by Deon Meyer
‘No,’ they said in unison.
‘In February 2012, German police found more than one thousand three hundred lost works of art in an apartment in Munich. They included works by Monet and Renoir and Matisse.’
Some of the names sounded familiar. ‘Cool,’ said Cupido, and then his phone rang, and he saw it was Sergeant Lithpel Davids. ‘Sorry,’ he said, silencing his phone.
Coutts seemed not to notice the interruption. She said, ‘So, here’s what I . . . I think Alicia . . . I think what happened was that something came across her desk. Something about the Fabritius. Some sort of . . . lead. Like when a detective . . . You know. I mean, in a certain sense, we’re also detectives. We gather clues. We often have other people investigate them, but . . . I think she got some sort of lead, and I think it was a solid lead. Solid enough for her to . . .
‘Look, she didn’t like to talk about it, but her sister . . . Alicia’s mother is in the US. The mom’s been suffering from dementia for a while now, and her sister is a . . . let’s just say she’s a bit of a loose cannon. Prefers not to work too much, I gathered. So Alicia’s been taking care of her mother financially, and you know how it is with medical costs, and speciality care, it’s outrageously expensive. I just think Alicia saw an opportunity to pursue something . . . in a more personal regard. Something that would’ve made good money. I mean, I’ve thought about it, we’ve all thought about it in this profession . . . Maybe she was really struggling financially.’
‘So you honestly think this is genuine?’
‘The Fabritius? I’m sure of it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Alicia was one of three international experts on that era. And she was sceptical and smart and not easily fooled.’
They went to Lithpel Davids in the IMC room. When they entered the sergeant said, ‘The bad news is I can’t open Alicia Lewis’s email. If we had her phone . . . But on the laptop I just can’t crack it. Cappie, she’s using some heavy-duty password, so it’s going to take a few days.’
‘Shit,’ said Cupido. ‘And the good news? Tell me there’s some good news.’
‘I know who she had breakfast with on Monday morning.’ Quite smug.
‘Professor Marius Wilke?’
‘Damn, how did you know that?’
‘We detect, Lithpel, that’s our job. How did you know?’
‘It was in her calendar, and the prof’s email and telephone and web address was in her contacts. So you know about the PI too?’
‘What PI?’
‘Haven’t you been detecting, Cappie?’
‘What PI, Sergeant?’
‘The one in Claremont . . .’
‘Claremont. Our Claremont? Southern suburbs?’
‘Damn straight, Captain. Our Claremont.’
‘Who’s the PI?’
‘Billy de Palma.’
Cupido made a peculiar sound in his throat. Griessel looked at him. His colleague’s face was rigid and pale.
‘Do you know him?’ he asked.
‘Jirre, Benna,’ said Cupido, his voice muted. Then Vaughn looked at Davids: ‘Tell me you’re kidding me.’
‘I kid thee not, come look here.’ And he pointed at the MacBook. The detectives went closer. Davids pointed at the screen. In Alicia Lewis’s contacts application was the entry for Billy de Palma Private Investigations, then the web address, email address and a cellphone number.
‘Who is Billy de Palma?’ Griessel asked. He could see Cupido was upset.
‘How did you find that?’ Cupido asked Davids.
‘I can also detect, Cappie,’ said Davids. ‘I just searched through her contacts for dot za emails and for plus-twenty-seven telephone country codes and there he was. Billy de Palma. And the professor of course. Only two South Africans in her database, as far as I can see.’
‘Billy de fokken Palma,’ said Cupido, his hands on the edge of the desk, knuckles white.
‘Who is Billy de Palma?’ Griessel repeated patiently.
‘He’s the one who’s killed Alicia Lewis, Benna,’ said Cupido. He walked to the door, halted, turned back. ‘He’s a fucking psychopath, I’m telling you. I think we better go and see Major Mbali. Now.’
14
Griessel pacified Cupido first, got him to calm down. He said, ‘Who is this guy?’
‘Maybe you know him, Benna, but Billy de Palma isn’t his real name. That’s just what he calls his company: Billy de Palma Private Investigations. It’s camouflage. Remember the ANC bigwig, former Deputy Premier of the Western Cape that they caught DUI, seven, eight years back? The one who nearly broke the breathalyser record for inebriation, he drove a Porsche Cayenne, lekka on the gravy train . . .’
‘Tony somebody . . .’
‘That’s the one. Tony Dimaza. Remember how they lost the evidence of the DUI, here at the SAPS station Cape Town?’
‘Vaguely.’ Because that was during a phase when Griessel had been drunk all the time.
‘All fingers pointed to a detective called Martin Fillis, remember him?’
‘Sounds familiar . . .’
‘Martin Reginald Fillis. Fillis. Piece of work. Piece of shit. Narcissist, psycho, real arsehole. We go way back. I was still wet behind the ears at the Drug Squad, he was my senior, already an inspector. From the start, I didn’t like him. Creepy, I don’t know, he had those eyes, Benna, there’s no life there. And everyone says, you don’t mess with him, he’s a big ou, and some sort of martial arts expert who fights in a cage on weekends. Anyway, back then, prostitute turns up at Seapoint charge office, black and blue, some sick fuck had worked her over really badly and she wanted to lay a charge. It was Fillis who beat her like that when she refused to give him a freebie. Who beats up a woman like that?’ Griessel could see that Cupido was reliving events that upset him, but he shrugged off the memory and said, ‘In any case, Fillis had an alibi; one or other of his civilian buddies swore blind that they’d been together. Nothing happened, but a lot of us knew it was him.
‘Then a few years later, when Fillis was a detective at Caledon Square, it was the Tony Dimaza thing, DUI evidence just disappeared. Fillis was the main suspect. Someone saw him in the evidence lock-up, and he couldn’t explain a twenty-thousand deposit in his bank account, and his cellphone showed that he took a call from Dimaza two days before the evidence disappeared; they gave him a full investigation and a disciplinary hearing. I think the Service really wanted to be shot of him, and he knew he wasn’t going to get off, so he saved everyone the embarrassment and resigned. Then he went and set up a PI business. And, because he was ashamed of his perfectly decent coloured surname, and because he was afraid his bad reputation would catch up with him, and most likely ’cause he probably wanted to sound fancy and white and Continental, he called his company Billy de Palma Private Investigations. He couldn’t get a licence here in the Cape, they say he had to get one in the Free State, from his corrupt politician buddies.’
‘Okay,’ said Griessel. ‘But how do we know that he’s the murderer of Alicia Lewis?’
‘Number one: one strike with a pipe, Benna. One very hard blow. It takes a big ou, a fast and strong ou. One who can hit, because he did martial arts, for years. Number two: body washed in bleach. That shows it’s an ou who knows forensics, about DNA and blood and chemicals. Like an ou who was a detective in the SAPS. Number three: there’s his name in Alicia Lewis’s contacts. The only PI on the continent to have that honour. Number four: what do you do when Professor Donald Duck gives you nine names of potential owners of a very expensive painting, but you’re sitting in London, and you want those nine people traced? You get yourself a private eye. You Google private investigators, and you contact the one who looks reputable, and you say, go find these people. And that’s what he did. He found the nine, and he pinpointed the one with the painting, and that’s why she resigned from her job and came to Cape Town. Number five: I’m telling you now, if Martin Fillis got that painting, he wouldn’t hesitate for one second. He’d murder her in cold blood, and try
to sell the painting. I’ve looked into that man’s eyes, and I tell you now, he will kill.
‘But it’s number six, Benna, that’s a dead give-away. What did Prof Donald Duck do, the moment he realised Alicia Lewis was killed? He did what any normal, innocent, upstanding citizen would do. He called us. And Martin Fillis? Don’t tell me he doesn’t know about the murder. It’s on the TV and radio and the internet, it’s on the posters on the lampposts, every newspaper’s front page, it was on the front page of Die Son, for God’s sake. Martin Fillis would read Die Son every day, I guarantee it. So that’s how we know he’s our man, Benna. Come on, we’ll have to see Major Mbali because we’ll have to be very clever with this psycho. He knows all the tricks of the detective trade, he’s had since Monday, plenty of time to cover his tracks, he’s probably all lawyered up, and ready with an alibi. We’re going to need all the help we can get.’
Despite Griessel’s vague unease about Cupido’s certainty, they did their homework, discussed their theories and made plans.
In the midst of it all John Cloete phoned and told Benny an article had appeared half an hour ago on the Guardian website in the UK, identifying Alicia Lewis as one of the top international experts on the Dutch Masters. The report also asked questions about Lewis’s sudden resignation from Restore, and why she travelled to ‘dangerous South Africa’ for a holiday so soon after her resignation.
‘The whole world wants commentary, Benny. Do you have anything?’
‘The investigation is at a sensitive stage,’ said Griessel.
John Cloete sighed. He had more patience than any man Benny knew.
They called ahead, and drove to Oakglen in Bellville, where Mbali Kaleni had a townhouse. She met them at the gate, wearing mud-caked gardening gloves, a wide-brimmed hat and dark glasses. She smelled of fresh earth and perfume. ‘I’m planting a cabbage tree,’ she said.
Under normal circumstances Cupido’s face would have registered amusement, or irritation, depending on his mood, for Griessel suspected that neither one of them had even envisaged their Zulu commanding officer as a keen – and over-dressed – Saturday-morning gardener. But Vaughn was serious: ‘Thanks for seeing us, Major. We’ve got our guy, but we need your help . . .’
She invited them in. She offered tea, or ice-water with cucumber and lemon; they said thanks, but no thanks.
Cupido told her everything they knew. She listened attentively, and when he had finished, she frowned her famous frown, and asked, ‘But why would the Lewis woman choose him, this Fillis person?’
‘We wondered the same thing, Major,’ said Cupido. ‘So we did a test. We Googled the words “Cape Town Private Investigator”. His agency, Billy de Palma Private Investigations, was right at the top of the search results, next to a little green logo that says “Ad”. Sergeant Davids says it’s because Fillis buys those keywords from Google, it’s called AdWords. And we had a look at his website too. It’s very professional. Big photo of him, he’s this big, very handsome guy, that’s how he fools a lot of people; he looks trustworthy on a photograph. And the website says he’s a former detective inspector with the SAPS. She would have thought he’s the perfect guy for the job.’
‘I see,’ said Kaleni. ‘Okay. What have you come to ask me for?’
‘He’s sly and he’s smart, so we want to hit him very hard, Major. We don’t want him to know we’re coming. We want to bring him in for questioning, but we want to do it in a way that will prevent him from reaching his lawyer. We’re going to need back-up, he’s a violent man, and he’s big. We want to tape the interrogation, we want his lies to be on record from the start. We need search warrants for his office and his home, and a 205 for his cellphone records; we want Philip and his team to do a spiderweb.’
A subpoena according to Article 205 of the Criminal Procedure Act forced cellphone companies to provide the Hawks with complete cellphone records. Captain Philip van Wyk and his team at IMC used special programs to connect all the calls with people – the so-called spiderweb that would show who would have had contact with Fillis.
Kaleni shook her head. ‘Captain Cloete called me . . .’
Griessel could see Cupido’s shoulders droop. Once the major knew how big and international the media interest was, she would be even more conservative and careful than usual.
‘We’ll have to be very careful.’
‘Yes, Major.’
‘You don’t have enough for the search warrants.’
They knew that, but they also knew Kaleni – behind that frown was unshakeable loyalty, and a need to support the people around her. Give her something to say ‘no’ to, and chances were good that she would approve other requests.
‘Okay,’ said Cupido with mock disappointment.
‘But I’ll sign the 205 application. And we’ll get uniform back-up for the arrest.’
‘Thank you, Major.’
They wanted to confront Fillis alone and in public. So Cupido phoned the cell number on the Billy de Palma Private Investigations website, and a man answered, and Cupido recognised the voice. He nodded to Benny, and passed the phone to him. Griessel introduced himself as ‘Ben Barnard’, and it was ‘Mr de Palma’ this and ‘Mr de Palma’ that, trying also to sound defeated and desperate. He said he wanted to see him urgently, as he was convinced his wife was having an affair, she was going out tonight, and he needed someone to follow her. ‘I don’t care about the cost, please, can I meet you at the Spur, there’s a Spur near your office, the one beside Cavendish Square. I can meet you there, I’ll bring you cash, just say how much.’
And then they held their breath as they waited to hear his response.
The cash that Griessel offered was bait, in case Fillis was unwilling to see clients on a Saturday morning. Cash needn’t go through the books, he could avoid sales tax and income tax.
They waited, Fillis sighed, and then said, ‘Okay. Meet me at half past twelve, I’ll be in the smokers’ section, wearing a Stormers jersey.’
15
Major Mbali Kaleni rang the SAPS station commander in Claremont. He had to do some juggling because it was mid-Saturday, and most of his men started their shift late afternoon in order to police the evils of Saturday night, and he could only spare them four uniforms.
Griessel and Cupido met them in front of the Rodeo Spur Steak Ranch at 12.33. Griessel went in first to make sure Fillis was there already. At this time on a Saturday the restaurant was a colourful, screaming mass; at least three kiddies’ parties were in full swing. He spotted Fillis in the smoking section, in a Stormers rugby jersey as he had promised; the loud, ugly yellow and red of the rugby team’s sponsor caught the eye instantly. He turned around and went to fetch Cupido and the uniforms. They marched in through the throng of children. Fillis saw them coming, and from his expression they could tell the moment when he recognised Cupido, and realised this procession was heading towards him. His gaze flicked once towards the door, his only escape route, and that was when they knew they had their man.
Fillis stood up just before they reached his table. His eyes were trained on Cupido, his remark cutting: ‘Hello,Vaughn. Still the biggest show-off in the Hawks?’
Griessel saw how big Fillis was, the rugby jersey stretched across his powerful shoulders.
‘Martin Reginald Fillis, we have reason to believe you can assist us with information in connection with the murder of Alicia Lewis.’
No reaction.
‘We have reason to believe your cellphone contains evidence that will link you to Lewis. Please hand it over.’
Fillis weighed up the uniforms, one of them with a pair of handcuffs in his hand. He looked back at Griessel and Cupido. He said, ‘Fuck you, Vaughn.’
‘I’ll only ask once more for your phone,’ said Griessel. ‘Or are we looking at an arrest for obstruction?’
Everyone in the restaurant was staring at them. Fillis wavered, and then very slowly reached into his pocket and took out his phone. Benny held out a plastic evidence bag. Fillis dr
opped his phone into it.
For over half an hour, in the car on the way back to DPCI offices, the detectives were silent. Fillis sat in the back. He only spoke once, when he asked, ‘Aren’t you Benny Griessel, the alky Hawk?’ When there was no response, he lit a cigarette and blew the smoke through the metal grid between them. They knew he was trying to provoke them. They ignored him. Fillis stared out of the window and rubbed his hand over the manicured lines of his goatee beard.
As they got out, Fillis jerked his arm out of Griessel’s grip, and Cupido grabbed for his service pistol and cuffs, but Fillis relaxed, and walked between them, down the long, dark, Saturday-silent corridors of the Hawks building, into the interview room. Everyone sat down, everyone knew his place.
‘Fuck all of you.’ Fillis fired the opening salvo. ‘I’m not saying a word without my lawyer.’
They had known he would say just that.
‘You can talk to us without your lawyer, or you and your lawyer can talk to the press together,’ said Griessel.
Fillis pulled a face and shook his head. ‘Jirre, Vaughn, you’re even more stupid than I remember. Was that your best plan? Get me at the Spur with a brilliant con, and then expect me to shit my pants in front of all the little kiddies, and spill the beans? That’s the best you Hawks can do? Really?’
‘Spill beans about what, Martin?’
‘Whatever.’
‘Where were you on Monday, Martin?’ Griessel asked.
‘Ask my lawyer.’ Fillis took out his cigarettes and lit one, ignoring the fact that there was no ashtray on the table.
Griessel recognised it as a gesture. A tactic. He ignored it. ‘Where were you on Monday, Martin?’
‘Ask my lawyer. And go fuck yourself.’
‘Let me tell you about our best plan, Martin,’ said Griessel. ‘Our best plan is to give you the chance to tell us everything. And if you don’t want to then we tell the press that you are our number one suspect . . .’