by Deon Meyer
Joubert leaned forward in a dead man’s chair.
“How did he know him?”
“They were both finalists in the Junior Businessman of the Year Award. Nienaber got it.”
Joubert looked at the certificates. He found the one he was looking for.
“We sat next to them at the awards ceremony. That was what . . . two, three years ago. His wife is such a beautiful person. We got on very well.”
“Did they have any other contact?”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think James liked the man very much. There was . . . tension at the table. But I suppose it was because they were adversaries, in a sense.”
Margaret Wallace was quiet for a moment. “Don’t tell me he’s . . .”
“Yes,” Joubert said with sympathetic caution. “He was shot this morning.”
He heard her sigh. “Dear Lord,” she said resignedly.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and didn’t know why.
“What does it mean, Captain? That Jimmy knew the Ferreira man and now Nienaber. What does it mean?”
“I’m trying to find out.”
“It must mean something.”
“Yes. Well . . . So you don’t know if there was any other contact?”
“No. I don’t think so. Jimmy never spoke about him again afterward.”
“Well, thank you, Mrs. Wallace.”
“Captain . . .” She was uncertain, hesitant.
“Yes?”
“How long did it take you . . . I mean, how much time, after your . . . your wife passed away . . .”
He thought. Because he couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t give her the bad news that it was more than two years and that he was still caught in the web of Lara’s death. He had to lie, give the woman with the mismatched eyes hope.
“About two years.”
“Dear Lord,” she said. “Dear Lord.”
Griessel knew that the makeup artist of the Arts Council’s drama department couldn’t be the Sweetheart robber because she was a woman, an interesting woman without being good-looking. Her hair was very short and a deep auburn, her face open and intelligent. She smoked a long cigarette and gestured with her slender hands when she spoke.
“You’re looking for a film makeup artist,” she said and her voice was deep. She pointed to the row upon row of photographs of actors and actresses against the wall. “These were taken during productions or rehearsals. Look at the makeup. It’s heavy. Look at the eyes. Look at the mouths. Look at the clothes. For the stage you need to do makeup differently. Strong, because the guy right at the back must also be able to see. Very well, there are some things that are the same.” She put a forefinger on one of Griessel’s photos, which lay on the coffee table in front of her. “I would also be able to make him look old but my lines would be stronger. This was done with latex. I’d do mine with a pencil. Perhaps just a little latex for a double chin or something like that. This guy works for the movies. You can see it. Look here.” She pointed at the Elvis photo. “You can see his cheeks are fatter. It seems as if his cheekbones are stronger. They can do it with rubber, press rubber strips inside his cheeks. If you do that for the stage, the actor won’t be able to speak. And they must be able to speak on the stage, they have to project, because the guy up there must be able to see and hear. But with film they can rerecord the voices later. And this one. That’s not a theatrical beard. A threatrical beard or hair costs a fraction of what they use in films because the audience can’t see it close up. If you stand next to an actor wearing a theater wig, you can see it’s a wig. The same applies to a beard or a mustache.”
The cigarette had been stubbed out and she lit another one.
“Are there any who work for the theater and films?”
“No . . . Perhaps. But I don’t know of any. The theater world is pretty small. There are four or five of us here. And I don’t know one who has worked in films. It’s not something you can freelance because it’s an art of its own.”
“How many film makeup artists are there?”
“In the Cape? Can’t really say. Four or five years ago there wasn’t one. Now it’s fashionable to come and starve in the Cape if you’re arty. But I don’t know how many there are now. Ten? Fifteen? No more than twenty.”
“Do they have a union or something?”
She laughed and he saw that her teeth were slightly yellow from the cigarettes, but it didn’t make her less attractive. “No.”
“Where should I start looking?”
“I know a guy who has his own production house. I’ll give you his phone number.”
“Production house?”
“Filmmakers. They call themselves production houses. Actually it’s only one or two guys with a small company. They hire cameramen and makeup artists and directors and lighting and sound and so forth. He’ll probably have everyone’s telephone number.”
“What does a film makeup artist earn?”
“In Hollywood they’re probably rich. But here . . . Freelancing is a hard life . . .”
“That’s possibly why he robs banks,” said Griessel and gathered up his photos.
“Are you married?” asked the makeup artist.
“Divorced,” said Griessel.
“Attached?”
“No, but I’m going to get my wife back. And my children.”
“Pity,” said the makeup artist and lit another cigarette. “Let me get you that number.”
“Thank you for being here, ladies and gentlemen. We have all had a trying day and I will try not to waste your time. But please allow me a minute or two to explain something to you.”
Madame Jocelyn Lowe stood on a stage in one of the Cape Sun Hotel’s conference rooms. In front of her sat sixty-four representatives of the press and one member of Murder and Robbery.
“The talent I possess, I did not ask for. It was given to me by the grace of God. When it comes to helping the police in solving a murder case, I do not ask them for money. It is my way of saying thank you, of making a very small contribution. On the other hand, not all people believe that my powers are real. There will be skeptics among you. All I ask is to be given a fair chance. Do not make a judgment until the case is solved. Only then will we know if I was of any help.”
Louw sniffed. Then it wouldn’t matter anymore, Clairvoyant, he thought. He and the English reporter had enjoyed talking to each other on the way from Melkbos. About the Madame. The reporter thought she was a rip-off. And he, Basie Louw, had agreed. Because the reporter might not be pretty but her ass looked good in the denim, and if he played his cards right he might strike it lucky tonight.
“Now let me get to the part I know you’re here for.”
A few media people clapped sarcastically but the Madame merely smiled in a dignified manner.
“I can assure you that it wasn’t easy. In some instances the tragic incidents took place some fourteen days ago. Time, unfortunately, diminishes the aura. It is like sound, traveling through space. The further you are from it, the weaker it becomes. Also, when a murder takes place in public places, such as a parking lot, a beach, or an elevator, there are so many confusing vibrations. Again, to use the analogy of sound, it resembles a great many voices speaking all at once. It is hard to try and single out one of them.”
She’s already making excuses, Louw thought. The press people shifted in their seats as if they agreed with him.
“I can see some of you think I’m making excuses already . . .”
Jesus, Louw thought. She can read minds.
“. . . but again, save your reservations for later, because I have absorbed enough to draw a pretty clear picture.”
It was suddenly so quiet in the room that only the air-conditioning was audible—and the sound of the Sony Betacams turning.
“First of all, I sensed a lot of hate and fear. Even at the parking area in Newlands, the hate and fear were still palpable . . .” Press pens were scribbling frantically. “Hate that has accumulated over many years, I can tell you, to be t
hat strong. Fear that goes back into the mists of time. I see”—and Madame Jocelyn Lowe closed her eyes, her hands in front of her, somewhat defenseless—“a figure consumed, driven, overcome. The patterns are not rational, sanity is but a shadow. A figure is moving in the twilight, large and imposing, a predator hungering for revenge. He moves into a faint pool of eerie light. A hat takes shape, broad-brimmed. Features emerge slowly, blunt, contorted, the eyes beacons of hate. A beard, I think. I sense a beard, light in color, sandy perhaps, luxuriant, flowing from chin and cheeks, into the coat. His hands . . . they are huge, shaped by generations of toil in a harsh land. He is holding the strange firearm at his side, waiting, searching, indiscriminately, for those . . . A predator, a warrior, a throwback to a forgotten era, a ghostlike apparition. But he is flesh and blood, he is real, his hate is real, his fears . . .”
She opened her eyes, stood quite still for a moment, then picked up the glass of water on the lectern next to her and took a small sip.
“You must understand. This is very tiring.” Another sip. Then calmly, without the theatrical intonation, but softly, only loud enough for her voice to reach every corner of the absolutely quiet room. “I have reason to believe that the killings are politically motivated. Not, ladies and gentlemen, the politics that you and I know, but the politics of a slightly demented mind. Yes, I did sense a man. But a strange man, a special, strange creature. A man who feels his heritage heavy on his shoulders, who carries the weight of a nation.”
“Are you saying he’s an Afrikaner?” a reporter of the Weekly Mail couldn’t help asking.
She smiled slightly. “I did not hear him speak, sir.” There was subdued laughter, a release of the tension that had accumulated in the room.
“But you said his beard was sandy. That makes him a white man.”
“Caucasian? Yes. That much I can say.”
“And he wears a hat?”
“Yes.”
Questions suddenly became a chorus. The Madame held up her left hand. The gems in her rings reflected the light. “Please, I have almost finished. But I have something to add.”
Silence again.
“I sensed a hat. But that does not mean that he wears it every time he pulls the trigger. I also sensed a long, black coat. But again, that is just a vibration, that could merely imply that he favors these garments. But there was one other thing. He does not live in this city. He does not have a home here. If they want to find his home, they must look elsewhere. They must look for a place where the plains are wide and the sun is strong. They must look for a place where you can see no mountains, where the river runs dry. There this man is at home. There he nurtured his hate and fear. There he found the devilish energy that moved him to kill.
“Now I will gladly answer your questions. But please keep in mind, I have told you all I know.”
Hands shot up, questions were asked.
The reporter of the Argus turned to Louw and smiled. “What do you think? As a policeman?”
“I think she’s talking shit,” Louw said honestly and was immediately sorry that he had used the word. Some women didn’t like swearing and he didn’t want to spoil his chances.
“I think so, too,” said the reporter and smiled again. “Can I buy you a beer?”
“No,” Louw said. “I’ll buy you one.”
Joubert’s dinner was chicken stew: 60 grams of (skinless) chicken, 60 milliliters of (fat-free) gravy, 125 milliliters of mixed vegetables, and as much boiled (tasteless) cauliflower as he liked—and one bloody fat unit.
And after that, one full-flavored Winston, one tot of whisky.
His life, measured out in small grams.
But he looked forward to the cigarette and the drink. It suddenly made the bleak evening worthwhile. His reward.
After he had phoned Gail Ferreira and she had given him negative answers to his questions, he drove to a liquor store and bought himself a bottle of whisky. Glenfiddich, because it was the most expensive, and he wanted to drink a decent whisky, not the cheap muck with spurious Scottish names marked as special offers on the shelves. And then to the café for a packet of Winstons, which now lay on the table, unopened and full of promise. Oh, it was going to be good. Oh, that first drag that still tasted of matches (because he’d thrown his damn lighter away with the Special Milds that morning), which he was going to draw deep . . .
The phone rang. He jogged down the passage, swallowing a piece of cauliflower as he went.
“Joubert.”
“This is Hanna Nortier.” This time the weariness in her voice was unmistakable and he wanted to fetch her and tell her everything was going to be fine. “I don’t know whether it’s a good idea,” she said and he was suddenly sorry that he had asked her.
He didn’t know what to say.
“You’re a patient.”
How could he have forgotten that? How could he have placed her in such a position? He wished for an honorable way out for her . . .
“But I need to get out,” she said, as if she was talking to herself. “May I give you an answer tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Mat,” she said and put the phone down.
He walked back to the kitchen.
The reporter was as clever as a cageful of monkeys. She waited until they had started on their fifth beer in the ladies’ bar of the Cape Sun. “I hear the Wallace guy slept around.” Not a question, a statement, her English accent now marked when she spoke Afrikaans because although she could take her drink, it wasn’t easy to keep up with the policeman.
“You journalists always know everything,” Louw said with honest admiration.
That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “I only know a little.”
“It’s true, though. He was ever ready. Up to the very last. He was with a blonde in the hotel and when he walked out they blasted him.”
“But he was married.”
“That didn’t stop him with the blonde.” Louw suddenly realized to whom he was speaking. “You won’t . . . you won’t quote me, will you?”
“My lips are sealed.” And she smiled at him.
Tonight my luck’s in, Louw thought. “She was from Johannesburg. Worked in computers. And then Wallace screwed her, over lunch, as it were. Van der Merwe. I’ve her name here somewhere.” He took out his notebook and paged, swallowed some beer, paged on. “Elizabeth van der Merwe. But she wasn’t a suspect. I could see that immediately.”
He emptied his glass. “Another one?”
“Why not?” She slipped into English again. “The night is but a pup.” And gave Basie Louw a meaningful look.
36.
Nienaber knew MacDonald and Wallace. Wallace knew Ferreira. And Oberholzer. And Wilson, who didn’t want to fit in.
The previous evening, after his gloom about Hanna Nortier, he had considered the information from all angles. Now, in the swimming pool, the pieces of the puzzle still wouldn’t come together.
He knew the feeling: the awareness that everything meant something but there just wasn’t enough to unravel a premise, to put enough information together so that he could formulate a firm theory. It was frustrating because he didn’t know where else to look. The answer might well be there already, right in front of him. It sometimes needed a fresh perspective, a new approach.
He had tried everything the previous night.
Mass mail distributor. Jeweler. Out-of-work carpenter. Fisherman. Hairdresser.
Forty years old, thirtysomething, fifty, forty, forty.
Success, so-so, failure, so-so, success.
Roving prick. Gay. Blue movie addict. Rapist. And he didn’t know whether Nienaber had been faithful to his wife.
Oberholzer? Had she been involved? Really? She’d had a relationship with a married man. Had she earlier had a relationship with Nienaber? He made notes in his head while his arms pulled him through the water. Phone the hospital. Perhaps he could speak to Mrs. Nienaber this morning. Speak to Oberholzer’s boss. Where had she worked before?
Phone that hairy Walter Schutte at Wallace Quickmail again. Had he heard the name Carina Oberholzer?
What would Dr. Hanna Nortier want to discuss this afternoon?
Dear Lord, he mustn’t bawl again.
He had to steer her away from Lara Joubert. He couldn’t discuss it today and take her to the opera tomorrow.
She could open him up. He knew it. She could peel him like an orange and reach the juice. She was too clever for him.
Perhaps he shouldn’t go. Perhaps he should phone and say the Mauser affair was getting too hot and he couldn’t make it. He’d be there on the following Thursday as usual and were they still going to the opera?
He pulled himself effortlessly out of the water, unaware of his even breathing and the great distance he had swum while struggling with solutions. He dressed, drove to Kasselsvlei, avoiding newspaper posters that screamed IT’S BOER WAR III, SAYS UK PSYCHIC. And Die Burger’s SALON BARON’S LIFE CUT SHORT.
He saw them but his thoughts were too busy to take any notice.
Anne Boshoff said the murderer was out of control. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. When would he strike again?
Late afternoon. Late night. Early morning. Early morning. Early morning.
The after-hours murderer. What do you do during the day, you bastard? Or couldn’t you forecast the movement of your victims during office hours?
He drove his usual route, as he did every morning, without thinking about it, unaware of the big breakthrough that was waiting in the attaché case.
“Sarge van Deventer says he put the Captain’s case in the safe,” said Mavis Petersen when he walked in.
He thanked her, asked her to fetch it, signed for it, and took it with him to his office. He put it down on the table, took out his Winstons, put them next to the case, went to the tearoom and fetched himself a large mug of (bitter) black coffee. Then he came back, sank down in his chair, lit a Winston, and drew in a deep lungful of smoke.
Lovely.
He swallowed the strong instant coffee, drew on the cigarette again . . .
GENUINE BUFFALO HIDE was written on the leather case.