Devil's Peak bg-1

by Deon Meyer

  “I drink it with milk and without sugar and Fritz takes milk and three sugars.”

  “Three?”

  “Boys,” she said with a shrug.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Oh?”

  “There is a guy . . .”

  “Is powdered milk okay?”

  She nodded. “His name is Sarel and I know he likes me. He’s quite cute. But I don’t want to get too involved now, with the exams and things.”

  He could hear Anna’s voice in hers, the intonation and the wisdom. “That’s smart,” he said.

  “Because I want to study next year, Dad.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Psychology.”

  In order to analyze her father’s mind?

  “Maybe I can get a bursary if I do well, that’s why I don’t want to get involved now. But Mom says she’s put a bit of money aside for our studies.”

  He knew nothing about it. He poured the water into the mugs, then the powdered milk and the sugar for Fritz.

  “I want to take him his coffee.”

  “Don’t worry about him, Dad. He’s just a typical teenager.”

  “He’s struggling with his father’s alcoholism,” he said, climbing the stairs. Fritz lay on Griessel’s bed with the photo in his hands, the photo of them together as a family.

  “Three sugars,” he said.

  Fritz said nothing. Griessel sat on the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Fritz replaced the photo on the windowsill. “It doesn’t matter.” He sat up and took the coffee.

  “I’m sorry about everything I did to you. And to your mother and Carla.”

  Fritz looked at the steam rising from the coffee mug. “Why, Dad? Why do you drink?”

  “I’m working on that, Fritz.”

  “They say it’s genetic,” said his son, and tested the temperature of the liquid with a cautious sip.

  * * *

  Jamie Keyter was wearing a sports shirt and tight khaki trousers. The short sleeves of the shirt were too narrow and had shifted up above the bulging biceps. He sat on one of the bar stools at the breakfast bar and drank coffee with two sugars and milk and he glanced periodically at Carla while he spoke. That annoyed Griessel.

  “And I went up to the little house, like a little

  kaia,

  and you couldn’t see anything, hear anything but the TV show inside, the one with the crazy kaffi . . . green fellow who gives away prizes in green language and I knocked but they didn’t hear me. So I opened the door and there they sat drinking. All four, glass in the hand. Cheers! But when they saw me, you should have seen them jump and it was mister this and mister that. The house was dirty and it was empty. Typical greens: they have nothing, but there’s this giant TV in the corner and there are four greens living in the

  kaia,

  two old and two young ones. I don’t know how people can live like that. And they didn’t want to talk; they just sat there and stared at me. And when they did talk, they lied. The girl works in the house and it was all: ‘Miss Laurens was a good missus, she was good to all of us.’ They’re lying, Benny, I’m telling you.” He looked pointedly at Carla, who lay on the couch.

  “Did you ask them about her fits of rage?”

  “I asked and they said it wasn’t so, she was a good missus and they kept turning back to the TV and looking sideways at the wine box. Bloody drunken lot, if you ask me.” He was still looking at Carla.

  “And they didn’t see anything?” He knew what the answer would be.

  “Saw nothing, heard nothing.”

  “The pathologist says it was the same weapon. The same assegai as the previous murders.”

  “Okay,” said Keyter.

  “Did you ask about Bothma? What she’s like?”

  “Oh, no. We already know.”

  He let that go. He didn’t want to say something in front of the children.

  “So,” said Keyter to Carla. “What do you do?”

  “I’m writing matric.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I get it.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “If I give you a rand, will you phone me when you’re finished.”

  “In your dreams,” she said. “And what is your problem anyway?”

  “My problem?”

  “Greens? Only racists say things like that.”

  “I haven’t got a racist hair on my head.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Griessel had been busy with his thoughts. He missed this exchange. “Do me a favor, Jamie.”

  “Okay, Benny.”

  “The file on Cheryl Bothma, the daughter. Find out who’s handling that.”

  “I thought you talked to them yesterday?”

  “I only talked to the guys who dealt with the assegai murders. I’m talking about the case of the child. When they arrested Laurens.”

  “I get it.”

  “Please.”

  “No, I mean I know which one you mean. But what’s the use?”

  “Something is not right with this thing. I don’t know what. Yesterday Bothma . . .”

  “But the pathologist said it’s the same guy?”

  “I’m not talking about the murder of Laurens. I’m talking about the murder of the child.”

  “But that’s not our case.”

  “It’s our job.”

  * * *

  “He’s weird,” said Carla when they eventually got rid of Keyter.

  “He’s a

  drol,

  ” Fritz called down the stairs.

  “Fritz!” said Griessel.

  “I could use a ruder word, Dad.”

  “But where does he get the money?” asked Carla.

  “What money?”

  “Didn’t you notice, Dad? The clothes. Polo shirt, Daniel Hechter trousers. Nikes.”

  “Who’s Daniel Hechter?”

  “He’s married to Charlize Theron, Dad!” yelled Fritz from upstairs. “But he’s not a murderer.”

  For the first time Carla laughed and then Griessel laughed with her.

  * * *

  In the Ocean Basket in Kloof Street, while they waited for their food, Carla asked him about the Artemis case. He suspected that was her way of avoiding the silences. Out of the blue, in the middle of the discussion, she asked: “Why did you become a policeman, Dad?”

  He had no ready answer. He hesitated and saw Fritz look up from the magazine and knew he had to get this right. He said, “Because that is who I am.”

  His son raised an eyebrow.

  Griessel rolled his shoulders. “I just knew I was a policeman. Don’t ask me why. Everyone has a vision of himself. That is how I saw myself.”

  “I don’t see myself,” said Fritz.

  “You’re still young.”

  “I’m sixteen.”

  “It will come.”

  “I am not a policeman. And besides, I’m not going to drink. Policemen drink.”

  “Everyone drinks.”

  “Policemen drink more.”

  And with that he went back to his magazine and took no further part in the conversation. Until they had eaten and Griessel asked Carla casually if she knew an Afrikaans song with the words:

  “ ’n Bokkie wat vanaand by my kom le a, sy kan maar le a, ek is ’n loslappie.”

  A babe who wants to lie with me tonight, can lie with me, I’m free and easy.

  She was still pointing her thumb at her brother when Fritz, without looking up, asked: “What recording?”

  “I don’t know, I just heard it the other night over the radio.”

  “Was it a medley or a whole song?”

  “A whole song.”

  “Kurt Darren,” said Fritz.

  Griessel had no idea who Kurt Darren was but he wasn’t going to admit it. He didn’t need another Charlize Theron quip.

  “Kurt Darren needs to get himself a decent bass guitarist,” said Griessel.

  Something changed in his son’s face. It was as if the sun came up. “Yeah right, that’s right, his whole mix is wrong. It’s an ancient song, but it has to rock. Theuns Jordaan does it better. He’s the guy who does the medley with


  ‘Loslappie,’

  but he’s just as scared of proper bass. There is only one oke in Afrikaans who makes good use of bass, but he doesn’t sing that song. It’s a helluva pity.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Anton Goosen.”

  “I know Anton Goosen,” said Griessel with relief. “He’s the guy who sang that thing about the donkey cart?”

  “A donkey cart?”

  “Yes, what was the name of the song?

  Kruidjie-roer-my-nie?

  ”

  “That’s like, a hundred years ago, Dad,” said Fritz in amazement. “The Goose doesn’t sing stuff like that anymore. He rocks now. He’s got the Bushrock Band.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “No, you know what’s really unbelievable, Dad? The guy who plays bass for the Bushrock Band is the same guy who backed Theuns Jordaan with his

  ‘Loslappie’

  medley. And he had Anton L’Amour on lead, but Theuns is too middle-of-the-road. Not bad, but he doesn’t want to rock. He doesn’t want to badass. Diff-olie is badass. And . . .”

  “Diff-olie?”

  “Yes. And—”

  “Diff oil is the name of a

  band?

  ”

  “With all due respect, how long were you drunk, Dad? There’s Diff-olie and Kobus and Akkedis and Battery 9 and Beeskraal and Valiant Swart and they all kick butt. There’s every type of rock in Afrikaans now, from heavy metal to Country. But you have to listen to Anton live in concert if you want to hear bass and genuine rock. Anton likes heavy bass, he turns it on. The only downside of that concert is the flippin’ audience.”

  “The flippin’ audience?”

  “Yup. That will teach the Goose to play in the State Theater. They did this awesome rock and instead of the people going ape, they clapped. I ask you. It’s not a flippin’ school concert, it’s rock, but they gave him these self-conscious ovations. Flippin’ Pretoria.”

  “Mister Boere Rock,” said Carla, and cast her eyes up to heaven.

  “It’s better than that Leonard Cohen crap that

  you

  listen to.”

  Griessel was beginning to form a reproof when he began to laugh. He couldn’t help himself and he knew why: he was in total agreement with his son.

  When he had stopped laughing Fritz said, more to himself than to Griessel: “That’s the one way I see myself.”

  “How?”

  “Bass guitarist.”

  “For Karen Zoid, I suppose,” said his sister.

  He pulled up his nose at Carla. “Only the uninformed think she’s into rock only. You read too much

  You

  magazine. Zoid is closet ballad queen, not a rock chic. But she

  is

  awesome and that’s a fact.”

  “And you have an enormous crush on her.”

  “No,” said Fritz with regret. “Karen is spoken for.” Then he turned to his father. “So you like bass too, Dad?”

  “A little,” said Griessel. “A little.”

  * * *

  Cloete phoned again when they were on their way to Brackenfell.

  “I thought you had a thing about the media, Benny.”

  “What?”

  “Last night. Then it was ‘vultures’ and ‘tell them to go to hell’ and this morning I see you prefer to speak to them direct.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Front page of the

  Rapport,

  Benny. Front fucking page: ‘A source close to veteran Detective Inspector Benny Griessel of the Peninsula Unit for Serious and Violent Crimes (SVC) says that the team is still investigating the possibility that the vigilante was not responsible for the murder of Laurens.’ I know I didn’t fucking say that.”

  “I did not f . . .” He realized the children were in the car with him. “It wasn’t me.”

  “Must have been the ghost girl of Uniondale.”

  “I’m telling you, it wasn’t me . . .” Then he fell silent because he knew who it was. Biceps Keyter. That’s who.

  “Doesn’t matter. Thing is, the dailies want a follow-up, because everyone has an opinion now. Even the politicians. The DP says the ANC is to blame, the Death Penalty Party say it’s the voice of the people and the

  Sunday Times

  ran an opinion poll and seventy-five per cent of the nation say the assegai man is a hero.”

  “Jissis.”

  “Now the dailies are phoning me like crazy. So I thought, while you’re doing my job, you can handle the inquiries yourself.”

  “I told you, Cloete, it wasn’t me.”

  Cloete was quiet for a moment, then asked, “What’s new?”

  “Since yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Benny, you have to give me something. The dailies want blood.”

  “One thing, Cloete, but you have to clear it with Matt Joubert.”

  Cloete said nothing.

  “Do you hear?”

  “I hear.”

  “We were with the commissioner last night. The plan is to put together a task team tomorrow. We’re bringing people in from the stations.”

  “To do what?”

  “I’m not telling the press that.”

  “That’s fuck-all, Benny. A task team. So what?”

  “Talk to Joubert.”

  “I prefer to talk to the source close to veteran Detective Inspector Benny Griessel,” said Cloete, and put the phone down in his ear.

  “What was that all about?” asked Fritz from the back.

  “The media,” said Benny and sighed.

  “They’re like a bunch of hyenas,” said Fritz.

  “Vultures,” said Griessel.

  “Yup,” said Fritz. “When there’s a carcass they start circling.”

  He dropped them off at his wife’s at three minutes to six. Fritz said: “Hang on just a minute,” and jumped out of the car.

  “It was a lovely day, Dad,” said Carla and hugged him.

  “It was,” he said.

  “Bye, Dad. See you next week.”

  “Bye, my child.”

  She got out and went into the house. Fritz came out of the door with an object in his hand. He came up to Griessel’s window and held it out.

  Griessel took it. It was a CD case. Anton & Vrinne & Die Bushrockband. Anton & Friends & the Bushrockband.

  “Enjoy,” said Fritz.

  * * *

  His flat was silent. Suddenly empty. He sat down on the couch where Carla had sat. He turned the CD case over and over in his fingers. He had fuck-all to play it on.

  He needed to do something. He couldn’t just sit here and listen to the silence. There was too much trouble in his head.

  Where had Anna been today? Why was she all dolled up? What for?

  Why did Fritz think they were getting divorced? Had she said something? Made some remark? “Your father won’t stop drinking anyway.” Is that what his wife believed?

  Of course she fucking believed that. What else, with his record? So, if she knew how it would end, what stopped her from filling the vacuum in the meantime? Why not allow some or other young, handsome and sober shit to take her out. And what else did she allow him? What else? How hungry was she? Anna, who always said, “I like to be touched.” Who was doing the fucking touching now? God knows it wasn’t veteran Detective Inspector Benny fucking Griessel.

  He got up from the couch, his hands searching for something.

  What a day. His children. His wonderful children. That he barely knew. His son with his bass guitar genes and accusing words. Carla, who tried so desperately to pretend everything was normal, everything would work out right. As if her sheer willpower would keep him sober, if only she believed strongly enough.

  We never had a father. Just some drunkard who lived with us.

  Shit. The damage he had done. It burned him inside, the extent of it, all the multiple implications. It gnawed at him and he looked up and realized he was searching for a bottle, his hands itching to pour, his soul needing medication for this pain. Just one drink to make it better, to make it manageable, and that
was when he realized he didn’t stand a chance. Here he was with all the shit of his life suffocating him, the shit his boozing had created—and he wanted a drink. He knew with absolute certainty that if there had been a bottle in the flat he would have opened it. He had already ticked off the possibilities in his mind—where he could go to get a drink, what places would still be open on a Sunday evening.