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- Herausgeber: Everest Turyahikayo
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In this 'Fraternity & Fratricide,' Winston, the State President, lies lifeless in his reading room. He is a victim of a meticulously planned assassination. Detective Chap navigates a web of lies, betrayal, and moral ambiguity as he goes after the elusive killer. Pursuing truth comes at a heavy cost, and redemption may be the ultimate casualty. Will the sins of the past bury the truth forever?
“Fraternity and Fratricide” is a gripping tale of retribution, injustice, and the thin line between the enforcers and the enforced. As the investigation hurtles towards a heart-stopping climax, Chap must confront not only the killer but the very system sworn to uphold justice. Prepare for a riveting journey where the line between ally and adversary blurs
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Everest Turyahikayo
Fraternity and Fratricide
Table of contents
Dedicated to
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Blurb
Fraternity and Fratricide
This novel is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this work are creatures of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Everest Turyahikayo 2024
All rights about this novel, “Fraternity and Fratricide,” are hereby expressly reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
Dr. Everest Turyahikayo is also the author of the Novel, Rules of College Management
Author Contact: +256-0772924158
Email: [email protected]
LinkedIn: www.linkedin.com/in/dr-everest-turyahikayo-0a020717
Follow me on Twitter: @Dturyahikayo
Dedicated to
Esther, John, Cathy, Michael, Hellen, Irene, and Leticia
I’m so proud of you!
Prologue
Detective Chap sensed something was off as he navigated the complex corridors of justice.
Secrets were bartered like precious commodities. Loyalty was a fleeting notion, easily bought or sold to the highest bidder. And at the heart of it all lay the lifeless body of Winston, the revered State President.
Chap was tasked with finding the killer, but it became clear he was facing more than just a murderer. The very system he believed in was crumbling, corroding trust and truth at every turn. As he delved deeper into the darkness, Chap found himself struggling to hold onto his own morality as he uncovered harsh truths.
The investigation hurtled towards a climactic moment where friends and enemies blurred together in a tangle of lies. Justice seemed like an unattainable goal, and redemption was merely an illusion. Can Chap find the killer in a world where deception reigns supreme, or will their secrets be buried forever?
Get ready for a twisty journey where the price of truth may be too steep. In this sinister tale, no one can be trusted and the true price of justice remains unknown until the very end.
Chapter 1
The thought of ending a life brings tears to my eyes and sorrow to my heart. Just imagine, all that wisdom gathered over eighty-seven years is gone. The dreams the victim never saw come true. The sacrifices he has made for a nation that just turned its back on him. The sorrow is enough to make me feel hopeless and frustrated with this universe.
Even more troubling is the fact that eight-seven years isn’t seen as old when we consider it. The fear and guilt that follow overwhelm us as we consider how easy it could be to take away someone else’s life. Who doesn’t know that one day, our life will also end?
Such were the fears and guilt of whoever assassinated Winston Cruz, the beloved State President of South Africa. The shock engulfed the globe like snow at the Norwegian Nordkapp. Grief spread through the universe like a heavy fog, shrouding in shadows even the brightest stars. It seemed to suffocate the remaining grain of hope, leaving a thick veil of sadness over all corners of existence.
The year was 1965 and Johannesburg, also spiced as Joburg City echoed the complexities of South Africa. Inevitably, sprawling slums and modern skyscrapers juxtaposed against colonial-era architecture. Sounds of Hadeda birds competed with car honking, and the South African liberation music was a symphony of life. The diversity of the population was a source of cultural clashes rather than unity. The city grappled with high rates of crime and political tension. All these mirrored the larger struggle for equality and justice. Indigenous protea flowers struggled to exert their presence amidst the invasive tulips. Luckily, the lively nightlife in jazz clubs and the bustling daytime markets breathed life into the masses whose hope faded day by day. As expected, the dry and cool winter was not always bad enough to inflict misery on the city dwellers already in agony.
The personal residence of Winston Cruz on the northern side of Joburg was a sort of palace. It was a symbol of authority in the prestigious, well-guarded neighbourhood. The urban planners reserved the area only for high-ranking government officials, diplomats, and ministers. Only those who chose to live outside Pretoria. Heavy iron gates enclosed Winston’s residence. Vigilant security personnel who always scrutinised every visitor guarded it. Beyond the gates, a towering perimeter wall fortified with electrified wires at the top encircled the palace. This created an impenetrable fortress. Any intruder attempting to breach this formidable barrier would face insurmountable odds.
Once inside, a vast courtyard paved with elegant cobblestones led to the main house. On either side of the entrance stood the guards’ quarters. The main house was an impressive building, radiating a sense of power. It had sturdy wooden doors with complex designs and a glossy finish. Yale padlocks were placed on the exterior doors, while master locks were attached to the interior doors for added protection. The entrance, surrounded by stately marble columns, displayed the national emblem and led into a large foyer.
Winston’s private door was constructed with reinforced steel to guarantee his security. Incandescent bulbs and fluorescent lighting brightened the palace. The reading room was a sanctuary of knowledge and contemplation. It was filled with leather-bound books and ornate furnishings. A majestic staircase boasted portraits lining up side by side, featuring individuals who supported apartheid alongside activist battlers against it.
As one ascended the staircase, these portraits served as a stark contrast to the overall décor of the house. The stairway eventually led to the State President’s bedroom. The room was a lavish and spacious suite. Where the leader of the nation could rest and reflect on the decisions of the day.
On a Friday, around 8:00 p.m., a light-skinned young man in his late twenties, dressed in a black trouser, canvas shoes, and white tracksuit, came walking gracefully. The man stood at about 5’10 and possessed a small head. You could wonder how his brain fit in such a grapefruit-sized round head. The guards outside the gate saw him advancing. It was raining as the assassin waved at them, and entered the gate. The five-armed guards were already in the police truck, setting off to Winston’s official residence in Pretoria. The assassin entered through the open main gate and saw two guards inside. They were also armed. He waved at them and one waved back with a smile. He felt re-energised and continued towards the private access door of Winston’s reading room.
The assassin pushed the private door, and it was loosely closed. He found Winston deeply reading the book, “Cry, the Beloved Country,” by Alan Paton. Winston looked at him and saw an unfamiliar face. He clenched his jaw and furrowed his brow, taking a deep breath to steady himself. Before he could say a word, the assassin moved swiftly, his hand disappearing beneath his belt and reappearing with a long, Dutch-made Veri-sharp knife. He lunged forward with a force that sent Winston stumbling backward. The knife descended four times - twice into Winston’s stomach and twice into his chest just above the heart. The first stab was so strong that the knife almost penetrated through the back. Thunder sounds and strong winds caused panic and the assassin sustained injuries on his left arm as he stabbed Winston a fourth time.
Gently, he scooped up Winston from the floor and laid him in his chair. The assassin adjusted Winston’s head to face forward and then carefully placed the eyeglasses back on his nose. He closed the door as he had found it, dropped the knife gently on the verandah, and walked majestically to the main gate. With an inner mixture of fear and happiness, he waved to the two guards again. Once outside the gate, he took advantage of the darkness and ran towards the city centre.
Liz Cruz, Winston’s wife, arrived home an hour later. A party dress of rich silk hugged her tall frame. Regal green tones and beaded embellishments adorned a high neckline down to a modest knee-length hem. Her skin gleamed a creamy white, and she glowed with a sense of sophistication. Liz’s hair expertly swept up in a whirlwind of perfectly coiled curls. Each curl bounced and shined with life as if it had its own volition. Each strand framed her face perfectly, like a work of art crafted from spun gold.
After the guards opened the gate for Liz and her maids, they returned to the balcony where they were drinking Umqombothi, a local brew. The three maids walked to their rooms in the guest quarter. Liz took a cigarette out of its pack and struck a match. She brought the flame to the tip, then shook her head, quickly extinguished it, and placed it back in the box. She rummaged inside her handbag and pulled out a set of keys that jangled in her hands.
Shortly after accessing the house through the main door, Liz walked straight to the bedroom. She had thought Winston was already sleeping, only to realise she was wrong. Liz walked to Winston’s private balcony and found an empty white sofa set and a depressed tea table. It was as if the sofa and table had missed Winston for a century. She walked to the library and found him seated properly in his reading chair. She noticed drying blood all over and deep wounds. Liz tapped his shoulders but noticed Winston was breathless.
“ No! Winston! Noooo!!!” Liz screamed; her feet frozen to the floor. Tears streamed down her face as she looked at his motionless body. “This can’t be true! Please, please no…”, she sobbed uncontrollably, her cries echoing throughout the room.
Peter Khu and Daniel Pretori, the guards on duty, heard Liz yell. At first, they thought the couple was fighting. But Khu quickly remembered that Winston was too old to fist and fight. They ran towards the house and found Winston lifeless. Liz gazed at his body as if commanding it to rise and walk to the bedroom. Khu and Pretori stood still speechless, the weight of their failure to protect their leader clear in their downcast eyes. But because of Umqombothi influence, the two men were staggering, viewing Winston’s body as if it had a duplicate.
Liz lit a cigarette and smoked as she gazed at Winston’s lifeless body. She continued smoking and ashing the cigarette using her index finger. Tears from her eyes tripled. After smoking, she walked to the corner of the living room and dialled Sancton Pietersen.
“ Hello, Prime Minister,” Liz said, her voice trembling, “my husband has passed away.”
“ What happened?” Sancton asked, his voice filled with concern.
“ My husband, Winston, lies lifeless!”
“ Where are you?” Sancton called out, his words carried away by the howling wind.
“ I’m right here, my hand resting on his lifeless body.”
“ Are there any potential suspects we should consider?”
“ How do you expect me to know?” Liz exclaimed, throwing her hands up in exasperation.
“ We have to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. We must find out who did this and make sure we bring them to justice.”
“ Can justice breathe new life into my husband’s body?” Liz slurred her words as she stumbled, clearly intoxicated.
“ No. But I’ll send a few people over to investigate and collect more details on what happened.”
“ Thank you so much.”
“ It’s my duty and pleasure.”
Immediately, the bad news shattered the tranquillity of the night. The clock on the wall silently ticked away, approaching 10 p.m.
Sancton reached for his rotary phone, his fingers tapping the buttons with a purpose that mirrored the gravity of the situation. He dialled Ricky Grims, the Head of police, for the first time, but the phone stubbornly refused to connect. A knot of tension tightened in Sancton’s stomach.
Thirty minutes passed before he made a second attempt. This time, the call went through, but the ringing echoed into emptiness. Nobody answered. Another half-hour of suspense, and Sancton persisted. The line clicked, and a weary Ricky finally picked up, the raspy quality of his voice hinting at a disturbance.
“ Ricky, do you have any idea what’s happened?”
Ricky, grappling with the news, responded with a terse “No, sir.” The irritating sound of an owl added an eerie layer to the conversation. Ricky, known for providing tight security to Winston, was left to grapple with the unexpected.
“ Liz informed me,” Sancton continued, “Winston’s been assassinated.”
Sancton’s voice was tense. Meanwhile, on the other end, Ricky’s panic was palpable. Darkness engulfed Ricky’s bedroom as he talked to Sancton, the absence of light deepening the shadows of uncertainty.
“ Sir, I’ve always given Winston enough security,” Ricky said with a trembling voice.
“ What do you mean by ‘enough security,’ Ricky?” Sancton inquired.
A meaningful silence followed, Ricky, choosing not to answer. The owl’s haunting calls seemed to amplify the gravity of the conversation. As if compelled by an unseen force, Ricky pressed for details.
“ Sir, where did it happen?” he demanded, his voice cutting through the static.
“ Winston met his demise from the comfort of his home,” Sancton revealed, the weight of the words hanging heavily between them.
The line went dead. The eerie silence that followed was punctuated only by Sancton’s repeated attempts to reconnect. His persistence, however, was met with an impenetrable void. In the quiet darkness of Ricky’s bedroom, Sancton listened to what seemed like thunder and felt the ground shake, convincing himself of a tumultuous storm or even an earthquake.
It was only later, when the silence settled, that Sancton realised these were hallucinations, manifestations of the chaos unfolding in his mind as he grappled with the shocking news. The world around him remained undisturbed, yet the echoes of his internal storm lingered in the air.
Chapter 2
A day before the assassination, a local politician met with a Chinese investor at the Diagonal Street restaurant in Joburg. The restaurant hummed with the clatter of coffee cups and low murmurs of patrons.
“ Welcome to Joburg. It’s a pleasure to have you here,” the politician said, gesturing for the investor to take a seat.
“ Thank you for having me. I appreciate the coffee,” replied the investor, settling into the chair with a nod of gratitude. You would think they had met before.
The clink of cups punctuated the beginning of their conversation.
“ How is South Africa?” the investor inquired, taking a sip of the rich, dark coffee.
“ We’re okay. You might have heard about the protests.”
“ Oh, yes. Why are people up in arms with the government?”
“ Resisting apartheid policies, my brother.”
“ Resistance, you say?” The investor raised an eyebrow, prompting the politician to elaborate.
“ Yes, a pushback against the apartheid policies. There’s a growing movement advocating for change,” the politician clarified, the weight of the topic evident in his tone.
The investor nodded, absorbing the information. “And how does this affect business in Joburg?”
“ Well, it adds an extra layer of complexity. The political climate influences regulations and social dynamics, but despite the challenges, the city is still a hub for various industries,” the politician responded, emphasizing resilience.
The investor leaned forward, intrigued. “Tell me more about this city. What’s the pulse of Joburg like?”
“ Dynamic, to say the least. Despite the political tensions, you’ll find a vibrant energy here. The streets are alive with commerce, and the cultural diversity is vivid,” the politician shared, with a touch of pride in his voice.
“ Any particular challenges for investors?” The investor probed.
“ Navigating the racial divisions can be delicate. Understanding the cultural nuances is key. However, Joburg offers opportunities across sectors, from mining to emerging industries,” the politician explained.
“ And what about everyday life for the people here?”
“ People are resilient. They find joy in cultural events, like the Sophiatown Jazz Festival, that transcend the challenges. It’s a city that thrives on the strength and spirit of its people,” the politician replied.
“ Interesting. What other good things can be found here in Joburg?” the investor asked, genuinely curious.
“ Skyscrapers are rising, streets like this one and Commissioner Street are bustling with energy, and there’s the eclectic Brixton market and the vibrant Indian Quarter,” the politician responded, his hands illustrating the vibrancy of the city.
As the conversation flowed, the Chinese investor leaned forward.
“ How easy is it to learn the local languages?” he wondered with genuine curiosity in his eyes.
“ English and Afrikaans are common. Zulu, too. But for business, English and Afrikaans are your best bets,” the politician explained, reaching for his cup.
“ Are people social and friendly?” the investor asked, observing the lively scene around them.
“ Absolutely. People come together during events like the Rand Show. The annual Joburg Carnival, too, creates a sense of social unity,” the politician revealed with a hint of pride in his voice.
The investor pondered, sipping his coffee before delving into the business aspect.
“ What about investment opportunities?” he inquired, getting down to the core.
“ We have gold and copper mines, and there’s potential for vine plantations,” the politician listed, outlining the economic landscape.
“ I’m not interested in farming, perhaps gold mines,” the investor mused, contemplating the possibilities.
“ You’re free to do whatever you want in South Africa, provided you support Sancton’s regime. Feel free to inform fellow Chinese to come,” the politician gave assurance.
The Chinese cleared the bill for both as they parted ways.
Chapter 3
Winston had been more than just a charismatic politician. He was a beacon of hope in a nation dancing to rhythmic turmoil. In a time when the oppressive grip of apartheid suffocated the dreams of many, Winston stood as a rare example of a courageous white figure who vehemently opposed the unjust system. His voice carried the weight of conviction, echoing through crowded streets. He had fought tirelessly to dismantle the chains of repressive laws, his eloquence resonating with those who had long yearned for change. It was his impassioned speeches that ignited a spark of resistance. But perhaps his most audacious endeavour had been the proposition of a housing project for the people of Soweto, a place where Sancton thought dignity and decency were taboo. And then, abruptly, Winston’s flame extinguished. The walls of uncertainty closed in as suspicion spread like wildfire. Why now, when his vision was on the verge of realisation? Why was his voice silenced just as it was gaining momentum?
A surge of anti-apartheid rioters overtook the streets of Johannesburg and elsewhere. Demonstrators voiced their outrage against the assassination of a beloved leader. Banners with Winston’s image fluttered alongside a slogan, “Justice is a map, leading to hidden treasures.” Amidst the clamour of the mob, a small group of revellers cheered, believing that Sancton was the one dead.
Eddie Robbeans, the South African Stir newspaper senior journalist, had a reputation for being an unkempt rebel. His dark, wild hair was often in disarray, and his clothing was threadbare and unwashed. He was always in a hurry, sometimes wearing mismatched socks. Despite his bedraggled appearance, he possessed a handsome face and compassionate voice that made him instantly likeable.
The Stir caused an uproar amongst the community with Eddie’s latest article. He claimed that a top politician had masterminded Winston’s assassination. He did not name the politician for ‘security reasons.’ The elite community had taken none of Eddie’s stories seriously before. But this time it was different. The government did not release any official statement after Winston’s assassination. People believed anything. On the day following the publication of the article, riots tripled in rural areas, including Soweto, Sharpeville, District Six, Sophiatown, and Nyanga, as people demanded justice for Winston. It took two months of police trying to quell the demonstrations - some resulting in fatalities before calm finally returned.
Weeks before the demise, Winston and Sancton held a series of strategic meetings. They sat across from each other in Sancton’s office. The room was adorned with the trappings of power and elegant furnishings. Sancton leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he gazed out of the window. “Winston, these anti-apartheid movements are gaining momentum. Our people are growing restless, and their demands for change are getting louder. We can’t allow them to continue like that.”
“ I know that, Sancton. But we can’t afford to suppress these voices any longer. Our economy is suffering under apartheid, and the inequalities are growing. If we don’t take steps to address these issues, the consequences could be dire.”
Sancton sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I disagree that the economy is suffering. Also, inequalities have been and will continue to be part of human society.”
“ But remember,” Winston said, his voice filled with authority, “We are the leaders. We owe the citizens a duty.”
“ Citizens? Who qualifies as a citizen of South Africa?”
“ A citizen is everybody in South Africa,” Winston said passionately, emphasising each word.
“ Including those who make no economic contribution?” Sancton asked.
“ Sancton, we must do what’s right for our people, all people without discrimination. We can’t allow fear or complacency to guide our decisions. If we continue to ignore their grievances, the situation could escalate into something far more dangerous. Let me tell you Sancton; a slimy green frog hopped toward its auntie to pick a tail from her. Other amphibians that did not have a relationship with its auntie moved faster and picked theirs. This frog moved slowly without bother assured of securing a tail, and by the time it reached, the auntie had given away all tails.”
“ Well said, Winston.”
“ You remember the freedom charter approved at the historic Congress of the People in Kliptown?” Winston asked, “You can’t ignore the promises made back then.”
“ Promises, promises,” Sancton retorted, leaning back in his chair as if amused by the notion. “Everything was vague at that Congress of the People. Just words in the wind. Is there also a congress of animals?”
“ Those words defined the foundation of a new South Africa,” Winston shot back.
“ A new South Africa built on what? The dreams of the poor? The aspirations of those who can barely put food on their tables? In the game of survival, there are no referees.”
“ Yes, on the dreams of every person who calls this land home. Including those who have suffered the most.”
“ Ah yes, and who exactly are these people you speak of? If every government in South Africa is based on the will of the people, then who are these people? People’s will should be proportional to their possession.”
“ Don’t belittle the struggle by making jokes. The people who have suffered are those who have experienced generations of oppression and marginalisation. They can’t possess what we have deprived them of.”
“ And do those who can’t read or write consider themselves part of the people?”
“ Sancton, the past, and present may haunt, but the future redeems. This illiteracy results from systematic oppression. We have deprived people of their land and education, the liberation means to rise above their circumstances.”
“ But capacity matters. Owning land doesn’t automatically grant prosperity. Look at the world’s richest individuals. Do they make up even five percent of the population?”
“ We can’t deny our people their birthright,” Winston said.
“ Look at the so-called liberation elsewhere in Africa where apartheid is unheard of. How many of the poorest own land? And how many truly enjoy their birthright? How many are equal before the law? Haven’t fellow blacks deprived them?”
A moment of tense silence settled between them, the weight of their opposing viewpoints hanging in the air. Winston’s gaze softened slightly, acknowledging the complexity of the issue. “You have a point. Discrimination isn’t solely a result of white oppression here. Africans have suffered greatly at the hands of their black leaders as well.”
With the unsettled dust in Winston’s mind, they parted ways.
The next day, Eddie visited President Winston. The sounds of Hadeda Ibis, “haa-haa-haa-de-dah,” welcomed Eddie. This sound was rare, but when it came especially in the morning, people interpreted it to mean a pending misfortune. Guards at first denied him entry, perhaps because of his torn shirts and smelly socks. After bargaining and bargaining with his gentle voice, they let him in. Winston welcomed him and offered him a seat six metres away. With a notebook and pen in hand, Eddie leaned forward slightly.
“ Mr. President, thank you for taking the time to speak with me today. Our readers are eager to hear your thoughts on the current political climate.”
“ I appreciate the opportunity to address the nation,” he began, his tone measured yet charged with underlying intensity.
Eddie nodded; his pen poised to capture every word. “There’s been a lot of debate about the apartheid policies being pushed by certain politicians. What’s your take on this matter?”
Winston leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the table’s edge. “Let me be clear. Apartheid is a stain on our nation’s history, a policy that seeks to divide and oppress. It’s disheartening to see some of our politicians advancing these policies, policies that only deepen the divides between our people.”
Eddie scribbled notes furiously, his pen almost unable to keep up with Winston’s impassioned words. “Can you elaborate on what you mean by ‘our politicians?”’
“ There’re those in positions of power who are more concerned with maintaining their control than with the well-being of our citizens. They cling to outdated notions of superiority and segregation, ignoring the cries for equality that echo through our streets.”
“ Are you suggesting that some politicians are deliberately perpetuating apartheid for their gain?”
“ I won’t mention names, but it’s clear that there are those who benefit from the status quo. They manipulate the system to further their agendas, even if it means perpetuating suffering and injustice among our people. Injustice is the beast we must tame.”
“ But you’re the State President. You’ve the power to stop apartheid. What’re you doing about it?”
The verandah seemed to buzz with the weight of Winston’s words. The office’s ambiance faded into the background as the two men engaged in a battle of words that held the fate of a nation in their grasp. Hours passed, and as the interview concluded, Winston’s voice had softened, his frustration giving way to a deep resolve. “I will continue to stand against these policies,” he said, his gaze distant yet determined. “Our nation deserves better, and I will not rest until equality prevails.”
Chapter 4
The demonstrations following Winston’s assassination became a thorn in Sancton’s flesh. Sancton felt the heavy weight of dread pressing upon him, fearing that the public’s accusatory finger would point to his impeachment. His regret for the many interviews he had conducted with Winston was visible. The harmless conversations they had shared now seemed like incriminating evidence in the court of public opinion. The fact that Eddie’s interview had taken place just before Winston’s untimely demise only added to the mounting pressure that threatened to suffocate Sancton.
As the turmoil continued to escalate, Sancton found himself at the epicentre of a maelstrom of uncertainty. The once-unshakable ground beneath him had shifted. He was left struggling to navigate the treacherous waters of a situation that threatened to consume his reputation, power, and authority. Every interaction, every word he had exchanged with Winston, was now under the unforgiving scrutiny of a judgmental world. The weight of responsibility and regret bore down on him, casting a long and menacing shadow over his existence. Sancton grappled with the consequences of a tragedy he could neither control nor escape.
As darkness enveloped Sancton, he failed to find comfort, appealing for sleep in vain.
The morning after receipt of Liz’s phone call, Sancton decided to appoint a detective personally. He sent a messenger to call Detective Alex Chapman, also known as Chap amongst his peers. Tim Isaacs was Chap’s immediate boss and the head of the Special Crimes Unit.
Shortly after receiving notice from the messenger, Chap’s footsteps echoed in the opulent surroundings of Sancton’s office, a grand chamber steeped in history. As he entered, the room exuded an air of formality and power, marked by the towering bookshelves, their antique volumes bearing witness to years of leadership. The scent of aged leather and wood polish lingered in the air, blending with the faint whiff of cigars that hung like a trace memory of discussions past. The large mahogany desk, its smooth surface marked by the weight of responsibility, dominated the room. It was a testament to both longevity and wear, just like the man behind it. Sancton himself sat regally in an overstuffed chair that had seen better days. The leather upholstery bore the scars of time, much like Sancton’s weathered countenance. Yet, despite the gravity of the situation at hand, Sancton appeared strangely at ease. His posture was relaxed, his fingers idly tracing the edges of a document. The lines etched on his face seemed to ease, and there was an air of relief about him, as if the burdens of leadership had momentarily lifted. Chap felt a sense of unease at this apparent detachment from the tragedy of Winston’s death. The room itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the Sancton’s words to break the silence.
Sancton greeted Chap with a piercing gaze, a gaze that left the detective contemplating about “whys”. Why me, of all the detectives, some of whom are Sancton’s in-laws? Why didn’t Sancton instruct my boss Tim to appoint me? Why didn’t he ask Ricky to appoint me or anybody else? Why, why and why. Meanwhile, Chap’s unexpected meeting with Sancton had thwarted his plans to bask in the enjoyment of a bottle of whisky. It was his holiday, after all.
As the saying goes, a detective’s heart is a vault of untold tales. Chap’s unyielding gaze bore into Sancton’s, his determination a visible force that seemed to push against the surrounding walls. They both understood the weight of the task Sancton was about to assign, and an unspoken clash of wills hung between them like an invisible barrier.
Sancton flipped through the pages of the Stir newspaper, his lips curled into a knowing smile. His icy blue eyes, tinged with an odd amusement, seemed to devour each article as if they were all written to criticise him. A vulture, perhaps drawn by the political tension in the room, collided with the window glass, mistaking it for an open space. The sudden impact sent the bird screeching away.
“ I’m not here to lecture you about what happened. Even the third-class citizen here in South Africa knows,” Sancton said, his voice a paradox of calm authority and concealed menace. As he spoke, the soft rustle of the curtains, stirred by a gentle wind that had crept in through the open window, added an eerie undertone to the conversation, as if nature itself was privy to their secrets.
Chap’s response came with unwavering determination. His stern visage almost betrayed his workaholic tendencies, a trait that had brought him both success and isolation. “I’m aware, sir, of the assassination of President Winston,” Chap said, punctuating each syllable like hammer blows on an anvil.
“ Correct. And that’s why I called you,” Sancton declared, his voice steady and unfazed by the disturbance outside. The room seemed to inhale the challenge, holding its breath for Chap’s response.
“ I’m always at your service, sir.”
“ All right. I want you to peel off all layers of deception, and falsehoods as you uncover the hidden truth. Remember, a detective’s mind is a labyrinth of possibilities.”
“ I’ll take the case, sir,” Chap said, his voice unwavering. “But know this – I’ll follow the truth, even if it shakes the very foundations of power.”
“ That’s all I ask. Find the truth, no matter how deep it may be buried,” Sancton said.
Chap nodded in affirmation, a silent promise that carried the weight of a nation’s expectations.
As Sancton excused himself to attend a meeting with the waiting ministers in the boardroom, the tension in the room slowly dissipated. Chap watched him depart, knowing that the path ahead was fraught with uncertainty, danger, and the darkest secrets of power. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the journey that lay ahead, determined to unearth the truth, no matter the cost.
Truth be told, Chap was no stranger to the intricate world of criminal investigations. His expertise was honed through years of dedicated work. He tackled some of the most challenging cases that crossed his path. One such case involved the dramatic kidnapping of diplomat Pierre Jeanei. Jeanei had been on his way to attend a diplomatic meeting in Pretoria when the world seemed to hold its breath.
In the morning of the kidnap, the wind along Joburg-Pretoria road turned capricious, its direction zigzagging like a frightened serpent. Nature itself had predicted the heinous act. It was as if the very elements conspired to heighten the sense of chaos that had enveloped the moment. Jeanei’s official vehicle came to a halt a few kilometres to Pretoria. A group of masked kidnappers whose motives were as enigmatic as the shifting winds staged a roadblock. The police, stationed only a kilometre away, hesitated to intervene, probably out of cowardice. With him in the car were his trusted driver and two devoted staff members, each frozen in fear as the masked intruders directed the ambassador out of his car and all others to remain in.
The kidnappers drove him in their car towards Durban and hid him in the rented enclosed bungalow. They started pushing demands through emissaries. Kidnappers demanded the immediate release of all anti-apartheid prisoners. But that was not all. They also demanded that the captive’s country ceases support for the apartheid promoters, insisting that the country should stop donating weapons to those who upheld the oppressive system. They held the ambassador’s life in their hands, their determination and their cause shrouded in mystery. Sancton, who had just assumed office as the Executive Prime Minister, was shocked after hearing about the diplomatic kidnap. The diplomatic community and the world watched in shock and trepidation as the sun, once a symbol of hope, seemed to stand still in the South African sky.
When police reported the kidnap, Chap took charge of the special operations unit. He stormed into the safe house to rescue Jeanei. Within one and a half days, Chap had killed all the kidnappers with relentless acuity and ferocity. The diplomat came out unscathed. This incident established Chap’s fame as an invincible warrior. It was then that both the public and Sancton realised his strength.
However, it wasn’t just high-profile kidnappings that showcased Chap’s prowess. He had also confronted the darkest corners of human depravity while investigating the case of Richards Alinity, a notorious serial killer who had terrorised Southern Joburg. Richards would disguise as a friend of tourists. He would invade them in their hotel rooms, murder them, and steal their valuable items. Police discovered his crimes when hotel maids found two bodies of victims he had murdered in two separate hotels within a night. The victims had come to South Africa for vacations. Alinity’s methodical killings had left a trail of horror, striking fear into the hearts of both residents and visitors. The long police hunt for him ended when officers caught him at his mother’s residence. They found out that he lived in his room cutting out newspaper articles about himself. He was also addicted to gambling and alcohol, which accounted for his enormous debt.
Chap’s approach to the Alinity’s case was a testament to his analytical mind. He meticulously studied the crime scenes, sifted through evidence, and connected the dots that led him closer to the identity of the killer. Chap spent the entire night in the office studying the evidence against Alinity. It was a race against time to stop Alinity before he claimed another victim. With the clock ticking, Chap’s efforts paid off as he apprehended the elusive murderer, ending his reign of terror and providing closure to the families of the victims. Chap’s memories of victory in his past assignments re-energised him.
Shortly after leaving Sancton’s office, Chap leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he contemplated whom to work with on the monumental assignment. His mind raced back and forth as he eventually zeroed on Kiim Edwards. Kiim was of mixed blood, African father, and an Australian mother. The father had died when Kiim was just twelve. The mother returned to Australia, leaving him with paternal uncles. Kiim was tall, standing at about 5’10’. He possessed a distinctive long nose hard to overlook. His attire was often casual, favouring comfortable t-shirts, casual trousers, and open-toed shoes. He led a single and independent lifestyle, known to grind his teeth after a few beers. He was a newcomer to the detective profession, having worked for just one year.
The two guys sat in Chap’s office and as they sipped coffee, Kiim mistakenly swapped Chap’s coffee cup and realised it after the sip. The faded files and evidence boards witnessed the anomaly.
“ I’ve got a new assignment. Sancton has assigned me to investigate the assassination of Winston. I want you to assist me in the assignment,” Chap said.
“ Why did you single me out among all your friends?” Kiim asked.
“ Because you are committed and readily available when I need your services. I also want you to gain experience,” Chap said.
Kiim’s eyes were wide with a mix of excitement and determination, having learnt about the pending task. “Investigating this now is a waste of time. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours since the murder. Much of the evidence could’ve been tampered with.”
“ We can investigate assassinations no matter how much time has passed, even one that occurred a century ago. We can’t afford to waste any more time,” Chap said.
As they spoke, distant gunshots echoed from the suburbs of southern Joburg.
“ Look at what’s happening out there. Rioters have blocked the Soweto-Joburg road. This city is on the edge,” Kiim said.
“ We have a job to do. Chaos won’t deter us. We’re here to uncover the truth.”
“ Fine, I’ll work with you. What’s my role in all of this?” Kiim asked as he denied Chap eye contact.
“ You’ll help collect physical evidence, interview some eyewitnesses, and maintain records of gathered exhibits. We need to build a solid case,” Chap said as he lit a cigarette.
“ Alright, I’ll help. But I’m not in the best shape today, hangover.”
“ We can’t afford any slip-ups, Kiim. We’re dealing with the assassination of a president. Get yourself together.”
“ I know, I know. These headaches and the doctor’s advice to cut down on smoking aren’t helping,” Kiim said.
“ Investigating the assassination of a president is no joke. I need your full commitment. As a professional, take this seriously.”
“ But what could be the motive of assassins?” Kiim asked as he rubbed his aching fingers.
“ My friend, assassins are not just killers. They’re architects of fear, masters of manipulation.”
“ But why create fear?” Kiim asked.
“ They aim to silence any opposition that dares to challenge them or their employers.”
“ But it’s not just about the fear,” Kiim interjected, his voice gaining confidence. “It’s about power, too. Some of these killers want to seize power, to get their hands-on resources that’ll make them untouchable. They want to exercise their twisted form of governance.”
“ You’re catching on. You’re right. They seek control at any cost, manipulating victims like pawns on a macabre chessboard.”
“ And it’s not limited to individuals, is it? It’s about quashing the voices of the marginalised, weakening democratic institutions, all to pave the way for their agenda.”
“ You’re grasping the intricacies of this world faster than I expected. But there’s more. These assassins aren’t confined to traditional methods,” Chap said.
“ They’re the same breed as those who poison farms of blacks with anthrax, who drag away protesters from helicopters in the dead of night. Remember the ones who poison wells with defoliants and napalm? It’s all connected. A dark web of chaos and terror.”
Chap sat back, the weight of the conversation settling over him. The energy in the room seemed to shift, charged with the weight of their shared but diverged perception.
As Kiim left Chap’s office, the door clicked shut, sealing off the dialogue.
Moments later, Chap sat at his desk, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the polished wood as he composed a message that carried weight far beyond its words. He carefully selected each phrase, his mind attuned to the gravity of the task at hand. The words were concise, yet they carried the weight of an entire investigation.
“ Tim,” he began, the ink flowing smoothly onto the paper, “Sancton has tasked me with investigating Winston’s assassination. The case is now under my jurisdiction. Expect to hear from me soon, sir.”
As he sealed the note with a resolute press, the room seemed to hold its breath. It was as if the very walls were privy to the magnitude of the message.
Chapter 5
Kiim entered Chap’s office, ready to despatch the note to Tim. As soon as he got the note from Chap, curiosity cropped in. He opened the note, read it, and resealed it skilfully so much so that even the most observant person could not suspect the tinkering. The steps from Chap’s office to Tim’s desk felt like an eternity, every second ticking away with a weight that matched the heaviness of the news he carried.
He arrived at Tim’s office, knocked on the door, and the host let him in. Tim’s brows knitted together as he accepted the note, his fingers unfolding the paper with a deliberateness that belied the unease that had settled within him. As he read the message, the lines on his face deepened. The surrounding atmosphere seemed to grow more charged.
As Tim’s gaze lifted from the note to meet Kiim’s eyes, a silent exchange of understanding passed between them — the acknowledgment that the investigation was inevitable as Kiim returned to his office downstairs.
The note continued perplexing Tim’s mind. “Why didn’t Sancton instruct Ricky to appoint Chap if he wanted?” Tim wondered because it was not common for a Prime Minister to usurp the powers of the Inspector General of police or deputies.
Tim walked up the staircase. He knocked on the door, entered, and found Ricky on the phone. People knew Ricky for being fierce in querying anti-apartheid riots. Perhaps he was giving instructions to the police on how to neutralise the Soweto riot.
The words “Good morning, sir” echoed through the room, breaking the silence.
“ Yes,” Ricky replied with a smile, the warmth of the morning sun on his face. “What brings you here?”
“ I wanted to let you know Sancton has appointed Chap to lead the investigation into Winston’s assassination.”
“ I’m already aware,” Ricky replied, his tone filled with a touch of authority.
“ Ah, I see. Okay, sir.”
“ You know, if I had the chance, I would have still chosen Chap for the position.”
“ Oh?” Tim said, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “Sir, I am curious to know the rationale behind that.”
