by Deon Meyer
A silence fell: there was nothing to say. Bester Brits leaned his head back, as if the weight of the past was too much for him. And then his voice, almost inaudible. “So many dead,” he said. And whispered: “Manley.”
Breathed out. In.
“Verster.”
Out. In.
“De Beer.”
Again the breath, as though he could hear a shot with every name.
“Van Rensburg.”
Van Heerden’s heart was beating, hammering in his chest, too scared to breathe, too scared that he wouldn’t be able to hear, but the officer’s voice had stopped. He waited for the last two names, but they didn’t come.
Then, whispering as well: “What about Venter and Vergottini?”
Brits closed his eyes as if he was tired to the bone. “I don’t know, Van Heerden, I don’t know.”
“How did they die?” Almost inaudible, but the moment had passed. Bester Brits sat up again.
“It doesn’t matter. It was —” He bit off the word sharply.
“It matters, Brits.”
Brits started to rise. “It doesn’t matter to you, Van Heerden. It has absolutely nothing to do with you. Take my word for it. They’re dead.”
“Who shot Schlebusch, Brits?”
“I don’t know.”
“Vergottini? Verster?”
“I fucking well don’t know. I don’t know, are you deaf?”
Mat Joubert said softly: “It must be hard, Brits, to live with this for twenty-three years.” He wanted him in memory mode again, Van Heerden thought.
“It is.”
“And to pray it’ll never come again.”
Brits dropped his head into his hands. “Yes.”
“Unload it, Brits, the whole burden. Lay it down.”
He sat like that for a long time, the big hands moving slowly over his eyes and his nose and his forehead, rubbing, rubbing as if comforting himself. Then he got up with difficulty and his body shivered. “Do you know how much I’d like to? All these years. Do you know how close I sometimes came? Do you know how close I came just now?” Brits walked to the front door, opened it, and looked out. He looked back once at the men, who remained seated, then shook his head as if saying no to himself and walked out. They listened to his footsteps on the path and then there was only silence.
48.
Perception. And reality.
The perception of Nagel’s “chains”: a large battleship with curlers in her hair and a permanent frown, a complaining, nagging millstone, a sloppy television addict, a caricature of a wife in a suburban comic strip.
The reality: this dream woman, this beautiful, gentle, laughing miracle who walked ahead of me through a painfully neat house filled with books, to the small garden at the back, an enchanted spot created with her own hands.
Why had he hidden her? Why, over so many months, had he created the false impression? So that we—I—should have sympathy with his chronic extramarital wanderings, his drinking with the boys?
He had telephoned from De Aar, where he’d gone to investigate a serial rapist case, to say that he had left his service pistol at home. “I know my fucking wife—she’ll let the thing go off and someone will get hurt and then it’s a disciplinary hearing and I don’t know what other shit, so can you fetch the fucker and keep it with you until I get back?”
I phoned his house first and her voice hadn’t prepared me; there was politeness, but the technology hadn’t carried the music, the beauty, so there was no forewarning. That day we had talked and couldn’t stop. We sat next to the little swimming pool and later went inside and I prepared supper in her kitchen and we talked, I can’t remember what about—it wasn’t important, it was what was implied between the words and the sentences, it was the thirst for each other. We ate and talked and looked and laughed and I couldn’t believe it: the search of a lifetime, and here she was, here I was.
I didn’t touch her that evening.
But I was there again the following day after I had phoned Nagel and heard that he was making slow progress and I was glad, my first act of treason, that call, my first betrayal of my friend and colleague. “Hallo, Nagel, how’s it going?”
“Did you get the pistol?” And I went ice-cold because I had forgotten about the weapon. It was still lying around in her house.
“Yes.” And then I realized it was an excuse to go back and I stopped talking, heard that he was still going to be busy for days, that there were a few suspects but “the country members of the Force are hopeless, let me tell you,” and then I drove back to Nonnie Nagel.
The story of their marriage unfolded gradually during our conversations, the true story, not the imaginary tales Nagel would dish up to anyone who would listen.
It had been a whirlwind courtship. He was a smooth-talking lover who promised her the world, who painted a dream future for them, told her he was on his way up in the South African Police, and she was enchanted by the charm, the humor, the self-assurance. She, a junior-school teacher who had reported a burglary in her Bellville flat and found Nagel, Detective Constable Willem Nagel, the man who had the culprit behind bars within days and then used his considerable ingenuity to put her in a prison as well.
It went well for the first year or two. She worked, he worked, they went visiting, had barbecues, and sometimes went to the movies, and then when he couldn’t get her pregnant, he sent her to a doctor, time after time. Every time the message came back—she was normal, that there was nothing wrong—and every time he swore and said there had to be, and gradually he lost interest in her, in sex, and on top of it he was promoted to Murder and Robbery as sergeant, his talents recognized, his prophecy of promotion fulfilled, his hours longer and longer, endlessly longer, and the green monster of jealousy began raising its ugly head.
She said she believed he had realized that the problem of conception lay with him. Perhaps he had had tests done without her knowledge, discovered that he was infertile or had too low a sperm count. She could only guess, but something triggered the jealousy, only insinuations at first, then hints, later direct accusations, as if he was afraid that someone else would make her pregnant. That was all she could imagine—there was no other reason. And then one evening, when she was at a school concert, he came to fetch her, out of the hall, dragged her to the car, and told her she was going to be a housewife from now on, that she was going to resign, that he didn’t want to come home and find no food. His work, the tension, the hours, the stress—he needed her at home. She had cried that evening, through the night, and he had said: “Cry—it’s no use. Your place is at home.”
And then he would phone. At any hour of the day or night, and if she wasn’t home, there was trouble. No, he had never hit her, only verbal abuse.
Mornings between eight and ten were safe. He never phoned before ten, and it became her library time, and when he gave her money it was her bookshop time, the secondhand bookshops of Voortrekker Street—her book exchange circuit, she called it—and she cooked with distaste, gardened with enthusiasm, and wrote stories by hand, the manuscripts stacked high in her wardrobe. I asked her why she didn’t send them to someone and she merely shook her head and said it was fantasy, not literature, and I asked her if there was a difference, and she laughed.
That second night we succumbed to our urges. On that second night I—we—completed the betrayal, not like illicit, guilt-stricken lovers, but like released prisoners, with joy and humor and an unbearable lightness of being.
That second night and every night after that until Nagel returned.
49.
You know I have great respect for you, Van Heerden,” said Mat Joubert.
He didn’t reply, knowing what was coming.
“As far as I’m concerned you’re one of us. One of the best.” He sat on the edge of a living-room chair in Van Heerden’s house, spoke seriously. “But this morning, things changed. Now there are civilians in the firing line.”
Van Heerden nodded.
“
We’ll have to take control, Van Heerden.”
He simply nodded. “Control” was a relative concept.
“We don’t want to exclude you. It’s Nougat’s case. You’ll work with him. Share all your information.”
“You already know everything.”
“Are you sure?” O’Grady’s voice was suspicious.
“Yes.” Except the call that was coming at two o’clock and the wallet in his pocket.
“This woman, Carolina de Jager. She was the mother?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to talk to her.”
“I’ll take you to her.”
“And I’ll need those photographs.”
“Yes.”
O’Grady looked sharply at him, as if gauging his sincerity.
“I’m sorry, Van Heerden,” said Joubert, as if perceiving his disappointment.
“I understand,” he said.
“How do we play the media?”
Van Heerden thought for a moment. Minutes ago he had wanted to use the newspapers and television to break Brits, to use the natural aggression of the media as his battering ram to gain information about the whole cover-up. But now, after seeing the man’s struggle, he was no longer so certain.
“Say we’re cooperating. Everyone, the Defence Force as well. Say the investigation is at a sensitive stage and we must keep back certain information. But a breakthrough is imminent. Keep them hungry.”
Joubert gave a little smile. “You should come back, Van Heerden.” He rose. “Let’s go and feed the monster.”
They walked out, stood outside. The Murder and Robbery detectives led the way to the media lines, the press suddenly moving in anticipation. Then, behind it all, Van Heerden saw a new row of cars moving along the driveway. Right in front, in a white Mercedes-Benz, was Orlando Arendse.
“I wanted to warn you,” said Tiny Mpayipheli behind him. “The boss phoned to say he’s on his way.”
There was something surreal about the scene. While he was briefing the repairmen, he looked out over the smallholding. In front of his mother’s house stood Orlando Arendse’s “soldiers,” all their weapons concealed under their clothing, self-conscious and uncomfortable about the proximity of the squadron of blue police uniforms that had formed a line close to his house—and on the other side stood the cream of the SANDF, the pick of the Urban Anti-Terrorist Unit. The fourth group, the soldiers of the media, was now depleted—only the patient crime reporters who had made the connection between art and Joan van Heerden remained.
Opposite, in his house, Nougat O’Grady was questioning Carolina de Jager. Behind him, in his mother’s living room, one of the main bosses of organized crime in the Western Cape was talking to Joan van Heerden about the merits of postmodern art in South Africa while in another room a doctor was treating Wilna van As for shock.
He shook his head.
This thing.
He needed silence now, thinking time. He wanted to read the letters again, comb them for information about Venter and Vergottini. He wanted everyone to go on their way. But he would have to wait.
Orlando had come back from the hospital, said Billy was in intensive care and it didn’t look good.
Tiny Mpayipheli shaking his head and saying it was just like the Anglo-Boer War: the people of color who had nothing to do with the fight were in the middle. They were the ones who died.
“Billy is a fighter. He’ll make it,” said Orlando.
He had phoned Hope before Joubert and the others had commandeered his living room. Told her the SAPS had officially taken over the case. But they didn’t know about the 14:00 call. She must take it. And contact him on Tiny’s cell phone.
“Good,” she’d said. Their conspiracy.
He had told her the one who phoned might be Venter or Vergottini.
The others were dead.
Six out of eight.
She was quiet at the other end of the line. And then she said she would phone.
What had happened, two decades ago, to make Death so frequent a visitor now?
Brigadier Walter Redelinghuys arrived, went over to Bester Brits. They talked for a long time, then walked toward him. He went to meet them, heard someone behind him. It was Orlando Arendse.
“I have a stake in this. Don’t look at me like that.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
Joubert, O’Grady, and Petersen came out of his house, saw the new grouping, also came over. The detectives’ eyes widened when they saw the crime baron.
“Orlando,” said Mat Joubert without warmth.
“Bull,” Orlando said in acknowledgment, using the nickname Joubert had earned on the Cape Flats.
“What is he doing here?” Joubert asked.
“It’s my man who’s in hospital.”
“Who are you?” Walter Redelinghuys wanted to know.
“Your worst nightmare,” said Orlando.
Mat Joubert frowned deeply. “What are you doing, Van Heerden?”
“I’m doing what I have to do.”
“I want to know how we’re going to cooperate,” said Walter Redelinghuys.
“I won’t work with him,” said Joubert, nodding in Arendse’s direction.
“Just as well, I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Orlando and his men made a valuable contribution to the investigation,” Van Heerden said uncomfortably.
“You’re one of us, Van Heerden. If you needed cover fire, we would’ve helped.”
“Without asking questions?”
And they all stood there.
“We’ve just taken over the case with Van Heerden’s support, Brigadier.”
“Nonsense,” said Redelinghuys.
Joubert ignored him. “I’ll leave ten uniforms here,” he said to Van Heerden. “You don’t need Orlando.”
He did. Because of the dollars. But he couldn’t say that.
“I want Tiny Mpayipheli.”
“He also Orlando’s?”
Van Heerden nodded.
Walter Redelinghuys: “Bester is also in.”
“No,” said Van Heerden.
“Why not?” Heavily.
“He creeps around this thing like a thief in the night. He tried to get me off the investigation, he lied like a trouper, he withholds information, putting people’s lives in danger. He contributes nothing and he bugs my phone calls. Bester is out. We’ve kept you out of the media but more than that I bloody well won’t do. He can carry on creeping if he wants to, but up to now all he’s done is cause trouble.”
“I contributed what I could.”
“Have you told Murder and Robbery about the body in Hout Bay, Brits?”
“Which body, Brits?”
“Schlebusch.”
“Jesus.” Joubert turned. “Tony, Leon, we’ve got to go.”
“There’s nothing left for you,” said Brits.
“Did you interfere with a murder scene?”
“I solved a military problem.”
For a moment Van Heerden thought Mat Joubert was going to hit the Defence Force officer, but then Joubert gave a deep sigh. “I’m getting married on Saturday, and on Sunday I’m going on a honeymoon to the Seychelles. It gives me two days in which I’ll use every possible channel to get you out of this thing, Brits…”
“I object,” said the brigadier.
“Fat lot of difference that’s going to make,” said Orlando Arendse. “You don’t know the Bull.”
Redelinghuys opened his mouth but was forestalled by a woman’s high, distraught voice.
“It’s you!”
Carolina de Jager came walking up, her finger pointing at one of them.
“It’s you,” she said, her voice breaking. She walked past them to Bester Brits, hit him on the shoulder.
“It’s you. You’re the one who took away my son. What did you do, what did you do to Rupert?” She hit the man on the chest and he simply stood there, didn’t stop her. She hammered at him, weeping, until Van Heerden reached her.
“Easy,” he said in a soft voice.
“It’s him.”
“I know.”
“He brought the news of his death.”
He took her hands away from Brits, held her against him. “I know.”
“Twenty years. And I’ll never forget his face.”
He held her.
“He was the one who took Rupert away.” She cried uncontrollably, the sorrow of a lifetime. He could do no more, heard Bester walking away without a word.
There was nothing he could say to comfort her.
Shortly before one, he closed and locked the door of his house behind him, arranged a few loose papers on the table in front of him, put down a pen, and tugged the wallet out of his pocket.
Worn leather that fastened with a stud. Two hundred and fifty rand and loose change. Bank cards. ABSA MasterCard in the name of W. A. Potgieter. ABSA cash card with the same name. Receipts. All in the past week. Van Hunks Tavern, Mowbray, R65.85. The Mexican Chili, Observatory, R102.66. Vee’s Videos, Main Road, Observatory. Pick ’n Pay, Mowbray, R142.55 for groceries, a credit card slip from the Girls-to-Go Agency, Twelfth Avenue, Observatory, R600.00.
That was it.
He gave the little pile a disappointed look. It wasn’t much help. It needed work. He fetched his telephone guide, looked up the number of the ABSA Card Division, dialed. “Art World Frames and Studio, Table View, here. I have a client at the counter,” he said in a whisper, “of whom I want to make quite sure.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He wants to buy a painting for nearly a thousand rand. His card number is 5417 9113 8919 1030 in the name of W. A. Potgieter and the expiry date is 06/00.”
“Just a moment.”
He waited. “The card hasn’t been reported as missing, sir.”
“What is his registered address? I want to make doubly sure.”
“It’s… er… 177 Wildebeest Drive, Bryanston, sir.”
“Johannesburg?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you very much,” he whispered, and put the phone down.