by Deon Meyer
‘Billy de Palma. Were you ashamed of your coloured skin, Martin?’ Cupido asked.
No response.
‘You see, Billy Boy,’ said Cupido, ‘we know how precious your Billy de Palma brand is. We know about your Google AdWords. We know you invested heavily to be the number one agency popping up in an internet search for a PI agency in the Cape. So, our best plan is to let the newspapers and news sites all run an article or two about you and your agency, and how you might, or might not, be involved in the killing of Alicia Lewis . . .’
‘The Guardian is writing about it already,’ said Griessel.
‘That’s a big British newspaper,’ said Cupido.
‘I know what the Guardian is.’ Angry.
‘Then you will know, if prospective clients search for a PI in the Cape on Google next week, what they will find,’ said Griessel.
‘Or next year,’ said Cupido. ‘Or in two years’ time, that’s the trouble with the damn interwebs, Billy Boy, all that info just does not go away. It comes back to haunt you.’
‘Then they see your AdWords on the same page as all the links to news reports saying you might, or might not, be a murderer,’ said Griessel.
‘And we’ll tell the media about your past, and they’ll put that in too, they love that kind of shit. And they’re going to stop calling, Billy Boy, all those clients with errant husbands,’ said Cupido.
‘All that AdWord money wasted,’ said Griessel.
‘You’ll have to find a new job; your agency will be as dead as a dodo. But horror of horrors, Billy Boy, people will find out you’re a fraud. A crook. A two-bit, second-rate, corrupt ex-cop, a beater of prostitutes, a killer of defenceless women.’
And that was their best plan, their gamble: for Fillis to realise he had to give them something, if he wanted to keep his agency’s name out of the news. They had no idea whether it would work, but Cupido firmly believed narcissists were afraid above all of being humiliated in public.
They kept an eagle eye on him, waited. He sat like the sphinx, staring at the glass of the observation window.
At last: ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Cupido snorted in amusement. ‘We have a 205, we’re going to trace all your calls. What will you say then, if we can prove that you had contact with Lewis?’
No answer.
‘It’s only a question of time before we crack her emails. Help yourself. Tell us where you were on Monday,’ Griessel asked.
Long silence, before Fillis said, ‘I’ll have to check my calendar. Pass me my phone.’
Griessel shook his head. ‘You know exactly where you were on Monday.’
Fillis crossed his arms across his chest.
‘Have it your way,’ said Cupido. ‘Benna, call the media liaison officer.’
Griessel took out his phone and called John Cloete. The liaison officer answered straight away. Griessel put the phone on speaker: ‘John, we’re ready to make an arrest, you can let the press know the suspect is Martin Reginald—’
‘Okay,’ said Fillis, sharply and urgently.
‘What’s that?’ said Cupido.
‘Okay, I’ll talk.’
‘What, without your lawyer?’
Fillis nodded, his back straight, neck rigid, a man battling to retain his dignity.
‘Sorry, John, seems I was a little hasty,’ said Griessel and cut the call.
16
Fillis swore blind that he had had no contact with Alicia Lewis, not on Sunday and not on Monday. He had never in his life met her in person. The last he had heard from her was more than two months ago.
‘So, we’ll plot your phone, and it will show us that you were nowhere near her on Monday?’
‘I don’t know where she was on Monday.’
‘Start at the beginning,’ said Griessel. ‘When did she contact you?’
Fillis told his story with shifty eyes and aggressive, staccato sentences. He said he received an email from her out of the blue the previous November. Initially she simply asked him to confirm that one of his specialities was tracing people, as his website promised. He assured her that it was. In the next email she asked if he would be prepared to help locate a missing object, which might be in the possession of one of nine different people. He replied to her that his skills included that service. Alicia Lewis phoned him from London the next day, and spoke to him in person, an explorative discussion about his background and rates; he reckoned it was to probe him. Apparently she was satisfied, as she sent him a contract with an extended confidentiality clause. He signed it and returned it, and then received the nine names.
‘By then you knew who she was,’ said Cupido.
‘How would I know, Vaughn?’ Angered by the suggestion.
‘Because I know you, Billy Boy. You would have Googled her long before. You would know that this aunty works with heavy-duty paintings; if she was looking for something, it meant big bucks. So you started scheming . . .’
Fillis swore at Cupido, and Cupido snorted, and they argued back and forth about the fairness of Cupido’s statement, until Griessel said, ‘So you tracked the people down?’
‘Of course I tracked them down. I’m the best PI in the land.’
‘Never believe your own press, Billy Boy. And who had the painting?’
‘The farmer in Villiersdorp.’
Their ears pricked up, hearts racing, but they were too experienced to let Fillis see how the news excited them.
‘What farmer in Villiersdorp?’
‘Vermeulen. Willem Vermeulen. Senior.’
‘How do you know that, Billy Boy? How do you know?’
‘I asked him. And he said, ja, he’d seen the painting, so I asked where, and he said it was none of my business.’
‘So how could he see what painting you were looking for?’
‘I showed him a photo.’
‘What photo?’
‘The one that Lewis sent me.’
‘A photo?’
‘Are you deaf?’
‘Why didn’t you tell us she sent you a photo?’
‘You didn’t give me the chance,’ he replied with a grin over his small victory.
‘If you want to play games, Billy Boy, we can also play games. Benna, I told you he’s a piece of shit. Let’s call the media, and be done with it. He’s going to try and lead us round the bush all the time . . .’
‘It was just a piece of the painting,’ said Fillis irritably. ‘First she sent the nine names. I found eight of them. One woman is dead, August last year in Pretoria, but that didn’t matter in the end. I sent her the eight addresses. Then she sent the photo of the painting by email. Just a section of the whole painting, it turns out. Of a woman’s face. A woman in a cape.’
‘A cape? What do you mean? Like in Cape Town?’
‘No, a cape, like in Superman.’
Griessel asked where the photograph was. Fillis replied that it was in an email on his phone. Griessel took the private detective’s phone out of his pocket, and navigated by Fillis’s instructions to the Gmail application, the correct folder and the right email. They looked at the photo of a section of a painting, showing the head and shoulders of a woman. She was looking straight at them with dark brown eyes, not smiling, but her mouth seemed ready to do so. There was a softness in her gaze, a tenderness, knowledge. They couldn’t stop staring at her, the beautiful red lips, the nose, not small, but right for this face, the smooth pale white skin, light brown hair tied back from her face. A very attractive woman.
But the object that caused Benny Griessel to blurt out the words was the cape over her shoulders. It seemed from this piece of the painting to be the only garment she was wearing. But it was the colour that inspired him.
‘The woman in blue,’ he said.
‘Exactly,’ said Cupido.
‘What?’ asked Fillis.
Cupido’s phone began to ring. ‘None of your business, Billy Boy,’ he said, taking the phone out of his pocket. He recognised th
e number, answered it, listened, and said, ‘Okay, okay. What road is it? Okay, thank you very much, please phone PCSI.’ He ended the call and told Griessel. ‘Grabouw station found her car. The rental. On the mountain the other side of Grabouw, on the way to Villiersdorp. Smells awfully of Jik. Now we have you, Billy Boy. Your plan has come to naught . . .’
They phoned Major Mbali Kaleni and said they had enough for the search warrants for Fillis’s office and home. They asked for reinforcements. Specifically asked for Captains ‘Mooiwillem’ Liebenberg and Frankie Fillander to continue questioning Martin Fillis. Those two were also on duty this weekend and were always willing, and they knew Fillis-the-narcissist would be endlessly irritated for his time to be wasted by a man more handsome than he was. Liebenberg was called the George Clooney of the Hawks and ‘Uncle’ Frank Fillander had more experience and people-sense than anyone on the Serious and Violent Crimes unit.
It took nearly an hour to bring Liebenberg and Fillander up to date on the case. They also asked their two colleagues to draw out the interrogation of Fillis as long as possible, while they drove out to a farm in the Villiersdorp district.
Cupido and Griessel took the N2 over Sir Lowry’s Pass, and drove through Grabouw. They phoned Jimmy, the long skinny PCSI man, for directions to the location of Alicia Lewis’s hired Toyota.
‘Take the R321 out of Grabouw, and drive towards Theewaterskloof Dam, about twelve kilometres. The gate is on the right going up the mountain. You’ll see a SAPS van and two constables.’
They had no eyes for the breathtaking natural beauty, the blue farm dams, the dark green pine forests and grey rock formations in the rugged mountains. They discussed and reconsidered the case, alert for the police van, found it, and turned off the main road. It was a farm gate, with a tiny signboard, half obscured by vegetation, that read Groenlandberg Nature Reserve. No entry.
The constables said they responded when a warden from the reserve called the charge office at Grabouw when he found the Toyota abandoned there.
‘Was this gate locked?’ Griessel asked.
‘No, Captain, it isn’t locked.’
‘Are Forensics here yet?’
‘Yes, Captain, just a hundred metres further on.’
They walked. It was a rough jeep track, winding up the mountain. They spotted the white Forensics minibus first, then Thick and Thin busy with Alicia Lewis’s grey rented Toyota. The vehicle’s doors, boot and bonnet were open. Thick and Thin saw the detectives and came to them. They were full of their usual wisecracks, complaining that they were going to miss the Stormers’ rugby match against the Free State Cheetahs.
Arnold, the short fat one, explained that the Toyota had been wiped clean of fingerprints from top to bottom, and the inside was so badly washed with bleach that it had chewed holes in the carpets and seat covers. He couldn’t have done a more thorough job of removing all forensic traces.
‘My point exactly,’ said Cupido. ‘It’s someone who knows exactly what to do.’
The name of the farm was Eden. The beautiful homestead was situated high up in the mountains east of the town; the view over the Theewaterskloof Dam was spectacular.
They parked in front of the door, and three large dogs ran barking from the veranda and escorted them with wagging tails to the wide-open front door. They rang the bell, hearing the sound of rugby commentary from deep within the house. At last, a heavy tread on the wooden floorboards, and a man appeared in the hallway – a large man, in his forties, with thick forearms and massive hands.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘We’re from the police. The Hawks. We’re here about the painting,’ said Griessel.
The man stood still in his dark tracksuit and slippers. He stared at them without expression. Then he sighed, as if in relief. He put out a large hand. ‘Junior Vermeulen.’
They shook hands, introduced themselves. Griessel said, ‘We’re actually looking for Willem Vermeulen Senior.’
‘That’s my father. But no, you’re looking for me. If it’s about the painting, you’re looking for me.’
He invited them in, called deeper into the house. ‘We’ve got people, vrou, turn off that TV, WP are going to lose this match anyway.’ He led them down the passage, lined with ceiling-high bookshelves packed with books, and invited them to sit in the formal sitting room, on big old classic chairs. The sound of the TV stopped, lighter footsteps approached. His wife was plump and pretty, with deep dimples when she smiled. She touched a hand to her hair, saying, ‘Excuse me, we weren’t expecting people. I’m Minnie.’
‘They’re here about the painting,’ said her husband.
‘About time,’ she said. ‘Can I offer you something to drink?’
It took a while as each one expressed their preferences of what was on offer. Then the three men sat down again, and Junior Vermeulen asked, ‘Any news?’
The question took them by surprise. Cupido asked, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if you’re here, you must have some news, I assume?’
‘News about what, Mr Vermeulen?’
‘About the painting. That is why you’re here?’
‘We are here about Alicia Lewis.’
‘Oh?’
‘You know Alicia Lewis?’
‘Yes, yes, she was here on Monday,’ he said somewhat testily. ‘What’s the problem with her?’
The detectives looked at each other, and then back at him. ‘She’s dead, Mr Vermeulen,’ Griessel said.
‘Oh, hell,’ said the farmer. ‘How?’
‘Haven’t you seen the news, Mr Vermeulen?’
‘No, I don’t watch the news any more. It’s the same bad news every day. How did she die?’
‘She was murdered on Monday . . .’
‘Oh, hell!’ Vermeulen stood up abruptly, startling the detectives so that they instinctively reached for their service pistols. He turned his back on them and stopped in the doorway and shouted to the kitchen: ‘Vrou, they say the Lewis woman is dead. On Monday, too. Murdered.’
‘No!’ Minnie Vermeulen cried out, and her footsteps hurried back towards them. She asked how and where Alicia Lewis was murdered, her voice filled with consternation and confusion. Her husband tried to console her, but she kept insisting, tearfully, ‘The poor woman, it’s my fault, it’s all my fault.’
‘No, no, it isn’t,’ her husband comforted her, and eventually Griessel told them both: ‘Please come and sit down.’
Vermeulen said, ‘Vrou, I think it’s best the truth comes out now.’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly.
‘Will you come with us, please,’ he said.
‘Where to?’
‘I want to show you the painting.’
17
12 October
They were a few hundred paces behind him, the four. Like demons, they didn’t tire. He walked into Delft, after ten, not sure what the time was. He wanted to follow the Oud Langendijk to the Groot Markt; perhaps he could lose them there if his legs and breath held out. He couldn’t go on, it was now or never, they were too close, the four of them, and they never seemed to tire. For the first time panic overwhelmed him, his breath came fast and ragged, as he imagined the daggers stabbing him, how his blood would spatter and spray like a slaughtered sheep. He choked back the urge to scream out loud, broke into a run, no, he must not, it was too early, he must conserve his strength, wait for the crowds at the Groot Markt. He still had a tiny lead, but fear overwhelmed him, dulled his senses. He looked over his shoulder: they were running too, a blade glinted in the bright sun. ‘Lord, help me!’ He didn’t know if it was a silent thought, or screamed from his lips. This was how it was going to end, in Delft, in Doelen Street in Delft, a place to which he had no connection, no kin; he would die as a stranger, they would bury him in an unmarked grave somewhere, no one would ever know about him . . .
The invisible hand lifted him up. He saw his feet leave the ground, and in the moment he thought, I’m dead, I’m
flying! The hand threw him with incredible force against the wall of the house, a thunderclap that shot searing pain through his ears. He cried again to heaven, heard his ribs break, that was all he could hear, his own bones cracking, all dark, all dark. He felt the agony, his chest, his head, his ears.
Something lay on top of him, heavy; he opened his eyes in terror, only his right hand could move. He wiped his eyes, there was blood on his hand. Had they got him?
The wall, it was the wall that was pressing down on him; he shifted, such agony, but he could move, he could push the broken fragments of the wall off him. But why was he deaf? He surged up, he had to see where they were. Pain shot through his side, his ribs.
He saw devastation, houses on fire, the four who had been pursuing him were gone, completely gone, as if the Higher Hand had raptured them.
Then he spotted the blue, between the dark ashen greys of the beams and stone and rubble and soot. The bright, bright splash of blue.
He stumbled towards it, a patch of colour, a fragment of life.
Gingerly he picked it up, saw the figure of the woman. And gasped.
18
It took their breath away.
Against a bleached white background with a texture so real you could feel it, the woman stood – the same woman, exactly the same as the one in Fillis’s photo. But now you could see her from head to toe. Beneath the blue cloak she was completely naked. Her feet rested in the water of a stream or fountain or bath, and she held the cape closed with both hands to cover her breasts and her womanhood. Her belly, round as if with child, strong legs visible from high above the knees. And that face, those eyes, full of secrets and compassion.
All that bathed in beautiful, magical light.
The painting hung in the Vermeulen’s large walk-in gun safe, in the cellar under the house. The detectives stared at the painting; the farmer and his wife looked at them.
‘So beautiful, and now a woman is dead . . .’ said Minnie.
‘That’s nothing to do with us, vrou.’