See No Evil

by Michael Ridpath

  They walked through the trees for a couple of minutes before they came to a cottage, much like the others in the camp. It stood by itself, overlooking a dry river bed. As they approached a pair of hornbills flew from a tree, kicking up a fuss as they went, their flared tail feathers balancing their large beaks in ungainly flight. To the west it was just possible to see the peaks of the Drakensberg mountains in the distance.

  ‘This is where we stayed,’ Benton said.

  ‘It’s a lovely spot,’ said Calder.

  ‘You can see it’s very discreet,’ Phyllis said. ‘And a lot of game passes along the stream bed.’ She pointed to the dry sand which was crisscrossed with animal and bird tracks of all kinds. ‘The killer fired his shots from over there.’ She pointed to the other bank. ‘Just behind that mopane tree.’ It was a distance of about sixty yards, no problem for a good shot.

  Calder glanced at Benton. He was standing still, a faraway look in his eyes. Everyone was quiet, watching him.

  He smiled grimly. ‘Sorry. Just that being here, it brings it back.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, I broke the bathroom window and climbed out the back. Here, I’ll show you.’

  He strode rapidly round to the back of the cottage, his long legs leaving the others behind. The bathroom window was out of sight of the spot where the killer had stood. ‘Then I ran along the path, but I ducked to the right here.’ There was a turn-off where a narrower path headed into the trees. After twenty yards or so it passed a small shed. ‘And this is where I hid.’

  ‘Can we look inside?’ Calder asked Phyllis.

  ‘Certainly.’ She pulled out a key. ‘It’s locked now, but it wasn’t then. Let me show you.’

  She switched on the light from a single electric bulb. The shed was small, about the size of a garage. It was full of old equipment: gardening tools, an axe, oil lamps, pieces of wood, a broken table, some cans of paraffin, and an insect screen for a window. ‘When I hid in here there was some metal roofing material over there,’ Benton said pointing to one wall. ‘I squeezed myself behind that.’

  Cornelius looked up at the roof. There were beams running the length of the shed, about eight or nine feet off the ground. ‘And where did you hide the diary?’

  ‘Up there.’

  The beams were old and unpainted. And lying lengthways on one of them Calder could see the edge of a brick.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Calder.

  ‘I think so,’ said Benton. He looked around for something suitable to stand on, and found an old tea chest. It creaked under his weight as he climbed up on to it. He reached up, lifted the brick with one hand, and ran his fingers along the beam with the other. ‘It’s not there.’

  ‘Check further along,’ said Cornelius.

  With help from the others, who cleared a path along the floor, Benton slid the tea chest under the beam the length of the building, and reached upwards. Nothing.

  ‘Are you sure no one has found a diary?’ Cornelius snapped at Phyllis, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice.

  Phyllis shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr van Zyl,’ she replied primly. ‘I’m afraid your trip has been a waste of time.’

  A wave of disappointment washed over Calder. Vague hope had somehow turned into near certainty that they would find the diary after such a long time, certainty that he now realized had always been groundless. He could see that Cornelius and Benton felt equally crushed. Only Zan seemed to take their failure with equanimity, but of course she had less at stake than they did.

  ‘Can we go back and see where the killer stood?’ Cornelius said.

  ‘All right,’ Phyllis said, and led them back to the cottage and down into the river bed. Phyllis was talking to Benton in murmured tones, no doubt commiserating with him for all those years ago. As they reached the far bank she paused. ‘It’s just by that mopane tree I showed you earlier,’ she said. ‘Benton wants to spend a couple of moments alone in the cottage. I’ll take him back there.’

  Calder and Cornelius climbed the bank and pushed through the scrub to the tree. There was a good view of the cottage on the other side of the bank. They could see Benton and Phyllis inside. And Zan hurrying back across the stream bed towards them.

  ‘What’s Zan up to?’ Calder asked. ‘Do you think she’s scared?’ He did suddenly feel vulnerable out in the bush without the protection of the rifle, which Phyllis had taken with her.

  ‘Zan, scared?’ Cornelius said. ‘Never.’

  The urgency with which Zan was moving worried Calder. He hurried after her, followed by Cornelius. They scrambled down the bank and back to the cottage. The door was open. They walked in together to see Phyllis and Benton standing side by side next to a bed, on which lay Phyllis’s open backpack. In Benton’s hand was a black notebook. They were both staring at something over Calder’s shoulder.

  He turned round.

  ‘Get in!’ said Zan. She was standing in the corner of the room, holding Phyllis’s rifle, which she was pointing at Calder and Cornelius. She waved them over to where Phyllis and Benton were standing and kicked the door shut. ‘Now … very slowly, Benton … hand me the diary.’

  28

  August 26, 1988

  God, it’s all getting out of control. I can’t trust anyone. No one!

  Perhaps if I write it all down calmly it will seem clearer to me.

  Zan’s flying to London today. In fact she’ll be taking off in six hours from now, thank God. I told her this morning that I would spend the day in Guguletu with Miriam Masote and a bunch of visitors from the American Council of Churches, but I’d be back late afternoon so I could take her to the airport. Well, I got a call from Miriam just before I left home that there had been some kind of riot in Guguletu last night and she had decided to postpone the visit till tomorrow. So I went into Stellenbosch to do a little shopping.

  I was on my way back to the car from Oom Samie’s, walking along Church Street, when I spotted Zan at a table by the window of a coffee shop. I was crossing the road to say hi, when I saw who she was with. Three men. I recognized Daniel Havenga first, and I thought it was odd that she should be seeing him: I didn’t realize she knew him. Then I noticed that someone was holding her hand across the table, a big red-haired man in his mid-twenties, quite cute. So Zan does have a boyfriend after all, I thought, she’s kept that very quiet, I wonder who he is. Then I saw the third man: Andries Visser. None of this made any sense. I took an instant decision, turned around in the middle of the road and hurried off. I didn’t look back so I wasn’t sure whether they had seen me or not.

  I drove back home trying to figure out what was going on. It didn’t add up at first. Havenga and a young woman by herself meant philandering. Havenga and Visser together meant Laagerbond. Why would someone like Zan, a fully paid-up radical opponent of apartheid, be talking to the Laagerbond, her bitter enemy?

  Perhaps she was acting as some kind of agent for Cornelius? Yes, that made sense, I thought. I could imagine Cornelius trusting her and neither of them telling me about it. Yes that must be it.

  I arrived back at Hondehoek, made myself a cup of coffee and took it out into the garden. It rained last night, but it was a bright clear morning. As I felt the gentle sunshine on my face I knew that wasn’t the right explanation, however much I wanted it to be.

  The three men and Zan were not in the midst of a tense negotiating session. They were relaxed in each other’s company. Visser was smoking a cigarette, Havenga was chattering away and laughing, Zan was smiling too. They were conspiratorial. That was it, conspiratorial.

  And what about the red-haired man? He was holding Zan’s hand in a familiar way, the way you would hold the hand of someone you knew for a long time, a long-standing girlfriend. Yet there was also something illicit about it. His eyes were on Zan. He was happy in her company, enjoying their brief time together. And he was with Visser and Havenga.

  He looked intelligent, clean cut, a young professional.

  It’s obvious. She is his girlfriend
. Both of them were conspiring with the Laagerbond.

  Okay, but how could Zan, the activist member of the Black Sash and the End Conscription Campaign, talk to these people in such a familiar way? The old Zan maybe, the Zan who enrolled in the Rand Afrikaans University to spite her father perhaps, but not the new Zan, the Zan who transferred to Wits, joined marches and protested against apartheid in all its forms.

  Unless the old Zan has never changed.

  Everyone knows that over the last ten years the security forces have infiltrated the main opposition groups, the SACP, the UDF, the ANC. They’ve done it with spies; often white spies, which is why so many black opponents of the regime have become wary of dealing with whites over the years. Well, one of those spies is Zan.

  She probably met her red-haired boyfriend at the Rand Afrikaans University. The security police would think she’s a perfect candidate, the pro-Afrikaner daughter of a prominent English-speaking liberal family. All they had to do was to get her to deny her opinions and bury them. Which she has done very effectively.

  And that’s why she has suddenly reappeared in our lives. She is working with the Laagerbond to warm up Cornelius, observe him and ultimately help persuade him to join forces with them. Just like Beatrice Pienaar.

  The Operation Drommedaris paper I read in Daniel Havenga’s briefcase mentioned Impala’s opinion of Cornelius. I assume Impala is Beatrice Pienaar. It said this opinion was confirmed by Eland. Is Zan Eland?

  It would be wrong to say that I never believed in Zan’s change of heart. I did believe in her radicalism, her return to the family, because I wanted to believe in it. I always hated the way she turned against Cornelius and me, and there was nothing I wanted to do more than accept her back.

  But the prodigal daughter is a spy.

  Here comes her car now. What the hell am I going to say to her?

  Later…

  Zan’s gone. Finneas is driving her to the airport; I couldn’t.

  She sat in the kitchen while I made us some coffee. She seemed cool, relaxed. “You didn’t go to the Project today, did you?” she said.

  “There was a riot last night. The visit was postponed.”

  “I see. Was that you I saw in Church Street?” she asked casually.

  She had obviously seen me. She was fishing to find out whether I had seen her. I smiled. “Yes, I ran some errands.” I turned away from her and fiddled with the kettle. “Where were you? I didn’t see you.” I could hear my voice was strained. Hoarse.

  “Yes you did,” Zan said slowly. Matter-of-factly.

  I turned to face her. “What the hell were you doing with those men?” I demanded, giving up all pretense of innocence.

  Zan smiled. “They’re friends of mine.”

  “You’re a spy, aren’t you?” I said. “A spy for the Laagerbond. You’re trying to lure your father into joining them.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Zan. “What’s the Laagerbond?”

  “Who was that boy whose hand you were holding so sweetly?” I asked.

  “Just an old friend from university,” Zan said.

  “University? Which one.”

  Zan didn’t answer immediately. She seemed to be thinking. “Those friends I was with,” she said at last. “They are very powerful people. I like them, but they can be dangerous. They can even get people killed.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m just suggesting that it would be a good idea if you didn’t tell anyone who you saw me with today. And I wouldn’t share your wild ideas about me being a spy with anyone else either. Especially Pa.”

  “You are threatening me! Get your stuff and get out of my house now!”

  Zan smiled again. “All right,” she said, slowly pulling herself to her feet. And then, as she was at the kitchen door: “Enjoy your weekend with Benton.”

  I rushed into the garden to give her time to pack. She was quick. Thank God she’s going to London. But what the hell do I do now?

  I can’t believe what she’s done. That she was betraying us, her family, the whole time. She’s eaten with us, talked to us, laughed with us. And who else has she betrayed? How many people who work for the cause are in jail because of her? I thought that hatred that she showed me when she was a teenager had disappeared, but it hasn’t. It has grown and festered under her skin. I suppose I can imagine her betraying me, but her own father? Except in her twisted mind she probably believes she’s helping him to see the light.

  I’ve no doubt her threat is real. Perhaps I should just keep quiet as she suggested. But how can I do that when it will mean that Cornelius will sell out to the Laagerbond? I can’t go through the rest of my life pretending that Zan is my sweet little radical stepdaughter. God knows what damage she will do to the ANC once she gets to London.

  Plus she’s read this diary. And recently as well. How else would she know about Benton? Of course that’s the other part of the threat. She’s going to tell Cornelius about him.

  I don’t know what to do. I need to talk to someone about it. Talk to Benton. He’s the one person who can give me a sensible, objective view.

  I’m glad I wrote that letter to Mom yesterday. Next time I hear from Zan, as I surely will, I’ll tell her that if anything happens to me it will all come out.

  I’d like to talk to Cornelius. He’s in Philadelphia at the moment and won’t be back here for a couple of weeks. I’m worried about using the phone; after my run-in with the security police I wouldn’t be surprised if it was tapped. And I don’t know whether I can trust him. I don’t know how deep Zan and Beatrice and the Laagerbond have gotten their claws into him.

  Oh, God, I’m so scared. How did I get myself into this mess?

  At least I’m seeing Benton tomorrow night. I can’t wait.

  29

  ‘Put the gun down, Zan.’ Cornelius’s voice was strong, authoritative.

  ‘No,’ said Zan.

  Cornelius took a step forward. ‘I said, put it down.’

  ‘I’ll shoot you, Pa,’ Zan said. ‘I don’t want to, but I will if I have to. I’ve killed a lot of people, believe me.’

  Cornelius halted.

  ‘Take three steps back,’ Zan commanded.

  Cornelius slowly did as he was told. ‘When you said you’d killed people, did you mean Martha?’

  ‘Yes,’ Zan said.

  ‘And you tried to kill Todd?’

  ‘No, that was the Laagerbond. Edwin told me Todd had been asking questions. He also told me about the joy ride in the Yak he had planned. It seemed like a good opportunity for them to shut him up.’

  ‘But how could you do that to Todd?’ Cornelius asked. ‘He’s your brother.’

  ‘Half-brother. I hate him, Pa. I always have, ever since I was fourteen. That’s when I realized that he and Martha had stolen you. I tried to win you back, but you left me. You left me and you left your people and you ran away.’

  ‘My people?’

  ‘The Afrikaner people. Our people.’

  ‘But you were a supporter of the struggle against apartheid!’

  ‘Not me, Pa,’ said Zan, smiling. ‘How could you ever believe that? I was always working for our people. It was me who first suggested that the Laagerbond approach you. We had it all planned perfectly. The SACP hit-list; Beatrice.’

  ‘And Hennie?’ said Cornelius. ‘Did you kill Hennie?’

  ‘No,’ said Zan, frowning. ‘No, guerrillas did that.’ But there was doubt in her voice.

  ‘Just like they killed Martha, I suppose,’ Cornelius said, his voice laced with scorn.

  ‘You ran away! Why did you run away, Pa? Operation Drommedaris was perfect for you. It would have brought us together, doing something for our people, father and daughter. But when she died, you left. Left your country, left your people, left me. You went to America and married another American woman and forgot all about your homeland. How could you do that to me after everything I had done for you?’

  Cornelius’s
face was a mixture of disbelief and revulsion. ‘But why kill Martha?’

  ‘I had to. She had figured out what I was up to. She knew about the Laagerbond and she knew I was working for the security police. And she was sleeping with him,’ she jerked the rifle towards Benton. ‘I read all about it in this.’ Zan nodded at the diary which she had placed on the small table beside her. ‘I bet the last entries are all about me.’

  ‘So the Laagerbond told you to kill her?’ Calder said.

  ‘Oh, no. I told them they should do it, but they refused. They didn’t want to scare you off, they said. I decided not to fly to London, but to Johannesburg instead. I got hold of a rifle and drove over to Kupugani. After all those trips hunting springbok with Uncle Hennie I knew how to use one, even then. And when I saw Martha with Benton it wasn’t difficult to pull the trigger. I’m just sorry I didn’t get you as well.’

  She glared at Benton. He scowled back.

  ‘The police caught me driving out of Kupugani. I called the Laagerbond. They were unhappy, but they had to help me cover everything up, and so the police let me go. It would have stayed covered up if Alex Calder hadn’t asked so many damned questions.’ Anger burned in her eyes as she glared at Calder. ‘Phyllis knew,’ she said. ‘That was why she tried to sneak the diary to Benton without me seeing. You found it and you read it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Phyllis, her voice strong. ‘We discovered it about five years ago. When I’d read it I decided to keep quiet about it. I was afraid something like this might happen.’

  ‘Did someone from the Laagerbond really try to kill you this morning?’ Calder said.

  ‘Oh, yes. After the Laagerbond had failed to stop you I told them I would take care of things myself. Like I did with Martha. I thought I was going to meet an old friend who is a member to talk it over, but it was a trap. For some reason they must think I’m more of a danger to them than you are.’