by Deon Meyer
Mr. Average made a beeline for him, notepad and pen in his hand.
“May I tell you about our specials, sir?” he asked mechanically, without really seeing Griessel.
“What’s your name?”
“Michael Stewart,” said the man and looked with closer attention at his client.
“I would like to have the pumpkin soup, please.”
“Yes.” He wrote it down. “And then?”
“That’s all, thank you, Mr. Stewart.”
“You’re welcome.” The man hurried away, into the kitchen.
He speaks English, Griessel thought. The robber speaks Afrikaans. A smokescreen?
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his hands under his chin. He looked at the people around him. Men, mostly, a woman here and there. They were close to the Supreme Court and Parliament, he thought. Important people, these, with BMWs and Jettas and cell phones. At the table next to him a man swallowed a beer with great enjoyment, the glass tilted, the Adam’s apple moving up and down, up and down, until the last foam slid out of the glass and he put it down on the table and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
Griessel imagined the warm glow the liquor would cause in the man’s stomach, how it would spread through the body, to the head, warm and easy and pleasant—a tingling, a tide of pleasure, a smoother of sharp corners and edges.
He looked down, at the salt and pepper shakers on his table, put out his hand, picked up one. His hands were sweating.
George Michael Stewart hadn’t reappeared from the kitchen, he realized.
Griessel fingered the Z88 fastened to his belt. He shouldn’t have asked the man for his name. He looked at the kitchen door. How long had it been? Five minutes. It was only Mr. Refined who hurried between the tables, removing an empty wine bottle at one, asking whether the food was to their satisfaction at another.
Where was Stewart?
Minutes went by, during which his uneasiness grew. If the man had suspected something and escaped through the back door, he could be at the railway station by now, Griessel thought.
Soup couldn’t take that long.
He made a sudden decision, got up, his hand on the grip of the firearm, and walked hurriedly to the kitchen door, a metal door that swung open easily. With his back against the door and his pistol in his hand, he banged open the door with some force and walked straight into George Michael Stewart and a plate of bright yellow soup. The hot liquid splashed on Griessel’s shirt and tie, Stewart staggered back, fell, and sat down on his backside. With his eyes huge, he looked at the square figure who loomed over him with a pistol.
“My service can’t be that bad!” he said nervously.
Attorney Kemp, nattily dressed in a dark gray suit and a fashionable tie, was as big as Mat Joubert. He sat on the edge of the untidy desk with Joubert and Louw in the chairs in front of him. The attorney was busy telephoning East London, in the Eastern Cape, because that was where his client, Mrs. Ingrid Johanna Coetzee, lived now.
He had immediately been willing to help the detectives. He was a hasty, efficient man with a deep voice and hair painfully neatly barbered and combed.
Joubert looked at the man’s clothes again—the double- breasted coat, the fine stripe in the texture of the material.
Joubert had no clothes for tomorrow night’s opera. He would have to buy a suit like that. He would have to have his hair cut. Everything had to be just right. If Hanna Nortier told him this afternoon that she was going with him. If he managed to get to Hanna Nortier this afternoon.
“I see,” said the attorney into the receiver. “I see. Fine. Thank you. Good-bye.” He put the phone down. “She’s on holiday. Gone diving. I didn’t even know she was into diving. Small, colorless little woman.”
The attorney walked round to the big chair behind his desk. “I didn’t want to mention the man’s death.” He wrote on a large notepad, tore off the page, and handed it to Joubert. “That’s where she works. The accounts department. They said she would only be back in the office on Monday.”
“You’ll have to fly,” Joubert said to Louw. Then he looked at the attorney. “Why were they divorced?”
“His religion,” said Kemp. “He used to be a television technician or something. Here in Bellville at a repair shop. And then suddenly he turned holy and lost his work because he spent the whole day in church, one of those charismatic ones where they spend every evening saying hallelujah and amen and clapping their hands. She couldn’t bear it any longer. Luckily there were no children. He didn’t want to divorce her at first. Against the Law and the faith. But we gave him merry hell. And the alimony . . . She had never worked. He wanted her to stay at home, be mama, and do housework. He was never quite all there . . .”
“Then he started his own church?”
“It was after the divorce. I only know a part of it, what she told me over the telephone. She couldn’t believe he could preach. He had always been a silent, sulky man. But there you have it, cometh the hour . . . He fell out with all the other churches and founded his own. Lot of money in it, you know.”
“The place where he worked?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.”
“Thank you very much.” Joubert got up. So did Louw.
“It’s a pleasure. I like to help the legal process when I can. Will you get the Mauser man?”
“It’s a matter of hours.”
Joubert turned back at the door. “If I may ask, where do you buy your clothes?”
“Queenspark.” The attorney smiled. “But I must confess. My wife does the buying. I’m too damn stupid at it.”
Christie’s was empty now. Griessel sat at his table, his shirt and tie reasonably clean but very damp from repeated applications of a wet cloth. Stewart sat opposite him. They were smoking Stewart’s Gunstons.
“I don’t rob banks,” said Stewart, and his Afrikaans was reasonable but not without an accent.
“Can you prove it?”
“Ask Steve.” And he pointed his cigarette at the other man in a bow tie. He was still clearing tables with a few black women. “I’m here every day from ten in the morning until midnight.”
“My brother Jack lies just like I do . . .”
“Hell, Steve owns the place. He makes the money. Why would he lie?”
“Why are you working here?”
“Because there’s not enough makeup work in the Cape. I should never have come.”
“Why did you?”
“Followed a woman. And for the mountain and the sea and the atmosphere. Now she’s dropped me because I don’t have any money. I owe the bank and the makeup jobs are few and far between. The last one was two months ago. French team, came to make a television ad. But my car . . . I’m still paying it off even if it’s in the scrapyard . . .”
Griessel took a photo out of his pocket. Elvis. “Do you know him?”
Stewart looked. “He’s . . .” He searched for the word. “Careless.”
“Oh?”
“Look at the sideburns. The gum is visible here. Perhaps because he does his own makeup. It’s quite tricky. I’ve never tried it.”
“Do you know him?”
“No.”
“Heard of Janek Milos?”
“Mmm . . .”
“You don’t know him.” Griessel didn’t ask—he stated. With disappointment because he had hoped Stewart was going to be his man. Because Janek Milos didn’t sound like a decent Afrikaans boy who robbed banks politely and called tellers sweetheart. Because his nice theories were crumbling.
The detectives came back for more names and addresses and Joubert’s heart sank with every new pair who walked into the parade room after another fruitless effort. They had reached Clark without an e, were at R and S for initials, but had found nothing.
He looked at his watch. His appointment with Hanna Nortier was getting closer and closer. He still didn’t have an excuse.
Louw had come to say good-bye. He had found a seat on the six-thirt
y flight to Port Elizabeth and East London. They again went through the possible questions that Joubert wanted answered. Louw had left, his eyes droopy from his hangover.
Another two detectives arrived, shaking their heads.
“Telephone, Captain,” Mavis called from the door.
He got up and walked hastily to reception. “Joubert.”
“Bertus Botha, Captain. We’ve traced a Hester Clarke. But she’s dead. Died of cancer. Early in December.”
“Where are you phoning from?”
“Her sister’s house, Captain. Fish Hoek. Deceased was fifty-three. Spinster. Artist. Designed Christmas cards and stuff for a publisher in Maitland but worked from home. Developed cancer of the spine. The sister says it was due to sitting all day long, no matter what the doctors say. She says all she knows about the Mauser murders is what she’s read in the newspapers and seen on TV.”
“She’s quite certain?”
“Yes, Captain. We showed her the photographs ’n’ everything.”
“Her sister never had any contact with Oliver Nienaber?” He hoped, hopelessly, because there couldn’t be that many Hester Clarkes in the Cape and he was desperate, there had to be an end to it.
“She says they never went out. She says the streets aren’t safe. She knew everyone her sister knew.”
Joubert’s mind dug around for more possibilities.
“The doctor who treated her sister—get me his name. I’ll hold on.”
He heard Botha putting down the telephone and the sounds of talking in the background. Then Botha came back with the information. Joubert wrote it down. Groote Schuur. He thanked Botha and looked at his watch again. Just enough time to check at the hospital and then drive to his psychologist.
38.
The doctor remembered Hester Clarke’s illness very well. “She never complained. Strong woman. It must’ve been extremely painful, especially the last few months.”
When was the cancer diagnosed?
Three or four years ago. They had tried everything.
Her mental state?
Strong woman. I told you.
And so Joubert fished, in a useless effort to catch something that would cast some light. He knew it was a dead-end street.
He drove to the city, spoke to O’Grady on the radio.
No news about Hester Clarke, O’Grady said. Most of the teams had returned. But Pastor Jacques Coetzee’s trailer was proving to be interesting. They had found forty thousand rand under the seat. In hard cash. And bank documents that indicated that the church was financially very well placed. Lists of members, deacons, elders . . .
Bring it to the office, Joubert said. And sent Bertus Botha’s team back to the sister of Hester Clarke. Find out to which church they belonged. And telephone the relatives of the other victims again. Ask Nienaber’s children. Had they heard of the Tabernacle of the Redeemer.
While he drove, a feeling of optimism took hold of him. Each case, each dossier, was a mountain to climb. Sometimes the hand- and toeholds were easy and you had a fast ascent to the summit, where you handed over the warrant of arrest, a neat parcel of motive and evidence, cause and effect. But sometimes, like this one, the mountain was smooth and slippery, without crevices for hands and toes to grip. You climbed and slipped, climbed and slipped without progress, without a way to the top.
But now things were beginning to change. Finally, something for which someone was willing to commit murder. To blow six people’s brains and bodies to kingdom come.
Money.
The root of all evil. The driving force, the urge that made them steal and shoot and hit and chop and set alight.
The adrenaline was flowing freely when he walked into the waiting room and sank down on a chair. They were close now. They were very close. He was going to solve the case. Today.
Hanna Nortier opened the door and there was a smile on her face.
“Come in, Captain Mat Joubert.” Her voice held a gaiety and he rejoiced because he knew she was going to accompany him to the opera.
“I think we must discuss tomorrow night first,” she said as she opened his file. “So that we can put it behind us. I’m not allowed to go with you. It’s ethically wrong. It’s unfair to you because we still have hard work ahead of us. I can’t justify it in any way at all.”
He looked at her while he kept the disappointment out of his face with great difficulty.
“But there is the other side of the coin. I’m flattered that you’ve asked me out. I can’t remember when last I went anywhere with a big, strong man. I want to very much. I badly want to see The Barber of Seville. I want to go out. I’m in a rut. I believe I can separate my private and professional life. I must be able to do it. But not at your expense.”
She spoke quickly, urgently, a Hanna Nortier he hadn’t seen before, her slender hands dancing to stress her words, her pupils large and black, her beauty so perfect that he was unable to look away.
“Can you separate the therapy and the personal . . . togetherness, Mat?”
Not too fast, he warned himself. Not too keen.
“I think so.” Nice and even, thoughtful.
“You must be quite sure.”
“I am sure.” Too quickly.
“If you change your mind you can still phone me tomorrow.”
Was she going with him?
“I’ll write down my home address. At what time does the opera start? Eight o’clock?”
He nodded.
“I’ll be ready by seven-thirty.”
“Thank you.” Why did he thank her? Because he was so grateful that his stomach muscles were clenching.
“How’s the investigation going?”
He didn’t react immediately, first had to accommodate the change of gears.
“Well. Very well. We’re close.”
“Tell me.”
“There was another murder this morning. The pastor of a tent church in Kraaifontein. They . . . we found money in his trailer. I think it could be the motive. And then it’s just a question of time.”
“I’m so pleased for you,” she said sincerely and tidied the file. Her words moved into another tempo. She looked straight ahead. Gently she said: “I want you to tell me about the disciplinary inquiry.”
He did not want to think about it.
It was four months after the death of Lara Joubert.
But he didn’t tell her that. Let her work it out on her own.
She had changed from personal to professional too quickly. He wasn’t ready. He had expected a slower landing and now he had to think back, open the doors and hear the voices, the blackness of his feelings then, the dark, a flawless black night, pitch-black, the incredible weight, the feverish dreams as thick as molasses, while seconds ago his heart had been as light as a feather, a bird in flight.
He closed his eyes.
He did not want to think about it.
Reluctantly he searched for the images in his mind.
Blackness.
He had been in bed. Winter.
The images. Slowly. Tiredly it flowed back, uneven and confused. It was late at night, in his bed, he remembered, slowly recalled even the taste in his mouth, the weight of the blankets, the dream world, visiting his wife in the realm of the dead, her laugh, her sounds, uhm, uhm, uhm, uhm, a telephone ringing Captain Joubert to Parow cold and wet northwest wind.
A house with cement walls and a garden gate and a path between flowerbeds and a small fountain in the center of the lawn; the blue lights turning in the street; the neighbors in their dressing gowns against the cold, curious, staring; the uniform who told him the man was inside, he had shot his wife and he wouldn’t come out; the neighbors had heard the sound of the shots and went and knocked and then he shot at them and shouted at them and said that tonight he was going to blast them all to hell and gone; a neighbor’s cheek was bleeding from the glass slivers of the front room’s window.
He went to stand in front of the door; the sergeant of Murder and Robbery had sho
uted, No Captain, not in front of the door; the book says stand against the wall; but Joubert’s book was covered in soot. I’m unarmed, I’m coming in, and I put my service pistol down on the slate stoop and I opened the door and walked in; no, Captain, jesus god, he’s fucking crazy.
He had closed the door behind him, the wind audible in the house.
“Are you mad?” The big .375 Magnum pointing at him, the man in the passage virtually insane, terror-stricken. “I’m going to kill the lot of you.”
He remained where he was and looked at the man; his eyes were unblinking, he waited for the lead to penetrate his brain and let the curtain fall. “You’re mad, go away.” The man’s mouth spat saliva, his eyes were those of an animal, the big revolver shook. He didn’t move, simply stood there, gazed, uninvolved.
“Where is she?” His own voice emotionless.
“In the kitchen. The whore. She’s dead, the whore. I killed her. Tonight I’m going to kill you all.” The weapon was aimed straight at him again; the man’s breathing was ragged, his chest heaved, his body shook.
“Why?”
A sound—a sob and a cry and disgust, intermingled; the weapon dropped a few millimeters; the man’s eyes closed, opened.
“Kill . . .”
The wind and showers of rain against the windows, on the corrugated iron roof; light scurrying across the walls, the shadows of windblown shrubs. The man’s body tipped up to the wall, the revolver still held high, his shoulder against the wall; then the sound, another one, long drawn, a wailing; the man sank down to the floor; his legs were bent, his eyes unseeing; a bundle, crouching, sitting, arm on one knee; the grip on the firearm loose, a sound like the wind, as comfortless as his own soul.
Breathing slowed.
“What could I do?”
Weeping. “What could I do? She didn’t want me anymore. What could I do?”
Shoulders shaking, spasms.
“She’s mine.” Like a child. A high whimpering voice.