by Deon Meyer
He thought again before writing down the word dealmaker, with three question marks behind it. And finally, in large capital letters: WHERE DID THE MONEY COME FROM?
Tanya Flint phoned him when he stopped at the Self Storage depot in Salt River. She said she had an appointment at the bank for half past two, the Heerengracht branch, since that was where the account had been opened.
He arranged to meet her five minutes before the appointment at Absa. Then he took his writing pad, climbed out and walked to the office of the depot, which had been locked and empty last night.
A coloured woman in her thirties sat behind the counter paging through You magazine. When she saw him she pushed it aside and asked if she could help. He put his business card on the counter and told his story.
When he mentioned Danie Flint's name, she asked, 'Ninety-seven B?' as though a light had switched on.
'That's right,' and he took the keys out of his pocket.
'Mary,' the woman called over her shoulder. 'The mystery of ninety- seven B has been solved.'
Mary appeared from behind a partition. She was coloured, older, plump and indignant.
'Where have you been, sir?' She looked him up and down.
'It's not his contract, it's Flint's, and he's gone,' said the magazine reader.
'Gone?' asked Mary.
'Missing person,' the other one said.
'So who will pay what's owing?'
Joubert said he was sure the overdue amount would be paid.
'We would have had to sell that fancy car at the end of next month, because the third warning is due.'
'Did you send notices out?'
'We tried to phone him, since December already, when he went into arrears. But he'd given us the wrong number, the woman said she had never heard of him. And the contract says, three months, then we auction.'
'What address did you send the notices to?'
'The one on his contract.'
'May I see it?'
'That's private information,' said Mary, but without great conviction.
'That's the only way the outstanding money will be paid,' he said persuasively. 'If you help me.'
The older woman thought it through before nodding slowly, turning around and going to fetch the information. She came back with the
folder already open. '179 Green Park Road in Monte Vista,' she said. 'And there is his cellphone number.' She put the documents down on the counter, so that he could see them.
He wrote down the details. 'Is that the date he signed the contract?'
'That's right.'
October twenty-eighth. The day Danie Flint had gone to collect his new, second-hand Porsche.
'Did he arrive here with the Porsche?'
'He parked it just in front there.' The younger woman pointed a finger at where Joubert's car was, right in front of the office. 'I remember him well, because of the fancy car. A boy's face, wouldn't hurt a fly, full of jokes. He stood there and told me his garage at home was too full now, he would have to add more space. Could take six months.'
'And the rent is 3,000 rand?' Joubert pointed at the amount at the bottom of the account.
'No. It's 1,500 deposit, and 1,500 per month.'
'How did he pay?'
'It must have been cash, because there isn't a credit card slip stapled to this.'
He looked at his timeline. Flint had only begun making cash withdrawals from his secret account on the third of November, and according to Tanya's financial tables he couldn't have done that from their ordinary account. Then his eye fell on the entry for 29 October. Deposit of R147,000.
Add 3,000 and you have a round R150,000.
96
He took his Cape Town map book to the office, laid his briefcase flat on the desk, clipped it open and took out the sandwiches. While he ate, he checked the map index for Green Park Road in Monte Vista.
The new sandwich filling was very tasty. He ate slowly, making it last longer.
He couldn't find a Green Park Street or Road anywhere. Nowhere in the Cape Peninsula. There was a Green Street, Greenfield Crescent, Green Valley Close, Greenside Close, a long list of other names with
'Green' in them, but Green Park or Greenpark did not exist in any shape or form as a street address.
Deliberately false. Had to be.
He opened his notepad and filled in his timeline. Between 28 October: Collected the Porsche and 29 October: Deposit of R147,000 he made a new entry: 28 October: Paid R3,000 cash deposit to Self Storage.
The last thing to do was to call the cell number that Danie had given Self Storage, just make sure. Something about the number bothered him.
A woman answered. He asked if he could speak to Danie Flint.
'Ag, no,' she said, her tone resigned. 'Not another one.'
'You don't know Danie?'
'Not from Adam.'
'And other people have also called this number?'
'Just the storage people.'
'Ma'am, if you don't mind me asking, where do you live?'
'Paulpietersburg. In KwaZulu.'
When he'd put the phone down, he looked at the number again. Why did it look vaguely familiar?
It took him several minutes of intense concentration to put two and two together. He paged back in the notepad, to where he'd written down Tanya Flint's cellphone details. Her number was almost identical. Only the last four numbers were jumbled in the number her husband had given to Self Storage.
They sat waiting in silence while the woman at the Absa Bank enquiries counter went to get permission from her superiors, before she could give them information about the account. She was away for a long time.
Joubert wondered what Tanya was thinking about as she stared at the wall. He knew he would have to tell her soon that her husband had been a liar and a cheat. And a slick one too. False addresses and cellphone numbers, stories about overflowing garages and fictional phone calls. And he knew that it was a trail that would lead to even greater trouble. Deceit was always part of a wider pattern of behaviour. He was going to unearth other things. After last night's break-in, Tanya believed that someone else lay behind the whole affair. But he didn't
think so. He couldn't explain the burglary, didn't understand exactly how it fitted in, but he had his suspicions.
It was about the money. Four hundred thousand rand. Find out where that came from, and you'd find the burglars, the graffiti painters. Danie Flint was part of something. The money was dirty, stolen from somewhere, and Danie wasn't the only one involved.
Had he been too free with his ill-gotten gains, making his buddies nervous? Did they begin to think he posed too great a risk?
Wouldn't be the first time.
Was the original amount bigger, divided between accomplices, the 400,000 only Danie's share?
Then it would be easier to trace the source.
But how did he break all this to Tanya? Because she had no idea about this side of her husband.
The bank clerk came back, the good news beaming across her face. She called up the savings account details on the computer. Danie Flint had opened it on 15 October, with a deposit of R200. He had fulfilled all the identification requirements. The email address he gave was [email protected]. The cellphone number was for the phone they had found in the Porsche.
And the two deposits for R250,000 and R147,000 were in cash, information that made Tanya Flint shake her head in disbelief.
'Can I see the photocopy of the ID?' she asked. And turned to Joubert to say: 'It can't have been Danie.'
He had no idea how she could make that assumption.
'It should be on the system,' the woman said, and called it up from the database, swivelling the screen so that Tanya could see.
Danie's face on the ID photo.
Tanya frowned.
'Is that his ID number?' the bank clerk asked.
Tanya nodded.
'What about his proof of address?' asked Joubert, because according to FICA legislation an ID alone was
not enough. Anyone who wanted to open an account also had to supply a utilities or phone bill.
'Let's take a look,' said the woman, clicking through tabs on the computer.
She found something, turned the screen again. A scanned electricity bill, clearly from a photocopy. It was addressed to D. Flint, Green Park Street 179, Monte Vista.
'That's not our address,' Tanya said with obvious relief.
'That address does not exist,' said Mat Joubert. 'The account is forged.'
In the shade of a street cafe's umbrella on Tulbagh Square he spoke gently to her. He knew that he could be physically intimidating, so he leaned back, and kept his voice low. He asked her how she felt after all the events of the past few days.
She said she was OK, but he could see that she was suffering.
He asked if she was getting any sleep.
'Not much.'
'Have you thought about seeing a doctor? To get something for the stress?'
'No.' A determined shake of the head.
He gave her a moment to think it over.
'I have to face up to the truth some time.'
'It doesn't have to be now.'
That shake of her head again.
When he began to speak again, he chose his words with care. 'Years ago I was married to someone else,' he began, 'someone who worked with me in the police force. I loved her very much. She was ... in so many ways ... the person I wanted to be. Like Danie. An extrovert. Funny and smart and ... sunny. She shone. Brightly. Everyone loved her. And every day I gave thanks that I'd found her. And then I discovered a different side to her. By accident. And it was ... painful. I felt betrayed. Deceived. As if she had deliberately set out to harm me. Me. Personally...'
Tanya Flint looked away from him. She didn't want to hear this.
'It took me many years to realise that I was wrong,' he said. 'It was just part of who she was. One of the aspects, the facets of the greater whole. Perhaps her conscience bothered her, perhaps she didn't want to be that way, but I don't think she could do anything about it. We are all programmed in one way or another.'
Her eyes were focused somewhere else, her body language a shield.
He pressed on. 'We've got a whole lot of new information since yesterday. And all of it points to the fact that Danie wasn't the man you thought he was. That's going to hurt you. On many levels. But the one thing you have to try to remember is that this was just one facet of him. There were many others ...' And it all seemed to him so pointless, so that he didn't know how to carry on.
Her eyes turned slowly back to him. 'Thank you,' she said.
They sat in silence, the world rushing by. Then, eventually, she said: 'What else have you found?'
97
Back at the office there were two messages from Inspector Fizile Butshingi, Milnerton Station, asking Joubert to call back urgently, but first he sat down at his computer to update the project programme. He wanted to know exactly how much money Tanya Flint had left.
The account stood at just over 21,000 rand, if you included Cordier's fingerprint bill and his latest hours and travel expenses. Nine thousand left. He wouldn't test the Porsche for fingerprints then. He deliberated over the new cellphone's profile and call record, and decided to see what a trip to ABC's headquarters threw up first. He had a strong hunch that the money had something to do with Danie's work.
He called to make an appointment with Mrs Heese, the bus company's head of Human Resources. She said she could see him in the late afternoon, round four o'clock. Then he called Margaret.
'How's my new recipe?' she asked.
'Fantastic.'
'Good. And the investigation?'
'Very good. Great progress. But I'm worried about Tanya. Someone broke into her office last night and painted a message on the wall: 'Drop it'. If I invited her to come and stay with us, for a night or two ...?'
'Of course. But what about her mother-in-law? Doesn't she live in Panorama?'
'I got the impression that Tanya wasn't crazy about her mother-in- law. And that would still be two women on their own ...'
'She's very welcome. I'll get Jeremy's room ready.'
'I don't know if she'll want to come. I'll let you know.'
He called Tanya, phrased the offer diplomatically.
'Thank you, but I'm not going to let them intimidate me.'
'Think about it,' he said, but he knew what her answer would be. 'There was a message for me from the detective from Table View. He wants me to call him.'
'Keyter?'
'Yes.'
The SAPS was in uproar since Inspector Butshingi had gone to the break-in this morning. 'Make him wait,' said Joubert. 'If he calls again, say he must talk to me.'
Last of all he called Milnerton police station and asked for Butshingi. 'The case was neglected at Table View,' the detective said. 'I've spoken to the SC, and he will light a fire. But I need to talk to you urgently.'
Not now. It would break his momentum.
'I'm pretty busy at the moment...'
'When can we meet?'
'Tomorrow? Around lunchtime?'
'You live in Milnerton, don't you?'
Joubert's heart sank. 'Yes.'
'How about tonight, after work?'
'I'm not sure when I'll finish,' he parried.
'I'll be at the office until late. Please call me. Let me give you my cell.'
On the way out he ran into Jack Fischer and financial controller Fanus Delport in the passage.
'You're a busy man,' said Jack, looking pleased.
'I'm making progress.'
'Oh?'
Joubert gave them a quick summary.
Fischer whistled softly through his moustache. 'That means that Vlok is fucked. You don't leave your Porsche just to take a dump.'
'Flint,' said Joubert. 'And I will have to give the SAPS our information. After this morning, there's an official request.'
'Jesus,' said Fischer. 'Listen, the law says that we have to give them "information which has relevance to an investigation". It's impossible to say exactly how much is "relevant".'
'I'm going to lay my cards on the table here, Jack.'
Fischer brushed back his abundant hair.'Ja,ja ... They'll be able to do sweet blow all with it anyway. Who's the detective?'
'Inspector Fizile Butshingi. Milnerton.'
'Well, there you go.'
As Joubert turned on his heel, Fanus Delport called after him: 'Now don't you go making too much progress ...'
At the major roadworks on the Nl's Table Bay Boulevard, he felt his rising impatience with the heavy traffic, the slow pace. As though his brain had shifted into a higher gear.
He could see the whole thing now, he didn't need his notes and his timeline. All the pieces were there, in focus, thoughts dancing back and forth, his hypotheses strong, his deductions logical, as though he were standing on a hilltop, seeing further than before, even though he didn't know what was on the horizon.
He recognised it, this sense of urgency, clarity, this barely- suppressed euphoria. He'd struggled to find the signs, sniffing around, scratching here and there, but he had it all now, now he was running alongside the trail, he had the spoor, the scent of blood in his nostrils, the fever of the hunt in his head.
It had been five, six years since he'd last felt this way.
He'd expected a much older woman. Perhaps it was the name that had misled him, but Bessie Heese was in her thirties. And attractive with it. Short, brown, curly hair, fine features, rimless silver glasses that gave her a faintly professorial air. Elegant. Grey pencil skirt and a white blouse with lace detail.
She invited him to the 'meeting room'. Round table, four chairs, no windows. She called him 'inspector'. He let it go.
'You must understand, inspector, under normal circumstances ABC would supply confidential information only to the police. But because Mrs Flint is the wife of an employee, and has made an official written request, I'm authorised to answer certain questions.' Her voice
>
was even, professional. She made no movement as she spoke, sat up straight and still. In complete control.
'I appreciate that,' he said.
'So, how may I help you?'
He zipped open his writing pad, found a clean sheet, slid the pen out. 'Was there ever any suspicion that Danie Flint was involved in anything criminal?'
She hid it well, but he could see the question surprised her. 'Criminal? No, absolutely not.'
'No large sums of money going missing at ABC?'
'Area managers don't handle money, inspector. It... no, it's not possible.'
'None of his people handle any money?'
'His bus drivers, but then we're not talking large sums. A few hundred rand a day at most.'
'Ma'am, did any significant amount of money vanish from ABC last year? Cash in particular.'
'I... I have to say, these are not the questions I expected.'
'It would help me a great deal if you answered them.'
'Inspector, the nature of an area manager's work ... The way we collect money - it's worlds away from Danie Flint's job description.'
'Can you tell me how it works?'
She thought for a moment, nodded, then went through it for him. Bus passengers could basically buy tickets in three ways: on the bus itself, from the driver. Or from the ticket sellers working at any of the fifty or so sales kiosks dotted about at strategic spots around the Cape Peninsula. Or at one of the bigger ticket offices, where bus drivers and ticket sellers also had to hand their cash in every day.
'So,' she explained, 'the area manager is just not in that loop.'
'I understand,' said Joubert. 'But he knows people in that loop. Every day he works with people who are part of that loop.'
'Then he could only be indirectly involved.'
'In this case that's very likely. Was there any major theft of cash last year? September, October?'
She sat dead still, her eyes blinking twice behind the glasses. 'Inspector, am I to understand that Danie Flint was involved in a crime?'