by Deon Meyer
And if the driver was Captain Mat Joubert to boot . . .
All he needed was one small lead that didn’t disappear like mist before the sun when you gave it a sharp look. Just one. A small one.
He picked up a plank to take to the spare room to fit it. Before he was out of the garage he heard Zeelie bowling Loxton for a duck.
22.
The news editor of the Weekend Argus paged through the Saturday edition. He was looking for follow-ups for the Sunday edition—news that hadn’t had the last bit of blood squeezed out of it. So that he could assign reporters to do just that.
He paged from the back to the front, past the copy on page six under the small headline SEA POINT WOMAN DIES IN FALL.
He didn’t read the details because he knew the contents. He had, after all, checked the new reporter’s work.
A 32-year-old Sea Point secretary, Ms. Carina Oberholzer, sustained fatal injuries when she fell from her thirteenth-story flat in Yates Road.
Ms. Oberholzer, an employee of Petrogas in Rondebosch, was alone in her flat at the time.
According to a police spokesman, foul play is not suspected. “We believe it was a tragic accident.”
The news editor turned to page two, where there were a few run-on stories about the Mauser murder. Tucked into the unattractive nonmodular page makeup, there was a half-column photo of Captain Mat Joubert.
And, as he told the crime reporter of the Argus sometime later, it rang a bell somewhere. He picked up the receiver next to him and dialed an internal number, waited until someone answered.
“Hi, Brenda. I need a file, pronto, please. M.A.T. Joubert. Captain, Murder and Robbery.” He thanked her and rang off. Eight minutes later the brown file landed on his desk. He shifted the telexes in front of him out of the way, opened the file, and quickly paged through the contents as if he was looking for something. Then he gave a sigh of relief and extracted a somewhat yellowing Argus report and read it.
He got up, the copy in his hand, and walked to the crime reporter’s desk in the general news office. “Did you know that this guy’s wife died in the line of duty?” he asked and handed over the evidence.
“No,” said Genevieve Cromwell, who despite her name was an unprepossessing, unattractive woman. She shifted her glasses.
“Could be a nice story. Human interest angle. Two years after, still pursuing justice, still wearing the tragedy, that sort of shit.”
Genevieve’s face brightened. “Yeah,” she said. “He might have a new girlfriend.”
“Don’t go starry-eyed on me,” the news editor said. “Let’s do something so comprehensive that there’s nothing left for the others. Talk to him, his boss, his friends, his neighbors. Hit the files, dig a little.”
“He’s a nice man, you know.”
“I’ve never met him.”
“He’s a nice man. Sort of shy.”
“Get that fucking romantic look off your face, dear, and get going.”
“And handsome, too, in a big cuddly bear kind of way.”
“Jesus,” he said, shook his head in disgust, and walked back to his office. But Genevieve didn’t hear her boss blaspheming. She stared at the ceiling, seeing nothing.
Joubert made his second little error when he was putting a screw through the metal strip into the wall.
When it still had a quarter way to go, the screw refused to budge. He decided to give the screw a little help with a few taps of the hammer. This was a wrong decision, because the hole he had drilled earlier simply wasn’t deep enough.
When he tapped the screw with the hammer it broke, plastic anchor and all, together with a hefty piece of plaster.
Joubert, who wasn’t in Gerbrand Vos’s league, said something that would’ve cheered his colleague’s heart. Emily, ironing in the kitchen, heard it. She smiled and put her hand in front of her mouth.
Cloete of public relations phoned just after a quarter past five on the Saturday afternoon.
Bart de Wit was playing chess with Bart Junior. But he didn’t mind the invasion of his time because he was losing.
“Sorry to bother you at home, Colonel, but the Argus has just phoned me. They want to do a major story on Captain Joubert. Because he’s investigating the murders and the bank robberies. Interview with you, with members of his team, with him, his previous cases, the whole tutti.”
De Wit’s first thought was that the newspaper knew something.
It could happen. He thought. Reporters dug up information in impossible places. And now they were suspicious.
“No,” de Wit said.
“Colonel?”
“No. Under no circumstances. Over my dead body.”
Cloete’s heart sank. He waited for the colonel to offer some explanation. But Bart de Wit said nothing. Eventually Cloete said he would inform the Argus and said good-bye. Why had he ever accepted this post? It was impossible to keep every officer and every member of the press happy at the same time.
He sighed and phoned the reporter.
Joubert had all four screws secured to the wall.
He stood back and had a look. The hole where the plaster had fallen off the wall was unsightly. He saw that not all the strips were level. His eye, without the spirit level, had not been all that accurate.
You are not a handyman, he acknowledged resignedly. But once the books were on the shelves they would virtually cover the strips. But right now he needed a cigarette. And a Castle . . . No, not a Castle. A pear?
“What’s happening to you?” he said loudly.
“Mr. Mat?” Emily asked in the kitchen.
Bart de Wit Junior won the game easily because his father’s thoughts were not on chess.
His father’s mind was working at top speed. The big question was whether the newspapers knew about Joubert’s psychological treatment and the black marks on his record. And if they knew, how did they know?
But if he presumed that they might not know, what were the chances of their finding out?
They’re like hyenas, he thought. They would gnaw and bite at the bone until it snapped and they could get to the juicy marrow of the story, which they would then suck with a great noise.
Whether they knew or not, he was going to take Captain Mat Joubert off the investigations. On Monday morning.
Not a pleasant task but it was part of a leader’s work. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made so that the law could take its course.
Rather give the cases to Gerbrand Vos.
It was like a weight off his shoulders. He felt relieved. He applied his concentration to the board in front of him.
“Checkmate,” said Bart Junior and rubbed his finger alongside his nose. There was no mole there.
He took Mrs. Nofomela to the bus terminus at Bellville station by car and drove home. He was physically tired, he felt dirty and sweaty, and he was hungry. The more he thought about his hunger, the more it grew.
He decided that he needed a good meal. Not junk food. He would go to a decent restaurant. For a steak, thick and brown and juicy, a fillet that melted in the mouth, with . . .
No, he would have to stick to fish. For the diet. Kingklip. A large, fat slice of kingklip with lemon butter sauce. No, sole, the way they prepared it at the Lobster Pot—grilled, with a cheese and mushroom sauce.
His mouth filled with saliva. His stomach growled like far-off thunder. When last had he been this hungry? Really hungry, with that slight light-headedness, that sharp readiness for the taste of food, the pleasure of satiety? He couldn’t remember.
He bathed and dressed and drove to the restaurant. When he sat down he knew it had been the wrong thing to do.
It wasn’t the eyes staring at the big man sitting alone that upset him. It was the sudden realization, when he looked at the couples who sat at tables talking softly and intimately, that he was alone.
He gobbled his sole because he wanted to get away. Then he drove home. He heard the telephone at the door. He walked quickly, with a heavy tread, and picked up the r
eceiver.
“Hello, Captain Joubert?”
He recognized the voice. “Hello, Dr. Nortier.”
“Do you remember that I spoke about social groups?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow morning we’re going to the Friends of the Opera’s preview of The Barber. It’s at eleven o’clock in the orchestra’s practice room at the Nico. You’re very welcome to join us.”
Her voice sang and danced over the electronic distance between them. He saw her features in his mind’s eye.
“I . . . er . . .”
“You don’t have to decide now. Think about it.”
“I’m busy building a bookcase.”
She sounded surprised and impressed. “I didn’t know woodwork was your hobby.”
“Well . . . er . . .”
“Well, perhaps we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Maybe.” And he said good-bye.
He looked at his watch. It was half past seven. Which meant that she didn’t have a very busy social life on this Saturday evening, either.
It made him feel better.
23.
Oliver Nienaber was reading the Sunday edition of the Weekend Argus. He was in bed, his wife next to him. She was reading the newspaper’s magazine. It was part of their Sunday-morning ritual. Except that since the day before yesterday Oliver Nienaber had been reading his newspapers with far closer attention than usual. That was why he saw the small report about Carina Oberholzer.
Now Oliver Nienaber urgently needed to get up. He needed to move, he wanted to run away, away from the things that were happening. The timing couldn’t have been worse because he was about to achieve his ideals, make his dreams come true. Things were going so well, with him, his family, his business.
And now the Mauser murders and the death of Carina Oberholzer.
We believe it was a tragic accident, the police were quoted in the newspaper. He didn’t agree. He had a strong suspicion that it was no accident. How it could’ve happened he couldn’t imagine. Because it was difficult to imagine . . .
Again he felt the tightening in his chest, as if a giant hand were pressing down on it.
He would have to speak to MacDonald. And Coetzee.
Then it struck him. MacDonald or Coetzee might well be the “accident.” Mac was big enough to fling a woman like Carina Oberholzer out of her window with one hand. But why would he . . .
Coetzee? What about Coetzee? No. It made no sense.
It made no sense. He got up, purposefully.
“What now, darling?” his wife asked and creased the flawless, smooth, creamy skin of her forehead.
“I’ve just remembered a call I have to make.”
“You never relax,” she said with more admiration than reproach and went back to the magazine she was holding.
He walked to his study and dialed the number of MacDonald Fisheries. There was no reply. It’s Sunday, idiot, he told himself. He would drive to Hout Bay tomorrow. He had to discuss this affair.
It made him uneasy. It was irritating. It could spoil everything.
Margaret Wallace didn’t read the Sunday papers. Especially now, after her husband’s death.
But she caught a quick glimpse of the front page of the Sunday Times that her mother had bought. There was a report about the Mauser murders with a smallish photo of Ferdy Ferreira next to it.
She went to sit in the summer sun on the swing seat in the garden with a cup of coffee. The sun, its warmth, seemed to lighten her pain.
Where had she seen that face before?
Think carefully, she thought. Think systematically. Start with Jimmy’s work. Think, because it might help to catch the scum who had taken Jimmy away. And perhaps that would relieve her enormous grief. If only she knew why someone had wanted to do it to him, to her, to them.
He had finished sawing the planks. He placed them on the metal struts, arranged the shelves so that his paperbacks would fit.
His thoughts were even busier.
The Barber?
Was that the name of an opera? He thought so. Somewhere there was a brain cell with the information, wrestling against the dark. How silly human beings were. He laughed at himself. He could’ve asked what The Barber was. “Dr. Hanna, please explain to this fucking stupid policeman what The Barber is.” And more than likely she would’ve enjoyed it and he would’ve known by now. But human beings were odd. They didn’t want to be caught out. Live a lie and resist being caught out at any price.
If it was an opera he didn’t want to go.
It was Sunday Afternoon music. Those hours that were sheer torture when he was at high school, when the silence in the house was palpable, a noiseless sound, when he had the radio in his room on very softly so that it wouldn’t disturb his parents and some or other fat woman yelled as if she was being assaulted—morally or immorally.
He had cut the one plank too short.
How on earth had he managed that? He had measured each one so carefully. That meant he’d need another plank. He wouldn’t be able to finish today.
If he went, he would be able to see Hanna Nortier.
Revel in her strange attractiveness.
But the others. The other crazies. He didn’t want to follow her to the opera with a herd of rabid sheep. “Hey, there’s Doc Nortier with her patients. Hello, Doc. Shame, look at that big number with the dull eyes. Shell-shocked, probably.”
Suddenly he remembered Griessel. He would have to . . . visit was the wrong word. He would have to see him.
Then he might as well . . .
And he decided to go to the bloody opera preview and then go and see Benny afterward. If it was possible.
Hanna Nortier stood in the passage of the orchestra’s practice room, a frown on her face.
He saw that she was informally dressed and his stomach contracted. He was wearing gray trousers and his black blazer with the crest of the Police College’s swimming team on the pocket. And a white shirt with a maroon tie. She looked small and slender and defenseless in her long navy skirt, white blouse, and white sandals. She smiled when she saw him, an odd expression on her face because the frown was still there and competed with the smile.
“No one else has come,” she said and looked past him at the entrance.
“Oh,” he said. It was a possibility he hadn’t considered. He stood next to her, uncomfortable. The blazer was slightly tight across the shoulders. He folded his hands in front of him. Hanna Nortier was dwarfed next to him. She still looked frowningly at the entrance, then at her watch, an overdone gesture that he didn’t see.
“They’re going to begin now.” But she remained where she was, uncomfortable.
Joubert didn’t know what to say. He looked at the other people who were walking through the door at the end of the passage. They were all informally clad. There wasn’t a tie in sight. He felt everyone staring at him. At him and Hanna Nortier. Beauty and the Beast.
She made a decision. “Let’s go and sit down.”
She walked ahead of him, down the passage and through the door. It was a large room, almost as big as the Olympic swimming pool in which he suffered every morning. The floor was contoured into steps, like a flat amphitheater, which ran from a low center and divided to rise on both sides of the middle aisle. Chairs covered the contoured steps. Almost every seat had already been taken. Below, in the center, there was a piano, a few chairs, and some stainless steel music stands.
He followed her, looked at his black shoes. He saw that they weren’t shined. He wished he could hide them. It felt as if the audience’s eyes were fixed with his, on his drab shoes. And his tie.
Eventually she sat down. He sat next to her. He glanced around him. No one was looking at him. People were chatting to one another, wholly relaxed.
Should he tell her that he knew nothing about opera? Before she wanted to discuss it and he made a fool of himself. Perhaps he should.
“Well,” she said and smiled at him. Without the frown. He wished he could get r
id of his frustrations so easily, immediately and totally. “You’re the one I didn’t expect, Captain Mat Joubert.”
Tell her.
“I . . .”
A collection of people filed through the door. The audience applauded enthusiastically. The arrivals sat down on chairs against the wall at the back of the piano. One man remained standing. The applause died down and the man smiled. He began speaking.
It seemed as if he and Drew Wilson would’ve liked each other, Joubert thought.
The man spoke about Rossini. His voice wasn’t loud but Joubert could hear him clearly. He gave Hanna Nortier a quick glance. She was fascinated.
Joubert took a deep breath. It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought.
The speaker spoke with great enthusiasm. Joubert began to listen.
“And then, at thirty-seven, Rossini wrote his last opera. William Tell,” the man said.
Ha, Joubert thought. The Great Predator also feasts on the flesh of the famous.
“For the remaining forty years of his life, he wrote no other opera—unless one could describe the Stabat Mater as such. Was he lazy? Was he tired? Or had the creative urge simply dried up?” the man asked and was quiet for a brief moment.
“We will never know.”
Not the work of the Predator, Joubert thought, but Rossini remained his blood brother. Except that he had beaten the composer. He was only thirty-four and he was already tired, his creative juices exhausted. Would the brain behind great compositions like The State Versus Thomas Maasen and gripping works like The Case of the Oranjezicht Rapist never solve a classical crime again?
We will never know.
Or will we?
The speaker was talking about The Barber of Seville. Joubert burned the full name of the opera into his mind. He didn’t want to forget it. If Hanna Nortier spoke about it, he didn’t want to make a fool of himself at any price.