by Deon Meyer
“He had polio.”
“Oh.”
He asked her whether Ferdy Ferreira had ever been there again. If there was nothing else she could recall. If she had ever heard of Alexander MacDonald. All her replies were in the negative. He quickly swallowed his tea. Then he asked her for a photograph of the late James J. Wallace. “A recent one, if possible. Please.”
“Why?”
“To show the relatives of the other victims.”
“You think it means something? That Ferdy Ferreira was here?”
“I want to find out.”
She was away for a while, then came back with a photo, gave it to him without looking at it. He hurriedly stuffed it into his pocket and excused himself. She walked to the door with him and smiled when she said good-bye, but the gesture was meaningless.
Uncle Zatopek Scholtz didn’t like the Tygerberg shopping center. He didn’t like the American riverboat theme in the big atrium, he didn’t like the crowds, the loud music, and the smell of instant food. He wanted to go back to his farm beyond Malmesbury, but his wife had insisted that he stop there on his way back from the auction because Woolworth’s was having a sale of underwear and their bras were the only ones she could wear.
That’s why Uncle Zato, as everyone called him, was sitting in the Nissan truck in the parking lot until he remembered that he didn’t have more than two or three rand in cash on him. He had to put in gasoline and buy tobacco for one of the farmhands.
Uncle Zato took his Premier checkbook out of the glove compartment, got out, carefully locked the truck, straightened his jacket, and walked to the shopping center. He knew there was a branch there. He took his time, unhurried—a sixty-five-year-old man in a tweed jacket, a short-sleeved blue shirt, beige shorts, long beige socks, and brown Grasshoppers. He walked past the rows of cars, through the automatic doors to the center’s banking area, and went to the Premier branch. He opened his checkbook at a desk, wrote out a check, and joined a queue, moving forward until his turn came.
He slid the check under the glass and looked up at the very young teller with her long black hair and her sulky mouth.
“Give it in twenty-rand notes, sweetheart,” he said and put his hand in the pocket of the tweed jacket to take out his wallet.
The teller only heard the last word and saw the movement that unbuttoned the jacket and the man’s hand moving inside it.
She kicked the alarm button with a panicky foot and screamed.
Constable Vusi Khumalo was caught unawares. He was in civilian dress, standing at the window of the bank, staring outside, where a pretty black woman was mopping the floor of the shopping center. Then he heard the scream and his hand went to his belt and he yanked out the Z88, swung round, saw the teller and the man with his hand inside his jacket.
Khumalo was a good cop. He had had his baptism of fire in the townships of Cape Town in the stormy days of 1994 and in the past month had successfully passed his sergeant’s examination. And the book said spread your weight on two legs set wide apart, extend the pistol in front of you with both hands, eye behind the gunsight, and shout in a loud, commanding voice. Get respect, let them know who’s in control.
“Don’t move or I shoot.” His voice rose above the shrilling of the alarm and the terrified screams of the onlookers, his weapon aimed at Uncle Zato’s head.
The innocence of the Malmesbury farmer was conclusive. If Uncle Zato was a bank robber he would undoubtedly have stood still, immobile so that there could be no suspicion about his intentions.
But he’d had a fright, turned round quickly, saw the black man with the pistol, and instinctively wanted to hold his wallet in his hands, keeping it safe.
Uncle Zato pulled his wallet out of the inside pocket of his jacket.
Khumalo moved the pistol a few centimeters and pulled the trigger, dead certain that the man with the jacket wanted to take out a firearm.
The 9 mm round ripped through Uncle Zato’s shoulder, broke the clavicle, and tore the subclavicle artery. He fell back against the counter, his blood spouting in a thick stream against the wood paneling. He had two minutes to live before too much of his life’s fluid pumped out onto the floor.
Between the screams and the exclamations of clients and banking personnel, only Vusi Khumalo, moving forward and bending over Uncle Zato, heard the flabbergasted words: “What are you doing?”
“You wanted to rob the bank,” Khumalo said.
“No,” said Uncle Zato, but darkness was overcoming him and he couldn’t understand anything anymore.
“I think we must stop the bleeding,” a calm voice said next to Constable Khumalo. He looked up, saw a young black man in a short white coat.
“Are you a doctor?” asked Khumalo and moved away so that the man’s hand could reach Uncle Zato’s shoulder to block the red flow.
“No,” said the young man. “I’m still learning.” And he saved Zatopek Scholtz’s life.
31.
Joubert and de WIT sat in the luxurious office of Premier Bank’s district manager. The view to the north, over the harbor and Table Bay, was breathtaking. None of the three men saw it.
The district manager of Premier Bank stood right in front of Joubert and wagged his finger at him. “You promised me discretion. Discretion. Discretion is a much-loved and respected client who is fighting for his life in Tygerberg’s intensive care unit. Discretion is the chairman of my board of directors, who is waiting for me to return his call. Discretion is my managing director, who is having a coronary. Discretion is a phone call from the media every seven minutes. Discretion is a bank robber who’s still somewhere out there with a bloody great pistol while the discreet people of Murder and Robbery tell me they’re sorry.”
Sweat dripped off the district manager’s face and his high, bald head shone under the concealed lighting of the office.
“You must understand . . .” said Colonel Bart de Wit and lifted a finger of his own.
“No, I don’t have to understand anything. This fat fart”—the district manager’s finger shot in Joubert’s direction—“gave me the assurance that nothing would happen. But he’d forgotten to assure me that you would deploy a crowd of kaffer constables with cannons in my branches. He —”
Joubert got up, his body virtually touching the district manager’s, his face only inches from the man’s nose.
“Listen,” Mat Joubert said.
The district manager stepped back, kept his mouth shut.
“Listen carefully,” said Mat Joubert. “If you speak to me or speak to him,” and he indicated Bart de Wit, “you speak politely. And if you ever refer to my men again as kaffer constables, I’ll smash your face.”
The district manager looked pleadingly at de Wit. De Wit looked at Joubert. There was a small, confused smile on the Colonel’s face.
“Anyway,” said Joubert. “I can’t be that fat anymore. I’m on a diet.”
Then he sat down again.
No one said anything. The district manager stared at the carpet. He sighed deeply, walked slowly to his chair. He sat down.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. The stress . . .” He took a corporately correct handkerchief from the top pocket of his coat and pressed it against his forehead. “The stress,” he said. Then he looked up. “What now?”
“Obviously we’ll relieve Constable Khumalo and do a complete investigation of the whole incident,” said Joubert. “And this evening we’ll assemble all the policemen who have to do duty in Premier Bank branches. We’ll drill them. Safety, caution, public interest. We’ll give them a short course that they must impart to every branch member tomorrow morning. Crisis management. Self-control. Emergency planning.”
De Wit nodded his head enthusiastically.
“And from tomorrow the whole operation will be under the command of one of the Peninsula’s top detectives.”
De Wit and the district manager looked at him expectantly.
“His name is Benny Griessel.”
“No, Captain. I mean I approv
e of your reaction to his racist and discriminatory remarks. But Benny Griessel?”
They walked to Joubert’s car.
“Colonel, I’m sorry. I should’ve discussed it with you first. But I only thought of it some minutes ago. In that man’s office.”
“Griessel is lying drunk in a hospital,” de Wit said.
“I was there last night, Colonel. He’s dry. He needs something, Colonel. He must be kept busy now. He must regain his self-respect. This is just the right thing.”
“The right thing? With all the stress?”
“Benny can handle stress, Captain. It’s death he can’t handle,” Joubert said quietly.
They walked in silence to the white Sierra. Joubert unlocked the passenger door for de Wit, walked round and got in. The car was unbearably hot inside. They turned down windows. Then Joubert switched on the engine and they drove off to the N1.
Bart de Wit stared at the road through the front window. His finger rubbed the mole nervously, over and over again. He didn’t speak. Joubert sighed and concentrated on his driving.
They had already passed the N7 exit when de Wit looked at Joubert. “We’re no longer in control of this thing, Captain. Neither you nor I. The whole case has developed a life of its own. All that remains is to pray. Because, Captain, the truth of the matter is that my head is at stake. There are many eyes in the force who are watching me. Old Two Nose, they say. Old Two Nose won’t make it. He was given the post because of his buddies in the ANC. He didn’t deserve it. All I really wanted, Captain, was to prove them wrong.”
Then de Wit was silent until they turned into Kasselsvlei Road.
“You can give Benny Griessel the opportunity, Captain.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
“Who knows. Maybe someone will gain something from this mess.”
Joubert closed the special ops room in Hout Bay and shifted the investigation to the head office, back to Murder and Robbery. He sent people to Gail Ferreira and to Alexander MacDonald’s employers for photographs of the victims. He had the SAPS photographers make copies. Then he called in his team to the parade room. “Thank you very much for the trouble you took with the arms dealers and the gunsmiths,” he started his address. “Unfortunately we found nothing that we could follow up. But there’s still hope.” They looked at him expectantly.
“There is a possibility that the victims knew one another.” A few men drew in an audible breath.
“You’ll be divided into teams of two. Each team will get a set of photographs of all the victims. Leon Petersen and I will visit the relatives, you’ll take the neighbors, colleagues, and acquaintances. Start with the names on the notice board, but you’re responsible for extending the list. Anyone who lived near a victim. Contacts at work. Drinking pals. Anyone. We want to know if they knew one another.”
He ran his eyes over them. They were listening attentively, already caught up in the excitement. Tonight they’d tell their families, “I’m working on the Mauser case.”
“There’s something else, more difficult,” Joubert continued. “There might be a homosexual connection.”
A few muted whistles and the odd remark.
“This doesn’t mean that you immediately ask each and every one whether so-and-so was queer.”
They laughed. Joubert lifted his hand until silence fell again. He spoke urgently.
“If the press finds out there’ll be chaos. I urge the senior member of every team to act responsibly. Ask your questions carefully. Very carefully. There’s no direct evidence. But we have to investigate it. You’re aware of the way in which the newspapers are carrying on. The name of the force is at stake. But don’t forget the relatives of the victims. It’s hard for them. Don’t make it harder with tactlessness and loose talk. Are there any questions?”
“Is it true that Oliver Nienaber is a suspect?” someone called from the back. Joubert shook his head. The rumor was spreading.
“No longer,” he said with finality. That rumor had to be squashed. “Any more questions?”
“Case of beer for the team who cracks it?”
“Ten cases,” said Joubert and received a standing ovation.
He and Petersen found nothing from the relatives, no matter how long or how seriously the people stared at the photographs of the other victims. They had all shown the same reaction. A negative shake of the head and the inevitable: “I’m sorry but . . .”
He dropped Petersen at Murder and Robbery that afternoon and drove to the sanatorium. The nurse directed him to a recreation room on the third floor. When he walked into the room he saw Benny Griessel sitting at a table with five other people—three men and two women. They were playing cards.
“Raise you forty,” said Griessel and tossed two twenty-cent pieces into the kitty in the center of the table.
“Gawd,” said a woman with greasy hair and a long cigarette between her fingers. “You must have a flush.”
“Pay if you want to find out,” Benny said mysteriously.
Joubert went to stand behind him. No one took any notice of the new arrival.
“Raise you ten,” said a human skeleton with watery blue eyes and shot in fifty cents.
“I fold,” said an elderly woman next to him. She put her cards down. A pair of queens.
“So do I,” said a man with a network of thin red and blue ink stretching from his shoulder to his wrist—an elegant dragon, breathing fire.
“Raise you another forty,” said Griessel.
“Too rich for my blood,” said the human skeleton. “It’s your game.”
Griessel got up, leaned over the table, and raked in the money.
“Show us what you had,” the woman with the cigarette said.
“I needn’t,” said Griessel.
“Be a sport,” said the dragon.
“I bluffed,” said Griessel while he pushed the money over the edge of the table with a cupped hand, to let it fall tinkling into his wallet. Then he put the wallet down and turned over the five cards.
“Not even a pair,” the elderly woman complained.
“You’re too clever to be an alky,” said the skeleton.
“He’s only a stupid cop,” said Joubert. “And he starts working tonight.”
Griessel thanked him from the recreation room to the deserted hallway but Joubert remained stern. For fifteen minutes he laid down the law until the sergeant held up his hands. “I’ve heard it all before. From my wife, my brother, Willy Theal. And it didn’t help, Mat. I’ve got to be okay in here,” and he slapped a palm on his chest. “I’ve done a lot of thinking over the past few days. And I know I’ll manage for a week or two. Then I’ll go the same road unless I do something. I need that head doctor of yours. If my head is in shape, I can leave the liquor. And I want to leave it. But she must help me.”
“That’s a great idea, Benny.” Then he brought Griessel up to date on both investigations—the Mauser murders and the Sweetheart robber—while Griessel packed his stuff into a large paper bag. They walked down the passages together. To reception.
“And now you must take over the bank robber, Benny. Tonight. You must talk to the people. It’s your team.”
Griessel said nothing until they came to the entrance hall. “Are you leaving, Griessel?” the nurse behind the desk asked.
“Yes, Sister.”
“Are you scared, Griessel?”
“Yes, Sister,” he said and signed the release form.
“That’s good, Griessel. It keeps one dry. Keep him out of here, big boy.”
“Yes, Sister,” he echoed Griessel meekly. Then they walked down the steps together, to the car.
The great hunger struck again just after four, in his office, where he was busy checking the lists and tabulations on the investigation, looking for more possibilities. His hunger was a sudden realization that broke his concentration like thunder—contracting, noisy guts, a trembling hand, a curious light-headedness, and the certain knowledge that he wanted to eat now, seated at a t
able armed with a knife and fork and attacking a plate of food boldly and committedly: a thick, juicy steak; a steaming potato baked in foil, with sour cream; cauliflower with a rich cheese sauce; green beans with tomato and onion; a gem squash in which butter gently melted while he shook salt and pepper over the lot.
He saw the food so clearly, the impulse to get into his car right away and drive to a restaurant was so strong, that he had reached the door when he had to stop himself physically by banging his hand against the frame.
Big boy, the nurse had called him.
Fat fart, the district manager of Premier Bank had said.
He sat down at his desk and lit a Special Mild. His stomach rumbled again, a long drawn-out sound with multiple crescendos.
He looked for the dietitian’s number, found it in his notebook, and dialed. She answered before the end of the first ring. He identified himself. “My diet isn’t working.”
She bombarded him with questions until she was satisfied. “No, Captain, your diet will work if you stick to it. You can’t keep to your program in the morning and evening only. The midday meals . . .”
“I work during my lunch hour.”
“Make your lunch in the evening, Captain. And take it to work.”
He said nothing, shaking his head at the unfairness of it all.
“Dieting is hard work, Captain. It’s not easy.”
“That’s true,” said Joubert and gave a deep sigh.
There was a long silence during which only the static on the telephone line was audible. Eventually the dietitian said: “You can crook once a week. But then you must crook cleverly.”
“Crook cleverly,” Joubert said hopefully.
“All I can suggest is that you stop by to pick up A New Generation.”
“A what?”
“Cookbook for a New Generation. From the Heart Foundation. With that you can crook cleverly. Once a week.”
“Cookbook for a New Generation,” he said later and felt like a fool. Hunger made his guts rumble again.
32.