Dead Before Dying: A Novel

by Deon Meyer

  “I think we’re making headway,” he said, not sure whether he believed it himself.

  “There is new information but we’re not quite sure how it all fits together.” He found his latest notes, hurriedly made just before the impromptu conference.

  “But let me start at the beginning. Four of the victims have been connected in sets of two. James Wallace obviously knew Ferreira. Wallace’s wife says she’s certain Ferreira came to see her husband at home one evening, but Ferreira’s wife says she knows nothing about it. We don’t know why he went there. Then we’re sure that MacDonald knew Nienaber. Nienaber admitted that he was at the murder scene but . . .”

  “Why do I only hear about this now?” the Brigadier demanded.

  Petersen sank lower in his chair. De Wit’s mouth opened and closed. “I . . .”

  “Nienaber had his attorney at the interrogation, Brigadier. We had to work according to the book. And there was simply too little evidence. He was well known, an influential man . . .” Hopelessly Joubert tried to shore up his position.

  “You should’ve informed me.”

  “We should’ve, Brigadier. It was my fault. But we wanted to keep a low profile because we put a tail on him. We thought he was a suspect in the case. We wanted to see whether we could find a connection between him and the others. But because the relatives of the others couldn’t confirm anything . . .”

  “You should’ve told me . . .”

  “You said there was new information,” de Wit said hopefully.

  Joubert threw him a grateful look. “That’s right, Colonel. By chance we saw in Nienaber’s telephone book that he had underlined a few names. MacDonald’s. And a Miss Carina Oberholzer’s . . . She fell out of her window on the thirteenth floor of an apartment building in Sea Point on Friday evening. Pathologist says there were no other injuries or bullet wounds. Sea Point’s detectives say that there were no signs of a struggle. But I can’t believe that it was coincidence. On Friday the Ferreira murder happened. On Monday it was MacDonald, where Nienaber also happened to be. The timing . . . Her boss—she was a secretary at Petrogas—says she was bright and cheerful on Friday as she always was. Her friend has a restaurant on the waterfront. He said he’d spoken to her on the telephone that afternoon and she had said she would come and lend a hand during the rush hour around nine o’clock. Later on he became worried and tried to telephone her, after ten sometime, and there was no reply. He could only go and look for her when he closed but by then she was dead.”

  “So he has an alibi,” Vos said.

  “Yes,” said Joubert. “And he needed one. Carina Oberholzer was his sly. The bastard is married. And he says Oberholzer knew it.”

  Detective Sergeant Carl van Deventer owed his promotion to Murder and Robbery to having become the best burglary detective in Cape Town’s police station.

  He could, just before he left the city’s station, say whether a burglar was a professional or an amateur simply by looking at the marks, or lack of them, on the locks of a house or flat’s front door.

  Like a fortuneteller reading tea leaves, so van Deventer could look at the crime scene of a burglary and sometimes rattle off the name and the criminal history of the offender by the manner in which the drawers had been opened, the way the cigarette butts of the burglar had been placed in an ashtray.

  He had achieved his expertise through a deep-seated interest, hard work, and study—not only for the official police exams but also at the University of the Street. By questioning those charged, by asking them kindly but urgently to tell him how they had disarmed the alarm, how they had manipulated the mechanism of a lock.

  And through the years he had built up a set of burglar’s tools that had made him a legend.

  If you worked at Murder and Robbery and the children flushed the house keys down the toilet in a friend’s house, you didn’t phone a locksmith—you sent for Carl van Deventer. If you wanted to sidestep the law of criminal procedure in a small way by searching a suspect’s house or office without the necessary documents (or keys), you telephoned van Deventer.

  If you had a locked attaché case and the combination had accompanied Oliver Nienaber to eternity, you asked van Deventer to bring his little screwdrivers.

  Van Deventer was investigating a satanic murder in Durbanville when Detective Constable Snyman phoned him with the request.

  “Leave it on my desk. I’ll be there this afternoon,” van Deventer had said.

  True to his word he set to work immediately when he got back to the office. He took his little black leather bag out of his jacket’s inner pocket, chose the right implement, wiggled a bit here, pressed a little there, and the two locks of the attaché case snapped open, exactly forty-four seconds after he had taken the tool out of the bag.

  Van Deventer’s reward for his work was that he was allowed to see the contents of the case. He lifted the lid, saw the Star 9 mm, and knew he mustn’t fiddle with the contents because it could be the murder weapon. You didn’t screw around with a murder weapon unless you were looking for early retirement.

  He phoned Snyman but there was no reply. He phoned Mat Joubert but he wasn’t in his office, either. Van Deventer did what the book told him he had to do with a potential murder weapon. He walked to Mavis Petersen at Murder & Robbery’s reception desk, signed in the case at the door, walked to the safe, and locked it away. Then he asked Mavis to tell Snyman or Joubert that it was open and ready for their attention.

  He didn’t know that the Star wasn’t a murder weapon. Neither did he know that under the pistol, between all the other documents, there was a list of names waiting to be discovered. He didn’t know that the name of the murderer appeared on the list.

  But Carl van Deventer didn’t have second sight, even if he could read ashtrays like tea leaves.

  “No, I don’t read tea leaves,” said Madame Jocelyn Lowe and smiled.

  She stood in the parking area of the hotel in Newlands where James J. Wallace had breathed his last. She was at the center of a fairly large crowd of media people. The SABC was there and M-Net and a freelance team that hoped to sell something to Sky News or CNN. The BBC2 and Thames teams were also present. The newspapers were there as well, local—with their wide range of languages—and those from other countries. The British tabloids were strongly represented.

  Mat Joubert, Nougat O’Grady, and Louw stood to one side. Louw’s jaw had dropped in sheer amazement at it all. Joubert stood with his head bent. He didn’t want to be there. He wanted to get on with other things. Like phoning Hanna Nortier and saying: Hi, Doc, what about a little boogie at The Barber’s on Friday evening? But he had to be here because he had to get his evidence back. Madame Lowe had personally spoken to the Brigadier and the Brigadier had personally asked Joubert to assist her.

  Joubert could see why de Wit had been so keen on having the Madame. And he could see why the Brigadier was so keen to help the Madame.

  She was a good-looking woman, in her forties, but tall and attractive, with great dignity and a chest measurement to match.

  “Gypsies read tea leaves and palms,” she said. “I’m a psychic. Psychics don’t read. They feel.” Her voice was light but strongly Oxbridge accented. “I have acquired some pieces of clothing worn by the murder victim and will proceed to see if I can sense some vibrations of the tragic incident that transpired here.”

  “Transpired here,” O’Grady mimicked her accent under his breath. “Woman’s a fucking charlatan. But she’s playing them like a violin.”

  Joubert said nothing because he wasn’t sure of the meaning of “charlatan.”

  “There is such a strong presence. We must have some very talented people here,” she said. “But I’ll have to ask you to move away. I need space and silence to do my work.”

  The press quieted down.

  “If you could wait over there, please.” She pointed an elegant, beringed finger to the edge of the parking area. “And please, Messrs. photographers, no flashes while I’m concentra
ting. There will be plenty of time for pictures later.”

  The media scrum moved meekly in the direction the woman had indicated, the television cameras in the lead to get tripods and Sonys ready before she started.

  She waited patiently, then turned her back to them and went to stand on the spot Joubert had self-consciously pointed out to her. The bloodstained marks where Jimmy Wallace had lain were dull and black by now, like the many oil marks on the tar.

  She took Wallace’s bloody white shirt out of the plastic bag, closed her eyes theatrically, and pressed the piece of clothing to her breast. Her body stiffened and she stood stock still.

  Joubert heard an unearthly noise—a low, monotonous sound. He realized that it emanated from the woman’s mouth. “Mmmmmmm . . .” A single, unmusical note. It kept on and on while she remained standing quite still, her back straight, her backside neat in the sober but fashionable dress.

  “Mmmmmm . . .”

  Joubert wondered whether de Wit had known her very well.

  An old friend, Anne Boshoff had quoted the Cape Times.

  They would be a very odd couple, he thought. The tall, sensual woman and the short, ugly little man.

  No, Anne Boshoff had said de Wit hadn’t even given anyone the glad eye at congresses.

  “Mmmmmmmm . . .”

  He had trouble in dismissing the image from his mind, the Madame naked on her back in her house in a spooky room with cobwebs in the candelabra and a black cat in front of the hearth. Bart de Wit grinning, while he played with that chest measurement and the Madame made an unearthly noise.

  “Mmmmmmm . . .”

  Why was he thinking about sex again? His stomach suddenly contracted. Was it in expectation of his potential evening out with his psychologist? Did he hope somewhere in the back of his head that he would get the opportunity to stroke the frail body with his big hands, to enfold her small, small breasts and slowly but surely ready her for love? To kiss her gently on that pretty lipstickless mouth, to let his hands slide to her shoulders, to touch her carefully . . .

  Madame Jocelyn Lowe audibly blew out her breath. Her shoulders sagged wearily; her hands, holding the shirt, dropped from her chest; her head was bowed. She stood like that while the seconds passed and the press shuffled uncertainly.

  “Not enough,” she said with tired resignation. “We’ll have to move on.”

  35.

  A convoy of cars moved from murder scene to murder scene, the Madame and her black chauffeur leading in a Mercedes-Benz, then the detectives in their Sierra, and following, a caravan of press vehicles—from minibuses for television teams to cars for the print media.

  While Madame was trying to pick up the vibrations of Ferdy Ferreira’s last moments, Joubert went looking for a telephone booth at the Old Ship Caravan Park. He looked up Computicket’s number in the ragged directory and dialed. They said The Barber of Seville was indeed being performed on Friday night. Also on Saturday and the following Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.

  He asked whether there were seats available for the coming Friday evening.

  It depended on whether he wanted expensive or cheap seats.

  “Only the best,” he said.

  “There are quite a few expensive seats available. If you give me your credit card number . . .”

  He hesitated for a moment. If Hanna Nortier didn’t want to go with him . . . He saw himself and Benny Griessel sitting among the operagoers, two fucking stupid cops listening to sopranos and librettos and stuff like that. But then he decided he had to think positively. Nothing ventured . . .

  He booked two seats, put the phone down, and drove down to the sea, where the Madame was still going “Mmmmmmm . . .”

  “I have some interesting observations but you will have to give me time to get my thoughts in order. I can do that while we’re traveling back to the hotel. Shall we call a news conference at six o’clock?”

  The press complained but they were long acquainted with patience. They packed up and moved back to the vehicles, which were neatly lined up in the gravel parking area next to the beach.

  “World’s biggest bullshitter,” said O’Grady as he moved.

  Joubert said nothing. He held the pieces of clothing that the Madame had required for her work and thought about his craving for a cigarette. His head felt . . . There was a buzzing in his ears. Lord, he could hear his craving.

  “I want to hear it,” Basie Louw said. “May I attend the press conference, Captain?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to hear what she says. I want to hear whether she knows that Wilson was queer. And whether she knows that Wallace screwed around.”

  Behind him walked the thin crime reporter of the Argus. She heard Louw. Her trained ears were flapping in the breeze but he said nothing more. She checked to see whether any of the other media had heard him but saw that they hadn’t been near enough.

  “Anyone want a lift back to the hotel?” she asked with an English accent, loud enough for Louw to hear.

  “You going back to the office, Captain?” Louw asked.

  “Nienaber’s house,” Joubert replied.

  “May I come with you?” Louw asked the reporter.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “The boys are with the neighbors, Captain. I talked to the eldest. He said his father’s brother was on his way from Oudtshoorn. The neighbors phoned him. The hospital says Mrs. Nienaber is still under sedation,” Snyman said.

  “And the desk?”

  “These documents, Captain.” He pointed to a neat pile on the floor. “Nothing of importance. Family stuff. Marriage certificate, baptismal certificates, children’s school reports, photos . . .”

  “Good work.”

  “What now, Captain?”

  “Did you ask the boy about the other names?”

  “He’s never heard of them.”

  “Oberholzer?”

  “No.”

  “Now we simply start all over again, Gerrit. I’ll phone Mrs. Wallace and Mrs. Ferreira. You take Wilson’s mother and colleagues. Ask about Nienaber.”

  Snyman nodded and turned but Joubert saw that the constable didn’t agree with the connection theory. Then Joubert walked to Nienaber’s study, past the photographs and the certificates, sat down behind the desk again, and took out his notebook. Dr. Hanna Nortier. He would see her again tomorrow. But then it would be official. Now it was personal. He dialed the number.

  “Hello. Unfortunately I’m not available right now. Please leave a message after the beep. Thank you and good-bye.” An electronic beep sound followed. He said nothing. She was probably busy with someone. He cut the connection, dialed again.

  “Hello. Unfortunately, I’m not . . .” He thought she had such a pretty voice. She spoke as if she was truly sorry that she was unable to take the call. Her soft, melodious voice. He could see her mouth moving, the pretty mouth in the pretty, angular face, the long, pointed nose. Did she sound tired? That slender body, which had to carry the heavy weight of other people’s problems. He so much wanted to help her to relax. He wanted to make things easier for her . . .

  Softly he replaced the receiver.

  You’re in love, you fool.

  He put his hand out to his coat pocket, to reach for a cigarette. It stopped halfway when he remembered.

  Your timing is bad, he thought and watched his shaking hand.

  Oh, dear God in Heaven but he was desperate for a cigarette right now.

  Just smoke less. Four a day. Three would be fine. Three cigarettes a day, could, true as God, not do anyone any harm. One with his coffee . . . No, not before swimming. The first one in the office. At about nine o’clock, say. And one after he’d had his diet lunch. And one in the evening, with a book and a small drink. He would have to think about drink. He could no longer drink beer, it was fattening. Whisky. He would teach himself to drink whisky.

  What will you drink, Mat, Hanna Nortier would ask him on Friday evening when she had invited him in to her house or
her flat or whatever and they were sitting in easy chairs and she had put on some or other piece of opera music on her CD player, softly, with only the beautiful standard lamp in the corner lit, the room shadowy.

  Whisky, he would say, whisky, please, Hanna.

  Hanna.

  He had never said her name out loud.

  “Hanna.”

  Then she would give a satisfied nod because whisky was a drink for cultivated operagoers and she would get up and disappear into the kitchen to get each of them something to drink and he would lean back, fold his hands behind his head and think of intelligent remarks to make about the opera and his blood brother Rossini when she came back to give him his whisky and sit down on the chair again, her legs folded under her, comfortable, her brown eyes under the heavy eyebrows fixed on him. They would discuss things and later, when the atmosphere and the feeling were right, he would lean over and kiss her mouth, lightly, to test the water. Then he would sit back in his chair again and wait until later . . .

  He dialed the number again, filled with compassion for Hanna Nortier and her busy days and the dreams he dreamed about him and her.

  “Hello. Unfortunately I’m not available right now. Please leave a message after the beep. Thank you and good-bye.”

  “This is Mat Joubert,” he said softly, after the beep. “I would like . . . I . . .” Earlier he’d known what he wanted to say, now he was having difficulty. “The Barber . . . I have two tickets for Friday evening . . . you might like to come with me. You can phone my home, later, because I’m still working and I still have to go and . . .” He suddenly wondered how much time there was on the cassette and ended abruptly. “Thank you very much.” He put down the telephone and patted his pockets again and decided three cigarettes a day wasn’t too much and dialed Margaret Wallace’s number.

  Her son answered and went to call her. He asked her whether her husband had known Oliver Nienaber.

  “The hair person?”

  “Yes.”

  “He did.”