A Dry White Season by André Brink Read Free Book Online Page B

perhaps it really had been just a rumour; perhaps there would still be a letter from Mbabane in Swaziland or Gaberone in Botswana.
In the end it was Stanley Makhaya, after all, who found the first positive lead. He’d been in touch with a cleaner at John Vorster Square, he said, and the man had confirmed that Jonathan was being held in one of the basement cells. That was all the man had been prepared to say. No, he hadn’t seen Jonathan with his own eyes. But he knew Jonathan was there. Or rather: had been, until the previous morning. Because later in the day he’d been ordered to clean out the cell and he’d washed blood from the concrete floor.
“It’s useless just to write another letter or make another phone call,” Ben told Levinson, white with anger. “This time you’ve got to do something. Even if it means a court interdict.”
“Just leave it to me, Mr Coetzee.”
“Du Toit.”
“I’ve been waiting for a break like this,” said the lawyer, looking pleased. “Now we’ll give them the works. The whole titty. What about dropping a hint to the newspapers?”
“That will just complicate everything.”
“All right, have it your way.”
But before Levinson had framed his plan of action he was telephoned by the Special Branch with a message for his clientGordon Ngubene. Would he kindly inform the man that his son Jonathan had died of natural causes the night before?

2
Once again Gordon and Emily put on their Sunday clothes for the trip to John Vorster Square – by that time the trains were running again – to enquire about the body: where it was; when they could get it for burial. One would have expected it to be a simple and straightforward matter, but the enquiry turned out to be yet another dead end. They were sent from one office to another, from Special Branch to CID, told to wait, told to come again.
This time Gordon, for all his old-worldly courtesy, was not to be moved. He refused to budge until his questions had been answered. In the late afternoon a sympathetic senior officer received them. He apologised for the delay but there were, he said, some formalities that still had to be attended to. And an autopsy. But everything should be finished by the Monday.
When on Monday they were once again sent away with empty hands they returned to Ben; and with him to the lawyer.
As on all previous occasions the tall man with the Gable looks dominated, with spectacular self-confidence, the enormous desk covered with files, telephones, documents, empty coffee cups and ornamental ash-trays. His teeth flashed against the deep tan of his face.
“Now this has gone too far,” he exclaimed. In an impressive and elaborate show of efficiency he telephoned police headquarters immediately and demanded to speak to the officer-in-charge. The officer promised to make enquiries.
“You better start pulling out your fingers,” said Dan Levinson aggressively, winking at his attentive audience. “I give you exactly one hour. I’m not taking any more nonsense, right?” He turned his wrist to look at his large golden chronometer. “If I haven’t heard from you by half-past three I’ll be phoning Pretoria and every newspaper in the country.” He slammed down the instrument, flashing another grin at them. “You should have gone to the newspapers ages ago.”
“We want Jonathan Ngubene, Mr Levinson,” said Ben, annoyed. “Not publicity.”
“You won’t get far without publicity, Mr Coetzee. You ask me, I know all about it.”
Much to Ben’s surprise the Special Branch did ring back at five past three. Levinson didn’t say much; he was listening, obviously flabbergasted by whatever the officer on the other side was telling him. After the conversation he remained sitting with the receiver in his hand, staring at it as if he were expecting it to do something.
“Well I never!”
“What did they say?”
Levinson looked up, rubbing his cheek with one hand. “Jonathan has never been in detention at all. According to