Devil's Peak bg-1

by Deon Meyer

  We,

  thought Griessel. Why did they always talk about

  us,

  as if they belonged to some secret organization?

  “That’s good news,” said the commissioner without conviction.

  “Oh, and we have a message for a Benny.”

  “That’s me.”

  “He says the guy fell badly against the cash register.”

  All four stared at the doctor with great interest. “The cash register?” asked Griessel.

  “Yes.”

  “Do me a favor, Doc. Tell him it was the mannequin.”

  “The mannequin.”

  “Yes. Tell him the man fell against the mannequin and the mannequin fell on the cash register.”

  “I will tell him.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” said Griessel, and turned to the commissioner, who nodded and turned away.

  * * *

  He bought a Zinger burger and a can of Fanta Orange at KFC and took them home. He sat on his “sitting-room” floor eating without pleasure. It was the fatigue, the after-effects of adrenaline. Also, the things waiting in the back of his mind that he did not want to think about. So he concentrated on the food. The Zinger didn’t satisfy his hunger. He should have ordered chips, but he didn’t like KFC’s chips. The children ate them with gusto. The children even ate McDonald’s thin cardboard chips with pleasure, but he could not. Steers’s chips, yes. Steers’s big fat barbecue-seasoned chips. Steers’s burgers were also better than anything else. Decent food. But he didn’t know where the nearest Steers was and he wasn’t sure if they would still be open at this time. The Zinger was finished and he had sauce on his fingers.

  He wanted to toss the plastic bag and empty carton container in the bin, but remembered he didn’t have a bin. He sighed. He would have to shower—he still had some of Reyneke’s and Cliffy’s blood on him.

  You have six months, Benny—that is what we are giving you. Six months to choose between us and the booze.

  Would you buy furniture for just six months? He couldn’t eat on the floor for six fucking months. Or come home to such a barren place. Surely he was entitled to a chair or two. A small television. But first, get out of these clothes and shower and then he could sit on his bed and make a list for tomorrow. Saturday. He was off this weekend.

  Terrifying. Two whole days. Open. Perhaps he ought to go to the office and get his paperwork up to date.

  He washed his hands under the kitchen tap, put the carton and the can and the used paper serviette into the red and white plastic packet and put it in a corner of the kitchen. He climbed the stairs while unbuttoning his shirt. Thank God they didn’t have to wear jacket and tie anymore. When he started with Murder and Robbery it was suits.

  Where was Anna tonight?

  The plastic shower curtain was torn in one corner and the water leaked onto the floor. It had a faded pattern of fish. He would have to get a bathmat as well. A new shower curtain too. He washed his hair and soaped his body. Rinsed off in the lovely hot, strong stream of water.

  When he turned off the taps he heard his cell phone ringing. He grabbed the towel, rubbed it quickly over his head, took three strides to the bed and snatched it up.

  “Griessel.”

  “Are you sober, Benny?”

  Anna.

  “Yes.” He wanted to protest at her question, wanted to be angry, but he knew he had no right.

  “Do you want to see the children?”

  “Yes, I would very—”

  “You can collect them on Sunday. For the day.”

  “Okay, thank you. What about you? Can I also—”

  “Let’s just keep to the children, for now. Ten o’clock? Ten to six?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Goodbye, Benny.”

  “Anna!”

  She did not speak, but did not cut him off.

  “Where were you this evening?”

  “Where were you, Benny?”

  “I was working. I caught a serial murderer. Cliffy Mketsu was shot in the lung. That’s where I was.” He had the moral high ground, a little heap, a molehill, but better than nothing. “Where were you?”

  “Out.”

  “Out?”

  “Benny, I sat at home for five years while you were drunk or out and about. Either drunk or not at home. Don’t you think I deserve a Friday night out? Don’t you think I deserve to watch a movie, for the first time in five years?”

  “Yes,” he said, “you deserve that.”

  “Goodbye, Benny.”

  Did you watch the movie alone? That’s what he wanted to ask, but the moral contours had shifted too quickly and he heard the connection go dead in his ear. He threw the towel to the floor and took a black pair of trousers from the cupboard to put on. He fetched pen and paper from his briefcase and sat down on the bed. He stared at the towel on the floor. Tomorrow morning it would still be lying there and it would be damp and smelly. He got up and hung the towel over the rail in the bathroom, went back to the bed and arranged the pillow so he could lean against it. He began his list.

  Laundry.

  There was a laundromat at the Gardens Center. First thing tomorrow.

  Rubbish bin.

  Iron.

  Ironing board.

  Fridge?

  Could he manage without a fridge? What would he keep in it? Not milk—he drank his coffee black. On Sunday the children would be here and Carla loved her coffee; always had a mug in her hand when she did her homework. Would she be content with powdered milk? The fridge might be necessary, he would see.

  Fridge?

  Shower curtain.

  Bath mat.

  Chairs/sofa.

  For the sitting room.

  Bar stools.

  For the breakfast nook.

  How the hell was he going to support two households on a police salary? Had Anna thought of that? But he could already hear her answer: “You could support a drinking habit on a police salary, Benny. There was always money for drink.”

  He would have to buy another coffee mug for the children’s visit. More plates and knives, forks and spoons. Cleaning stuff for dishes, dusty surfaces, the bathroom and the toilet.

  He made fresh columns on the page, noted all the items, but he could not keep the other things in his head at bay.

  Today he had made a discovery. He would have to tell Barkhuizen. This thing about being scared of death was not entirely true. Today, when he charged at Reyneke on the top level of Woolworths with the pistol pointed at him and the shot going off, the bullet that had hit Cliffy Mketsu because Reyneke could not shoot for toffee . . .

  That is when he had discovered he was not afraid of dying. That is when he knew he wanted to die.

  * * *

  He woke early, just before five. His thoughts went to Anna. Did she go to the movies alone? But he didn’t want to play with those thoughts. Not this early, not today. He got up and dressed in trousers, shirt and trainers only, and went out without washing.

  He chose a direction; three hundred meters up the street he saw the morning, felt the languor of the early summer, heard the birds and the unbelievable silence over the city. Colors and textures and light of crystal.

  Table Mountain leaned towards him, the crest something between orange and gold, fissures and clefts were pitch-black shadows against the angle of the rising sun.

  He went up Upper Orange Street, turned into the park and sat on the high wall of the reservoir to look out. To the left Lion’s Head became the curves of Signal Hill, and below a thousand city windows were a mosaic of the sun. The sea was deep blue beyond Robben Island, far off to Melkbos Strand. Left of Devil’s Peak lay the suburbs. A 747 came in over the Tyger Berg and its shadow flashed over him in an instant.

  Fuck, he thought, when had he last seen this?

  How could he have missed it?

  On the other hand, he pulled a face; if you are sleeping off your hangover in the morning, you won’t see sunrise over the Cape. He must remember this, the unexpected advantage of teetotalism.

  A wagtail came and perched ne
ar him, tail going up and down, dapper steps like a self-important station sergeant. “What?” he said to the bird. “Your wife left you too?” He received no reply. He sat until the bird flew up after some invisible insect, and then he rose and looked up at the mountain again and it gave him a strange pleasure. Only he was seeing it this morning, nobody else.

  He walked back to the flat, showered and changed and drove to the hospital. Cliffy was resting, they told him. He was stable, in no danger. He asked them to tell him Benny had been there.

  It was just before seven. He drove north with the N1, on a freeway still quiet—the Cape only got going by about ten o’clock on a Saturday. Down Brackenfell Boulevard and the familiar turnoffs to his house. He drove past the house only once, slowly. No sign of life. The lawn was cut, the postbox emptied, the garage door closed. A policeman’s inventory. He accelerated away because he did not want his thoughts to penetrate the front door.

  He drank only coffee at a Wimpy in Panorama, because he had never been one for breakfast, and waited until the shops opened.

  He found a two-seater couch and two armchairs at Mohammed “Love Lips” Faizal’s pawnshop in Maitland. The floral cover was slightly bleached. There were faint coffee stains on the arm of one chair. “This is too much, L.L.,” he said over the R600 price tag.

  “For you, Sarge, five-fifty.”

  Faizal had been in Pollsmoor for eighteen months for trafficking in stolen goods and he was reasonably certain three-quarters of the car radios had been brought in by the drug addicts of Observatory.

  “Four hundred, L.L. Look at these stains.”

  “One steam clean and it’s good as new, Sarge. Five hundred and I don’t make a cent.”

  Faizal knew he was no longer a sergeant, but some things will never change. “Four-fifty.”

  “Jissis, Sarge, I have a wife and kids.”

  By chance he saw the bass guitar, just the head protruding from behind a steel cabinet of brand new tools.

  “And that bass?”

  “You into music, Sarge?”

  “I have tickled the neck of a bass in my day.”

  “Well bless my soul. It’s a Fender, Sarge, pawned by a wannabe rapper from Blackheath, but his ticket expires only next Friday. Comes with a new Dr. Bass times two-ten-b cabinet with a three-u built-in rack, two-two-fifty watt Eminence tens, and a LeSon tweeter.”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “It’s a bloody big amp, Sarge. It’ll blow you away.”

  “How much?”

  “Are you serious, Sarge?”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s a genuine pawn, Sarge. Clean.”

  “I believe you, L.L. Relax.”

  “Do you want to start a band now?” The suspicion was still there.

  Griessel grinned. “And call it Violent Crimes?”

  “So what then?”

  “How much are you asking for the guitar and amp, L.L.?”

  “Two thousand, for sure. If the wannabe doesn’t return the ticket.”

  “Oh.” It was too much for him. He had no idea what these things cost. “Four-fifty for the sitting-room suite?”

  Faizal sighed. “Four seventy-five and I’ll throw in free delivery and a six-piece coaster set with tasteful nudes depicted thereupon.”

  * * *

  He got the three bar stools at the place in Parow that sold only pine furniture and he paid R175 apiece, a scary amount, but he loaded them in the car, two on the back seat and one in front, and took them to his flat, because tomorrow his kids would be here and at least there was something for them to sit on. By eleven he was sitting with a newspaper at the laundromat, waiting for his clothes to be clean and dry so he could pack them in his new plastic laundry basket and iron them on his new ironing board with his new iron.

  Then Matt Joubert phoned and he said: “I know you are off, Benny, but I need you.”

  “What’s up, Boss?”

  “It’s the guy with the assegai, but I’ll explain when you arrive. We are at Fisantekraal. On a smallholding. Come via Durbanville on Wellington Avenue, right on the R three-one-two and just opposite the railway bridge go left. Phone me when you get there and I will direct you.”

  He checked the cycle on the washing machine. “Give me forty,” he said.

  * * *

  It was an equestrian establishment.

  High Grove Riding School. Riding lessons for adults and children. Outrides.

  He drove past the stables before he reached the house. Everything was in a state of partial dilapidation, as all these places were, never enough money to fix everything. Police cars, a SAPS van, Forensics’ little bus. The ambulance must have left already.

  Joubert stood in a circle of four other detectives, just two from their unit, the other two probably from Durbanville station. When he stopped there were dogs, barking, tails wagging, two little ones and two black sheepdogs. He got out to the smell of manure and lucerne hay.

  Joubert approached him with outstretched hand. “How’s it going, Benny?”

  “Sober, thank you.”

  Joubert smiled. “I can see. Are you suffering?”

  “Only when I don’t drink.”

  The commander laughed. “I respect your tenacity, Benny. Not that I ever doubted . . .”

  “Then you must be the only one.”

  “Come, so we can talk first.”

  He led him to an empty stable and sat on a bale of hay. The sun projected perfect round dots on the floor through holes in the corrugated iron roof. “Sit down, Benny, this will take some time.”

  He sat.

  “The victim is Bernadette Laurens. She was released on Thursday on bail of fifty thousand rand. Charged with the murder of her partner’s five-year-old daughter. They lived together as a couple. Partner’s name is Elise Bothma. Last weekend the child was hit on the head with a billiard cue, one blow . . .”

  “Lesbetarian?”

  Joubert nodded. “Last night the dogs began to bark. Laurens got up to see what was going on. When she did not return to bed, Bothma went to look for her. Fifteen meters from the front door she found the body. One stab wound to the heart. I am waiting for the pathology report, but it could be the assegai man.”

  “Because she killed a child.”

  “And the stab wound.”

  “The papers say it is an assegai woman.”

  “The papers are full of shit. There’s no way a woman could have murdered the previous two victims. Enver Davids was a jailbird, well built, strong. According to the scene, Colin Pretorius had time to defend himself, but he didn’t stand a chance. Laurens was a strong woman, round about one point eight meters tall, eighty kilograms. And women shoot, they don’t stab with a blade. In any case, not multiple victims. As you know, the chance that a woman is involved in multiples is one per cent.”

  “I agree.”

  “One of the sheepdogs is limping this morning. Bothma believes it might have been kicked or hit in the process. But apart from that, not much. The Durbanville people will come and help to question the neighbors.”

  Griessel nodded.

  “I want you to take charge of the whole investigation, Benny.”

  “Me?”

  “For many reasons. In the first place, you are the most experienced detective in the unit. In the second, in my opinion, you are the best. Third, the commissioner mentioned your name. He’s very pleased with your work yesterday and he knows big trouble when he sees it. We have a circus on our hands, Benny. With the media. An avenging murderer, punishment for crimes against children, death penalty . . . you can imagine.”

  “And fourth, I have the time, now that I no longer have a wife and kids.”

  “That was not part of my reasoning. But I must say this: I thought it might help—keep you too busy to think of drink.”

  “Nothing could keep me that busy.”

  “The last thing that made me ask you is that I know you enjoy this kind of thing.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Are you in?”

  “Of course I’m fucking in. I was in the moment you said ‘a
ssegai.’ You could have saved the rest. You know that ‘positive feedback’ shit never worked with me.”

  Joubert stood up. “I know. But it had to be said. You must know you are appreciated. And, oh, the commissioner says you have all the manpower you need. We must just let him know where we need help. He will do the necessary. For the present, Keyter is your partner. He’s on his way . . .”