Dead Before Dying: A Novel

by Deon Meyer

  “Because Ferdy was bad news.” She said it forcibly and stressed the last two words. She sat up straight, with her knees together, her teacup held on her lap. Joubert noticed that she wasn’t a pretty woman. Her black hair was liberally laced with gray. It was short and curly. Traces of a skin complaint in youth were still visible under the makeup. The corners of her mouth turned down naturally, which gave her a permanently surly expression.

  “Why do you say that?” Vos asked.

  “Because he could never keep a job. Because he was lazy. Because he felt too sorry for himself. You see, Captain, Ferdy had polio, and his left foot was slightly affected. But there was nothing wrong with him. Only in his head. He thought the world owed him a living.”

  She brought the cup to her lips.

  “What kind of work did he do?” Joubert asked.

  “He was a carpenter when he worked at all. He was clever with his hands. But according to him, his bosses were never good enough. He always said he had to work for himself. But he was useless. He went on a course once to learn to start his own business but nothing came of it. Then they advertised for carpenters for the factories in Atlantis and we moved here, but it didn’t last long. He complained that the black carpenters got the best jobs and preferential treatment and he couldn’t work under bosses like that. Now he sits at home every day, in front of the television, and he and that worthless George Walmer of the club watch blue movies the moment my back is turned.”

  Vos put his cup down on the little table in the middle of the room.

  “But you didn’t kill him, ma’am. Therefore there must be someone else who had reason to . . .”

  “Captain, Ferdy was too useless to make enemies,” Gail Ferreira said with finality.

  “Have you ever heard the name James Wallace, Mrs. Ferreira?”

  “No.”

  “Jimmy Wallace?”

  “No.”

  “Drew Wilson?”

  “No. Should I have?”

  “The same murder weapon was probably used in their murders, ma’am. We’re looking for a connection.”

  “Were they also bad news?” she asked seriously.

  The detectives didn’t reply—Gerry Vos because he saw the question as rhetorical and Joubert because he was wondering whether the wife of Ferdy Ferreira didn’t have something there. Both James J. Wallace and Drew Wilson had been bad news. Each in his own way.

  But then Gail Ferreira showed that she wasn’t wholly without feeling. “The house is going to be empty,” she sighed and put her cup on the table.

  The detectives looked up, faintly surprised.

  “Who’s going to bark at me when I get home?”

  19.

  The television news team was too late to shoot, in their somewhat tactless parlance, the gruesome remains of Ferdy Ferreira. They were too late at the murder scene to record the police ballistics team, laboratory team, video unit, photographer, and dog unit.

  However, the cameraman found a blotch of blood in the sand where Ferdy’s head had rested after the pistol had punched a hole through it. He made a recording of it. He also held the camera low over the white sand and walked through the gap in the dune in an attempt to get dramatic material of Ferdy Ferreira’s last steps this side of the grave.

  Then he and the reporter drove to the Old Ship Caravan Park and waited with the newspaper reporters in front of the Plettenberg. The television team didn’t like that. They usually got preferential treatment at news events. The cameraman set up his tripod, screwed the Sony Betacam SP onto it, and focused on the front door of the Plettenberg.

  Joubert and Vos came out. Gail Ferreira said good-bye to them at the front door. The policemen walked to their cars. The reporters hurried after them.

  The camera lens followed the procession. The microphone on the camera didn’t pick up Vos’s words, however. “Fuckit, now the TV’s here as well. You can keep the case, partner. The going’s getting rough.”

  The reporters reached them and asked for information.

  “You know you must work through PR,” Joubert said.

  “Just the basics, Captain, please.”

  “The Brigadier wants to know what we’re doing,” said Colonel Bart de Wit and nervously rubbed his mole. His smile was very vague. “He heard from PR that the television was there as well.”

  Joubert and Vos were sitting opposite him.

  “Whether it’s a new government or not, everything remains the same. Isn’t it amazing the way the entire force shits its pants every time the TV covers something,” said Vos and shook his head sadly.

  De Wit’s smile disappeared and Joubert’s heart swelled with pride in his colleague.

  “Captain, that was totally unnecessary. The service’s image is at stake here.”

  “With respect, Colonel, it’s the minister and the commissioner and the Brigadier’s image. Because when the newspapers write something, it’s fuckall. But just let the TV guys show an interest . . .”

  “Captain Vos, your language does not become an officer. And we aren’t here to do the work of PR. The Brigadier wants to know what we’re going to do.”

  Joubert saw that de Wit had regained his self-possession and his voice was heavy with that sarcastic intonation. “We’re investigating the case, Colonel.”

  “But not well enough, Captain. This is the third murder and you don’t even have a clue. Every theory bombs out. First the man who sleeps around. Then the homosexual. What’s it this time? Lesbians?”

  He knew de Wit was trying to humiliate him in front of Vos. He wanted to say something, retain his dignity, but his mind refused to formulate the words.

  “That’s unfair, Colonel. With a serial there never are any clues.” Vos defended his colleague.

  “Do you know something about the murders we don’t know, Captain?”

  “One doesn’t have to be psychic to know that it’s a serial, Colonel.”

  “There was a gun of a different caliber involved in the Melkbos murder. Doesn’t sound like the same modus operandi to me.”

  Joubert found words. “He knows his Mauser and his ammunition are not a hundred percent dependable. One jamming and you’re in trouble . . .”

  “That’s for fucking sure,” Gerbrand Vos helped.

  “And there was a jamming this morning. Only one 7.63 cartridge case.”

  De Wit said nothing.

  “We’ll know if it’s the same murderer tomorrow, Colonel.”

  “Oh?”

  “The ballistics guys in Pretoria are on the jump, Colonel. Because you evidently phoned them. I must thank you.”

  “It’s my job, Captain, to support my staff.” Then his tone of voice changed. “But what do I tell the Brigadier?”

  “I’m doing my best, Colonel,” Joubert said softly.

  “But is that enough, Captain?” de Wit asked and smiled.

  “He wants to nail you, Mat. And you’re taking it lying down?”

  Vos’s hand was on Joubert’s shoulder. They were walking down the passage on their way to their offices.

  Joubert said nothing because he thought it hadn’t gone too badly. At least he’d made a contribution, had had something to say. Usually he simply sat there . . .

  “He’s got no right to jerk you around like that.”

  “Yes, Gerry.”

  Vos stopped in front of his office door. “You’ll have to take him on, Mat. You know that?”

  Joubert nodded.

  “I’m with you, partner. All the way.”

  He mumbled his thanks and walked to his office. The ocher-colored SAP3 case files were piled up on his desk. He sat down. On top of the pile the two files slotted into one—Wallace’s and Wilson’s. He pushed the pile to one side and opened the two dossiers. Each dossier had three sections. Section A was for applicable evidence that could be used in court. Both files were pretty thin. Pictures taken by the pathologist. The forensic report, the ballistic findings, pictures of the scene.

  Section B held his not
es about the questioning and other corresponding matters. There were his summaries of conversations with Margaret Wallace, Walter Schutte, Zeelie . . .

  In section C he had made notes of everything he’d done in each investigation. His actions, those involved, the times when they occurred—everything written down in his untidy scrawl.

  He took a new, clean SAP3, took out his notebook, unfolded the report of the uniformed constable who was first on the scene, and started giving substance to the Ferdy Ferreira file.

  His thoughts drifted back to de Wit’s question. But is it enough, Captain?

  Was it? Would someone else be able to slot in the pieces of the bloody puzzle to form a picture? Would someone who didn’t have a gray veil between himself and the world have asked better questions? Shown a sharper insight into human actions? Found a suspect in the narrow range?

  He looked at the dossiers. The work wasn’t bad. Without the former enthusiasm. But that was improving. Better than those dark, dark days of the disciplinary trial and the detectives who had refused to work with him. Better than . . .

  He wanted to think about it. Examine the reasons.

  The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver. “Captain, it’s time for the fame game again,” said Cloete of public relations.

  “Oh?”

  “The TV guys want an interview. And you know how important they are to us.”

  20.

  The bank robber walked into Premier Bank’s Milnerton branch at 3:32 P.M. There was a bounce in his step. He looked like Elvis Presley today. His black hair was combed back with a curl in the floppy lock, he had sideburns, and heavy eyebrows above the dark glasses. He was dressed with a certain flamboyance in a pair of white trousers, white shoes, a white shirt, and a white jacket.

  But his cravat and the weapon under his jacket were black.

  “Hello,” he said to Rosa Wasserman, a fat nineteen-year-old brunette with nervous problems.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” said Rosa, “Can I help you?”

  Today the bank robber was doing his thing to the beat of rock and roll that only he could hear in the concert hall of his head. But there were observable signs, like the right foot tapping away, the voice that imitated the deceased King’s.

  “Indeed, sweetheart. Fetch us one of those large bank bags and fill it with fifty-rand notes. I’ve got a large old gun under my coat and I don’t want to use it.”

  The edge of the white coat was lifted slightly. Rosa heard the word sweetheart, saw the black stock of the gun. She turned to stone, her mouth at half cock, accentuating her double chin.

  “Keep the foot off the alarm as well. Come on, sweetheart, let’s boogie.”

  Rosa’s pulse rate had increased dramatically. So had the tempo of her breathing. The bank robber saw it.

  “What perfume do you use? It smells delicious.”

  This didn’t work with Rosa Wasserman. He saw panic striking her—the hands shook, the bosom heaved, the eyes grew wild, the nostrils distended, the double chin developed a life of its own.

  “Seems like I should’ve brought my Mauser,” said Elvis, and with this one brief sentence changed his status permanently.

  Rosa sometimes glanced at Die Burger in the morning before her father paged through it. She knew about the Mauser murders. Her fear of the man in front of her intensified. She put her hands over her ears as if she didn’t want to hear the shot that would end her life.

  She screamed with every ounce of power in her large body and pressed the alarm with determination.

  When the lengthy scream stopped, the robber recovered. “Sweetheart, you’ll pay for this,” Elvis said and turned toward the door.

  The alarm didn’t ring in the bank itself, only on the computerized control panel of a security firm. Rosa’s yell had petrified everyone else in the bank. They stared at her, not at the man in white. The bank robber walked out the door. Rosa pointed to him and shrieked again. The other people in the bank followed her pointing finger, heads turning in surprise, but the robber had disappeared.

  Joubert drove from Premier Bank in Milnerton to the sanatorium. He was annoyed. The newspaper reporters had asked endless questions. He knew they would go to town with this story. One look at the Argus poster was indication enough.

  MAUSER

  MURDERER

  ON THE

  RAMPAGE

  Fortunately the attempted bank robbery was too late to hit today’s newspapers. Television hadn’t even heard about it. But tomorrow all hell would be let loose. Joubert had told the small group of reporters that it didn’t necessarily indicate a connection between the bank robbery and the Mauser murders. The robber might have said it for effect. That wasn’t what they wanted to hear.

  “But you can’t exclude the possibility of a connection, Captain?”

  “No.”

  They all scribbled in their notebooks.

  Rosa Wasserman had changed from a pathetic bundle of fear into the woman of the hour. It was she who had blurted out the information to the reporters that the bank robber had spoken of “his Mauser.”

  “And he threatened me with death.”

  Benny Griessel would’ve loved it. This circus. Benny would’ve shared his usual ironic perspective on the media with him.

  Joubert stopped in front of the redbrick building and walked in. At reception he told them he wanted to see Benny Griessel. The two nurses looked meaningfully at each other.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir.”

  He was annoyed by the decided tone of her voice. “Why not?”

  “He refused medication.” She saw that the man opposite her didn’t grasp what it meant. “We don’t think Adjutant Griessel wants to see anyone at present.”

  “I don’t think you have the right to make decisions for him, nurse,” Joubert said aggressively.

  The nurse stared at him through her pebble-lensed glasses as if she was weighing him up. Then she said softly: “Come along, then.”

  They walked in a direction opposite to where Benny’s room was, she leading, he on her heels, pleased at having overcome bureaucracy.

  They walked along silent passages and then up steps.

  He heard the sounds long before they reached the door.

  Griessel’s voice, vaguely recognizable. Cries of pain. The bellowing of an animal filled with a deadly fear. A plea for help, for mercy.

  Joubert’s walk slowed. He wanted to stop. The nurse turned, took him by the sleeve of his jacket, and pulled him closer—her method of punishment.

  “Come,” she said. He didn’t look at her. He walked toward the door, the sounds resonating in his head.

  There were six hospital beds. Only on one, in the corner, a figure lay. Joubert stopped in his tracks. In the semidarkness Griessel’s black hair was visible above the white of the sheets. Heavy leather straps stretched across him from one side of the bed to the other. Benny Griessel’s body jerked under the buckles, spasmodically, like convulsions before death. The noises emanated from deep within his bowels, regular and jolting with each exhalation of breath.

  The nurse stood next to him. She said nothing. She merely looked at Joubert.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I made a mistake.”

  Then he turned on his heel and walked quickly down the gray passage. The sounds of Benny Griessel’s tortured soul still sounded in his ears long after he had reached his car.

  Margaret Wallace sat in the television room with her family. Her mother, her son, and her daughter were there. They were having their meal in front of the set because the silence and unease at the dinner table upset them all.

  “In the news tonight,” the newscaster said, his face serious, and gave the headlines. Margaret didn’t listen. The newscaster reported a new political crisis, a drought disaster in Northern Transvaal and then . . . “A third victim of the Cape’s Mauser murderer but the police are still baffled.”

  Margaret looked up and saw the photo of Ferdy Ferreira. Then the newsreader su
pplied the rest of the events.

  Didn’t she know that face?

  “You want me to switch it off, Maggie?” her mother asked.

  Margaret shook her head. She looked at the screen while shots were being shown about politics and agriculture but searched her mind for a file that would supply a connection between man and place.

  “In what seems to be developing into a major serial killer scare, the Cape’s Mauser murderer struck for the third time this morning. The victim was fifty-four-year-old Mr. Ferdy Ferreira of Melkbosstrand. Police say the antique murder weapon, a hundred-year-old Mauser Broomhandle pistol, is the only connection between this murder and the deaths of businessman James Wallace and jewelry designer Drew Wilson, who both died from close-range gunshot wounds during the past ten days.”

  While the newsreader uttered the words, the visuals that the cameraman had shot in the dunes appeared—the camera moving over the beach, ending in the patch of blood that had soaked into the sand.

  Margaret looked away because it still reminded her . . .

  Then she heard a voice she knew and looked up again. Captain Mat Joubert’s face filled the screen. His hair was still too long and somewhat untidy. His shoulders sagged as if bowed down by an invisible weight. His tie was too thin. His English accent was acceptable.

  “The only connection seems to be the murder weapon. We have no reason to believe that the victims knew one another,” the big policeman said. At the bottom of the screen the captain read CAPT M.A.T. JOUBERT-MURDER AND ROBBERY SQUAD.

  The reporter’s face appeared. “But Mr. Ferreira and his two dogs died of gunshot wounds made with a smaller caliber?”

  “Yes,” Mat Joubert replied. “We believe the murderer carries a small-caliber firearm as backup, because the Mauser seems to have been fired first but it did not prove to be fatal.”

  “Captain, do you think the Mauser murderer will strike again?”

  “It’s impossible to say,” said Joubert and he looked uncomfortable.