Devil's Peak bg-1

by Deon Meyer

  “I understand,” he said again.

  “What do you need, Benny?” asked the commissioner, as if they were old friends.

  He hesitated before answering. He looked from the politician to the Western Cape chief of police and then he said: “The one thing that is no longer available, Commissioner. Time.”

  “And apart from that?” His tone said that was not the answer he had wanted.

  “What Benny is saying is that this sort of case is complicated. The problem is lack of an obvious motive,” said Matt Joubert.

  “That’s right,” said Griessel. “We don’t know why he is doing it.”

  “Why would anyone do it?” asked le Grange. “Surely it’s to protect children. That’s obvious.”

  “Motive,” said John Afrika, “is usually an identifier, Mr. le Grange. If the assegai man’s motive is purely to protect children, that identifies him as one of about ten million concerned men in this country. Everyone wants to protect children, but only one is committing murder to do so. What makes him different? Why did he choose this way? That is what we need to know.”

  “There are a few things that would help,” said Griessel.

  Everyone looked at him.

  “We need to know if Enver Davids was the first one. As far as we know, he is the first in the Western Cape. But crime against children is everywhere. Perhaps he started somewhere else.”

  “What would that help?” asked le Grange.

  “The first one could be significant. The first one would be personal. Personal vengeance. And then he decides he likes it. Maybe. We must consider it. The second thing that could help is other assegai murders or attacks. It’s a unique weapon. The state pathologist says they don’t see them anymore. You don’t buy a new assegai at the Seven-Eleven. Why did he go to the trouble of getting one? Then there is the question of where he got it. Professor Pagel says Zululand. Could our colleagues in Durban help? Do they know who makes and sells them? Could they ask the questions? And the last thing we can do is draw up a list of all the reported crimes against children in the past eighteen months. Particularly those where the suspects have not been apprehended.”

  “Do you think he’s taking revenge?” asked Advocate le Grange.

  “Just another possibility,” said Griessel. “We must consider them all.”

  “There are hundreds of cases,” said the commissioner.

  “That is why Benny said time is the one thing he needs,” said Matt Joubert.

  “Damn,” said le Grange.

  “Amen,” said John Afrika.

  * * *

  The southeaster was blowing so hard they had to run doubled over to their cars.

  “You did well in there, Benny,” shouted Joubert above the roar of the wind.

  “So did you.” And then: “You know, if you drank more, you too could have been an inspector now.”

  “Instead of a senior superintendent that has to deal with all this political shit?”

  “Exactly.”

  Joubert laughed. “That’s one way to look at it.”

  They reached Griessel’s car. “I’m going to look in on Cliffy quickly,” he said.

  “I’m coming too. See you there.”

  * * *

  Gently he pushed open the door of the hospital room and saw them sitting there—the woman and two children around the bed, all bathed in the yellow pool of the bedside lamp. Mketsu’s wife holding his hand, the children on either side, their eyes on their wounded father. And Cliffy lying there with a soft smile, busy telling them something.

  Griessel stopped, reluctant to intrude. And something else, a consciousness of loss, of envy, but Cliffy saw him and his smile broadened and he said, “Come in, Benny.”

  * * *

  On the threshold of his flat was a small glass vase with a single, unfamiliar red flower. And a small note under the vase, folded twice.

  He picked it up, opened the letter and hope welled up in him. Anna?

  Welcome to our building. Pop in for tea when you have the time.

  At the bottom.

  Charmaine. 106.

  Fuck. He looked down the passage in the direction of 1

  0

  6. All was quiet. Somewhere he could hear a television. He unlocked his door quickly and went in, closing it softly. He placed the vase on the breakfast bar. He read the note again, crumpled it up and tossed it in his new rubbish bin. Not the sort of thing he wanted his children to see lying around tomorrow.

  His sitting-room suite. He stood back and inspected it. Tried to see it through his children’s eyes. The place looked less barren at least, more homely. He sat down in a chair. Not too bad. He stood up and went and lay down on the couch with a faint stirring of pleasure. He felt weary, felt like closing his eyes.

  Long day. The seventh since he had last had a drink.

  Seven days. Only a hundred and seventy-three to go.

  He thought of the Fireman’s Arms and his mind cajoling him: just one drink. He thought about Cliffy’s family. The fucking thing was that he couldn’t be sure his family would ever be like that again. Anna and himself and Carla and Fritz. How did you get that back? How did you build that sort of bond?

  That made him remember the photo and he got up on impulse to find it. He found it in his briefcase and went and lay down again with the light on. He studied the photo. Benny, Anna, Carla and Fritz.

  Eventually he got up, went up to the bedroom and put it on the windowsill above the bed. Then he took a shower. His cell phone rang when he was lathered with soap. He made a wet trail to the bed and answered it. It might be Anna.

  “Griessel.”

  “It’s Cloete, Benny. The Sunday papers are driving me crazy,” the liaison officer said.

  “Well, tell them to go to hell.”

  “I can’t. It’s my job.”

  “What do those vultures want?”

  “They want to know if Laurens is Artemis.”

  “If

  she

  is Artemis?”

  “You know, whether it was Artemis that murdered her.”

  “We don’t know what the fucker’s name is.”

  Cloete was annoyed. “Is it the same murder weapon, Benny?”

  “Yes, it’s the same murder weapon.”

  “And the same MO?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I can tell them that?”

  “It won’t make any difference.”

  “It will make a hell of a difference in

  my

  life,” said Cloete. “Because then they will stop fucking phoning me.” He put the phone down.

  27.

  At three minutes to ten he knocked on the door of his own house like some stranger. Anna opened up and then she asked, “Are you sober, Benny?” and he said, “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He looked in her eyes to let her know the first “yes” was enough. She was looking pretty. She had done something with her hair. It was shorter. Her face was made up, lips red and shiny.

  She took her time before reacting. “I’ll get the children.” When he lifted a foot to enter, she shut the door in his face. He stood there dumbstruck and then the humiliation descended on him. He lowered his head in case the neighbors were outside and saw him like this. Everyone would know he had been kicked out. This street was like a village.

  The door opened and Carla charged at him, threw her arms around his neck and squeezed him saying, “Daddy,” like she did when she was little. Her hair smelled of strawberries. He held her close and said, “My child.”

  He saw Fritz in the doorway with a rucksack in his hand.

  “Hi, Dad.” Uneasy.

  “Hello, Fritz.”

  “Bring them back at six,” said Anna who stood behind her son.

  “I will,” he said.

  She closed the door.

  Why was she looking so nice? What was she planning today?

  * * *

  Carla talked too much, too gaily, and Fritz, sitting in the back, said not a word. In the rear-view mirror, Griessel could see the boy gazing out of the car window expressionlessly. In Fritz’s pr
ofile he saw echoes of Anna’s features. He wondered what Fritz was thinking. About that last night his father had been at home and had hit his mother? How could he fix that? And Carla babbled on about the upcoming Matric Farewell and the intrigues of who had asked whom to go with them, as if she could make a success of the day single-handed.

  “I thought we might eat at the Spur,” he said when Carla stopped for breath.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “We’re not at prep school anymore,” said Fritz.

  “The Spur is a

  family

  restaurant, stupid,” said Carla.

  “The Spur is for little kids,” said Fritz.

  “Well, you choose, Fritz,” said Griessel. “Anywhere.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  As they walked up the stairs to his flat, he thought it would be awful for the children. This small bare space: Dad’s penitentiary. He opened up and stood aside so they could enter. Carla disappeared up the stairs straightaway. Fritz stood in the door and surveyed the place.

  “Cool,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “Bachelor pad,” said his son in answer and went in. “Haven’t you got a TV, Dad?”

  “No, I . . .”

  “You’ve got a

  sweet

  place, Dad,” said Carla from the top of the stairs. Then his cell phone rang, he unclipped it from his belt and said, “Griessel,” and Jamie Keyter said, “I thought I should come over to you and report. Where do you live?”

  He would have to talk to Keyter even though he didn’t want him here. He gave directions and said goodbye.

  “I’ll have to do a little work today,” he said to the children.

  “What kind of work?”

  “It’s a case. My shift partner is coming round.”

  “What case, Dad?” asked Carla.

  “It’s a guy who’s stabbing people with an assegai.”

  “Cool,” said Fritz.

  “Artemis? You’re working on the Artemis case?” asked Carla in excitement.

  “Yes,” he said, and wondered if he had ever discussed his work with his children before. When he was sober.

  Carla dived onto the new couch with the anonymous stains and said: “But that’s not a guy. The television says it’s a woman. Artemis. She’s taking revenge on everyone who messes with children.”

  “It’s a man,” said Griessel, and sat down on one of his new chairs, opposite his son. Fritz’s legs hung over the armrest. He had taken a magazine out of his rucksack.

  New Age Gaming.

  He flipped through it.

  “Oh,” said Carla deflated. “Do you know who it is, Dad?”

  “No.”

  “So how do you know it’s a man?”

  “It’s highly improbable that it’s a woman. Serial killers are usually men. Women almost never use—”

  “Charlize Theron was a serial murderer,” said Carla.

  “Who?”

  “She got an Oscar for it.”

  “For the murders?”

  “Dad doesn’t know who Charlize Theron is,” said Fritz from behind his magazine.

  “Dad knows,” said Carla, and they both looked at him to settle the argument and he knew the time had come to say what he must say, the words he had composed in his head while he drove to Brackenfell that morning.

  “I am an alcoholic,” he said.

  “Dad . . .”

  “Wait, Carla. There are things we must talk about. Sooner or later. It’s no use pretending.”

  “We know you’re an alky,” said Fritz. “We know.”

  “Shut up,” said Carla.

  “What for? That’s all we did and what use was that and now they’re getting divorced and Dad drinks like a fish.”

  “Who says we’re getting divorced?”

  “Dad, he’s talking rubbish . . .”

  “Did your mother say we’re getting divorced?”

  “She said you could come back when you stop drinking. And we know you can’t stop drinking.” Fritz’s face was hidden behind the magazine again, but he could hear the anger in his son’s voice. And the helplessness.

  “I have stopped.”

  “It’s eight days already,” said Carla.

  Fritz sat motionless behind

  NAG.

  “You don’t think I can stop?”

  Fritz clapped the magazine shut. “If you wanted to stop, why didn’t you do it long ago? Why?” The tears were close. “Why did you do all those things, Dad? Why did you hit Mom? Swear at us. Do you think it’s funny seeing your father like that?”

  “Fritz!” But she couldn’t shut him up.

  “Putting you in bed every night when you pass out? Or finding you in a chair in the morning, stinking and you never even remembered what you did? We never had a father. Just some drunkard who lived with us. You don’t know us, Dad. You don’t know anything. You don’t know we hide the liquor away. You don’t know we take money out of your wallet so you can’t buy brandy. You don’t know we can’t bring our friends home because we’re ashamed of our father. We can’t sleep over at our friends because we’re scared you’ll hit Mom when we’re not there. You still think we like to go to the Spur, Dad. You think Charlize Theron is a criminal. You don’t know anything, Dad, and you drink.”

  He could no longer hold back the tears and he got up and rushed up the stairs. Griessel and Carla stayed behind and he could not meet her eyes. He sat in his chair and felt shame. He saw the fuck-up he had made of his life. The whole irrevocable fuck-up.

  “You

  have

  stopped, Dad.”

  He said nothing.

  “I

  know

  you have.”

  * * *

  The unease had driven Thobela up Table Mountain early Sunday morning. He drove to Kirstenbosch and climbed the mountain from behind, up Skeleton Gorge, until he stood on the crest and looked over everything. But it didn’t help.

  He pulled and kneaded the emotion, looking for reasons, but none came.

  It wasn’t only the woman.

  “Oh God,” she had said. He had come from the shrubs and the shadows and in the dark he grabbed the firearm in her hand and gave it a sharp twist, so that she lost her grip. The dogs were barking madly around them, the sheepdog biting at his heels with sharp teeth. He had to kick the animal and Laurens had formed her last word.

  “No.”

  She had shielded herself with her hands when he lifted the assegai. When the long blade went in, peace had come over her. Just like Colin Pretorius. Release. That was what they wanted. But inside him there was a cry, a shout that said he couldn’t make war on women.

  He heard it still, but there was something else. A pressure. Like walls. Like a narrow corridor. He had to get out. Into the open. He must move. Go on.

  He walked over the mountain in the direction of Camp’s Bay. He clambered over rocks until the Atlantic Ocean lay far beneath his feet.

  Why did he feel this urge now? To fetch his motorbike and have a long, never-ending road stretching ahead. Because he was doing the right thing. He did not doubt anymore. In the Spur with the street children he had found an answer that he hadn’t looked for. It had come to him as if it were sent. The things people did to them. Because they were the easiest targets.

  He walked again. The mountain stretched out to the south, making humps you don’t expect. How far could you walk like this, on the crest? As far as Cape Point?

  He was doing the right thing, but he wanted to get away.

  He was feeling claustrophobic here.

  Why? He hadn’t made a mistake yet. He knew that. But something was wrong. The place was too small. He stood still. This was instinct, he realized. To move on. To hit and then disappear. That was how it was, in the old days. Two, three weeks of preparation until you did your job and you got on a plane and were gone. Never two consecutive strikes in the same place: that would be looking for trouble. That left tracks, drew attention. That was poor strategy. But it was already too late, because he had drawn attention. Major attention.

  That was why he had to get away. Get in his truc
k and drive.

  28.

  He put the kettle on.

  “I’ll make the coffee, Dad,” said Carla.

  “I want to do it,” he said. Then: “I don’t even know how you take your coffee.”