by Deon Meyer
For the average client there was the Ruby Plan with the pale mauve-and-gray checkbook and its imprint of a red precious stone. Those with a higher income and more debt qualified for the Emerald Plan—and a green gem. But, above all, the Premier wanted all its clients to aim for the Diamond Plan.
On Wednesday, January 2, Susan Ploos van Amstel saw the attractive man with the gold-framed glasses, the blond hair, the deep tan, and the steel-gray suit walking toward her teller cubicle and knew he was a Diamond Plan client.
Susan was plump, thirty-four years old, with three children who spent their afternoons in a play school and a husband who spent his evenings in the garage tinkering with his 1962 Anglia. When the blond man smiled, she felt young. His teeth were a flawless, gleaming white. His face was finely made but strong. He looked like a film star. A forty-year-old film star.
“Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?” Susan gave him her best smile.
“Hi,” he said, and his voice was deep and rich. “I heard that this branch has the prettiest tellers in the Cape. And I see it’s true.”
Susan blushed, looked down. She was enjoying every moment.
“Sweetheart, won’t you do me a great favor?”
Susan looked up again. Not an indecent proposal, surely? “Certainly, sir. Anything.”
“Oh, dangerous words, sweetheart, dangerous words,” his voice loaded with meaning. Susan giggled and blushed a deeper red.
“But I’ll leave that for another occasion. Don’t you want to get one of those large old bank bags and fill it with notes—fifties and higher? I’ve got this large old gun here under my jacket . . .”
He opened his jacket slightly. Susan saw the grip of a weapon.
“. . . and I don’t want to use it. But you look like a pretty and sensible girl. If you help me quickly, I’ll be gone before anything nasty can happen.” His voice remained calm, the tone conversational.
Susan looked for the smile that would show he was joking. It didn’t arrive.
“You’re serious.”
“Indeed, sweetheart.”
“Good God.”
“No, sweetheart, nice large notes.”
Susan’s hands started shaking. She remembered her training. The alarm bell is on the floor. Press it. Her legs were jelly. Mechanically her hands took out the canvas bag. She opened the money drawer, started transferring the notes. Press it.
“Your perfume is delicious. What’s it called?” he asked in his beautiful voice.
“Royal Secret,” she said and blushed, despite the circumstances. She had no more fifties. She gave him the bag. Press it.
“You’re a star. Thank you. Tell your husband to look after you. Someone might steal you.” He gave a broad smile, took the bag, and walked out. When he went through the glass door Susan Ploos van Amstel pressed the button with her toe.
“It could be a wig, but we’ll get an Identikit together,” Mat said to the three reporters. He was investigating the Premier robbery because his manpower was deployed in the Upper Cape, where a bag person had set a friend alight in a haze of methylated spirits; in Brackenfell, the scene of a shotgun robbery in a fish shop; and in Mitchells Plain, where a thirteen-year-old girl had been raped by fourteen gang members.
“Only seven thousand rand. Has to be an amateur,” said the reporter from the Cape Argus and sucked her ballpoint pen. Joubert said nothing. Better that way when handling the media. He looked through the glass door of the manager’s office, where Susan Ploos van Amstel was telling her story to even more clients.
“The Sweetheart Robber. Could become a nice story. Think he’ll try again, Captain?” the man from Die Burger asked. Joubert shrugged.
Then there were no more questions. The reporters excused themselves. Joubert said good-bye and sat down again. The Identikit people were on their way.
He drove the service vehicle, a white Sierra, because he was on standby. On the way home he stopped at the secondhand-book shop in Koeberg Road. Billy Wolfaardt stood in the doorway.
“Hi, Captain. How’s the murder business?”
“Still the same, Billy.”
“Two Ben Bovas have come in. But I think you’ve got them.”
Joubert walked to the science fiction section.
“And a new William Gibson.”
Joubert ran his finger down the spines of the books. Billy Wolfaardt turned and walked to the cash register at the door. He knew the captain wasn’t a great talker.
Joubert looked at the Bovas, put them back on the shelf, took the Gibson, paid for it. He said good-bye and drove off. On the way home he bought Kentucky chicken.
An envelope had been pushed under his door. He carried it to the kitchen with the paperback and the chicken.
The envelope had a drawing of flowers in pale pastel colors. He put down the rest of the stuff, took a knife out of a drawer, and slit open the envelope. It contained a single sheet of paper with the same floral pattern, folded in half. It had a sweet smell, familiar. A perfume. He opened it. The handwriting was feminine and impressive, looped. He read:
The hot embrace
Of my deep desire
Ignites the flame
Of your hottest fire
Taste me, touch me, take me
Impale me like a butterfly
My lovely love, oh can’t you see
To love me is to make me die.
It was unsigned. The perfume was the signature. He recognized it.
Joubert sat down at the kitchen table. Why was she fucking with him? He didn’t need another night like the last two.
He read it again. The unsubtle verses created visions in his head—Yvonne Stoffberg, her young body naked, underneath him, sweat gleaming on the full, round breasts . . .
He threw the poem and the envelope in the wastebasket and, muttering, walked to his room. Not another night like that. He wouldn’t be able to cope. He threw his tie onto the bed, went to fetch the paperback, and took it to the living room.
He had difficulty in concentrating. After seven jerky pages he fetched the verses out of the wastebasket and read them again, annoyed with his lack of discipline.
Should he telephone her? Just to say thank you.
No.
Her pa might answer, and he didn’t want to start anything.
Just to say thank you.
He’d thought the urge had died. The same time two days ago he still believed the urge was dead.
The phone rang. Joubert started, got up and walked to the bedroom.
“Joubert.”
“Radio control, Captain. Shooting incident at the Holiday Inn in Newlands. Deceased is a white man.”
“I’m on my way.”
5.
The other colleague who hadn’t given up on Mat Joubert was Detective Sergeant Benny Griessel. Because, despite all his cynicism, Griessel drank like a fish. And completely understood Joubert’s withdrawal. He believed that something had to give in the life of a Murder and Robbery detective, where death was your constant companion, the source of your bread and butter.
For a little more than a year, Griessel had watched Joubert sinking deeper and deeper into the quicksand of depression and self-pity—and not necessarily being able to pull out of it. And said to himself: Rather that than the bottle. Because Benny Griessel knew the bottle. It allowed you to forget the shadow of death. But it sent your wife and two kids fleeing headlong, away from the abusive, battering drunk who made their lives hell on a Saturday night. And later, many other evenings of the week as well.
No, Mat Joubert had a better deal going.
Griessel was the first to reach the scene. He was of medium height with a Slav face, a broken nose, and black hair worn rather long. He wore a creased blue suit.
Joubert pushed his way through the crowd of curious onlookers, bent under the yellow plastic band with which the uniformed men had cordoned off the scene, and walked to Griessel, who was standing over to one side talking to a young blond man. The uniforms had thrown a blanke
t over the body. It lay shapelessly in the shadow of a steel-blue BMW.
“Captain,” Griessel greeted him. “Mr. Merryck here found the body and called the station. From hotel reception.” Joubert smelled the liquor on Griessel’s breath. He looked at Merryck, saw the gold-framed glasses, the sparse mustache. A fleck of vomit still clung to his chin. The body couldn’t be a pretty sight.
“Mr. Merryck is a hotel guest. He parked over there and was on his way to the entrance when he saw the body.”
“It was quite awful. Sickening,” said Merryck. “But one has to do one’s duty.”
Griessel patted him on the shoulder. “You can go now. If we need you, we know where to find you,” he said in his faultless English. He and Joubert walked to the body. “Photographer is on his way. I’ve asked for the pathologist, forensic, and the fingerprint guys. And most of the others on standby. He’s white,” said Griessel and pulled away the blanket.
Between two staring eyes lay the blood-filled lake of a bullet wound, gaping, mocking, in flawless symmetry.
“But take a look at this,” said Griessel and pulled the blanket down further. Joubert saw another wound, a bloody blackish-red hole in the chest, in the center of a stylish suit, shirt, and tie.
“Jesus,” Mat Joubert said and knew why Merryck had vomited.
“Large caliber.”
“Yip,” said Griessel. “A cannon.”
“Check his pockets,” said Joubert.
“Wasn’t robbery,” they said virtually in unison when they saw the gold Rolex on the arm. And they both knew that this complicated the case infinitely.
Joubert’s hand moved quickly over the lifeless eyes, smoothing down the eyelids. He saw the defenselessness of the dead, the way in which all bodies lay, unmistakable, vulnerable, the hands and arms finally folded never again to defend that showcase of life, the face. He forced himself to keep his mind on his work.
Voices behind them, saying hi. More detectives from the backup team. Joubert rose. They were coming to look at the body. Griessel chased them away when they blocked out the pale light of the streetlamps.
“Start there. Walk the whole area. Every centimeter.”
The usual moan started, but they obeyed, knew how important the first search was. Griessel carefully went through the deceased’s pockets. Then he got up with a checkbook holder and car keys in his hand. He threw the keys to Adjutant Basie Louw.
“They’re for a BMW. Try this one.”
Griessel opened the gray leather checkbook holder. “We have a name,” he said. “J. J. Wallace. And an address. Ninety-six Oxford Street, Constantia.”
“The key fits,” said Louw and took it out carefully, so as not to leave his fingerprints in the car.
“A rich bugger,” said Griessel. “We’ll hit the headlines again.”
It was a young detective constable, Gerrit Snyman, who found the cartridge case halfway under a nearby car. “Captain,” he called, still inexperienced enough to get excited immediately. Joubert and Griessel walked toward him. Snyman lit the empty cartridge case with his flashlight. Joubert picked it up, held it against the light. Griessel came closer, read the numbers on the back.
“Seven point six three.”
“Impossible. It’s short. Pistol case.”
“There. You read it. Seven point six . . . three. It seems. Might be badly printed.”
“Probably six two.”
Benny Griessel looked at Joubert. “Must be. And that means only one thing.”
“Tokarev.” Joubert sighed.
“APLA.” Benny sighed. “Fuckin’ politics.”
Joubert walked toward his service vehicle. “I’m going to radio the Colonel.”
“De Wit? All he’ll do is to puke his fuckin’ heart out.” Benny’s grin shone silver in the streetlight.
For the moment Joubert had forgotten that Willy Theal would never visit a murder scene again. He felt gloom rising like damp.
The house at 96 Oxford Street was a large single story set in huge grounds. The garden was a controlled lushness, impressive even in the semidarkness.
Somewhere deep in the house the doorbell sounded, briefly overriding the sound of a television program. The seconds ticked past. Inside, their carefree time was decreasing, Joubert thought. The angels of death were at the front door. The tiding, like a parasite, was going to suck life, joy, and peace out of their lives.
A woman opened the door, irritated, a frown of small wrinkles. Long, thick auburn hair hung over one shoulder, covered part of the yellow-patterned apron, and guided their gaze away from her eyes.
Her voice was melodious and annoyed. “Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Wallace?” he asked. Then he saw the eyes. So did Griessel. A mismatched pair, the one pale blue and bright, the other in shades of brown, somewhere between light and dark. Joubert tried not to stare.
“Yes,” she said and knew it wasn’t a sales ploy. Fear moved like a shadow over her face.
“It’s James, isn’t it.”
A boy of about ten appeared behind her. “What is it, Mom?”
She looked round, worried. “Jeremy, please go to your room.” Her voice was soft but urgent. The boy turned away. She looked back at the detectives.
“We’re from the police,” Joubert said.
“You’d better come in,” she said, opening the door wide and taking off her apron.
Mrs. Margaret Wallace wept with the total abandon of helpless grief, hands in her lap, shoulders slightly bowed. Tears stuck to the yellow wool of her summer sweater and glistened in the bright light of her living room’s candelabra.
Joubert and Griessel stared at the carpet.
Joubert focused on the ball and claw of the coffee table’s leg. He wanted to be in his chair in his own home, the paperback on his lap and a beer in his hand.
The boy came down the passage. Behind him was a girl somewhere between eight and ten.
“Mom?” His voice was small and scared.
Margaret Wallace straightened her shoulders, wiped the palm of her hand over her face. She got up with dignity. “Excuse me.” She took the children’s hands and led them down the passage. A door closed. The silence was deafening. A cry sounded. Then there was silence again.
They didn’t look at each other because that would be an admission.
Eventually she came back. Her shoulders were still gallantly erect, as though she could contain her emotions physically. But they knew.
“I must call my mother. She lives in Tokai. She can help with the kids. I’m sure you have many questions.” Her voice was neutral, like a sleepwalker’s.
Joubert wanted to tell her that they would come back later, that they would leave her with her pain. But he couldn’t.
She came back within minutes. “My mother is coming over. She’s strong. My dad . . . I’ve asked the maid to make us some tea. I take it you drink tea?”
“Thank you, but . . .” Joubert’s voice was slightly hoarse. He cleared his throat.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll stay with the kids until she arrives.” She didn’t wait for an answer and walked down the semilit passage.
Joubert’s pocket radio beeped. He looked at the LCD message on his screen: RING ADJ LOUW. There was a phone number attached.
He’d sent Louw and three other detectives to the hotel because the rooms overlooked the parking area. This was after the pathologist had mumbled over the body. And before Bart de Wit had turned up and called a media conference about a murder on which they had no information. He and Benny had fled to Oxford Street just after it started.
“The man is a clown,” Benny had said on the way. “He won’t last.” Joubert wondered if the OC had called in the NCOs one by one as well. And if de Wit was aware of Griessel’s drinking problem.
“Basie wants me,” he said, breaking the depressing silence, and got up. He walked to the room from where Margaret Wallace had earlier made a call. He heard the maid clinking china in the kitchen.
It looked
like a study. A desk with a computer and telephone stood in the center. Against the back wall was a bookcase with hardcover files, a few books on business practice, and a handful of Readers’ Digest condensed books in their overdone mock leather bindings. The wall next to the door was covered in photographs and certificates. There was also a large cartoon by a local cartoonist. It depicted James Wallace—thick black hair, luxuriant mustache, slightly bulging cheeks. The caricature wore a neat suit of clothes. One hand held a briefcase with the logo WALLACE QUICKMAIL. The other arm clutched a cricket bat; the hand held a flag with WP CRICKET on it.
Joubert dialed the number. It was the hotel’s. He asked to speak to Basie and waited a few moments.
“Captain?”
“Yo, Basie.”
“We’ve found someone, Captain. Female, blond. She says Wallace was with her in the room. But we didn’t question her further. We’re waiting for you.”
“Can you stay with her? Benny and I are going to be here for a while.”
“No problem, Captain.” Louw sounded keen. “Oh, and there was another spent cartridge. Under the body.”
When Joubert walked out of the study, he glanced at the cartoon against the wall again. And knew that the insignificance of life was just as sad as the finality of death.
“He started business on his own,” said Margaret Wallace. She sat on the edge of the big, comfortable chair, her hands in her lap, her voice even, without inflection, controlled.
“He was awarded the contract to deliver the municipal accounts. It was tough at first. He had to import an Addressograph and a computer from the United States, but in those days every letter had to be inserted into the envelopes by hand, then sealed. I helped him. We worked through the night. Often. He sold seventy percent of the shares to Promail International two years ago, but they stuck to the original name. He’s still on the board and acts as a consultant.”
Joubert noted that she was still speaking about her husband in the present tense. But he knew that would change on the following day, after the night.