Crime under siege from the top

It is hard to describe the thrill, the feeling of sheer relief, the sudden utter diminishment of terror that followed the announcement last week that the government has decided something urgent needs to be done about the booming South African crime rate. When several dozens of people a day are being murdered, several dozens raped; when muggings, hijackings, cash heists and burglary are out of control, it’s very comforting to know the bigwigs have decided it’s time they came cautiously out from behind their bodyguards and armoured motorcades to wipe away our idle fears.

Of course, you can’t rely on newspaper and television announcements alone. Spin doctoring is so efficient these days that you have to go backstage to find out what’s really going on. I summoned my embedded mole in the safety and security ministry by tying a bright purple police-issue thong to my television dish. Next day I went to our pre-arranged rendezvous, at that elegant concrete gazebo at the Union Buildings. My mole was dressed as a traditional neurosurgeon on strike. I affected a disguise as an itinerant street violinist.

‘I see that our redoubtable minister of safety and security, Mr Charles Nqakula, is going to bring some specialist policemen out of retirement to give him advice on how to reduce crime,” I began.

‘And he knows exactly where to find them,” whispered my mole. ‘Inside C-Max are some ex-police experts who’d be only too willing to come out of forced retirement; get back into the specialist police work they so efficiently undertook for their misunderstood democratic leaders, like Mr P W Botha and Adriaan Vlok.”

‘Surely our currently misunderstood democratic leaders would not sink to Vlakplaas-style methods,” I snorted, scratching out a few bars of the Bruch violin concerto slow movement for emphasis.

‘Extreme problems require extreme measures,” he snorted back. ‘Extreme problems require extreme sol …” Unfortunately I couldn’t hear the rest of his reply as a shrieking car alarm went off. It was followed by a shrieking of tyres as a shiny ministerial limousine sped away, followed by yet more shrieking of tyres as some bicycle-mounted police persons sped off in pursuit.

‘We are told also that the government and big business have gotten together to work out a combined strategy against crime,” I said. ‘Surely that’s a good sign.”

‘Definitely. This government is facing its most challenging democratic crisis since having to somehow bury the arms deal under the carpet. This new democratic crisis is the two weeks of non-stop football matches due to take place in South Africa three-and-a-half years from now. Everyone knows that this fortnight is a bonanza of democratic opportunity for those involved.”

At that, my E-string went badly out of tune. ‘Are you so cruelly cynical as to believe that runaway crime could well interfere with the gluttonous profit margins usually associated with things like international soccer tournaments?”

Before he could answer a blatter of machine-gun fire made us duck hastily. I raised my head to see an amazing sight. Belching smoke like a monstrous yellow dragon, a forklift truck was lumbering out of the Union Buildings while several hooded gunmen ran alongside it, crouched over and spraying covering fire with AK-47s. The forklift blew more smoke and slowly lifted its steel arms, as if in triumph, to flaunt its prize: a vast office safe marked Minerals & Energy Petty Cash. A waiting 10-ton truck sagged as it received the load.

I asked a bit of an obvious question. ‘Do you think the best police minds believe that getting business people’s minds involved in police work is wise?”

‘Have you already forgotten?” muttered my mole. ‘It only took South African Breweries boss, Mr Meyer Kahn, six months to turn the police force into what it is today.”

Two trade unionists came slouching past where were standing. I switched to the Grand March from Aida. They immediately threw their shoulders back and strode away, clenched fists held high.

Suddenly there was even more shrieking. Far shriller and now full of terror. It came from a couple of uniformed schoolgirls. They’d obviously been snatched from among their classmates, on a typical primary school outing to the Union Buildings. They were being dragged into the bushes by some men dressed as gardeners.

‘This is happening far too often,” muttered my mole. ‘Last week three exquisite secretaries from the ‘Hands Across the Indian Ocean’ Sinhalese Trade Mission were abducted. They still haven’t found them.”

‘Is that the one Jackie Selebi insisted was an inside job?” I asked, letting a 12-bar riff from Stephane Grappelli slide out from under my agile fingers.

‘No, that was when some malcontent from home affairs stole the department’s sauna suites and carved marble plunge pools.”

One last question. ‘Do you think all the police and security heavies are like the forklift, blowing a lot smoke around, but in this case just to give the impression they’re doing something?”

‘You could be on to something there,” admitted my mole. ‘But I wouldn’t push that line too far. You could well end up being called a whinger.”

That’s exactly the word my violin teacher used whenever I said I was having difficulty with a Paganini caprice.