by Deon Meyer
He did exactly that. Nearly a kilometer beyond High Grove the road ended at a gate. He stopped twenty meters in front of the gate and got out. The southeaster blew his hair up in the air. There was an old gravel pit beyond the gate, desolate, obviously long out of use. The gate was locked.
If it were him, he would have parked here. You wouldn’t want to turn into the High Grove driveway. Not if you had never been there before. You wouldn’t know what to expect, or who would see you.
His phone rang.
“Griessel.”
“It’s Jamie, Benny. The guy at the weather office said it was half moon, Benny, and zero per cent cloudy.”
“Zero per cent.”
“That’s right.”
“Thank you, Jamie.”
“Is there anything else I can do, Benny?” Sucking up.
“Just stand by, Jamie. Just stand by.”
A clear night, light of a half moon. Enough to see by. Enough to keep your headlights switched off. He would have parked here. Somewhere around here, since this section of road would have no traffic, a dead end. The road up to the gate was too hard to show tracks. But he would have to have turned around if he came this far. Griessel began to walk down the boundary fence on the High Grove side of the road, searching for tracks on the sandy verge. Where would he have parked? Perhaps over there, where the rooikrans bushes leaned far over the fence. Bleached white grass tufts and sandy soil beside the fence.
Then he spotted the tracks, two vague rows of tire marks. And in one spot the unmistakable hollow where a tire had stood still for a while.
Got you, you bastard!
He walked with care, building the picture in his mind. Assegai man had driven to the gravel-pit gate and turned around. Then the car would be facing in the direction of the High Grove turnoff. He would see the rooikrans thicket in the moonlight even with his lights turned off. He left the road about here and pulled up close to the fence. Opened the door and put a foot on the ground. Griessel searched for the footprint.
Nothing. Too much grass.
He squatted on his haunches. Only one cigarette butt, that was all he needed. A little trace of saliva for DNA testing. But there was nothing to find, only a fat black insect that scurried through the faded grass.
Still squatting, he phoned Keyter.
“I have another job for you.”
30.
He knew it would be an hour or two before Forensics turned up. He wanted to determine assegai man’s route to the house. Had he climbed through the fence, here, without knowing where the homestead was? Possible, but unlikely. Along the road would be better. He could see headlights coming from far off and have enough time to duck into the shadows.
Griessel walked slowly along the road. The wind blew from diagonally in front. The sun shone on his back, his shoes crunched on the gravel. He scanned the ground for footprints. He became aware of a pleasurable feeling. Just him here. On the trail of the murderer. Alone. He never had been a team player. He had done his best detection work on his own.
Now he was a task team leader.
Joubert was hiding Benny’s alcoholism from the Area and Provincial Commissioners. Maybe he was lying about that because, despite the recent appointments of the top structures, the Force was like a small village. Everyone knew everything about everybody.
But why? Did Joubert feel sorry for Anna? Or was it loyalty to an old colleague who had come through the wars with him? The last two old soldiers, who had survived the antics of the old regime and affirmative action of the new era. Who had survived without becoming entangled in politics or monkey business.
No. It was because there was no one else. This morning he had sat and watched them. There were good people, enthusiastic young detectives, clever ones and hard workers and those with ambition, but they didn’t have the experience. They didn’t have twenty years of hard-grind policing behind them. Task team leader because he was a drunk-but-standing veteran.
But it was neither here nor there. He had better make it work, because it was all he had. Last stand at the High Grove corral.
He walked as far as the smallholding’s driveway. No footprints. He turned up the drive, the wind now at his back. He knew the house was four hundred meters north. The question was, how long was it before the dogs had heard assegai man in the quiet of the night? He would have stopped, moved off the road and into hiding, at a place where he could overlook the yard.
The stables were ahead, on his left. A colored man was busy with a pitchfork. The man didn’t notice him. He kept on walking and could see the house now, two hundred meters further on. The place where Laurens had fallen.
The dogs began to bark.
He stopped. The workman looked up.
“Afternoon, sir,” said the man warily.
“Good afternoon.”
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m from the police,” he said.
“Oh.”
“I just want to look around.”
“Okay, sir.”
The garden began here, shrubs and bushes in old overgrown beds. He would have jumped in behind the shrubbery when the dogs started barking in the night. Then made his way through the plants till he was closer to the house. Plenty of camouflage. He followed the imaginary route searching for tracks. He estimated the distance and built a picture. You could survey the whole yard from behind the garden plants. You could watch a woman in her nightclothes, with a firearm in her hand. You could see the dogs that barked nervously in the darkness. Now you were close to the house, close to her. You ignore her shouts. “Who’s there?” Or perhaps a more threatening, “Come out or I’ll shoot!” You wait until her back is turned and then you rush out of the shadows. Grab the firearm. Raise the assegai. The dog bites at your trousers. You kick.
Something like that.
He looked for footprints in the flowerbed.
Nothing.
How likely was that? Or was the fucker cool and calm enough to wipe them out?
The laborer was still standing and watching.
“What is your name?”
“Willem, sir.”
He walked over to the man and put out his hand. “I’m Benny Griessel.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Bad business this, Willem.”
“A very bad business, sir.”
“First the child and then Miss Laurens.”
“Ai, sir, what will happen to us?”
“What do you mean, Willem?”
“It was Miss Laurens’s place. Now it will be sold.”
“Maybe the new owners will be good people.”
“Maybe, sir.”
“Because I hear Laurens could be quite difficult.”
“Sir, she wasn’t so difficult. She was good to us.”
“Oh.”
“The people around here pay minimum wage, but Miss Laurens paid us a thousand clean and we didn’t have to pay for the house.”
“I believe she drank, Willem.”
“Hai, sir! That’s not true.”
“And had a terrible temper . . .”
“No, sir . . .”
“No?”
“She was just strict.”
“Never got angry?”
Willem shook his head and glanced at the house. Elise Bothma stood there in her dressing gown just outside the homestead door.
It was late afternoon by the time he got back to the SVC building. He found Matt Joubert in his office with a stack of files in front of him.
“Do you have ten minutes, boss?”
“As much time as you need.”
“We have a possible tire print of the assegai man’s car.”
“From the smallholding?”
“Just outside, along the fence. Forensics have made a plaster mold. They will let us know. If you could hurry things up, I would be glad.”
“I’ll give Ferreira a ring.”
“Matt, the Bothma child . . .”
“I hear you have a proble
m with it.”
“You hear?”
“Tim was here, just after lunch. Upset. He says you’re a racist.”
“Fuck.”
“Relax, Benny. I talked to him. What’s the problem?”
“It wasn’t Laurens, Sup.”
“Why do you say that?”
“When we questioned Bothma on Saturday . . . There was something — I knew she was lying about something. I thought at first it was about Laurens’s death. But then I got to thinking. Keyter questioned the laborers. This morning I went myself. And I don’t think it was Laurens.”
“You think it was Bothma?”
“Yes.”
“And Laurens took the blame to protect her? Hell, Benny . . .”
“I know. But it happens.”
“Do you have proof?”
“I know Bothma is the one with the temper.”
“That’s all?”
“Matt, I know it’s too thin for the courts . . .”
“Benny, Laurens made a statement. She admitted guilt. Her fingerprints are on the billiard cue. And she’s dead. We don’t have a snowball’s chance.”
“Give me an hour with Bothma . . .”
Joubert sat back in his chair and tapped a ballpoint pen on the folder in front of him. “No, Benny. It’s Tim’s case. The best I can do is ask him to look at it carefully again. You have the assegai case.”
“It’s the same thing. If Laurens was innocent, it means the vigilante punished the wrong one. It changes everything.”
“How so?”
Griessel waved his arm. “The whole fucking world out there is on his side — the guy who reinstated the death penalty. The noble knight who is doing the pathetic police force’s work. Even Bushy says we should leave him; let him get on with it . . . Say there is a witness somewhere. Someone who saw him. Or knows something. He could have a wife or a girlfriend, people who support him because they think he is doing the right thing.”
Joubert tapped his pen again. “I hear what you’re saying.”
“I hate that expression.”
“Benny, let me talk to Tim. That’s the best I can do. But they will kill us in court.”
“We don’t need the court. Not yet, in any case. All I want is for the media to know we suspect Bothma. And that Laurens might have been innocent.”
“I’ll talk to Tim.”
“Thanks, Matt.” He turned to go.
“Margaret and I want to ask you to dinner,” said Joubert before he reached the door.
He stopped. “Tonight?”
“Yes. Or tomorrow, if that suits you. She’ll be cooking anyway.”
He realized that he had only had a tearoom sandwich since that morning. “That would be . . .” But he envisioned himself at Joubert’s family table surrounded by Matt’s wife and children. He, alone. “I . . . I can’t, Matt.”
“I know things are crazy here.”
“It’s not that.” He sat down on the chair opposite the commanding officer. “It’s just . . . I miss my family.”
“I understand.”
He suddenly needed to talk about it. “The children . . . I had them yesterday.” He felt the emotion well up. He didn’t want that now. He raised a hand to his eyes and dropped his head. He didn’t want Joubert to see him like this.
“Benny . . .” He could hear the awkwardness.
“No, Matt, it’s just . . . shit, I fucked up so much.”
“I understand, Benny.” Joubert got to his feet and came around the desk.
“No, fuck. Jissis. I mean . . . I don’t know them, Matt.”
There was nothing Joubert could say, just put a hand on Griessel’s shoulder.
“It’s like I was away for fucking ten years. Jissis, Matt, and they are good children. Lovely.” He dragged a sleeve under his nose and sniffed. Joubert patted his shoulder rhythmically.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bloody cry.”
“It’s okay, Benny.”
“It’s the withdrawal. Fucking emotional.”
“I’m proud of you. It’s already, what, a week?”
“Nine days. That’s fuck-all. What’s that against ten years of damage?”
“It’s going to be okay, Benny.”
“No, Matt. I don’t know if it will ever be okay.”
He walked into the task group office in the old lecture hall. They were all sitting waiting for him. He was tired. It was as if the tears he had shed with Joubert had drained him. Captain Helena Louw motioned him closer. He went to her. “How’s it going, Captain?”
“Slowly, Inspector. We have —”
“My name is Benny.”
She nodded and pointed at the computer in front of her. “We have started a database of all the unsolved cases where children were the victims. There are a lot . . .” She had a peaceful manner, a slow way of speaking. “We start with the most serious. Murder. Rape. Sexual abuse. So far one hundred and sixty.”
Griessel whistled softly through his teeth.
“Yes, Inspector, it’s bad. This is only the Peninsula. Lord knows how many in the whole country. We put in the names of the children, the next of kin and the suspects. We include the nature of the crime and the location. If it’s gang-related, we mark it ‘B’ because those are a bit different. We indicate the weapon, if there is one. And the dates of the offenses. That’s about it. Then we can start cross-referencing. As new information comes in, we can plot it against what we have.”
“Sounds good.”
“But will it help?”
“You never know what will help. But we can’t afford not to do something.”
He didn’t know if he had convinced her. “Captain, we need two more items.”
“Call me Helena.”
“I want another field in the database. For vehicles. We have a tire print. Maybe we’ll get something from it.”
“That’s good.”
“I’m not sure how we will handle the last thing. I wonder how he makes his choices. The murderer. How does he decide who the next victim will be?”
She nodded.
“There are two possibilities. One is that he is part of the system — policeman or prosecutor or something. But if you say there are more than a hundred and sixty . . . and the victims are too disparate regarding their location and their offenses. I have a feeling he is using the media. Radio, or newspapers. Maybe TV. My trouble is I don’t read the papers and I don’t listen to the radio much. But I want to know when the victims were in the news. I want to know the date of the reports compared to the date of the assegai murders. Am I being clear?”
“Yes. Is it okay if we draw up a table on this blackboard?” She pointed at the front wall of the old lecture hall.
“That would work,” he said. “Thanks.”
Griessel stood up. Jamie Keyter sat in the corner at the back and watched him in expectation. Cupido and Bezuidenhout sat beside each other, each at his own desk. He drew up a chair and sat down opposite them.
“The assegai is a stuff-up,” said Cupido. He leaned back and from behind him picked up a wrapped parcel, long and thin. He unrolled the brown paper and let the assegai drop onto the desktop. The shiny blade gleamed in the fluorescent light.
“Wallah!” he said. He pronounced the “W” like “Willy.”
“Voilà,” Bezuidenhout corrected him with a fake accent. “It’s a fucking French word. It means ‘check me out.’”
“Since when are you the great language expert?”
“I’m just helping you not make a fool of yourself.”
Griessel sighed. “The assegai . . .” he said.
“On loan from Pearson’s African Art. In Long Street. Six hundred rand, VAT included. Imported from Zulu Dawn, a distributor in Pinetown. I talked to Mr. Vijay Kumar, the sales manager at Zulu Dawn. He says they have agents who drive around and buy them up, there must be at least thirty places in KwaZulu that make them.”
“That’s not art,” said Bezuidenhout.
“Bushy . .
.” said Griessel.
“I’m just saying. Nowadays everything is art. I wouldn’t pay fifty rand for that thing.”
“But you’re not a German tourist with euros, pappa,” said Cupido. “The fact of the matter is, our suspect could have bought it on any street corner. Pearson’s say there are five or six chaps in the city alone who peddle them. And then there’s another place or two on the Waterfront, two in Stellenbosch and one in the southern suburbs. The whiteys from Europe like them and the African masks like nobody’s business. And ostrich eggs. They sell ostrich eggs for two hundred rand apiece. And they’re empty . . .”
“I want Forensics to look at the thing, Vaughn . . .”
“Sorted. They’re busy already. I took two on loan; I wanted to bring one in for you to see, Benny. Forensics will compare it with the chemical results of the three stab wounds.”
“Thanks, Vaughn. Good work.”
“You said it. But it doesn’t look like I’m going to score a trip to Durbs.”
“You’ll let me know what Forensics say?”
“Absolutely. Tomorrow I’m going to all the places that sell assegais. See if they have sales records we can trace. Credit-card slips, tax invoices, anything. See what I can find.”
“I want those names in the database, please. They must be compared with the names Captain Louw has.”
“You got it, chief.”
Griessel turned to Bezuidenhout. “Anything, Bushy?”
Bezuidenhout pulled a pile of files closer with an air of getting to the important stuff at last. “I don’t know.” He pulled them one by one off the pile. “The Enver Davids rape,” he said. “Strongest possibility so far. The baby’s parents live in the informal settlement on the corner of Vanguard and Ridgeway. Residents call it Biko City; municipality doesn’t call it anything. Father is unemployed, one of those men who stand on Durban Road in the morning and raise their hands if the builders come to pick up cheap labor. The mother works at a paper recycling plant in Stikland. They buy old cardboard boxes and turn them into toilet paper. Dawn soft. What the ‘dawn’ has to do with ‘soft’ who the fuck knows, but then I’m just a policeman. Anyway, they say they were together in their shack in Biko City the night of Davids’s murder. But the father says, and I quote, ‘good riddance’ about Davids’s death. He says if he had known where to find the bastard, he would have stabbed him himself. But he says it wasn’t him and he doesn’t own an assegai. Their neighbors say they know nothing about that night. Saw nothing, heard nothing.”