by Deon Meyer
He would have to get used to this. He walked into the air-conditioned office and shook the tall coloured man's hand. 'I am. Mat Joubert.'
'Neville Philander. Please sit, it's all a bit crazy here at the moment...'
The telephone rang again. Philander stood up, walked to the door, shouted down the corridor: 'Santasha, hold the calls, I've got someone here.'
'OK, lovey,' a woman's voice called back. Philander sat down again. 'Madhouse, I tell you. Where were we? You probably want to know about Danie ...'
'If you can tell me.'
'HQ says it's OK. Tanya put in an official request.'
'I don't want to waste your time. Just two things really: did Danie Flint have any trouble at work, and did he, in the month before his disappearance, behave strangely in any way, any differently?'
'There's always trouble here at work. Are you ex SAPS?'
'I am.'
'Thought so. You've got that look. Ja, well, Danie was area manager, there's usually four of them, it's a tough job ...'
The phone on his desk began to ring again. 'Jesus,' he said, jumping up, and shouting down the corridor again: 'Santasha, please!'
'Sorry, Neville, my mistake, lovey ...'
He came back to his chair. 'Look here, the area manager's job is to manage his drivers, and his routes. Danie was Atlantic North, so everything from here to Atlantis, including Milnerton, Montague Gardens, Killarney, Du Noon, Richwood, Table View, Blouberg, Melkbos, not your biggest area, but with all the work on the N1 and the interchanges, it's also a fuck-up, I'm telling you. Anyway, the main problem is the drivers, because one half cause trouble and the other half complain, and your area manager fires at least three or four every month, so if you come ask me if he had conflict at work, then I'm gonna tell you "for sure", there's conflict here, but Danie could handle it. He was good with people, he's a communicator, he had respect, he never played whitey or threw his weight around, if you know what I mean. Between you and me, he was the most popular of the four, so I don't think ...'
The telephone rang again. Philander looked at it, then at the open door. It stopped.
'Sorry, Neville, sorry, lovey ...'
'Jirre,' said Philander, 'I'm telling you, ABC stands for Asylum By the Cape, you gotta be crazy to work here. I'm one man short and management doesn't want to take on any more, in case Danie pops out of the woodwork, you know? What else can I tell you?'
'His wife said there was a strike here last year.'
'Ja, that's another story, went on for two weeks, company-wide ...'
'About pay?'
'No. Our Driver Risk Management Programme. But Danie was on the sidelines, it was managed by Mr Eckhardt and those guys.'
'Mr Eckhardt?'
'Mr Francois Eckhardt, Chief Operations Officer. Anyway, the strike was bad for us, but there wasn't any conflict here, we just sat and waited every day.'
'Danie's behaviour before he vanished? Did you spot anything ... abnormal?'
'You tell me what's normal, there's no such thing here, you see for yourself how it is. Anyway, it's hard to say. The area managers are on the road most of the time, especially in the morning and the afternoon, checking out the routes, the rest of the time it's admin in their offices, there's no time to socialise, so I wouldn't have noticed really. And I didn't. Ol' Danie is always full of smiles, his work is right, he's a go-getter. I always say to him, the next thing you wanna go get is my job.'
'So they have a pretty fixed routine?'
'Very fixed. Out early, back by eleven, check email, the DRMP logs, scheduling, time sheets, personnel matters, then they're out again ...'
'And he stuck to it in October and November?'
'As far as I know ...'
'Neville!' the woman's voice sounded from the corridor.
'What?'
'Head Office on the line.'
'OK. Put it through.' Then to Joubert. 'This normally means trouble, you'll have to excuse me.'
Joubert stood up. 'His marriage?'
The phone began to ring. 'How would I know?' and he shook Joubert's hand.
'Neville, are you going to pick up or what?'
'Jirrel said Neville. He put his hand on the phone.
'Off the record?'
Joubert nodded.
'She's a bit of a nissen, that Tanya ...'
'Neville!'
Before Joubert could ask what a 'nissen' was, Philander picked up the phone.
84
He walked across the tarmac to his car and opened the Honda's doors to let the dammed up heat escape. It was the only drawback of a black vehicle, but he didn't mind, it gave him so much pleasure. One night, thirteen months ago, Margaret had looked up from her accounts and said: 'It's time you got a new car.' His Opel Corsa was already six years old then, but it had more than 200,000 on the clock, and left an ominous oil leak on the garage floor. It didn't take much to convince him, their finances were looking good thanks to her speculation on houses, and Jeremy, her eldest, had completed his studies and was on his way to America for his 'gap year'.
So he went looking for a car, in his thorough, considered way. Did his research, collecting catalogues, comparing prices, only to walk into the Honda dealer on Buitengracht, and there was the Type R with the red logo and the lean, low, black lines, and he was in love. Back home he had said to Margaret, in his inescapably Afrikaans accent: 'It must be the Goodwood in me,' and she'd smiled at his joking mention of the Cape Town suburb where he'd grown up, and hugged him close, whispering, 'A little bit of a mid-life crisis too', into his ear. Which was probably closer to the truth, because over the last few years he'd begun to hanker after the Datsun Triple-Ss of his twenties. Then Margaret said, 'Go buy the car. You deserve it.'
And it gave him pure, unalloyed pleasure. Maybe the suspension was a bit hard, seats not the most comfortable in the world, but the handling was incredible. And the power ...
He leaned against the Honda, took out his cellphone and called
Superintendent Johnny October, former colleague, now head of the Mitchells Plain detective squad.
'Sup!' said October. 'What a lekker surprise!'
'I'm not "Sup" any more, Johnny.'
'Sup will always be my "Sup" to me. Howzit going in the private sector?'
'Still too early to tell. And with you?'
'Rough, Sup. With Tweetybird out of the country ... This power struggle's hotting up.'
'I can imagine .'Tweetybird de la Cruz, leader of the Resdess Ravens, had left the country four months ago after a warrant was issued for his arrest. His business and turf were now fair game for factions within the Ravens, and for the other criminal gangs on the Cape Flats.
'Four murders this last week, three of them drive-bys .. .You wouldn't want the old days back, Sup, but things have changed.'
'That's true, Johnny. But I don't want to hassle you, just ask you something quickly: when someone says a woman is a "nissen", what do they mean?'
October chuckled down the phone. 'Ja, Sup, actually, you know, all women are Nissans.'
'Nissans?'
'You know, Sup, like the cars. Nissan. You remember their old slogan, "We are driven"? If you say someone is a Nissan, then you mean she's intense. Driven.'
'Aaah ...'
'They say you should rather marry a Toyota.'
'Everything keeps going right?'
'Exactly, Sup. Exactly.'
Albert Street in Woodstock was a termites' nest of big trucks, little trucks, minibuses, cars, people.
Joubert was caught up in the traffic jam and drove without seeing, thinking of his conversation with Johnny October. The two of them so out of step with the times. Anachronisms. Because Nissan's slogan was no longer We Are Driven and Toyota had long replaced Everything Keeps Going Right with something else that made no impact on anyone. Probably knew they'd be recalling millions of cars for faults.
And what did it say about him and Johnny that they lived with one foot in the past, as if the world began to
overtake you at a certain age? Brand names, slogans, fashions, technology, all the in-things, the red-hot conversation topics, the deafening chorus of got-to-have-it- now that faded to a white noise you were only dimly aware of. He was fifty. October was ten years older, when did this happen? Somewhere in your late forties? When all of a sudden you realise you've heard all the day's news before. All the advertising jingles. And all the stories of people's struggle and striving, their victories and scandals, the way groups and countries and regions and continents went through the same cyclical processes, again and again. Everything changes, everything stays the same, and you lose your sense of wide-eyed wonder, that was the pity of it all.
Joubert became aware of the world outside again, saw the traffic, the buildings. Memories stirred in him, this Woodstock made him think of the Goodwood of his youth - the somewhat dilapidated one- and two-storey buildings with corrugated iron roofs, gables and pillars, the entrepreneurial spirit of the corner shops, which sold a little bit of everything, from halal meat to cheap cigarettes, lawnmowers, fish and chips, second-hand furniture, upholstery services, trailer hitches. People on the pavements - jogging, walking, standing, talking, doing business, looking for a gap. Muslims with fezzes on their heads, fishermen with woollen hats, the headscarfed Xhosas, bare-headed whites, this place just as colour-blind as Voortrekker Street in the sixties, before all the trouble began.
But even here it wouldn't last. Between the old dilapidated facades, the charming pastels peeling off, here and there, the Engine of Progress roared: recent restoration, in lurid colours, new boutique shops, CQINZ Fashion, Mannequins Unlimited. Further down, the old Biscuit Mill, newly slicked with white and ugly turd-brown paint, festooned with signs for Imiso Clay, Exposure Gallery, Lime Grove, Shout, Third World Interiors, so that the gracious old building lost all its charm.
Loss.
Since Tanya Flint had told her story this morning, it had lurked inside him, this awareness. And his conversation with Johnny hadn't helped. I'm not 'Sup' any more, Johnny. It had been a long time coming, now said out loud for the first time. Not in the Service any more.
Thirty-one years of being a policeman, part of the family, the brotherhood, the exclusive club, and now the bond was broken. He was outside. The 'private sector', like Johnny said.
But when he was inside, the last two, three years, another kind of loss had slowly overcome him - a disillusionment, a disappointment, a powerlessness, a realisation of potential leaking away, possibilities lost. He, who had been so positive to begin with, who believed the police service could get better, could adapt to the new challenges, new realities. He had supported the ideal wholeheartedly and enthusiastically, the ideal of a SAPS that reflected the population demographic, which deployed affirmative action to cancel out old injustices, which transformed to a proud, effective, modern instrument of government. Only to see how it was slowly poisoned by politics and good intentions and haste and stupidity. And, in the end, by greed and corruption. And when he spoke up, when he warned and advised and pleaded, they marginalised him, pushed him out of the pack, made it clear that they no longer had any use for him.
A lifetime's work. For nothing.
No, no, he mustn't think like that. If he said it to Margaret, she would give him that loving smile of hers again and say: 'My melancholy policeman,' because this was a tendency of his. He had to think positively, make a new start, be grateful for this opportunity, this chance to draw on his experience, to be able still to serve. Jack Fischer said it was an international trend, a worldwide wave: the rise of the private law-enforcer. 'And we have to ride that wave, Mat, according to Thomas L. Freeman.'
Fanus Delport corrected Jack: 'Thomas L. Friedman.' But Mat still didn't know who he meant.
This feeling inside him, maybe it was because he was an investigator again, no longer the manager, the pen-pusher he'd become over the last few years. And if you worked at this level, as detective, then you had to deal with loss. At best just the loss of property, or dignity. At worst, The Great Loss.
I just want certainty, Tanya Flint had said.
He could see it in her, in her eyes and her shoulders, her hands and her way of talking, that battle between hope and knowing, with knowing gaining the upper hand.
Neville Philander said she was driven. He could see that too: the strong lines of her face, the determined set to her mouth. A woman who wanted to run her own business, who was prepared to make sacrifices, to suffer. We knew it would be tough.
And just how tough had it been? In his photo, Danie Flint looked like a man without a care in the world, a man who wanted to laugh and enjoy life. Who wanted to hang out with his mates in the Sports Pub. Cheerful, Tanya had called him. Had the money worries got too much for him?
Leave the Audi there, take your wallet and phone, just walk away. To an easier life.
One possibility. Among many. Too soon to speculate, he told himself.
Mildred, the middle-aged coloured receptionist, held a sheaf of documents out to him. 'This is our PC manual, the technician is busy installing your laptop, sir.' She was serious, focused.
'Thank you. You don't need to say "sir" to me.'
The corners of her mouth lifted, the semblance of a smile, humourless. 'And here are your business cards.'
A package wrapped in brown paper. On it was taped a card with Jack Fischer & Associates in elegant silver lettering. Below, in black, M.A. T Joubert, Senior Consultant: Forensic Investigation. With his office and cellphone numbers, and a new email address.
'Thank you.'
He walked to his office. The technician was sitting at his desk, moving the mouse around on the pad, looking intently at the screen. To his surprise she was a young woman, in grey overalls, short blonde hair, glasses. She looked up, suddenly shy. Grey eyes behind the lenses. 'Sorry,' she said quietly, 'I'm just finishing up.'
'Take your time,' he said and introduced himself.
'I'm Bella van Breda,' she said, her hand soft in his. There was a logo on her top pocket, and the words The Nerd Herd. 'I'm just importing the address database into Outlook, MS Project is already loaded. Are you familiar with the program?'
'No.'
'You've got Project 2007, so it's very straightforward, you just use the Project Guide and the JF template. It's all in the manual,' she waved at the documents in his hands.
'Thanks a lot,' he said, but his tone betrayed him.
'Do you know much about computers?' she asked, sympathy in her voice.
He nodded uncertainly. 'I worked with the police's BI system.'
'BI is a proprietary application, it's usually a lot more complicated than something like MS Project. If you have trouble with the manual, just call us, the number is in the database. Oh, and your user ID, your password, and your email address are at the front of the manual.'
She stood up, looked at him, hesitated for a moment as though she wanted to ask him something, then picked up her equipment case.
'Can you just show me how to find a telephone number in the database?'
'Of course. Come sit down.'
She stood beside him, took control of the mouse. 'You just open Outlook, here ... Now you select Contacts, and here in the navigation pane you see your contact groups. Personal Contacts is what you'll input yourself, JF Contacts is on the database. Who are you looking for?'
'Dave Fiedler.'
'You just click on the "F" and then you scroll down ... There he is. You can also change the view, Business Cards or Address Cards ... like so.'
It was all too fast for him, too much to absorb, but he said, 'Yes, I see, thank you very much ...'
'Pleasure.' She picked up the case again, walked towards the door, then stopped. 'Do you know Benny Griessel?' she asked, and for some inexplicable reason, flushed to a deep red.
'Yes,' he said, surprised at the mention of his ex-colleague and old friend.
'He ... We live in the same apartment building,' she said, suddenly flustered. 'Bye,' as she walked quickly out
of the door.
'Say hello to Benny for me,' he called after her, a bit bemused. Then he looked at the laptop screen, clicked on Dave Fiedler's address details, pulled the phone closer, and dialed.
Only when he heard the ring tone did he smile to himself. Captain Benny Griessel, rehabilitating alcoholic, newly divorced, and a blushing blonde. What would the story be behind that?
85
Dave Fiedler spoke Afrikaans and called Joubert 'Boetie'. 'Discount, Boetie?' he asked, with astonishment.
'Jack says you owe us.'
'No, Boetie, I only owe the Receiver of Revenue, my price is my price. Ask Jack Fischer if he gives discount.'
'What does it cost?'
'A thousand five hundred for an IMEI profile, 600 for a trace.'
'So that's 2,100 in total?'
'If there is only one number in the profile. It's 600 for each number.' Joubert made notes. 'How long will it take?'
'I can run the trace for you today. A guy in Bloemfontein does the profile for us, I'm not geared for that. Takes about a day and a half.'
'I'll have to talk to my client first.'
'That's fine, Boetie, you know where to find me.'
His appointment with Tanya Flint was only for three o'clock. That gave him time to look at the program manual, but first he wanted a cup of tea to have with his sandwiches.
He stood up and walked to the kitchen. As he pushed the door open, Mildred's stern voice sounded from reception: 'Mr Joubert!'
He stopped abruptly in his tracks.
'Would you like something to drink, sir?'
'Tea, yes, but I'll just make some myself.'
'No, sir, I'll have it brought to you,' in a tone that brooked no dissent. He went across to her. 'Thank you. And please don't call me "sir".'
He got no response.