by Deon Meyer
He walked around the car, carefully inspecting the outside, looking for fresh scrapes or dents. And blood spatters.
He found nothing, just an awareness of something that eluded him. He stopped, thought deeply, couldn't pin it down.
He took out a handkerchief, carefully lifted the door handle, so as not to disturb fingerprints.
He bent down and took a look inside.
The interior was reasonably clean. Sand and gravel in front on the driver's rubber mat, nothing out of the ordinary. The inside of the door had no recent scuff or scratch marks that could indicate a struggle, someone being dragged out against his will.
He looked under the driver's seat. There was nothing, only dust.
He slid in, sat down on the seat, keeping his feet outside, touching nothing.
Black leather upholstery, satellite navigation, electric windows, cruise control... Full house, a car salesman would have called it.
Then it came to him, the thing that had eluded him earlier - this car, compared to Tanya's. Two-litre, blood red Audi Sportback with the works, compared to the blue simplicity of the 1400 Citi. Earlier she had said that Danie had bought his car second hand, but even then this Audi wasn't cheap, around two hundred and fifty thousand, compared to what? You could buy the Volkswagen Citi for around seventy thousand.
A big difference. He weighed this information against what he knew about their marriage, but it gave him no more insight. Then he used the handkerchief and undipped the glove compartment, leaned over to see what was in it. A plastic envelope with the manual and service book. He took it out. A spectacle case. Inside were sporty dark glasses. Adidas Xephyr. He put them on the passenger seat, beside the manual. An HTC phone charger with a springy cable and a plug for the cigarette lighter. A cheap ballpoint pen, two yellowed petrol slips a year old, and half a pack of chewing gum.
He put everything back carefully, closed it and got out. Then he walked around the car, opened the other door and peered under the seat.
The boot didn't produce anything either.
Joubert fetched his writing pad from the workbench, put the keys there as he had arranged with Tanya, pressed the switch that opened the door and jogged out quickly.
87
He drove back to Virgin Active, because it was on his way home to Milnerton. There was no sense in going back to the city in the rush- hour traffic. And it was half past four - he wanted to get the feel of how busy the place was in the late afternoon, at the time Flint disappeared.
There were a great deal fewer parking spaces. He found one and stopped, sat a while watching. Then he opened Tanya's file with the contact numbers and went through the list of people. One name caught his eye: Inspector Keyter, SAPS, Tableview. In her thorough way, Tanya Flint had written down the case number beside it.
Could it be Jamie, the detective constable who had joined the Serious and Violent Crimes Unit before that was also disbanded? Most likely, since if he recalled correctly Keyter had been promoted from Table View. And Tanya Flint had talked about a detective who fiddled with his fringe.
He took the file along with him, got out, locked the Honda and walked to the police station. The south-easter was well under way, blowing up his jacket flaps and forcing him to hold the folder tightly to his chest.
Table View had never been one of his favourite police stations. He and Margaret had lived nearby in Frere Street after they were married, before she began buying up old houses and renovating them. From time to time he had to pick up faxes or forms at the police station, or go in for computer access. Even then there were already too many cowboys, too much attitude.
The charge office was hot, and fairly busy. He waited his turn, asked if Jamie Keyter was available. Not Jay-mie, if he remembered correctly, but Jaa-mie. The black constable said he would go and check. A little while later he came back and said: 'The inspector is coming.'
Joubert waited to one side, out of the way. He wished he could loosen his tie, that he'd left his jacket in the car. For five minutes he stood and listened, at the border post where two worlds met, the public and the police. Every police station had its own rhythms, its own
atmosphere and sounds. The complainants' voices, some angry, others defeated. Out of an office somewhere came the loud words of an argument. Telephones ringing, the patient footsteps of the three uniforms manning the counter, generally soothing and reassuring, bending over to help fill in statements, probably on their feet for six hours, their movements slow, going through the routine motions.
Then Keyter arrived with a scowl on his face for whoever had come to bother him, until he saw Joubert. His body language changed in an instant. 'Sup?' he said, like a man with a guilty conscience.
'Jamie,' said Joubert and put out his hand. 'I'm not with the Service any more.'
Keyter shook his hand, taken aback. 'Sup?' he said, the information too unexpected to process. Joubert could see that he hadn't changed much. Still wearing tight golf shirts, sleeves stretched over bulging biceps. Today's was black with the silver Nike logo on the chest, to go with black jeans and black Nike trainers.
'Friday was my last day. I'm with Jack Fischer and Associates now.'
'Oh. Oka-a-ay,' Something in his tone that made Joubert's hackles rise.
'I'm working on a fifty-five. One Danie Flint who disappeared last year. His wife said it was your case.'
'Danie Flint?' He scratched his head.
'Last year, late November. His car was abandoned here at Virgin Active.'
A light went on. 'Oh, right. That one.' He looked at Joubert expectantly.
'I just wanted to ask you if you had any insights to share, Jamie.'
'Insights, Sup?'
'I'm not a Sup any more, Jamie.'
'OK... I'll have to get the dockets, but if I remember correctly ... There was nothing. The guy was just gone.'
Joubert suppressed a sigh. 'Yes, apparently that was the original problem. Did you speak to anyone at his work?'
'I... No, I mean, the guy ... There wasn't... Sup, you know how things are, the guys go fishing with their pals, they don't tell the old lady ... I mean, his car was here ...'
Joubert nodded, put his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket. Keyter'S eyes followed the movement with wary eyes. Joubert took out
his wallet, extracted a business card and gave it to the detective. 'If you remember something, or find something, Jamie . . .'
'OK, Sup, I'll call you right away.'
'I'm not Sup any more ...'
He sat in the Honda and watched his theory being systematically confirmed.
The parking lot filled up, people walked to the gym with sports bags, or to the library, with books in their arms. There were short periods when it was quiet, two or three minutes where something could have happened to Danie Flint if the attacker was very confident and efficient. But a struggle here, a fight that went unnoticed, seemed increasingly improbable.
He sat there till after six, and thought of Jamie Keyter and the Flint dossier. He knew the way things were with detectives at stations, even the lazy ones like Keyter - too many cases, too little time, so there was always something that fell through the cracks. Tanya was right, missing adults were not always a priority, unless there was obvious proof of a crime. Otherwise they fell in the category of domestic conflict, he had dealt with countless numbers as a uniformed policeman. Thirty years ago.
Lord, how time flies.
He drove to Milnerton, to Tulbach Street where he and Margaret had been living for the last six months, their fifth house in five years, but he didn't mind, because she took so much pleasure in her 'projects'. She would go looking for a real bargain, a solid house in a good neighbourhood that had fallen into disrepair, 'worst house in a good neighbourhood' was her motto. Then she renovated it with her keen insight and good taste, smartened it up, and when she was done, they would move in. A house sold more easily if there were people living in it, activity, aromas from the kitchen, tasteful furniture in the rooms. When
she was expecting potential buyers, she would put vanilla in the oven, or bake a cake, and put on some cheerful music at a low volume, make sure the house was cool in summer, or warm in winter, with a fire in the grate. She was already in the process of buying the next one, in 'lower Constantia, she could get it for next to nothing in this slow market.
He sat with her in the kitchen while she made supper and told her about his day.
'Is she pretty?' was the first thing she asked, unashamedly jealous, always had been, thanks to the heartbreak of her first marriage.
'No,' he said. 'But she's brave. And a Nissan.'
He had to explain that.
'And what am I?'
'My Mercedes.' That made her laugh.
'And how was the office?'
He shrugged his big shoulders. 'It's very different. Jack is ... serious about money. But I suppose he has to be. And it's all very formal.'
'You'll get used to it.'
'I will. What about your buyers? How did it go?'
'They want to think about it.'
He exercised for forty minutes on the rowing machine on the back verandah beside the swimming pool, showered and poured them each a glass of red wine for dinner - pasta with Cajun chicken pieces, feta and sun-dried tomatoes. She told him about her visit to her daughter Michele, her plans to spend most of tomorrow in Constantia.
He took Tanya Flint's files and sat next to Margaret in the television room while she watched Antiques Roadshow and Master Chef Goes Large on the BBC Lifestyle channel. She put her hand on his leg. He worked through the financial and cellphone records.
Later she turned off the television and asked: 'Anything?'
He put the papers down on the couch beside him. 'No ... I don't know. There is some sort of a pattern here, but nothing that will tell us what happened to him ... The trouble is, there is nothing typical in his disappearance. The vast majority of adult men who disappear between work and home, do so as a result of robbery. His car is hijacked, he is forced to reveal his PIN number, they take his bank card, steal what they can, let him go, or kill him. His body is found, the car a day or two later, somewhere ... But this one. He had a credit card in his wallet, but there are no transactions after his disappearance. The gym bag, just left there. And the car, neatly parked ...'
'Mmm,' she said.
'The other possibility is that he wanted to disappear. But then there is always a trail. Either calls to another woman, preparations made,
money spent. Unless he is very clever, and I don't think Danie ... And why would he just leave his bag? And his car, his biggest asset...'
'What sort of pattern did you find?'
'They ... It's not a big thing. You have to look closely, but ... He drives an Audi that cost a quarter of a million, she drives a little Citi Golf. And the bank statements ... If you ignore the usual stuff, the water and lights, the groceries, clothes, CDs ... I get the impression that she spoiled him. Or tried to keep him happy ...'
He sat deep in thought and then realised Margaret was watching him with a gentle smile and her unmatched eyes shining.
'What?' he asked.
'I can actually hear the gears humming,' she said, and squeezed his leg gently. 'I love it when you go into detective mode.'
'Those are not gears humming, those are gears seizing.'
'Nonsense. You'll figure it out. You always do.'
'The gears are rusty.'
Her hand slid up higher on his leg. 'Is that all that's rusty?' She rolled the 'r'. It sounded sexy.
He put his arm around his wife's shoulders. 'Mrs Joubert, I could arrest you for indecency.'
'But you're a Private Eye ...'
'Oh, no, I am a licensed Senior Consultant: Forensic Investigations. With a business card.'
'Oh, my goodness ... And if I resist arrest?'
'Then I will have to get physical,' and he pulled her closer.
'Take out your big trungeon?' she whispered.
'Truncheon,' he corrected her.
'It's not how you spell it, it's how you use it...'
'Madam,' he said sternly, 'you leave me no choice ...'
'I know,' she said in a whisper and leaned softly against him, her mouth ready.
Then he kissed her.
At half past eleven that night, with her body lying soft and warm against his, breathing deep, the gears in his head did indeed slowly begin to turn.
It wasn't in the parking lot of Virgin Active. Whatever happened to
Danie Flint happened somewhere else. And then they parked his car there.
Which meant they knew his routine. They knew him.
Which meant he would have to check the Audi for fingerprints.
Which meant he would have to dig out his murder kit. He'd clean forgotten, in the heat of his arrest of Mrs Margaret Joubert.
88
The meeting wasn't what he expected.
'Sir, remember, it's Morning Parade,' Mildred said when Joubert came in. He expected a recreation of the tradition of the old Murder and Robbery Squad, when that word meant a brainstorming session, detectives sharing their dossiers with the commanding officer and colleagues, looking for guidance, constructive criticism, and new ideas.
Now he sat around the table with the firm's five other investigators, while senior financial controller Fanus Delport ran the agenda, and Jack listened attentively. Each investigator reported in turn about the number of hours he had 'booked' the previous week, and gave projections of potential earnings in the coming week.
Joubert knew three of them as former colleagues. Willem Erlank worked with him a year ago on the Provincial Task Team. The other two, Fromer and Jonck, came from the Northwest and Gauteng respectively, but they were unmistakably former Members of the Service, middle-aged, big, weather-beaten, slightly overweight. He would have been like that too, if it weren't for Margaret's care.
They were well prepared, each made broad detailed projections, with deep voices and solemn faces.
He made some hurried sums while the others spoke, added up his hours, decided to leave out his time studying the documents last night, so he could save Tanya Flint some money. She had done that work herself, after all. Then he considered his options for the next few days, made a rough estimate, wondering to himself how it was possible to say how many hours you were going to need to solve a case.
'Matt, how do things stand with the Flint dossier?' Delport asked him finally.
'Five hours yesterday,' he said. 'Plus the IMEI profile, which we expect this afternoon, then we will decide whether to plot the cell numbers.'
'I see you haven't logged your kilometres on the system yet.'
He had forgotten travelling expenses. 'I will do it this morning,' he said, embarrassed.
'No problem, we all had to learn the ropes. How many hours do you think there are in this case?'
Joubert referred to his notes. 'It's hard to say ... Maybe another thirty-six.'
Delport and Fischer nodded happily.
'I want to test her husband's car for fingerprints,' Joubert said. 'Do we have a contact for identification, if I find something?'
'Excellent, excellent,' said Jack Fischer. 'But we use a private guy to lift the prints. He was with Forensics' lab, but now he works freelance, offers the whole package. He has a pipeline to the SAPS, will get the result within twenty-four hours. Nortier ...'
'Cordier,' Fanus Delport corrected him. 'He's on the database.'
He could have done it himself, Joubert thought, he might have asked Bennie Griessel if he could put the prints in the system, it would have saved money. 'Jack, Tanya Flint only has 30,000 ...'
Fischer rubbed a hand across his moustache and smiled. 'His first case,' he said, and the others laughed good-naturedly.
'Mat, that's what they all say. It's a game. If she needs more, she will find it... Right, gentlemen, I have a Mr Benn ...'
'Bell,' Delport set him straight again.
'That's him. Bell, Nigerians took him for one point fo
ur million with a four-one-nine scam. Who feels like boosting his bonus a bit?'
As he recorded his kilometres on the computer system, he thought how it wasn't a game to Tanya Flint. He'd seen her financial position. This extreme focus on money made him uncomfortable. He would have to sit down with Jack and tell him how he felt. But first he must attend to his responsibilities.
He phoned Tanya. She sounded tired. 'I talked to Mr Eckhardt, he said you can go through Danie's office any time, they'll do everything they can to help, we have full access. You must just arrange it with Neville.'
Joubert thanked her, then told her of his plan to test the Audi for fingerprints.
'How much will it cost?'
'I'll find out and get back to you.'
'Do you think it's necessary? Shouldn't we wait for the cellphone's plot?'
'That might be a good idea.'
After he had rung off, he phoned Jannie Cordier, the forensic technician, explaining who he was and what he wanted.
'I'm full today, but I can fit you in this evening.' A high, excitable voice.
'What will it cost?' Joubert asked.
'Do you want the car done inside and out?'
'Please.'
'One five, plus 600 for every set of prints you want identified.'
'I'll let you know.'
Then he made an appointment for 12.00 with Neville Philander at the Atlantic Bus Company depot, reached for the list of phone numbers that Tanya Flint had compiled, and began phoning her husband's friends. He asked the same questions, over and over: did Danie behave strangely in the weeks before he disappeared? Did he mention any problems, in his work, his marriage? Did he have enemies? Was he involved in any arguments or fights? Did he have any reason to disappear? And the answers, offered enthusiastically and helpfully, were consistent. Danie was 'a lovely person'. Danie was happy, cheerful, always the same. Loyal, everyone's friend. Danie was a 'party animal', 'the life of the party', he lived for his wife and his work and to party, party, party.