Red Ink: 15th Anniversary Edition

By Angela Makholwa

‘… gritty and shocking, yet tender at the core …’ – FRED KHUMALO

When public relations consultant and ex-journalist Lucy Khambule – young, beautiful and ambitious – receives an unexpected call from Napoleon Dingiswayo – a convicted serial killer, nicknamed The Butcher by the media – her life takes a dramatic turn. Dingiswayo wants Lucy to tell his story. Intrigued by Dingiswayo’s approach, Lucy decides to take this opportunity to fulfil her life-long dream of writing a book, but it comes at a cost she could never have imagined.

After their initial contact, Dingiswayo becomes an all-too-obliging subject and Lucy soon discovers that her choice of topic is not for the faint-hearted. Soon after meeting him in Pretoria’s notorious C-Max Prison, Lucy’s world is turned upside down by a series of violent and disturbing events.

Dingiswayo is behind bars, but Lucy begins to suspect that the brutal attacks may have something to do with him. Who is this frightening man, and what motivates him? As Lucy learns that there is more to Dingiswayo’s story than the police have uncovered, she is forced to decide what price she is willing to pay to pursue her dream.

Red Ink is a gripping thriller. Set in Johannesburg, it has a distinctly local flavour and brings the city to life through all its contrasts and contradictions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pan Macmillan South Africa
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781770108165

Angela Makholwa

ANGELA MAKHOLWA is the much-loved author of gripping psychological thrillers. Her novels – Red Ink, The 30th Candle, Black Widow Society, and the internationally acclaimed The Blessed Girl – are filled with entertaining escapades and sexual misadventures.

Book preview

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‘The edgy, jagged process of interviewing Moses Sithole, one of South Africa’s most notorious serial killers, did not lead to a tell-all biography but to the first of a successful string of humorous, on-point novels by this journalist-turned-author … There are many reasons you should read Makholwa: key among them is her skill for using humour as a device for dealing with complex social issues such as violence against women and our obsession with arriving at a place in life where we can get drunk on consumerist values.’

– JOY WATSON, DM168

‘With Red Ink, Makholwa has taken the South African urban novel to new heights. By turns gritty and shocking, yet tender at the core, Red Ink is an important addition to the canon of modern fiction in this country.’

– FRED KHUMALO

‘With the gritty streets of Joburg as a backdrop, Angela Makholwa delves with assurance into that most deadly of South African preoccupations: serial murder. Her protagonist is chillingly at home in the ocrridors of C-Max in a psychological thriller you might prefer to read with the lights on.’

– JENNY CRWYS-WILLIAMS

Also by Angela Makholwa

Critical But, Stable (2020)

‘An excellent read with cracking and sparklingly witty dialogue, funny,

sexy, fast, Makholwa covers the lives of the contemporary rich black middle class, with career challenges, sexual challenges and politics.’

– BARBARA SPAANDERMAN, CAPE ARGUS

‘This is a gripping murder mystery that takes an unflinching look at the dark secrets that lie beneath the alluring veneer of affluence and success.’

– YOU MAGAZINE

‘Makholwa’s latest [book] is fun and delicious.’

– PEARL BOSHOMANE TSOTETSI, SUNDAY TIMES

The Blessed Girl (2017)

‘In The Blessed Girl, Angela Makholwa has yet again given us a deceptively simple yet layered narrative, in which the plot is as memorable

as the characters are unforgettable. Bravo.’

– ZUKISWA WANNER

Black Widow Society (2013)

‘Black Widow Society possesses all the elements of a great thriller

– sex, suspense, violence and murder. It’s a riveting read!’

– ZINHLE MAPUMULO

The 30th Candle (2009)

‘From an author who has a wicked sense of humour comes a skilfully written must-read for any woman who winces at the idea of celebrating the big 3-0 – or for any man who still seeks the answer to

the eternal question: What do women really want?’

– FUTHI NTSHINGILA

First published in 2007 and republished in 2013

This edition published in 2022 by Pan Macmillan South Africa

Private Bag X19

Northlands

Johannesburg

2116

www.panmacmillan.co.za

ISBN 978-1-77010-815-8

e-ISBN 978-1-77010-816-5

© Angela Makholwa 2007, 2013, 2022

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Design and typesetting by Triple M Design

Cover design by publicide

Author photograph by Nicolise Harding

Prologue

Johannesburg, 1995

Busisiwe was nervous. She took out her favourite crimson skirt and matching top and a pair of simple flat sandals, and looked at them critically. Would Sipho approve? Maybe the skirt was too short. The mysterious stranger she had met two days before at the noisy taxi rank did not look like the usual type who wanted to get right to business before the first date – if there even was a first date. No, Sipho was not like that.

He drove a car. Already this placed him in a different league from the township layabouts she was used to attracting. A green, slightly battered Ford Cortina. It was not flashy, but it would be able to take them from A to B. Most of the people she knew didn’t even own a bicycle, let alone a car. And he had asked her out on a real date, like they did in the movies.

Recalling their first encounter, she smiled at the thought of the two of them as a prospective item. Busisiwe had been delayed at the Shoprite Checkers in downtown Johannesburg; her mother had sent her to buy groceries. As she rushed through the throng of ­people headed for the taxi rank, she looked anxiously at the time on her wristwatch. Five o’clock already. Her mother would kill her. The family supper had not yet been prepared – all the ingredients were in the plastic bags she was carrying. Her mother always insisted that supper be prepared by five and served at six pm sharp. As she struggled with the packed yellow plastic bags, one of them split open, spilling all its contents onto the burning-hot tar on the street. What a mess. Tins of beans, pilchards and beef rolled onto the busy street, as did the paper bag of mealie meal, which she noticed had a hole at the bottom already. She had felt like crying.

At that moment, the green car had pulled up next to her and an attractive young man in a navy blue T-shirt and blue jeans jumped out. He looked to be in his mid to early twenties.

‘Can I help you, sisi? You seem to be having some difficulty,’ he had offered.

Fighting off the tears, Busisiwe had replied, ‘Nobody can help. I’m going to be in so much trouble. I’m so late, and now I’ve spoilt everything. My mother’s not going to be happy about this,’ she said, her shoulders slumping.

‘Where do you live?’

‘In Soweto … Mapetla,’ she had replied absent-mindedly, still staring at the mess of goods lying in the street.

The intense heat of the afternoon sun was melting her and, as she watched the masses of people passing through the rank, looking at her as if she were crazy, she had hoped the stranger would offer her a lift home. People always claimed this was risky in a city like Johannesburg, but the young man standing next to her had looked reliable, not to mention handsome. Best of all, he was concerned.

‘Would you mind if I gave you a lift home? You look like you could use the help.’

She had nodded immediately, happy to be saved from the sweltering heat and the long queues at the rank.

The drive home had sped by. The young man had introduced himself as Sipho. He was a school teacher, originally from KwaZulu-Natal. He taught at a school in Boksburg and had only recently arrived in Johannesburg. He lived with his brother in a rented room in one of those government-issue four-roomed square houses that littered South Africa’s townships.

He had gently poked fun at her about the spilt mealie meal, and as the journey had progressed she began to feel more relaxed about her predicament.

‘Eish, your family is going to starve my dear. You decided to feed Noord Street instead of them, ne? I must say, it did look a bit hungry to me too,’ he had joked.

Busisiwe had found herself taken in by his good looks and charm, and she could not help laughing.

But when he had stopped at a spaza shop in Soweto to buy a bag of mealie meal, she was really impressed.

He had asked to see her again on Sunday and Busisiwe had readily agreed. Out of respect for her parents, she preferred to meet him in town, at the taxi rank, instead of having him park his car outside the house. Her mother was a strict Jehovah’s Witness who disapproved of everything Busisiwe did. She could not wait to get married and move out of her parents’ home. After all, she was already twenty-four years old.

She continued to rummage through her wardrobe, mixing and matching outfits for the big date, but she settled on her first choice, the crimson skirt and matching top. It complemented her voluptuous figure and as she gazed at herself admiringly in the mirror, she noted how the dress hugged her ample breasts, showing her sexy cleavage.

A deep red lipstick that showed off her full mouth completed the look. Placing her hands on her hips, Busisiwe smiled at the reflection in the mirror.

‘Sipho, Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome, you are going to be knocked out.’

In Marula township near Boksburg, about eighty-five kilometres from Busisiwe’s modest home, the man who had introduced himself to Busisiwe as Sipho was also getting ready for their date. As she tossed aside the red outfit she had initially planned to wear, Sipho decided to take the new hunting knife, which had been brought to him from the Congo, instead of his usual butcher’s knife. At the moment that Busisiwe put on her lipstick, Sipho packed the gloves he wore on these outings as a safety precaution. While she applied red nail polish to her toes, Sipho took out the leather pouch he used to stock his other weapons, a small axe, a nine-millimetre pistol, some masking tape and a collection of smaller knives.

Busisiwe pursed her lips one last time before she went outside to catch a taxi to their appointed meeting place. At that very moment, Sipho took one last look in the cracked mirror and adjusted the extra knife he had safely tucked into a thick strap around his ankle. The cluttered rented room was strewn with his brother’s dirty clothes; some newspaper cuttings and various boxes stashed with everything from blood-stained lingerie to underground ANC material and thick wads of cash. He straightened his jacket and tucked in his shirt. In his grey suit and white shirt, he was a presentable young man trying to make the best impression on a first date.

The Ford Cortina pulled up at the Noord Street taxi rank, opposite the Chicken Licken where they had agreed to meet. The pungent smell of fried chicken mixed with the odour of human beings in a rush filled the hot summer air. Busisiwe tried to absorb every smell and sound, certain that this day symbolised the beginning of something big and bold which would redefine her entire existence.

Sipho was surprised that his hands had become sweaty. In spite of himself, he felt there would be something special about getting rid of this particular bitch. Usually he viewed all bitches in exactly the same way, but he knew her kind. He called them amatickeyline because they went around thinking they were the hottest thing in the township. They used men by exposing their flesh. What kind of woman would accept a lift from a complete stranger? Sies. She probably carried diseases too.

Then he saw her – or rather her partly exposed breasts. Did she really think that he would be interested in a woman like her? He felt nothing for women. Only one thing interested him. It still surprised him how many he had killed without anyone paying any attention. He was untouchable.

At that moment, Busisiwe saw him. He noticed her lips were smeared with red lipstick to go with her red skirt. She was a slut, just like his mother had been. He wondered if, like his mother, she had a love for the bottle. Oh well, there would be no time to find out.

‘Hello, Sipho,’ she said as she slid into the passenger seat. She sat, nervously clutching her small red purse.

‘Yebo, sisi. You look so beautiful. What is that perfume you have on?’ he asked.

‘Oh, that … it’s called Purple Musk. My mother used to wear it when she was younger, before she became a Jehovah’s Witness,’ she said.

He was silent for a while, surprised at this bit of information. Surely she could have made a better attempt at being pure if her mother was a religious person. He subconsciously shook his head, disgusted that she had this kind of looseness despite her parents’ best efforts. Like he always told his brother, women are natural-born whores, no matter what you do to try to save them. That’s why, unlike his brother, he did not give them the time of day.

‘So, where are you taking me?’ she asked, feeling giddy with anticipation.

‘Hmm, somewhere very special. Have you ever been to Braamfontein?’

She shook her head.

‘Well, there’s a nice hotel there. I want to give you the best time of your life … something you will remember until your dying day,’ he said.

She could not believe her ears. Who was this man? Taking her to a hotel? She had never set foot in a hotel all her life.

They drove for a while, each occupied by their own thoughts.

Busisiwe was wondering if her gut feel about this man was right. She saw in him the father of her children.

Sipho fantasised about the attack. Would she resist? Would she fight him? What would her face look like? He was so caught up in this fantasy that an involuntary smile spread across his face.

‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Busisiwe, secretly hoping that they were dreaming the same dream.

Startled, Sipho merely said, ‘Oh nothing. Here we are. The Devonshire Hotel.’

Busisiwe stepped out, feeling like a star. She knew those were the only people who could afford to dine at hotels.

Sipho had learnt a lot from a rich friend about dining in style. He relished the opportunity to act big.

He soon found that dinner could not go by fast enough. The woman was a motor-mouth. He wondered how much more of the torture he could endure. He hated everything about women – their high-pitched voices, their fake mannerisms, their smell …

When the bill finally came, he settled it and they walked back to the car. By now, Busisiwe was worried about the time and was anxious to get back home before her strict mother kicked up a fuss.

They drove in silence for a while. Then Sipho took a detour, turning onto a lonely stretch of road that ran through bushy veld.

‘Where are we going?’ Busisiwe asked.

‘Don’t you know City Deep? There’s a shortcut to Soweto here. Not many people know it, I just want to get you home on time,’ he said, looking ahead at the long, deserted stretch of road.

When he stopped on the side of the road full of long brownish-green grass, thorn trees and weeds, he asked her to step out of the car with him.

‘Why? This place looks too quiet … it scares me,’ she said.

‘No, come. I want to share something with you. This place brings back a lot of old childhood memories for me,’ he said, smiling luminously.

Trusting him, she left her purse in the car and stepped out. She was feeling utterly exhausted.

He took her by the hand and led her further into the veld. Once they were surrounded by long thin blades of grass, he turned to her, and slowly touched her face. This is it, she thought, he’s going to kiss me.

Her eyes now closed, she waited for the kiss she had been longing for. He moved his hands slowly from her face to her neck, breathing so close to her that she ached for him. Then his hands closed tightly around her neck.

Everything seemed to slow down for Busisiwe as she fought for breath. He strangled her until her legs were so weak that he managed to pin her down on the ground. He took out the knife from his ankle strap and stuck it against her neck.

‘Now listen here, you bitch. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll follow my every instruction. You hear me?’

Terrified, her big eyes bulging in panic, she nodded in submission.

He stood up and told her to lie down. Then he unzipped his trousers and started urinating on her.

That done, he spat on her. ‘You are a whore worse than any other I’ve seen in my life.’

He kneeled on the ground and brandished his knife. With it he tore off the top of her dress and the bra beneath it, leaving her huge breasts exposed.

He straddled her and started slicing through the breasts. Her screams could not be heard by anyone. They were on a lonely dirt road that was hardly ever used, safely hidden away from any passing motorists.

‘You think these things impress me? What are these, you whore? You think they make you better? Better than who? Better than who, you bitch?’

He repeated the same thing over and over as he cut through her flesh. She was bleeding profusely, screaming.

When he finished with her breasts, he left her lying there, her body a river of blood, while he went to get the rest of his weaponry. With the small axe, he started knocking at the bones on her neck. He liked the nickname the press had given him, The Butcher. It flattered him. He had never intended to behead all his victims, just those two in Benoni who had given him a hard time. But since then, he had felt obliged to turn it into a trademark.

Once he’d severed Busisiwe’s head from her neck, he took off her panties. Red. What a surprise.

Chapter 1

Her cellphone rang. Lucy Khambule, impeccably groomed public relations consultant, former journalist and single mother, was not in the best of moods.

Frustrated by her business partner, Lucy questioned her judgement about going into business with Patricia. And she had to deal with clients who had been butting heads with Patricia. She had to admit it, she was not seeing any rewards in this partnership.

Three-thirty. Lucy was late for a meeting with one of their newest clients, Adriaan Fourie. She was desperate to sign him; Fourie’s pet project was developing a new image for the City of Johannesburg. Just the sort of compelling challenge Lucy wanted. Her main frustration was that Fourie didn’t understand much about the communications business, so she frequently ended up spending hours explaining exactly what value her company was going to add to Fourie’s city clean-up campaign before actually getting on to the plan of action.

She looked at her cellphone. It was a Pretoria number. Did she have enough time to take the call before rushing off? One of the account executives had already stuck her head through Lucy’s office door to announce that Fourie’s secretary had called again to confirm the meeting for four o’clock. It could only be her brother Mzi; he worked as a management consultant in Pretoria.

‘Lucy speaking, hello,’ she said, trying to sound patient.

‘Hello. May I please speak to Sibongile?’ enquired a rather soft, almost apologetic male voice.

Sibongile was Lucy’s Zulu name. She could not recall when last she had heard a stranger call her by that name.

‘Um, hello, it’s Sibongile speaking,’ she responded in Zulu.

‘Hello, sisi. My name is Napoleon Dingiswayo, I am so glad I finally got hold of you,’ said the caller, also in Zulu.

Lucy froze. The only Napoleon Dingiswayo she knew of was a serial killer who had terrorised women in Johannesburg for about two years. He had gone on a rape and murder rampage that culminated in a body count of no less than forty-one, and those were just the ones who were found. He lured poor, unemployed women by promising them job opportunities and lunch dates. He made history when he was finally brought to book and was sentenced to one thousand years in prison.

‘Excuse me? What did you say your name was?’ she asked, flabbergasted.

‘This is Napoleon Dingiswayo, sisi. Don’t you remember me?’

Ah, she got it. Her brother was playing a prank on her. Good grief. As if she had the time for this.

‘Come on, man. I’m in a bit of a hurry. Who am I speaking to?’ she asked, irritable.

‘Oh, sisi, I hope this is not a bad time, but it really is me, Napoleon. You sent a letter to me about five years ago. You said you were a journalist,’ he stammered. ‘Your words really touched me. I mean, I get approached by so many reporters wanting to tell my story. But your letter was the most sincere. It just sounded so well-meaning, I felt you really understood me, and were eager to help. When you said you were only twenty-one years old in that letter, I was moved even more because I thought, wow, this young lady has more empathy for my situation than anyone else. I thought that I really should help you write a book about me because I felt that God was directing me to you as the right person to tell my story.’

Lucy sat down. How did this man find her number and what in the world was he on about? She remembered making contact with him all those years ago, but her memory of the letter was quite different from his version. It seemed like millions of years ago. She’d been a reporter back then, a rookie journalist. It was her first job in fact, straight out of university. She had been so removed from any first-hand experience of the rougher side of life, which made her work that much more interesting, especially the crime stories. For a girl who came from a Gauteng township, she had lived quite a sheltered existence.

Lucy Sibongile Khambule grew up in a household where good manners and Christian morals were profoundly upheld. Her family was one of the few in the township in which both parents were professionals – her father was a school headmaster and her mother was a community doctor, the most common professions among black folk at the time. She and her older brother were expected to get good grades throughout their schooling, attend church regularly, not swear and definitely not fool around with members of the opposite sex, or even look at them and think dirty thoughts. So Lucy grew up as a gangly, awkward nerd with her head constantly in the clouds, dreaming of a more adventurous and challenging existence and desperate for a little street cred.

But the awkward teen had become a striking beauty with a bright and forceful personality that endeared her to most people around her. Grown-up Lucy had undergone a butterfly-like transformation. When she landed the newspaper job, she immediately struck up a good relationship with her editor. Despite the paper’s dedication to sunshine journalism aimed at black readers, which Lucy loathed, she managed to twist the editor’s arm, impressing upon him the need to have a regular crime beat.

Lucy had enjoyed her fourteen-month stint as a journalist. She’d covered a lot of gutsy stories, from trailing and nailing escaped cash-in-transit kingpin Josiah Maluti through the streets of Soweto, to exposing crooked cops on the make and finally trying to pin down an exclusive with headline-grabbing serial killer Napoleon Dingiswayo.

The Napoleon conviction story occurred at the tail-end of her journalism career. He was under heavy police surveillance and, like many other journalists at the time, Lucy