The Serpentine Road by Paul Mendelson Read Free Book Online Page A

is shared between the founding partners and their families, most of whom have a representative on the board.’
    De Vries says: ‘Boardroom tensions?’
    ‘Not as far as I could tell. I did ask. I, of course, am not a policeman.’
    ‘No.’ He stares at the lawyer. ‘Anyway, well done on the information.’
    Classon turns to face De Vries. ‘You should know: Director du Toit wants me working this with you, in case things get tricky . . .’
    ‘Things?’
    ‘The case.’
    ‘The case will always get tricky.’
    ‘His exact words were that I was to “stick to you like a limpet”.’
    De Vries walks to his door, grabs the handle and turns back to Classon.
    ‘Our roles are defined then, Norman. I am the rock; you are the limpet.’
    On their way to Woodstock, a call directs them instead to a music venue in town; Lee Martin is rehearsing for a gig that evening. De Vries swoops down the Woodstock slip-road, takes a sharp right over the freeway and re-joins Nelson Mandela Boulevard travelling back into town. In the docks to their right, dwarfing the cranes and warehouses, a gargantuan oil rig is moored for servicing, a dominating industrial silhouette against the silvery opalescence of Table Bay. The mountain fires seem extinguished and once again the sky is deep blue, the temperature rising. The whole peninsula waits for autumn now; for the first rains to rinse the streets and damp down the mountainside. De Vries has his window open, his arm on the ledge, a cigarette burning brightly between two fingers. As they drop down towards the centre of town, he says:
    ‘Have you heard of this place?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Lived here all my adult life and I still don’t know half of it.’
    ‘It is probably new. Places open and close. Things change. Where is it?’
    ‘St George’s Cathedral,’ De Vries says. ‘In the crypt.’
    He pushes around the near-stationary traffic, mounts the pavement. He stops in the dense shade of the pollution-stained trees right by the walls of the cathedral, flashes his ID at a perplexed traffic cop, leads Don towards the entrance.
    The entrance to the crypt has not changed since De Vries had been here previously. The low Gothic vaulted ceiling encloses a small space displaying blown-up photographs of the famous peace demonstration which started out at the cathedral in 1989 and quickly swelled to many tens of thousands. It made headline news in many countries, and some were to come to see it as the true beginning of the end for the old regime. Both men slow their pace, glance at the images; they have meaning to both of them, though different for each man.
    The Crypt music venue has twin glass doors leading on to a short staircase. Even down these steps, the space is only a lower ground floor rather than a true crypt and, through small leaded windows, the street outside can still be glimpsed.
    There is no one at the bar, but two musicians on the little stage to their left hold guitars and talk in low voices. One is a tall, rake-thin black African, the other, a handsome white guy with thick curly black hair and a Mediterranean complexion. When they see the policemen, they stop, scrutinize them.
    The white guy says: ‘We’re closed. Can we help you?’
    De Vries holds up his ID.
    ‘Lee Martin?’
    ‘He’ll be back just now.’
    ‘And you are?’
    ‘Davide Batisse,’ and, nodding in the direction of the other man, ‘Freddie Kokula.’
    ‘You know why we’re here?’
    He watches them stiffen momentarily, consciously affect disinterest.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Better that way . . .’ De Vries smiles to himself, wonders what they fear. He glances away from them at the sound of a door opening behind him, and sees a very slim, pale man approach from behind the bar area. He takes a step towards him.
    ‘Mr Martin?’
    The man nods, and De Vries gestures him away from the stage, towards an alcove table in the furthest corner of the venue. Lee Martin nods, somberly follows De Vries, who invites him to take a