He sees breath in Rikhardts’ body as he kneels over him, takes his head in his hands, tilts his upper body towards him gently, tenderly. He looks at Rikhardts’ milky eyes, feels him convulse, watches his final breath and feels nothing but stillness and a hot, sticky damp as the blood oozes over his right arm.
De Vries lowers the body and crouches over him, eyes shut. He does not pray; does not meditate. He knows that this moment will never leave him, understands in a way he has never done before that every decision he makes will have a consequence, questions himself over and over as to whether what he perceived to be self-preserving logic was nothing more than selfish, unadorned cowardice.
2014
At 4.30 a.m., de Vries wakes, mind full of youthful memories, uncertainty, confusion. Marantz is smoking a joint, bare feet up on the coffee table; still running through hands played, pots surrendered, wondering how his luck can run so badly for so long, slowly accepting that whatever luck he has had has gone – that it is now a negative vacuum into which every moment of chance is sucked.
Outside, it is silent.
‘What are you doing here?’ de Vries mumbles.
Marantz smiles at him. ‘I live here.’
De Vries looks up at the tall ceiling, the empty minimalism.
‘What do you want?’
‘That’s my line.’
De Vries struggles up, notices the wine, murmurs, ‘I need to piss.’
He stumbles on the stone steps, turns on several lights before he finds the one to the guest bathroom. When he returns, he tops up his still-filled wine glass, takes a long sip, and then gets up. He gropes his way to the kitchen, spits out the wine in the sink.
‘I need water.’ He pours himself a full glass and downs it. Then he refills it and comes back to the fire, almost falling over as he sits back down.
‘No home to go to,Vaughn?’
‘You know,’ de Vries says, stretching his legs and grimacing at his stiffness, ‘that’s the one thing I don’t like. Not being alone in a house, not the absence of a woman in my bed, not even that I have to do everything myself – it’s just that house. It’s the family house, and that part of my life is in the past. I’ve done that, and now I have twenty years to do what I want to do.’
‘And then retire?’
‘Who wants to fucking retire? What the fuck will I do then? Twenty years before the cigarettes and booze get me.’
‘You’re not a normal man.’
De Vries chuckles. ‘Not right now, anyway.’
‘Your case – is that why you’re pissed in my driveway?’
‘Fucking suspect went and threw himself over a cliff right in front of me. That’s two abused, tortured, teenage corpses and my number one suspect, jumping to his death. And there’s one more boy – just maybe, please fucking God maybe, still alive – and the whole fucking thing is going dead again.’
‘This the guy I researched for you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What else do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing, man.’
‘So why come here,Vaughn?’
‘I can’t sleep in my office every night. Where the fuck else is there for me to go?’
The sun, still hidden on the far side of the Hottentots Holland Mountains, lights up the morning sky, bleaching out stars and extinguishing the freeway streetlights. They have been talking for two hours – mainly de Vries: everything he can think of. Marantz pushes him into the bathroom, finds him a towel, lends him his shaver, then calls him up to his car.
De Vries, bleary, says, ‘I can call a cab.’
‘No, man.’
‘You’ve been up all night . . .’
‘I can sleep all day.’
The old motor roars, silencing the dawn chorus, echoing back from the mountain face. Marantz backs out, watches his garage doors slide closed, the wasps following their moving nest precariously stuck there like honeycomb, before accelerating up the little hill to the apex of Vineyard Heights, then he freewheels down the long, steep street and turns hard left onto Rhodes Drive and left again at the traffic lights onto the freeway, past the University campus, towards the city bowl.
De Vries is silent, eyes half closed.
‘Two observations,’ Marantz starts. He glances over at de Vries, who nods without stirring. ‘Abuse cases always lead back to family – father, uncles, grandparents maybe? Do you know anything about Steinhauer’s family?’
‘Not yet. What you gave me on Marc Steinhauer’s private background – you gave me more in a couple of hours than we could ever have found. How did you get that?’
Marantz overtakes a smoking Toyota Corolla and swings around the uphill corner until the whole panorama of the docks, the Waterfront and beyond, the sparkling steel-grey water of Table Bay is laid out ahead of them.
‘Favour from a mate of an old colleague. Can’t make a habit of it, I’m afraid.’
‘Shame. Hard information is what we never have here. Feels like I’ve been conducting this investigation with my hands tied behind my back. No breaks; no cooperation; no knowledge. What else do you think?’
‘Just, it strikes me, three abductions, maintaining those kids all this time, never being noticed. Definitely sounds like work for more than one man, don’t you think?’
Julius Mngomezulu still marvels at the audacity that has brought about the eighth floor of the SAPS Operations centre; the floor which houses Brigadier Director du Toit’s department: four incident rooms for serious crimes within Cape Town and its environs: overarching, overreaching. Murder, kidnap and abduction, rape, robbery: all of it high-profile, all of it press sensitive for the reputation of the SAPS in general. Most of it, white crime.
He snorts to himself when he thinks that people might imagine the racial make-up of South Africa like a chessboard: black and white, black and white, each living next to the other. If it were like that, there would be sixty-three black squares and one white – on the edge, probably, he thinks, with a gap between it and the other squares. After 1994, it was never supposed to be like this any more: no innate privilege, no special treatment.
He closes Colonel de Vries’ office door, locks it, and pockets the key. He checks that there is no one in the squad room and then walks confidently to the stairs and up two floors to the administration level. He has the materials to hand now; he has a boss who will act. Soon, there will be no special cases, no priority for the rich and newsworthy. He feels a long way from where he was born in Khayelitsha. His studio apartment which, from afar, overlooks the harbour, his education, clothes, even the branded watch on his wrist – all tell him that. But he knows that, until every crime against every person in South Africa is treated just the same, until every victim is equally important, he will never forget where he comes from.
‘You look like shit,Vaughn.’
De Vries looks at du Toit’s dress uniform.
‘I don’t have to look good on television,’ he shrugs.
‘So you haven’t slept? Big deal. Neither have I and neither, I imagine, has Warrant Officer February.’
Du Toit looks out into his anteroom, sees Don standing by his secretary’s desk, beckons him in, points at a chair in front of his desk.
‘Firstly, this.’ Du Toit gestures at the newspaper on his desk. ‘Someone has gone to the papers. I don’t know who it is, but this ramps up the pressure.’
De Vries murmurs, ‘Probably Hopkins.’
‘Whoever it was, it seems we have their support as of now. They could have gone down a very different route. Now, you two have to put everything together and prove that we were right.’
‘I’m restructuring the investigation.’
Du Toit stares at Vaughn, says quietly, ‘What?’
De Vries stands up.
‘I’m sick and tired of guessing in the dark. I’m taking Don off what he was doing with Steinhauer’s homes and Fineberg Farm. I want him to revisit the original case with objective eyes and see how Steinhauer – or known associates, whoever
they may be – could fit in. I want to look into Steinhauer’s background, his family in the past, and his family now.’ He turns to his Warrant Officer. ‘Who do you rate, Don? Who can you trust with what you’ve been working on?’
Don tries not to glance at du Toit, tries to stay focused on de Vries.
‘Sergeant Thambo – Ben Thambo. He is an efficient officer, a good organizer and he is capable of collating all the information.’
Vaughn looks at du Toit, then back at Don.
‘Thambo? Can he handle it?’
Don makes a point of turning in his chair, meeting de Vries’ eye.
‘Yes, sir.’
There is silence for a moment, before du Toit says, ‘All right, Vaughn. If February here has faith in this officer, that’s good enough for me. Get to the point.’
‘The point,’ de Vries tells him, ‘is that once Don is fully up-to-date on the original case, we have a lot of people to interview – Steinhauer’s brother, Dr Nicholas Steinhauer, for a start. I want to revisit the psychological profiling we were given at the time.’
‘Nicholas Steinhauer?’
‘He made a point of commenting at the time of the original abductions, as you’ll remember, sir. Criticized our investigation on television, in print. He claimed to be an expert in child psychology. That strikes me as too much of a coincidence.’
Don clears his throat, receives a nod from du Toit.
‘After we gave her the news about her husband, I asked Marc Steinhauer’s wife about his family. She said that she would try to contact his older brother, but that he was abroad.’
‘Where?’ de Vries asks.
‘She did not say. I can find that out.’
De Vries says: ‘Where is she now?’
‘With her father, in Rooiels.’
‘Get her in.’
Du Toit announces, ‘Be careful,Vaughn. We need people’s co-operation. Leave Mary Steinhauer for a day or two. It’s Sunday, for Christ’s sake. Whatever Marc Steinhauer may have done, we must respect his family’s right to grieve. This is an influential family, known to the media.’
‘And what about Bobby Eames’ family?’ De Vries is loud. ‘This isn’t just a murder enquiry, this could be about finding that child and bringing him home.’
Du Toit opens his mouth, but stays mute.
‘This is what I’m talking about,’ de Vries says. ‘We’ve been respectful for far too long. We have to get this moving now.’
Du Toit nods his head; Vaughn can see his thigh vibrate, his ankle twitching, tapping out some nervous rhythm.
‘Twenty-four hours,’ de Vries says. ‘Out of respect.’ He does not say the last word with reverence. He turns to Don, tosses him his keys. ‘The case files are in my office, half on my desk, the remainder on the filing cabinet behind. Sit in there and read.’
Don gets up, leaves, shutting the office door quietly.
De Vries sits in silence, waiting for du Toit to speak.
‘I trust you, Vaughn,’ du Toit says finally, calmly, ‘and I’ll back you. But be mindful that everything we do will be put under the microscope.’ He sees de Vries about to say something. ‘And – be careful.’
Vaughn stands. ‘I will be “mindful”, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘But I won’t be careful.’
David Wertner works silently in a corner office. From time to time, he looks up and out to his adjoining squad room, where his officers sit at computer monitors, researching and reporting. Occasionally, he writes in a slim notebook to his left. He trusts none of his personal thoughts to the computers. He knows how information on computers can be found, can be studied, can even be altered or deleted. He does not even trust his superiors. Wertner likes the fact that his negotiated position grants him access to everyone’s thoughts and deeds – no matter how trivial they may seem – no matter how important and influential they believe themselves to be. He sits back in his executive chair for a few moments. These reflections of power relax him; he has control.
La Perla is a long-established Italian restaurant on the Sea Point riviera. The old money of the seafront suburb lunch and dine here, either in the high-ceilinged main dining room, hung with modern oils, or on the terrace under the gnarled branches of bottlebrush trees or the shady leaves of Carobs. The main road passes beneath, and then the promenade – and beyond, the Lido and the crashing Atlantic. It is the kind of restaurant that cultivates its regulars and greets them personally, with handshakes and hearty chatter.
Vaughn de Vries climbs the steps, is ignored by the staff, and walks briskly to a prime table at the front of the terrace in the shade. He sits down opposite Ralph Hopkins.
‘This could have been merely a ploy, Colonel,’ Hopkins greets him, ‘to get me somewhere out of the way for a police questioning.’ He chuckles, brays.
‘This is two professionals behaving as such, helping one another to conclude a very difficult matter.’
Hopkins leans back in his chair. ‘That sounds acceptable . . . if you’re paying?’
David Wertner stops, turns back two pages in the file he is reading. He slips off his rimless glasses and stares out towards the main floor of the office. He looks down again, scrutinizes the pages; flips to the photographs he is studying. He releases the pages, pushes the file to one side and brings another next to it; flips pages until he finds the paragraph he seeks. He follows the passage with his thick finger, looks from where he stops to the adjacent file. Smiling grimly, he begins to write in his notebook. His writing is faster, the letters and symbols smaller. He feels his palms sweating, puts his pen down onto his desk blotter, wipes his hands on a handkerchief, and takes up his pen again. The tip of his tongue appears between his teeth.
Don February stops reading, but he stops physically, too; freezes. He studies the page, sits back down in de Vries’ comfortable but delicate chair. He wonders what to do. As an individual, his loyalty lies with de Vries: the man is difficult, he is bigoted, but he is fair, has always treated him well. He could have been working nine to five in front of a radiation-oozing computer terminal in an office for David Wertner, but instead, he is here. De Vries intervened personally and took him in. As a policeman, as a husband, his loyalty is to the department, to the SAPS. He thinks some more, his heart beating out the seconds.
Ralph Hopkins eats fried calamari and a salad of prawns; de Vries orders a rare steak. This,Vaughn thinks, sums them up. He watches Hopkins peeling his prawns with his small pink fingers that look like prawn flesh themselves; feels mildly repulsed.
‘Isn’t it time,’ the lawyer says, ‘we cut to the chase? I mean, charming though your small talk is, Colonel, I am aware of the maxim about free lunches.’
De Vries lays down his fork.
‘It’s simple really,’ he says. ‘Your client is dead. We hope that you will cooperate with us in discovering the truth.’
Hopkins chews; looks up at de Vries.
‘The truth is very important.’
Vaughn starts loudly, checks himself.
‘If – and I know you think otherwise – if your client is guilty of these crimes, there is a chance that a young boy is still alive. That should be our priority now.’
Hopkins looks at him scornfully, looks at de Vries’ plate: meat eaten, a bloody pool surrounded by untouched vegetables.
‘My client’s confidence is unaffected, Colonel, and you should know that I represent Marc’s family also. I will be present when you interview Mary Steinhauer and, though I hope you will refrain from doing so, his two daughters.’
‘I am aware of client confidentiality.’
‘On that basis, ask your questions. You may not believe it, but my intention is not to disrupt your inquiry. We have all read about those children.’
De Vries reflects: no denial, no instant defence of his erstwhile client.
‘Why were you at Steinhauer’s holiday home yesterday morning?’ he asks.
‘I told you during our conversation that morning that Marc ha
d called me late at night to tell me that he felt as if he was being watched. Your manner is revealing. When I asked you whether this was the case, you as good as told me that it was. That being so, I felt my place was with my client.’
‘So early?’
‘I wake early. What with the roadworks and the rush-hour traffic . . . you have to allow time.’
‘Did you speak to Mr Steinhauer as you were driving?’
‘I did not. I hoped that Marc would be sleeping. He was under pressure at work and your enquiries were disturbing, to say the least. Marc Steinhauer was a gentle man; he was emotionally exhausted and concerned for his family.’
‘So why go to Betty’s Bay? Why not stay with his family?’
‘I can’t answer that. I can’t speak for Marc.’
‘Were you concerned at his state of mind?’
‘I considered his state of mind only so far as I have described it to you. I was aware that he was under a great deal of pressure. If you are asking me whether I thought he was suicidal, then of course not.’
‘You accept now that his actions were entirely of his own doing?’
‘As I have stated: I believe that if I had been left alone with him, I could have brought him back into his house. We might be in a very different position now. The approach of numerous men, some of them armed, probably tilted the balance to panic.’
‘I don’t accept that.’
‘Then we will have to disagree.’
De Vries sits back, wondering what he can get from this man.
‘Will you go to the press?’ he asks.
‘No. Why would I do that?’
‘To manipulate them?’
Hopkins smiles, relaxed. ‘Are you a conspiracy theorist? Why would I want publicity for a client I believed was innocent?’
De Vries nods slowly, making a show of accepting the logic of the answer.
‘Did Marc Steinhauer describe what he saw in his house in Betty’s Bay, that led him to believe that he was being watched?’
Hopkins opens his mouth, misses a beat.
‘No – I don’t recall. He said that he saw police cars, more than usual for the neighbourhood.’ He picks up his fork, begins to turn over the leaves in his salad, hunting for avocado pear.
The First Rule of Survival Page 14