‘You see why I hate politics, Don?’
Du Toit turns to de Vries.
‘I know you don’t want to hear this, Vaughn, but you have identified the murderer of Bobby Eames and Steven Lawson, you have saved Joe Pienaar from a probable fatal threat, identified Trevor Henderson and . . . dealt with him. Your actions, Warrant Officer,’ he says to Don February, ‘undoubtedly saved the life of Colonel de Vries and have, though neither of you may see it in such a way, saved the SAPS a great deal of adverse publicity and a further demotion in respect from the general public. The outcome of this case, the past few days, cannot be described as a disaster.’
De Vries sighs again, mutters.
‘You may feel,’ du Toit continues, addressing de Vries, ‘with your personal connection to the case, as I do myself, that there is a major piece missing. However, sometimes not everything is achievable. We have done our best.’
‘We have, sir,’ de Vries says. ‘But it is not enough.’
Ralph Hopkins walks with Nicholas Steinhauer to the front entrance of the building. At the bottom of the concrete and steel staircase at the back of the lobby, they pass du Toit and de Vries. Du Toit steps out in front of them.
‘I don’t imagine that the people out there will be satisfied by “no comment”. You wouldn’t prefer to leave by the back entrance?’
Nicholas Steinhauer looks down on du Toit, says quietly, ‘Get out of my way.’
Hopkins puts his arm on Steinhauer’s, but Steinhauer shakes him away.
‘Enough now. Enough of my time has been wasted.’
Du Toit steps back; de Vries says, ‘Whatever you do say, I’ll be listening.’
Steinhauer smiles. ‘You will find that everybody will be listening to what I have to say. Don’t worry about that.’
As he passes him, de Vries says, ‘Don’t make a mistake.’
Steinhauer stops, turns, smiles calmly at De Vries, totally at ease.
‘I haven’t yet.’
He and Hopkins walk briskly to the entrance and, as the door opens, the flashguns blaze and the shouted questions form a cacophony like a firework display. De Vries watches the media form an amphitheatre of attention around both men, microphones poised, straining to hear what they have to say. He waits on the spot, totally still, staring but not seeing, the flashes of perfectly white light stinging his eyes until he simply stands there and closes them.
General Thulani’s office is blizzard-cold. Du Toit wonders whether this is to keep interviews short or merely to penetrate the depths of Thulani’s waistline.
‘It’s over, Henrik,’ Thulani says. ‘That is the best part of it.’
‘Perhaps not in everybody’s minds, sir.’
‘Then make it clear to Colonel de Vries that this is so.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’ Thulani relaxes again. ‘You see how it must be. The media: they require a beginning, a middle and an end – and this we have now provided.’ He folds his arms. ‘I assume that you now have de Vries’ mind occupied elsewhere?’
‘Vaughn is having some marital difficulties. I suggested a few days’ leave to get these matters under control and then, as you know, we have more than enough to keep us all occupied indefinitely.’
‘The long-term problem you have with that officer is that he may be motivated and effective, but he is the opposite of the image we in the new SAPS wish to project.’
‘But perhaps there is room for some unorthodox methods?’
‘No, Henrik, there is not. You retain him at your own peril and you are responsible for policing him but, be aware, you jeopardize your own standing by continuing to support his behaviour.’
Du Toit feels his jaw tighten.
‘I support the man, not his behaviour. And whatever you think of him, sir, we need men like de Vries. Not only because there are precious few senior white officers remaining in the force – and we do, supposedly, represent the “Rainbow Nation” – but because there are now so few who have served in the ranks and have risen on investigative merit.’
‘That could be taken as a racial slur.’
‘As could any comment which does not unconditionally praise a particular group. We have too much work to play games.’
‘We live and die in the media spotlight, Henrik. Watch yourself. As for your implied criticism of some black officers, does that include me?’
‘Obviously not, sir.’
‘Obviously not?’
‘We have worked together for many years, sir. Of your experience and qualifications for your role, there can be no doubt. There remains, however, a question over the experience of some officers, those who have been promoted rapidly . . .’
‘There will be time for officers of all races to gain experience. Right now, we have a representative body of men and women. You – and your small group of older officers in your department – would do well to recognize that this is the future. It will be no other way.’
Du Toit smiles wanly back at General Simphiwe Thulani.
David Wertner marches briskly to his car, salutes two police officers walking towards the building’s underground exit. As he reaches his vehicle, he sees Vaughn de Vries appear from behind a wide concrete pillar.
‘You’re very predictable,’ de Vries says.
Wertner stops. ‘What are you doing, de Vries?’
‘A few words with you before I go on leave.’
‘You know where my office is.’
De Vries saunters towards him. ‘But I understood that you favoured private conversations below ground.’
De Vries watches a tiny pulse of pink colour on Wertner’s tightly shaved cheeks, rise towards the dirty shaven skull. Wertner makes for the door of his car, but de Vries blocks his way.
‘Do you have the special key for this lift too?’ de Vries smiles, but does not move.
‘I have technical rank, de Vries.’
‘You can’t bully me,Wertner, and you can’t catch me out, however hard you try. I will do what I do and face anything you try to throw at me. And you know what? Whatever you think of me, my men are loyal to me. You want to undermine me to my team, next time do it officially or better still, be a man, and say it to my face . . .’
‘Move out of the way.’
‘. . . instead of threatening my Warrant Officer, claiming you control the future of his career.’
‘Every man in this province is under scrutiny which can make or break him. Without such sanction, there is anarchy.’
De Vries laughs. ‘There is more anarchy in the new South Africa than you can control. Spend your time rooting out the corrupt and the incompetent, and leave those of us who understand the job alone.’
‘The job description’s changed – that’s what you don’t get.’
‘Why don’t you, just for once, listen to something somebody tells you.’
‘Why should I do that? You don’t register on my scale. I don’t value your outdated opinions and I don’t respect your failings. I am sick of reward for failure in this organization.’
De Vries steps still closer to him.
‘Ask yourself who has links to the Police Ministry. Ask yourself why they intervened to stop further investigation into Nicholas Steinhauer.’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘At the very least, question their motivation.’
‘All I hear from you is Nicholas Steinhauer. What about Ledham, and your unfinished enquiries there?’
‘You know by now that the insert to the original abduction report was just that – inserted later. It was never there.’
‘I do not know that.’
‘But I do, and I’m telling you. Read the full report and you’ll see how Robert Ledham was nothing. He had as much to do with this case as Iraq had with Nine/eleven. That was added to the file to discredit me. It was a stupid, blunt instrument, but you bought it long enough to consider delaying me.’
Wertner reaches for his door handle, turns back.
‘It’s ov
er, de Vries. You’ll step out of line again and this time you’ll leave your footprint, and then you’ll be gone. I will personally see to that.’
‘Leave some of us to do the job properly. Concentrate on your own people.’
Wertner stretches his neck forward and puts his face in de Vries’.
‘My own people? Get the fuck out of my way.’
De Vries braces him for a few seconds, and then he stands back. Wertner opens his car door, sits heavily in the cabin and slams the door shut. He starts the engine and lowers the driver’s side window.
‘Your people,’ he spits, ‘don’t run the show any more. You don’t get to make the rules and you don’t get to break them.’
‘That’s what this has always been about for you, isn’t it?’
‘It’s the future. You people don’t get that yet.’
‘What people, Wertner? White people?’ de Vries laughs. ‘You think black Africa is going to embrace you? You think you’ll have a place at the table? Whatever you think you’ve got, you’re going to lose it.’
Wertner sticks his hand out of his window and raises his middle finger.
‘Fuck off, de Vries.’
Wertner accelerates out of the space, turns hard left and heads towards the small rectangle of daylight at the far corner of the garage.
He wakes to a bright yellowish light, unnatural and sickly. Above him, slowly coming into focus, narrow white bars enclose him in a tiny cell. He tries to sit up, hits his head, closes his eyes, lies back down. It is cool here; his head is supported and he can breathe cold, fresh air. He struggles into consciousness again, aware that he is afraid, swivels aching eyes, suddenly realizes where he is. He wriggles out of the refrigerator, crawls away from it and turns back to see what he has done. He rests on all fours, his head down and heavy. Around him, scattered on the floor, are half-opened packets and sticky jars which occupied the bottom two shelves of his fridge. One metal shelf is balanced at an angle against the leg of the kitchen table. He has no recollection of this; how he cleared the space, lay on his back, rested his head on the bottom shelf, and fell asleep.
He helps himself into his tall-backed carving chair, feels consciousness slipping again, his right ear flat on the pile of paperwork which cajoles his attention on sight.
Now, he is in a dark tunnel, not walking towards a light, but floating in the blackness. The ability to hover weightlessly calms him, laugh-lines appear around his eyes and mouth; he feels content. And then a fear of the endless yet confining darkness begins to grow, the cold seeps inside his skin, his eyes ache; the ceiling seems lower, the passage narrower. There is no way out for him . . . except the shocking jolt of consciousness.
He sits for less than ten minutes in the plush waiting room of the Huguenot Chambers off Company Gardens in the centre of town. He looks at his scuffed shoes, runs his scalded hand tentatively over his raw scalp and spiky tufts of hair, imagines that the pristine secretary has never seen such a figure before.
Hopkins appears at the double doors to his office, relaxed, smiling.
‘You’ve caught me at a lucky moment, Colonel. Come into my office.’
De Vries rises, passes him, and enters the large book-lined room, red-carpeted, high-ceilinged, richly furnished.
‘You do all right,’ he tells Hopkins.
‘You might say, crime does pay.’ Hopkins chuckles at his own joke, gestures towards two small armchairs either side of a coffee table by the tall windows. De Vries sits and Hopkins follows him.
‘I do, however, only have a short amount of time.’
‘I am sure you have been told already,’ de Vries starts. ‘We have ended the investigation into the triple abduction and, since two of those implicated are dead and Johannes Dyk is not long from joining them, there will be no further arrests at this time.’
Hopkins looks at him, purses his lips. Says, ‘Indeed, I have been informed.’
‘Will you tell your client?’
‘Which one?’
‘Nicholas Steinhauer.’
Hopkins smiles. ‘I think that he has been confident, from the very beginning, that no charges would be brought against him.’
De Vries absorbs both Steinhauer’s and his lawyer’s self-assurance bitterly; their assumption that he would fail has been vindicated.
‘But,’ Hopkins continues, ‘I am sure that is not why you have come here. What can I do for you, Colonel?’
De Vries hesitates, wonders whether, here in his own space, Hopkins will prove impregnable, but he catches the feckless charm of the lawyer’s expression, and it resolves him.
‘You lied to me. I need to know why.’
‘Lied?’
‘To my inquiry. A serious matter.’
‘You will have to explain.’
‘I know who called you on the night before Marc Steinhauer’s death.’
Hopkins shrugs.
‘Was it a business arrangement?’
‘I have already stated to you the events of that evening.’
‘Julius Mngomezulu called you.’ De Vries watches Hopkins’ eyes narrow, his posture stiffen almost imperceptibly. ‘I know this and, if I need to, I can prove it. Marc Steinhauer never called you. I want to know why Mngomezulu did.’
Hopkins produces a pink handkerchief and dabs his lips. He adjusts his position, posits the question to de Vries as if he were conducting a cross-examination.
‘Did Mngomezulu tell you?’
‘I merely want to know whether this officer is disloyal or corrupt. I’m looking to you to help me. If you do, I might overlook the fact that you deliberately misled me in the middle of a complex murder case.’
‘If you try to do that,’ Hopkins counters, suddenly more confident, ‘your source will have to be beyond reproach.’
‘Tell me about Mngomezulu.’
Hopkins places his hands on his stomach, glances about the room. He snorts.
‘You won’t like what I have to say.’
‘Tell me.’
Hopkins reclines; he can offer what is wanted.
‘I didn’t ask him to call me; I certainly didn’t offer payment. I think he did it for his own personal reasons. One might speculate that it was because he wished to ensure justice, but that is not the case here. He did it because he doesn’t like you. Possibly for your manner, conceivably for your independence but, most all of all, I’m afraid to say, I think because of your colour.’
‘To what end?’
‘You must ask him that. To undermine you, certainly. Perhaps to create a rift within your team.’
De Vries nods absentmindedly.
‘How,’ Hopkins says casually, ‘will the matter be dealt with?’
‘I think,’ de Vries replies, trying to phrase his words as du Toit might, ‘that understanding your relationship to your colleagues is very important and that sometimes, to know things that people don’t know you know can provide . . . insurance.’
Hopkins smiles, sits forward, lowers his voice. ‘We may be on opposite sides on occasion, but on this perhaps we are together. Mr Mngomezulu is a strange and, I suspect, troubled young man, full of anger and blame. He is resentful and unforgiving and, I am afraid to say, there are plenty like him in the law, in business, everywhere. If you give these people too much power, they will turn it against us.’
De Vries moves his chair back a fraction, away from Hopkins, says, ‘There are people in my team I don’t like; I just get on with it.’
‘Too true,’ Hopkins says. ‘I have many a client I don’t care for, but one has a job to do.’
De Vries smiles at Hopkins, bends towards him so that they are both leaning in towards each other. Echoing Hopkins’ hushed tones, he murmurs: ‘Do you like Nicholas Steinhauer?’
Hopkins’ smile remains, but de Vries appreciates that, as the seconds pass, it falters, just a little. Hopkins affects a shrug.
‘He pays my bills.’
De Vries sits alone at home watching dusk overtaken by night, staring at his
garden, the green pool with its intestinal hoses and jellyfish-like cleaner floating dead in its clammy calm and, behind high, faint, scudding clouds, almost a full moon. He thinks again through all the information he has accrued in the last weeks, checking and rechecking every word of testimony, each report filed. Always, the man Steinhauer is present. He sits just beyond his field of vision, perhaps somewhere in the corner of the dark yellowwood ceiling beams, almost like a judge on the bench. De Vries feels anger and frustration rise through his body like a cold sweat. It hits his groin and then his stomach, passes up his chest, making him fight for breath, until it reaches his head, when he finds himself panting out loud, fists clenched, teeth gritted, a paroxysm. Then, eyes bulging, he returns to the domesticated pastoral scene until his pulse steadies, muttering to himself to stay calm, his hand to his left pectoral.
He draws the curtains and turns up the light above the dining table and studies the papers, making notes and drinking. It is a table which held his family together for so many years. Another lawyer’s letter informs him that Suzanne de Vries wants him to keep this house, at least until the girls have decided where they want to live. She was, her lawyer informed him, earning so much, she could not see the need to force a sale. A gesture of kindness posited as a humiliation. He wonders whether this was her phraseology or just a cheap jibe from a hubristic legal mind.
He questions his every decision and still he cannot see a way to break Steinhauer. He invents and hypothesizes until he sees the moon cross behind Devil’s Peak. He has drunk steadily, but his mind seems on automatic: the self-criticism and frustration become self-perpetuating. He is still awake; still conscious of his surroundings, but he knows that he is not in control, his imaginings more bizarre and distorted as the night has deepened. He sees Nicholas Steinhauer standing over him, smiling pitifully at his travail. He wakes momentarily, seemingly halfway through a spoken sentence. His eyes flicker and, as he fades into unconsciousness once more, he hears himself tell his phantom to his face:
The First Rule of Survival Page 35