The First Rule of Survival

by Paul Mendelson

  Steinhauer snorts. ‘Well, my sister was very much attached to her mother. I think that when she died, it was a very grave blow to Caroline. My father was devoted to his sons. He taught us everything. Then, both Marc and I went to UCT, and Caroline left for Durban. We rarely saw her.’

  ‘So you discount her account of an unhappy home.’

  ‘When did she tell you this? I cannot discount what I have not heard. If she claims not to have had a happy childhood, that is her interpretation.’

  ‘As is your version,’ de Vries says.

  ‘It is not a version, Colonel. It is my memory of the facts.’

  ‘Happy, despite the death of your younger brother, Michael?’

  ‘My brother,’ Steinhauer says, ‘was a daredevil, a tearaway. When we went walking, he would climb sheer mountain faces without ropes, clamber up tors, jump great distances. We had climbed together, and I believe that he tripped and fell. It was a terrible and profound shock to us all.’

  ‘But it was not your fault?’

  Steinhauer looks askance.

  ‘My fault? Certainly not. I had the misfortune to be with my brother when the accident happened. I was nowhere near him when he fell. I tried to rescue him, but it was too late. I think that his neck was broken from the impact of the fall.’

  ‘You said a misfortune. Why was it a misfortune that you were with him?’

  ‘Have you ever seen a close relative fall to his death?’

  ‘I thought you said that you were not sure how he died?’

  ‘I said I was not sure of the cause.’

  ‘But you saw him fall?’

  Steinhauer rolls his eyes, clearly irritated by the questions.

  ‘Perhaps you have misunderstood my words. I had the misfortune to be out with my brother at the time he died. To discover him and have to return home to break the news was a harrowing experience. You can empathize with that, surely?’

  ‘Wasn’t it also your misfortune to be suspected of involvement in his death?’

  Steinhauer’s mouth opens; he looks astonished.

  ‘I have never been suspected of any involvement.’

  ‘Oh,’ de Vries says, not breaking his stare. ‘I think you have.’

  ‘This is ridiculous, Colonel.’ Hopkins stands up.

  ‘Please sit down, sir,’ Don tells him.

  ‘If you wish to make allegations against my client, then do so formally, and backed up by evidence.’

  ‘Sit down,’ Don repeats. ‘Your client agreed to answer all questions.’

  ‘It’s nonsense,’ Steinhauer says.

  ‘Your sister claims that Michael was a reluctant participant in these outdoor activities, that he did not wish to take part. This would also be wrong?’

  ‘If that is how she remembers it, then I am surprised, but I can assure you that he was the keenest of any of us when it came to walking and hiking.’

  ‘But when he died, there was only you there. So that is just your memory of the facts?’

  Hopkins says, ‘All witness evidence is merely a matter of recollection.’

  De Vries ignores him. ‘Dr Steinhauer?’

  ‘That is what happened.’

  ‘But you would agree, like your sister’s testimony, I should remain open-minded about these matters?’

  ‘That is a stupid question.’

  De Vries looks down at his file, continues smoothly, ‘There was a fire at your family home in Constantia. A shed or small barn was burned down. Do you remember that?’

  Steinhauer continues to stare at de Vries.

  ‘It is an incident I only remember vaguely.’

  ‘It was considered arson. Did you set that fire?’

  ‘I?’ He sniffs. ‘Why should I?’

  De Vries waits. Steinhauer shifts again.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘A simple yes or no answer.’

  ‘Did you form an opinion as to who might have done so?’

  ‘It was an accident. Perhaps one of the staff had left a cigarette there. None of us took any notice.’

  ‘You were in Port Elizabeth from March the eighth to March the thirteenth 2007, I believe? That’s when the three boys, Steven Lawson, Robert Eames and Toby Henderson, were kidnapped.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You flew from Cape Town on flight 734 to Port Elizabeth on the eighth at one forty p.m., and then you landed back in Cape Town on the thirteenth at five thirty-five p.m. on flight 739.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I don’t say so, sir. The airline keeps records. That was, apparently, your schedule.’

  Steinhauer shrugs.

  ‘The reason for your visit to Port Elizabeth?’

  ‘I was asked to consult on a very troubled patient by a colleague of mine. I have already provided Dr van Neuren’s contact details. I assume that you have seen them?’

  ‘When was that invitation issued?’

  ‘I don’t remember. I suspect that it was quite last-minute.’

  ‘You had your own practice in Cape Town?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Quite busy, I should imagine?’

  ‘I had established a certain reputation.’

  ‘So, you are asked by this colleague to consult on a patient in Port Elizabeth and, despite having a busy practice of your own in Cape Town, at short notice you presumably cancel all your own patients for five days and fly off to Port Elizabeth. Is that right?’

  De Vries’ stare never leaves Steinhauer’s face. He sees a tiny catch as Steinhauer breathes in to answer. Steinhauer gestures with his long narrow fingers, his wrists not leaving the table. De Vries watches his fingers fly; his perfectly manicured nails reflect the grey fluorescent light. De Vries cannot imagine a man having a manicure. It revolts him.

  ‘I imagine I was not that busy, and I felt that this was an important case with which to be involved. As I have said to you, these are minor matters in my life. I would not remember specific cause or reason.’

  ‘This wasn’t a minor matter though, was it, sir? You’ve told us that it was an important case. Surely you remember what that was about?’

  Steinhauer smiles smugly. ‘That is patient confidentiality. I could never discuss that.’

  ‘But you remember the case?’

  ‘As I say, I cannot discuss it.’

  ‘But you remember it yourself. What it was about?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Steinhauer smiles. De Vries sees a man affecting relaxation, but he knows that something he has said has disturbed the surface of the veneer.

  ‘Had you travelled to consult on other such cases before that one?’

  ‘I probably did. I don’t recall.’

  ‘You don’t recall,’ de Vries echoes. ‘And subsequently, how many times have you travelled across the country for such consultations?’

  ‘I really don’t know. I travel regularly.’

  ‘But for such a reason – to consult on a private case.’

  ‘A serious case.’

  ‘How often, Doctor?’

  Steinhauer shakes his head, flutters his right hand. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Once or twice? Ten times? Thirty times?’

  Steinhauer says nothing. De Vries looks sideways without moving his head, watches Hopkins, sees him frown. He lets the silence beat away in the little interview room.

  ‘I can check my diaries if such information is important to you.’

  This time de Vries stays silent. Then he asks: ‘You were on a tour in South America when your brother took his life. Argentina, was it?’

  ‘Yes. I am promoting my book. The Argentinian Association of Psychiatrists invited me to present a paper at their conference and to launch my book at their institute. It is very highly regarded and I decided to accept the invitation.’

  ‘And you left your brother in charge?’

  Steinhauer shakes his head. ‘What are you asking?’

  ‘What instructions did you give to your brother, M
arc?’

  ‘Instructions? I think you misunderstand our relationship. Marc was his own man. He had his own life, his family, his business. I had no influence over him whatsoever.’

  ‘Influence?’

  ‘Interest . . . Involvement, in his business affairs.’

  ‘But you saw him regularly at your aunt’s house?’

  ‘I saw him on occasion.’

  ‘How often is that?’

  ‘Perhaps once a month, while I was in Cape Town. Less often when I moved to Johannesburg.’

  ‘So when did you contact him to let him know that you would be away for six weeks and therefore would not be visiting your aunt as usual?’

  ‘I . . . I did not contact Marc.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I only visited my aunt occasionally since being based in Johannesburg. I did not need to let my brother know about my trip.’

  ‘But you would normally communicate with your brother about visiting your aunt?’

  Steinhauer’s shoulder twitches.

  ‘I have, on occasion, discussed these visits with him, yes.’

  ‘But not when you will be away for six weeks?’

  ‘I have told you, no. I did not contact Marc regarding my trip.’

  ‘So he was not aware that you were abroad?’

  ‘I don’t know that. He may have known.’

  ‘Because you told him?’

  Steinhauer shrugs. ‘Yes. Perhaps.’

  ‘So, just for the record, when did you last see your brother, Marc?’

  ‘I – let me think . . . I don’t know. Not recently, certainly . . . I am not sure.’

  De Vries waits. ‘Any idea at all, sir?’

  ‘I suppose maybe three months ago. Our paths rarely crossed. I would visit our aunt at one time, he another.’

  ‘What did you talk about when you last saw him?’

  Now Steinhauer sits up, laughs. ‘I have absolutely no idea. Why would I remember such a thing? My aunt’s wellbeing, I should imagine. Marc rarely stayed the night there. He would drive back home sooner than stay over. We might confirm when we would next visit, but other than that . . .’

  ‘And when did you say you would next visit?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘When you confirmed with Marc when you would both next visit?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You said you would discuss when you would both next visit. I just wondered what you had agreed.’

  Hopkins taps the table hard.

  ‘Enough now, Colonel. Dr Steinhauer has stated that he does not remember the details of conversations long ago. This is going nowhere.’

  De Vries ignores him, immediately continues.

  ‘So, you say you were involved in no business matters with your brother whatsoever?’

  ‘I cannot think of any occasion where I was involved in my brother’s personal or commercial business, no.’

  ‘You ever discuss business with him at your aunt’s?’

  ‘I think,’ Hopkins says, more assertively, ‘that we have exhausted that line. My client has made it quite clear that he had no business relationship with his brother. Can we move on?’

  ‘We have a long way to go, sir,’ Don tells him. ‘I think it is best to let the Colonel continue in order to make this as quick as possible for you and your client.’

  De Vries says, ‘You worked with Dr Johannes Dyk at St Magdelene’s Hospital in the late 1990s. Is that correct?’

  ‘I worked within the same field as Dr Dyk, yes. We were never colleagues as such.’

  ‘But you remember him?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Why obviously? Before, you told me that you forgot unimportant matters.’

  ‘I remember him. He was considered an authority in his field.’

  ‘You worked with him professionally?’

  ‘I said to you, no.’

  ‘You socialized with him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why would you remember him so clearly?’

  ‘I just do. Dr Johannes Dyk was at St Magdelene’s Hospital, and I remember him.’

  De Vries just looks at him; face blank. Neither man speaks. After maybe thirty seconds, Steinhauer says, ‘I do not recall ever socializing with Dr Dyk.’

  ‘So, when would he have met your family? He told us that he knew both you and Marc.’

  ‘Dr Dyk is very ill – Alzheimer’s Disease, I believe.’

  De Vries smiles. ‘So you have kept up with him.’

  ‘No. I haven’t seen Johannes in . . . I don’t know, many years.’

  ‘Johannes?’

  ‘Dr Dyk then.’

  ‘So how did you know that he had Alzheimer’s?’

  Steinhauer hesitates momentarily. ‘One hears news about colleagues.’

  ‘But you said he was not your colleague.’

  ‘He was . . . a man who worked in the same field as I. We are a small community of professionals.’

  ‘A small community, but you scarcely knew him? You never socialized with him; he had been retired for several years. From whom did you hear this information?’

  ‘Is it not correct?’

  ‘You’re doing it again, Doctor.’ De Vries waves his pen, tone scolding. ‘In this interview, I ask the questions, and you try to think of answers. From whom did you hear that Dr Dyk was suffering with Alzheimer’s?’

  ‘I have no idea. I was aware that he was ill, that is all.’

  ‘I understand that the diagnosis was made only recently. Surely you must recall who told you about it?’

  ‘I do not. I am sorry.’

  ‘Do you suppose that he knew your father, perhaps from the Valkenberg Hospital?’

  ‘Valkenberg? No. No, I don’t know that. I suppose it is possible, but he never spoke of knowing my father.’

  ‘You conversed with Dr Dyk?’

  ‘Yes, on occasion.’

  ‘And your father never came up in conversation?’

  ‘No. I spoke rarely with Dr Dyk and, had he known my father, I am sure that it would have been one of the first things he mentioned.’

  ‘And your brother never spoke of him with you? Dr Dyk speaks about your family as if he knew all of you quite well.’

  De Vries watches Steinhauer gently breathe in and release a long, silent sigh. He gathers himself again, says, ‘I met Dr Dyk only at St Magdelene’s Hospital. I do not recall him at the family house, and certainly not at my own home.’

  ‘Whose interpretation should I believe then, sir? Yours or Dr Dyk’s?’

  ‘That,’ snaps Steinhauer, ‘is not my business.’

  ‘Will you be mentioning Dr Dyk in your book?’

  ‘My work is not up for discussion.’

  ‘It was, a few minutes ago. You deliberately brought it up.’

  ‘I mentioned my book. I will not divulge its contents.’

  ‘But if Dr Dyk was an old family friend . . .’

  ‘Which, as I stated, he was not . . .’

  ‘. . . a colleague who predicted, quite incorrectly, that the abducted children were the likely victims of child-trafficking, exactly as you proposed. You would not mention him as a fellow expert who gave the same false advice—’

  ‘The advice was not false.’

  ‘The advice was wrong; the opposite of correct.’

  ‘The advice was offered in good faith. I can only speak for myself. Dr Dyk concluded much as I did, based on the information available to us. I am sure that others in our position would have done the same.’

  ‘Did you discuss the case with Dr Dyk before he advised the SAPS?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not at the time of the original kidnapping, nor later?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You didn’t try to contact him for your television programme?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why was that? You asked me to appear on your programme.’

  ‘You refused.’

  ‘Why did you not approach Dr Dyk? As a friend and c
lose colleague, he might have been more inclined to accept.’

  Steinhauer narrows his eyes. ‘You continue to insert words I have not used into your quotations of me. It is a pointless activity for you. I remember very well what I said, and the tapes will back me up. So, I repeat, solely for your benefit: Dr Dyk and I were never professional colleagues, nor would I regard him as a friend. As far as my television programme was concerned, it was my producers who made such decisions on who should appear as a guest.’

  ‘You never made suggestions?’

  Steinhauer bridles. ‘Naturally, I had influence. I certainly suggested subject matter and those who might contribute to it.’

  ‘Did you suggest inviting me?’

  ‘No – I don’t recall. Probably not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t have much faith in policemen.’

  De Vries smiles. He looks over to Don, smiles at him too.

  ‘Not much faith . . .’ he muses. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Is that based on personal experience?’

  ‘It was you specifically, and the SAPS generally, who failed to uncover the kidnappers of those three boys.’

  ‘You and Dr Dyk didn’t find them in some Arabian harem, did you?’

  ‘The actions of three kidnappings in three days is audacious: it is likely that it was planned by a very experienced, highly intelligent mind or group of minds.’

  ‘You told everyone that you were convinced that the boys were out of the country.’

  ‘That they were being held must be considered most unlikely. The fact is that you and your people failed.’

  ‘It was your brother who killed two of them.’

  ‘That’s enough.’ Hopkins bangs the table ineffectually with his fist. ‘This is not an interview to establish facts. This is a hounding of my client, who is being especially patient and indulgent. But I am not prepared to accept it. Either ask factual questions, or we will conclude proceedings.’

  Vaughn sits back; continues to stare at Steinhauer.

  ‘Your client,’ Don says to Hopkins, ‘has not refused to answer these questions. If he were under caution, you could warn him to stay silent if you were concerned that he might incriminate himself, but this is a voluntary interview.’

  Hopkins shakes his head at Don, jabs his thumb at him as he turns to de Vries. ‘Is he talking for you today, de Vries?’

  ‘Mr Hopkins . . .’

  Hopkins turns to Don. ‘No. If you wish to address me, I expect the lead detective to communicate with me.’