by Deon Meyer
Jan Smit.
Play all the angles: Nagel of the deep bass voice, the bobbing Adam’s apple, Nagel who couldn’t speak English to save his life. Murder case is like my fuckin’ Portapool, Van Heerden. Even if everything looks blue and refreshing, even if the sun glitters on the water, somewhere there’s a fucking leak. We’ll find it if we look everywhere.
He wrote in the notebook.
1. Neighbors.
He sat back, thought again, wrote.
2. Manie Meiring Transport.
3. What kind of company?
4. Registrar of Companies (referrals) (??)
5. Dept. of Home Affairs (??)
He leaned back and swallowed some coffee. Were there other angles?
6. Regular/big clients?
7. Bank?
That was all he had. He chewed the end of his pen, swallowed another mouthful of coffee, put the pen down, leaned back, closed his eyes.
It hadn’t been so bad. He could keep Nagel out.
He listened to the music.
He saw the sides of the large trucks, just before the Polkadraai crossing. MMT in huge, exaggerated dark purple letters pierced by an arrow, to suggest speed. He turned off and drove through pools of water and mud to the small building with the sign reading OFFICE/RECEPTION. The clouds were dark and low. It would start raining soon. He got out of the car. The wind was even colder today. Snow on the mountains, probably.
A woman sat behind a computer, speaking on the telephone.
“The truck should’ve been there by now, Dennis. They left here on time, but you know what it’s like at the tunnel, or a damn traffic cop pulled him…”
Blond and overweight, she smiled at Van Heerden, a smear of scarlet lipstick on her front teeth. She listened for a moment, spoke again. “Okay, Dennis, phone me if he isn’t there by twelve. Okay. Bye.”
She turned to Van Heerden. “Did you walk into a door or did her husband come home early?”
“Is Manie here?”
“If he is, I’d be extremely worried.” She rolled her eyes heavenward.
He waited.
“Manie was my father-in-law, doll. Been in his grave for three years, bless his soul. You’re looking for my husband, Danie—or is there something I can do to help you?” The underlying suggestion casual, like an old habit.
“I’m investigating Jan Smit’s murder. I want to speak to someone who knew him.”
She looked him up and down. “You look too thin for a policeman.” Then she turned and shouted through the open door to the back. “Danieeeee…” Then back to Van Heerden. “Have you found anything yet?”
“No, I’m not —”
“What?” said Danie Meiring when he walked in, annoyed. Then he saw Van Heerden.
“Police,” said the woman, and pointed at him with a red-painted fingernail. “It’s about Jan Smit.”
Meiring was short and sturdy, with a thick neck trying to escape from the collar of his clean overall. He stuck out his hand. “Meiring.”
“Van Heerden. I’d like to ask a few questions.”
“Did that fat Mick fuck up?” The small eyes were set close together beneath an aggressive frown.
Van Heerden shook his head, uncomprehending.
“That Irish cop, O’Hagan or something. Couldn’t he manage?”
Light dawned. “O’Grady.”
“That’s the one.”
“I’m not from the police. This is a private investigation for Smit’s friend, Miss van As.”
“Oh.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Badly.”
“What kind of contact did you have?”
“None, actually. They faxed the orders through to Valerie and every Christmas I delivered a bottle of whiskey to his shop. Never got as much as a cup of tea. He wasn’t exactly a chatterbox.”
“For how long did you do business?”
“I don’t know. Valerie?”
The woman had listened to the conversation attentively. “Oh, for years. Many years. He was a client of Pa Manie’s for a long time.”
“Five years? Ten?”
“Yes, ten, easily. Maybe more.”
“You don’t keep records?”
“Not from so long ago.” Apologetically.
“Was there anything odd about his business at any time?”
“The Mick asked that as well,” said Danie Meiring. “Wanted to know whether Smit didn’t perhaps smuggle grass in his old cupboards. Or diamonds. But how would we know? We tucked ’em and trucked ’em. It’s our job.”
“Any regular clients or destinations?”
“No, we collected all over. And the off-loading as well, except for the big antique shops in Durban and the Transvaal.”
“How did he pay?”
“What do you mean, ‘How did he pay?’”
“By check? Cash?”
“Monthly account by check,” said Valerie Meiring.
“What the hell does that have to do with it?” her husband asked.
He kept his voice neutral. “There may have been American dollars in the safe.”
“How about that,” said Meiring.
“Were his payments up to date? Regular?”
“Always,” said Valerie. “If only everyone paid like that.”
Van Heerden sighed. “Thank you,” he said, and walked to the door.
He stood in the inquiry line for a long time at the Home Affairs office in Bellville until his turn came and the colored woman looked up tiredly to listen to his question. He told her he was from a firm of attorneys, Beneke, Olivier, and Partners. He urgently needed a full birth certificate for Johannes Jacobus Smit, identity number…
“You must pay thirty rand at counter C, sir, and fill in the form. It’ll take six to eight weeks for Pretoria to process the form.”
“I don’t have six weeks. The Master of the Supreme Court meets in six days to decide about Smit’s will.”
“Special cases are on the second floor, sir. They must make representations if you want it more quickly. Room 209.”
“But it can be done?”
“If it’s a special case.”
“Thank you.”
He completed the form, stood in the queue at counter C for forty-five minutes, paid the thirty rand, and walked up the stairs to the second floor with the form and the receipt. A black man sat behind the desk of room 209. His desk was stacked with folders in neat piles.
“Can I help?” Hoping that the answer would be in the negative.
He told the story.
“Mmm,” said the man.
Van Heerden waited.
“Pretoria is very busy,” the man said.
“This is an emergency,” said Van Heerden.
“There are many emergencies,” said the man.
“Is there anything I can do? Someone I can telephone?”
“No. Only me.”
“How long will it take?”
“A week. Ten days.”
“I don’t have that long.”
“Generally, sir, it takes six to eight weeks…”
“I heard that. Downstairs.”
Then the man gave a deep sigh. “It would help if you got a court order. Or a judicial inquiry.”
“Then how long would it take?”
“A day. Even less. Pretoria takes court orders very seriously.”
“Oh.”
The man sighed again. “Give me the details in the meantime. I’ll see what I can do.”
Hope Beneke wasn’t in her office.
“She’s at a business lunch,” the receptionist said.
“Where?” he asked.
“I don’t think she’ll want to be disturbed, sir.”
He looked at the beautifully groomed middle-aged woman. “I’m Van Heerden.”
No reaction.
“When she comes back, tell her I was here. Tell her I wanted to see her urgently about the Smit case, for which we have only six days left, but you wouldn’t tell me w
here she was. Tell her I’m having lunch and I don’t know when I’ll be back, but if her employees want to piss away the Smit case, I’ll add my little stream gladly.”
The woman slowly drew a diary toward her. “She’s in the Long Street Café.”
He walked out. It was raining. He swore softly. There wouldn’t be any parking on Long Street. Sooner or later he would have to buy an umbrella.
“Table for one?” the woman asked when he walked in.
“No,” he said, and cast his eyes over the crowd looking for Hope Beneke. He saw her sitting at the back, against the wall, and went forward, his wet shoes leaving a trail on the floor. She was with another woman, both leaning forward, heads together, deep in conversation.
“Hope.”
She looked up, disturbed, her eyes widening slightly. “Van Heerden?”
“We must get a court order.”
“I… ,” she said. “You…” She looked at the woman opposite her. Van Heerden looked at her. She was stunningly beautiful. “This is Kara-An Rousseau. She’s a client.”
“Hallo,” said the woman, extending a slender hand.
“Van Heerden,” he said, and shook her hand but turned to Hope Beneke. “You’ll have to come back to the office. I need the information for Home Affairs and it takes six to eight weeks…”
She looked at him and he saw the sickle moons rising, slowly turning red.
“Excuse me for a moment, Kara-An,” Hope said, and got up. She walked to the door, then out onto the sidewalk. He followed her, his temper filling him, making him light-headed.
“Who told you I was here?”
“Does it matter?”
“Do you know who Kara-An Rousseau is?”
“I don’t care who she is. I have six days left in which to save your client’s inheritance.”
“She heads the Corporate Social Involvement Trust of Nasionale Pers. And I won’t allow you to speak to me like that.”
“You’re probably seeing the rands from NasPers rolling in, Hope. Do you recall someone named Wilna van As?”
“No,” said Hope Beneke, the sickle moons now glowing like stoplights. “You have no right to insinuate that I regard the one as more important than the other. Wilna van As isn’t my only client.”
“She’s my only client.”
“No, Van Heerden, I’m your only client. And I’m not a very happy one at this moment.”
He couldn’t suppress it any longer. “I don’t care.” He turned and walked into Long Street’s rain. He stopped in the middle of the street and looked back. “Find someone else to fuck around.”
And then, as an afterthought: “And what kind of horseshit name is Kara-An, anyway?” He walked the two blocks to his car oblivious to the rain.
He threw the wet clothes into the corner of the bathroom, walked naked to the bedroom. He opened the cupboard and searched angrily for a pair of jeans, shirt, and sweater. He didn’t need this, he thought, again. He’d rather go hungry. He wouldn’t be fucked around. Not by her, not by Kemp, not by a bunch of fat dentists. He didn’t need it. He didn’t care.
Who cared if there was money for fuck-all?
Who cared about anything? No one. That’s who. He didn’t, either. He was free. Free. Free of the ties that bound other people, the incessant striving after nothing, the endless accumulation of status symbols, the empty, meaningless suburban existence. He was above it all, free of the betrayals, small and large, the lying and the deception, the backstabbing, the distrust, the games.
Fuck her.
In a little while he would drive to her office and throw the remainder of her fucking advance onto the neat receptionist’s neat fucking desk and tell her to tell Hope Beneke that he didn’t need it. Because he was free.
He tied the laces of his trainers and got up. His house was dark, somber in the early afternoon. His house was cold in winter. He’d buy a heater one day. Have a fireplace built. He walked through the too-small sitting area, to the door. He would get a drink in Table View. Fuck her.
They were all alike. One day Wilna van As was the most important client in the world because there were only seven days left and oh, we have to help the poor woman because she worked her fingers to the bone for a man (as if she had no choice), and the next day it was Caroline Ann of Monaco or who the fuck whatever, head of the National Press Corporate Shit Shop or whatever the fuck it was, and all Hope Beneke saw were rands rolling. All of them. Twenty-four hours’ worth of loyalty.
He closed the door.
But not him. He was free.
The telephone rang behind the closed door.
Fuck that.
Attorneys. Bloodsuckers. Parasites.
The telephone rang.
He hesitated.
Probably Hope Beneke. I’m sorry, Van Heerden, come back, Van Heerden, I’m a stupid cow, Van Heerden.
Fuck her. Fuck them all.
The telephone kept ringing.
He hissed through his teeth, put the key back in the door, opened it, walked to the phone.
“Yes,” he said, ready to take her on.
“Mr. van Heerden?”
“Yes.” Unfamiliar voice.
“Ngwema. Home Affairs.”
“Oh.”
“Pretoria says your ID number is incorrect.”
“Pretoria?”
“I spoke nicely to them, said it was an emergency. But your ID is incorrect. Belongs to someone else. A Mrs. Ziegler.”
He pulled the notebook toward him, opened it, and read the number to Ngwema again.
“That’s the one I sent. It’s wrong.”
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“Sorry,” said Van Heerden, adding, “it’s impossible.”
“That’s what the computer says. And it’s never wrong.”
“Oh.” Thinking. He’d found the number in O’Grady’s file. Now he would have to look for the identity document.
“Not bad, huh,” Ngwema said.
“What?”
“I said it wasn’t bad. Two hours and thirty-seven minutes after we received your request. Not bad for black guys working on African time.” And Ngwema laughed, softly.
Hope Beneke heard Kemp’s sigh on the telephone. “Do you want me to speak to him again?”
“No, thank you. I’ve had it. He’s… unstable.”
“No, hang on… Were you firm with him?”
“Yes, I was firm with him. He obviously has a problem with a woman in a position of authority.”
“He has a problem with anyone in a position of authority.”
“Is there anyone else?”
Kemp laughed. “There’s a whole squadron of private detectives in the phone book. And they’re all hot when it comes to sneaking pictures for housewives of hubby’s hanky-panky with the secretary. But they know nothing about this kind of thing.”
“There must be someone.”
“Van Heerden is the best.”
“Exactly what has he done for you?”
“This and that.”
“‘This and that’?”
“He’s good, Hope. Doesn’t miss much. You need him.”
“No,” she said.
“I’ll ask around.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
She said good-bye and put the handset down. The phone rang immediately.
“There’s a Mrs. Joan van Heerden to see you,” the receptionist said. “She doesn’t have an appointment.”
“The artist?”
“I don’t know.”
“Please ask her to come in.”
Her day was like a Dalí painting, she thought. Surrealist surprises everywhere.
The door opened. The woman who came in was small and slender, pretty, in her fifties or early sixties, years worn with grace. Hope recognized her and stood up.
“This is indeed an honor, Mrs. van Heerden,” she said. “I’m Hope Beneke.”
“How do you do.”
“Please sit down. Can I offer you somethin
g to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’m a great admirer of your work. Of course I can’t afford one just yet, but one day…”
“It’s kind of you, Miss Beneke.”
“Please call me Hope.”
“I’m Joan.”
The ritual was suddenly over.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m here about Zatopek. But please don’t tell him that I was here.”
Hope nodded, waiting for more information.
“It’s not going to be easy working with him. But I came to ask you to be patient.”
“Do I know him?”
Joan van Heerden frowned. “He told me last night that he was working for you. He has to look for a will.”
“Van Heerden?”
“Yes.”
“You know him?”
“He’s my son,” Joan van Heerden said.
Hope sank back in her chair. “Van Heerden is your son?”
She merely nodded.
“Good grief,” said Hope. And then she saw the likeness in the eyes, the deep, dark brown intensity. “Zatopek.”
Joan smiled. “My late husband and I thought it was a wonderful name thirty years ago.”
“I never realized…”
“He doesn’t advertise the connection. I think it’s a matter of honor. He doesn’t want to use it. Misuse it.”
“I never realized.” She was still finding it difficult to connect these two people, mother and son: famous artist, good-looking and dignified, and… dysfunctional son.
“He’s had a hard time, Hope.”
“I… he… I don’t think he’s working for me any longer.”
“Oh.” Disappointment.
“This afternoon he… he’s…” She searched for euphemisms, greatly empathetic toward the woman in front of her. “I find it difficult to communicate with him.”
“I know.”
“He’s… resigned, I think.”
“I didn’t know. I wanted to prepare you.”
Hope made a movement with her hands, a sign of helplessness.
“I haven’t come to apologize for him. I thought if I tried to explain…”
“You needn’t.”
She leaned forward, her voice soft. “He’s my only child. I must do what I can. He had to grow up without a father. He was a wonderful child. I thought I’d been successful, even as a single parent.”