herself for having gone to bed with him. And for having been so hurt by him.

  Tracey did her best work when angry, so she began to review her research. Earlier, she had placed a call to a trusted contact at the SAPS, and heard that many in the service were not happy about Nick Creed’s involvement with the Investigative Psychology Unit. To them, it was a prestigious position and they felt insulted that they were overlooked for an outsider. Even though Creed had technically never stopped being a member of the SAPS, they still didn’t regard him as one of them.

  After further research and more phone calls, Tracey learnt that it was Major Eli Grey who had been championing the cause to have him reinstated to the unit from the start, and that made her heart skip a beat. She knew Eli Grey well, having covered his investigation into the Birthday Rapist a few years ago, as well as the shooting at the Silver Acres Casino in Vereeniging.

  The golden boy of the SAPS, Grey was a hero to many South Africans. She could vividly recall the rape and murder of a toddler in a Western Cape township, which had led to widespread protests, damage to property and looting by outraged community members. One of the most consistent cries from the people had been, ‘Captain Grey. We want Captain Grey.’

  So they’d got him. Grey had arrested the culprit within less than two weeks of being on the case. Another case she remembered involved the Serbian mob, and the kidnap and murder of an American tourist who’d happened to be the niece of an American UN delegate. Grey had been assigned the case early. The Americans hadn’t even had time to put pressure on the South African government before Grey had arrested Nemanja Vitic, a Serbian mob boss, for her murder. For good measure, he also broke up Vitic’s drug-smuggling operation, one involving a number of high-ranking members of parliament.

  She could also remember the hard-on many in the media had had for Grey when they’d thought he was somehow dirty. Why? His fondness for expensive suits and fast cars. His residence in upmarket Sandhurst, with a second flat in Clifton and a third home on the Vaal River. When he walked into a room, he looked more like a movie star than a cop – arousing suspicions that he was on the take. He only added to this mistrust through his seemingly aloof personality and his insistence on privacy. Where his appearance was bold and exciting, his manner was always stern and deliberate. He almost never smiled, never bantered and he never appeared to be caught off guard. He was rarely, if ever, photographed in the company of potential suitors or friends in public. People thought he was too clean not to be dirty.

  The Star newspaper had led with a story implying that he was surely too good to be true. The article listed his physical assets and how much each was worth, and questioned how a cop, recently promoted to major, could afford such luxuries. In response, Grey opened his history, his bank accounts and investments to them, leading them to publish a retraction and apology.

  Grey had inherited a seven-figure trust fund from his parents: his father was a British banker who had moved to South Africa in the Sixties; his mother came from a family whose wealth could be traced to the first diamonds found in Kimberley. The only son of old money, Grey didn’t solve crime for the cash. He did it to help people, and his altruism only added to his mystique.

  Yet this didn’t explain why he would risk his reputation and career for someone like Creed. So Tracey dug deeper, and learnt that Grey and Creed had been best friends since university. Cronyism? Could it be that South Africa’s top cop wasn’t as incorruptible as everyone thought?

  She lifted the handset of her phone and punched in a few numbers.

  When her call was answered, she said, ‘Piet? It’s Tracey. I have a job for you.’

  19

  The late-afternoon sun gave his lounge an eerie orange glow. Creed sat on the couch and stared out of the window, at shrubs swaying gently in a breeze. Dalglish, his Staffordshire terrier, scurried across his line of sight, chased by Fagan, a Jack Russell, playfully nipping at Dalglish’s hind legs.

  Two large ice cubes floated i
n his Johnnie Walker Black. He slowly rotated the whisky glass, which dripped little droplets onto his side table, then brought it to his nose and took a deep sniff of the rich, earthy aroma. The liquor smelt of comfort and numbness and wood. He took a sip and felt the burn in his mouth.

  The alarm on his cellphone chirped. After counting down the seconds until the time read 17:30, Creed had to wait almost ten seconds before the phone lit up. He put it to his ear.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said. ‘I was starting to think you no longer cared about me.’

  A woman laughed on the other end of the line. ‘Smart ass. How was your day?’

  Creed took a sip of whisky. ‘The same as yesterday. And the day before that. And yours?’

  ‘Well, apart from having to break up a fist fight at school, nothing special, hey. Right now though, I’m preparing for class tomorrow. One of the teachers is sick, so I’m taking her class.’

  ‘Do you still know how to teach?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ Lizzie sounded annoyed. ‘It’s in my blood.’

  Creed smiled. ‘That it is, sis. That it is.’

  Creed swapped the phone and glass between his hands.

  ‘So, when are you coming down to Durban, Nicky?’

  She was the only person who called him Nicky, even though she knew he hated it. Especially because she knew he hated it.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m extremely busy at the moment with work.’

  ‘But I’m missing you, bro.’

  Creed laughed. ‘Lizzie, you spent a week with me in Johannesburg just last month. You call me every second day at the exact same time. By now, you must be sick of me.’

  Her laugh reminded him of the mischievous little girl who used to follow him and his brother around and tattle on them to their mother.

  ‘Not yet, Nicky. You must come down and see what Peter and I’ve done to the place. It looks great.’

  ‘I’m sure the place looks awesome, Lizzie. Probably like your bedroom when we were young. All pink and frilly.’