Dead Before Dying: A Novel

by Deon Meyer

  “It’s a Special Mild.”

  “Oh. So that doesn’t cause cancer.”

  “Doctor,” he said firmly, “the weapon used in the Ferreira murder was a Smith & Wesson Model 61. According to one of our weapons experts, it’s typical of a gun a woman would use.”

  “And?”

  “It doesn’t match your theory, Doctor . . .”

  “Doctor. You sound like a vicar. Call me Anne. And drop the ‘doctor’ bit. I like it when men are rude to me. It keeps me in my place. Of course it matches my theory. If you have a Mauser, you already have a large pistol, no matter how small your prick is.”

  “Are you certain it’s a man?”

  “Of course I’m not sure. It could be a woman. It could be a lesbian chimpanzee. I can only tell you what the law of averages says. I don’t have an ashtray. You’ll have to open the window.”

  “I must go.”

  “You’re so beautifully tall and big. Your body, I mean. I like big men. Small ones carry too much inferiority. Bodies too small for all the hormones.”

  He was confused. He looked at the window to avoid the legs and the full breasts.

  “You look like a bear. I like bears. I think a person’s looks have a great influence on their personality. Don’t you agree?” Her eyes were still fixed on him, her concentration aimed at him like a weapon. He looked at her and then away. He hadn’t the vaguest idea of what to say.

  “Do I make you uncomfortable? Are you the kind of man who likes more subtle women?”

  “I . . . er . . .”

  “Are you married, Mat Joubert?”

  “No, I —”

  “Neither am I. I’m divorced. One of those heartrending affairs that didn’t pan out. He was . . . is a surgeon. We’re still friends. That’s it. Now you know.”

  “Oh.” He knew he had to get the conversation under control. He decided to be decisive. “I —”

  She interrupted him. “I hate social games. I hate the artificial manner in which people communicate. The superficiality. I think one should say what you want to say. Say what you mean. People don’t always like it. Especially men. Men want to be in control, they want to play the game according to their rules. The love games, especially. Why go through all the pretense first? If I think a man is sexy, I want to say so. If a man wants me, he mustn’t take me to an expensive restaurant first and send me flowers. He must take me. Don’t you think it saves time?”

  He looked at her legs. “I know an eighteen-year-old student in Monte Vista who agrees with you,” he said and felt better.

  “Tell me about her. Is she your lover? Do you like them young? I’m thirty-two. Does that disqualify me?”

  “She’s not my lover.”

  “Why do you sound disappointed about it?” She didn’t give him a chance to reply.

  “You’re very different from what I imagined you to be, you know. A Murder and Robbery detective. I imagined this hard, sophisticated man with a scar on his face and cold, blue eyes. And here you are. A big, shy bear. And absent. You look absent to me, Mat Joubert. Are you?”

  “A little,” he said and felt it was a victory.

  “Do you know one lives only once?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “You must grab it.”

  “I . . .”

  “Every day, every moment.”

  “I must go.”

  “Do I exhaust you? Many people say I exhaust them. But I do have friends. I can prove it.”

  “In a court of law?”

  She smiled. “I’m going to miss you, Matthew.”

  He put his cigarettes, pen, and notebook in his coat pocket.

  “Thank you very much for your time, Doc . . . Anne.”

  “You see, we’re making progress. Hang on, I’ll walk out with you.”

  They walked in silence down the house’s passage, over the veranda, into the sunlight. He saw her gleaming skin brown and bright, her open shoulders, her legs. He saw her buttocks moving under the minidress.

  She looked round, caught him looking. “Will I see you again?”

  “If there’s anything else . . .”

  “I’ll see you again, Matthew Joubert. That’s a promise.”

  27.

  The press conference had been moved to the entrance hall of police headquarters because there were too many people.

  “You’re late,” Cloete of PR said when he caught sight of Mat Joubert. He looked worried and panicky. “There are two TV teams present from overseas stations. And one from the SABC. And one from M-Net—they were making a program for Carte Blanche. There are newspaper people here I’ve never seen before.” Then he hurried away to inform the General that Joubert had arrived.

  The press formed a semicircle. The bright television lights shone on a small table. The General sat at the table. Next to him sat the Brigadier and de Wit. The General crooked a finger at Joubert. “Found anything?”

  Had he found anything? He had tried to think on the way back to Cape Town. But Dr. Anne Boshoff lay like a shadow over his thoughts. He wondered whether women with a double f in their names were all the same. Bonnie Stoffberg, Anne Boshoff. Did the extra f stand for . . . He’d shaken his head at his inability to rid his mind of sex. Barely in love with Hanna Nortier and now you want to lie between the other clever doctor’s legs. Raging bull. From conscientious objector to Ramblin’ Rambo in a mere two weeks. Yes, General, I’ve found something. Something I can’t handle very well.

  “I think so, General.”

  “Good. I’ll begin and then introduce you.”

  No. He wasn’t prepared. He couldn’t tell them they were looking for a middle-class homosexual who had possibly been adopted or illegitimate.

  “Dames en here . . .” the General said loudly and the media scrambled for cameras and notebooks. More bright lights were switched on.

  “Dames en here.” No quiet.

  “Can you speak English?” someone called. Camera motor drives whirred. Flashlights went off.

  “Dames en here, dankie . . .” Cloete had jogged round to the General and whispered in his ear. The General looked annoyed. Then he nodded.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for being here. Let me start by saying that the South African Police Service are doing everything they can to apprehend the ruthless murderer who are killing people without apparent reason.”

  Is, Joubert thought. The murderer who is.

  “We regard this matter in a very serious light and are allocating as many people as we can to assist with the investigation. I cannot tell you everything we are doing, because some of it is part of our strategy to catch the person or persons involved. What I can tell you, are that the investigating officer, Captain Mat Joubert, have as many policemen at his disposal as he needs. We have already given him all available staff from Murder and Robbery. If necessary, we will also give him more. This now has become the biggest manhunt the Cape has ever seen. We will not rest before the person or persons responsible for these thoughtless murders is apprehended. Now, I leave you in the hands of Captain Mat Joubert. Afterward, I will answer your questions. If you have any.”

  Then the General announced: “Captain Joubert.”

  Joubert walked round the table. The press buzzed. The General got up and offered him his chair. The lights shone in his eyes. The cameras clicked again. He could see no one beyond the lights. He sat down. The bunch of microphones in front of him was intimidating.

  “Good afternoon,” he said and hadn’t the faintest idea of what else to say.

  The press waited.

  Begin with this morning, he thought, panicking. After all, he had spoken in front of people before. But there were so many here.

  “E . . .”

  His heart thudded in his chest. His mouth was dry. He was breathing too quickly.

  “As you know . . .”

  He heard his own strong Afrikaans accent. His heart beat faster.

  “. . . the Mauser killer struck this morning for the fourth time.”
<
br />   His notebook. Where was his notebook? He felt in his inside pocket. It wasn’t there. Had he taken it back from Anne Boshoff? The other pocket. Felt in the other pocket. He found it. The relief was brief. The silence was heavy in the hall. Someone giggled, someone coughed. He took out the notebook and opened it. He saw that his hands were shaking.

  “The victim . . .”

  De wiektum. Fucking stupid policeman.

  “. . . was forty-one-year-old Alexander MacDonald of Hammerhead Street in Houtbaai . . . er . . . Hout Bay.”

  Someone called his name. He ignored it.

  “The perpetrator used a weapon similar to the previous . . .”

  “Captain Joubert . . .”

  “Just a moment,” the Brigadier said next to him. Joubert was confused.

  Then he saw a figure moving past the lights, toward the table. It was Petersen.

  “Excuse me, Captain. I’m sorry. But we’ve found something. This very minute.”

  The General joined them. “Who the hell are you?” he asked in a lowered tone.

  “Lieutenant Petersen, of Murder and Robbery, General.”

  “They’ve found something, General,” Joubert said. He heard the buzz of the press increasing in volume.

  “It better be important, Lieutenant,” the General said.

  “Indeed,” said the Brigadier.

  “One of the neighbors, General,” Petersen said in a whisper. “He saw a car at the murder scene this morning. A new five series BMW.”

  “And?” said the General impatiently.

  “He said it was early. He was on his way to the bus stop. Then he saw a man getting out of the BMW and walking into MacDonald’s house. And minutes later the BMW raced past him.”

  “Did he see the man? Recognize him?” The General had trouble in keeping his voice down.

  “Barely. He said it happened too quickly. But he saw the registration number. It was easy to remember. CY 77.”

  “Fuckit!” said the General. “Find out who it is.”

  “We already have, General. That’s why we’re here. We want Captain Joubert to come with us.”

  “Fuckit,” said the General and cleared his throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Quiet please. Ladies and gentlemen.” One could hear a pin drop. “Our efforts has paid off.”

  Have, Joubert thought. Have paid off.

  “We now received fresh information and I think a suspect will be arrested in a matter of hours. We will now excuse Captain Mat Joubert, who will follow up this new lead.”

  Joubert got up with the buoyancy of total relief. The press shouted questions but Joubert walked to the door past the group, with Leon Petersen.

  “Please, ladies and gentlemen, please, can I have your attention,” the General shouted.

  Then Joubert and Petersen were out the door.

  “To whom does the BMW belong?” Joubert asked.

  “Oliver Sigmund Nienaber.”

  For a moment he was speechless. He stopped in his tracks. “The Oliver Nienaber?”

  “The very same. ‘No one cuts your hair better or cheaper. I promise.’”

  “Fuckit,” said Joubert and felt like a general.

  The house was high up against the rise of Tygerberg, with a view across Bellville and the Cape Flats, to the Hottentots-Holland range. It was built on three levels, a modern building of white-painted concrete and glass. They stopped in front of the three-door garage.

  “Rich, because of woman’s vanity,” Petersen said.

  They walked up the stairs next to the garage. The front door was large. Joubert pressed the doorbell. They couldn’t hear it ring. They waited.

  The front door opened. A black woman in a neat uniform appeared.

  “Can I help you?”

  Joubert flashed her the plastic card on which his photo, the police crest, and his details were shown. “We’re from the police. We would like to see Oliver Nienaber, please.”

  Her eyes widened. “Please come in,” she said and turned round. They walked into the entrance hall. She disappeared down the passage. They heard women’s voices while they studied the modern painting against the wall. Then a blond woman appeared. They recognized her. Mrs. Antoinette Nienaber, née Antoinette van Zyl, star of such unforgettable movies as A Rose for Janey, Seven Soldiers, and A Woman in Love. And today, as so many magazine and newspaper articles repeated over and over again, she was still happily married to the hairdresser king, owner of a chain of salons, the head of Hair Today, Oliver Nienaber.

  She was still beautiful enough to take their breath away. She gave them a friendly smile. “Good evening. May I help you?”

  Joubert coughed. “Mrs. Nienaber, I’m Captain Joubert and this is Lieutenant Petersen. We’re from the police’s Murder and Robbery squad and would like to speak to Mr. Nienaber.”

  Her smile widened. “Of course. Please come in. He’s playing snooker with the boys.” She walked ahead, and Joubert thought that she must be close to forty but that there was nothing wrong with her body.

  She stood in the doorway of a large room. “Oliver, someone to see you.”

  They heard his voice. “At this time of the evening?”

  His wife didn’t reply.

  “You carry on. Play for me, Toby. We can still win.”

  “Okay, Pa.”

  Oliver Nienaber came through the door. The well-known face could be seen virtually every day in full-page advertisements in the newspapers with the equally well-known words: NOBODY CUTS YOUR HAIR BETTER OR CHEAPER. I PROMISE. And his flamboyant signature and the big logo of Hair Today. And, usually, at the bottom: NOW OPEN AT . . . George. Or Laingsburg. Or Oudtshoorn. Or Kimberley.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said jovially. “I’m sorry, but I don’t cut hair in the evening.”

  “They’re from the police, darling,” said Antoinette Nienaber softly. She introduced them. “Take them to the study and I’ll organize something to drink. Tea? Coffee?”

  They all wanted coffee. Nienaber led them to his study.

  He didn’t sit behind the desk. The room was big enough to have a corner for a couch and armchairs. “Please sit down. I don’t have a visit from the police every day.”

  Joubert saw the framed certificates and photos and newspaper advertisements against the wall.

  “The same advertisements for the past six years. And they’re still working,” Nienaber said as he followed Joubert’s eyes.

  “How many salons do you have now?” Joubert asked.

  “The sixty-second opened its doors in Cradock last week. And now we’re going to Gauteng. If I can find a good local manager. How about it? Don’t you feel like it?” Nienaber spoke to Joubert, ignored Petersen completely. He was relaxed and comfortable but Joubert knew it meant nothing.

  “Mr. Nienaber . . .”

  “How can I help you?”

  “We’re from Murder and Robbery . . .”

  “Goodness, it sounds serious.”

  “Does the name Alexander MacDonald mean anything to you?”

  “MacDonald? MacDonald? You know, I meet so many people . . .”

  “Mr. MacDonald is the owner of MacDonald Fisheries, a small concern in Hout Bay with two fishing trawlers. Big man. Red hair,” Petersen said.

  “What’s his name? Alexander? Why does it sound vaguely familiar?” Nienaber stared at the ceiling and rubbed his ear.

  “You didn’t visit anyone with that name today?”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “You are the owner of a new dark red BMW with the license plate CY 77?”

  “That’s right.” No sign of worry.

  “You used the vehicle today?”

  “I use it every day.”

  “To your knowledge the vehicle wasn’t used by anyone else today?”

  “No . . . Could you tell me . . . Has my car been stolen?”

  “When last did you see your car, Mr. Nienaber?” Joubert asked.

  “This afternoon, when I came home.”
<
br />   “And at what time did you leave this morning?”

  “Six o’clock. I think it was around six. I always like to be in the office early.” His face began to show concern. “Would you like to tell me what this is about, please?”

  “You weren’t —”

  “Knock, knock,” Antoinette Nienaber said at the door, a tray with coffee mugs in her hands. Nienaber sprang up. “Thank you, love,” he said.

  “Pleasure,” she smiled, as relaxed as before. “Is everything okay, darling?”

  “Just fine.”

  “Do help yourselves to biscuits,” she said and walked out. Nienaber held the tray for the detectives in silence. Then he sat down. “You have to tell me what this is about.”

  “You weren’t in Hout Bay between six and half past six this morning?”

  “No, I’ve told you . . .”

  “Think carefully, Mr. Nienaber,” Petersen said.

  “Heavens, Sergeant, I know where I was.”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Sorry. Lieutenant,” Nienaber said, and there was a lot of irritation in his voice.

  He doesn’t like Petersen asking the questions, Joubert thought. Rich, racist bastard.

  “Do you know about the Mauser murders that have been committed in the Cape recently, Mr. Nienaber?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Yes. I mean . . . I read the newspapers. There was something on television.”

  “Do you possess a Mauser Broomhandle, Mr. Nienaber?”

  “No. You can’t possibly imagine . . . What’s going on here?”

  “Can you explain why your car, a dark red five series BMW with the registration CY 77 was seen this morning in front of the house of Alexander MacDonald, the latest victim of the Mauser murderer?”

  Nienaber sat up straight, almost rose. “How would I . . . No. You’re cops. You’ve heard of false number plates. I told you I was in the office just after six this morning.”

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  “That I was there? No, that’s why I go in so early. So that I can be alone and get work done.”

  “So you were at work at six o’clock?”

  “Yes.” Relief. These people were going to believe him.

  “And it’s not near Hout Bay?”

  “That’s correct.”