Annette had clearly been murdered by an experienced shooter. Someone cool and calculating, with a steady hand. Someone who had fired twice, a swift and deadly double-tap, placing the bullets where they would kill. Jade looked up from the file and considered the distance. From six meters, she could have put the bullets side by side in the woman’s head.
She read in David’s report that Piet Botha had been in Cape Town, where he lived, when the murder took place. On the evening that Annette was shot, he’d been giving an art class to his night students.
“Still a suspect,” David had written. “Could have organ-ized it. Inherits everything. Won’t assume he’s innocent until cleared beyond doubt.”
Later on, when Jade phoned Piet she discovered he was in Jo’burg, packing up the house where his ex-wife had died. She got directions from him and said she’d be round in half an hour.
Paging through the map she’d bought at the airport, she was amazed to see that Jo’burg and Pretoria had practically merged, woven together into a megalopolis by a spidery network of streets, highways, businesses and residential developments.
Jade remembered her history teacher telling the class that Johannesburg’s earliest settlers had harnessed up their ox-wagons and travelled for days to reach the city. There were many who were eager to make the trip, despite the fact that their destination was little more than an arid, treeless desert. Almost every other city in the world had been built near a plentiful supply of water. Johannesburg had sprung into existence because of the huge gold-bearing reefs that lay deep below the hilly surface of the ground. The resulting gold rush had caused the original shantytown to explode in size. The original buildings that formed the city of Johannes-burg had been crammed into the only triangle of land in the Witwatersrand basin where there was no gold to be found.
Jade had been enthralled to hear that when the city center was laid out, the street blocks were deliberately designed to be as small as possible. This created the maximum number of sought-after corner stands, so that the government could increase its takings when the land was auctioned off to buyers. Imagine the short-sighted greed that sentenced an entire city to a century of traffic gridlocks, all for the sake of cashing in at the start.
Since then, the city hadn’t stopped expanding. The gold-rush mentality that had driven the earlier fortune seekers to the city was alive and well in modern Johannesburg. And cer-tainly, short-sighted greed was still a strong driving force.
Annette had lived out of town in the far northwest, right at the edge of Jade’s map. She saw long roads and enormous sections of land, and tracts of white space on the page. She expected it to be out in the deepest countryside. She was right.
Annette’s property was on a narrow road with lighter squares where the tarmac had been patched, and darker areas where holes had been filled. The area looked forgotten, as if the land surveyors and developers with their transits and theodolites had overlooked it in their search for prime resi-dential land. But she was sure they would come back.
The only movement she could see was the wind tugging at the brittle shrubs and grasses that lined the verges. Jade tried to imagine what it would be like here at night for a woman arriving home alone. Frightening, she decided.
When she pulled up outside the house, four Alsatians raced to the gate. They leaped up, pawing the metal bars as if they wanted to break through. Shiny white teeth snapped in their open mouths. The gate rattled on its runners.
Jade climbed out of the car and walked over to them. She loved dogs. She’d had two jobs protecting the two consecu-tive girlfriends of a Greek shipping tycoon. Both women had been blond, model-gorgeous and terrified of the guard dogs that roamed the grounds. Jade couldn’t blame them. Rottweilers were intimidating animals, although these two had been friendly and well trained. She’d taught each of the women to be confident, stand still, and show no fear. In the end, they’d both ended up getting on a lot better with the dogs than they did with the Greek tycoon. The first girlfriend stormed out after a month. The second left in hysterical tears after six weeks. Then the tycoon was single again, and Jade was temporarily out of a job.
She smiled down at the Alsatians. “Hey there,” she said.
The barking stopped. They sniffed the air. One of them wagged its tail.
“Good dogs,” she added.
There was more tail-wagging in response. One dog shoved his nose through the gate. Jade let him lick her hand.
Then a squat, gray-haired man walked around the corner and whistled. Jade guessed he was Piet. The dogs ignored him. They started barking again, and leaping up at the gate.
He attached a lead to the collar of the biggest dog. It tensed and growled, retreating reluctantly and forcing him to drag it across the brown grass. The others barked at the gate for a few more moments and then bounded off, following their leader.
Piet returned without the dogs and pushed the gate open. It looked heavy, and it squealed on its runners.
“The motor still isn’t working,” he said. “The bastards tried to steal it, you know. The day before she died. They broke it, although they didn’t take it. If that motor had been working, she might still be alive. She wouldn’t have had to get out of her car to open it.”
Jade shook Piet’s hand, looking at him curiously. He was wearing a tattered jersey, a pair of jeans with old paint stains in all colors of the rainbow, and green socks under sandals with Velcro straps. His wiry gray hair was tied back in a ponytail and his face was deeply tanned. His eyes were a watery blue. For his size, his hands were surprisingly large and their grip firm.
“Thank you for coming, Jade.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said. “Whatever I can do to help, I will.”
He opened the door of the house and she followed him in.
“I’m finishing the packing. She’d already started to sort everything out. Her things. Her brother’s old stuff. She was going to move to Cape Town next month.”
He turned and swung the security gate shut. Jade looked around the cottage’s interior.
She saw a framed photo of Piet smiling proudly with his arm around a woman who she supposed must be Annette. The photo must have been taken a while ago, because Piet’s hair was brown not gray, and there was a lot more of it on his head. Jade was surprised by how striking Annette had been. Flawless bone structure, icy blue eyes, platinum hair. She could see how the woman had attracted Piet’s artistic eye.
There were two golf trophies next to the photo. Silver, shiny and sparkling clean. The name engraved under the trophies was Adrian Muller. Who was Adrian? She’d have to ask Piet.
A newspaper lay on the coffee table, open at page three. “Artist Devastated by Family Tragedy,” the headline screamed. Jade scanned the story. According to the writer, Annette’s murder was brutal, senseless and typical of the new South Africa. Piet had been quoted as saying, “The police have done nothing so far. They haven’t brought my ex-wife’s killer to justice.”
She could see why David needed her help.
Next to the newspaper was a scattered pile of Piet’s business cards. Ready to hand out to more reporters, she supposed.
He sat down opposite her and pushed his tough, gnarled fingers together.
“So you’re a detective?”
“Yes. A private investigator.”
Piet’s knuckles shone in patchy red and white.
“Those bastards took her away from me. Annette was my life. She was all I had.” He was silent for a while. Jade listened to the rhythmic tick of the clock on the wall. “We were going to be together again. That’s why she was moving. So we could give it another chance.” He unlaced his fingers and pulled at a rip in his jeans. His gaze strayed to the photo and back.
“You’re lucky to have Superintendent Patel in charge of the case. He’s one of the leading investigators in this province.”
Piet continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “Annette’s brother Adrian was killed a few years ago.” Jade glanced a
t the golf trophies on the wall unit. “Stabbed while he was withdrawing money from an ATM. They never caught the guys. I saw what that did to her. He was the last family she had, and she never saw his killers brought to justice.” He stared at the photo, jaw working, eyes watering.
Jade wondered just how upset he was. He had an unbreak-able alibi. But had he planned the crime? She had assisted with a case where the victim’s wife had been openly trau-matized after her husband was shot during a botched bank robbery. The heartfelt eulogy she had given at his graveside had reduced friends and family to tears. A couple of weeks later, she’d been convicted for organizing his murder. Spouses were top of the list of murder suspects. You just never knew.
She leaned forward and spoke gently. “This property was sold recently. I saw the sign outside.”
Piet nodded. “She put it up for sale when she decided to move.”
“Did she get a good price for it?”
Piet dragged his gaze away from the photo to look at her.
“How would I know? I’m no good with money. I’m an artist. She wouldn’t discuss the sale of her property with me.”
“How often did you speak to Annette?”
“Every few days. We had a lot to talk about, with her moving to Cape Town.”
“Did she mention anything unusual to you in the last week or two? Anything she’d noticed? Any cars near her place, any people outside watching her? Any strange incidents?”
Piet buried his bristly chin deep in his hands and stared ahead. Jade watched him closely. He started to speak, then stopped himself and shook his head. She wondered what he had decided not to say. Then he straightened up and turned to her. “There was something, yes. I don’t know if it’s impor-tant or not, but she did ask me an unusual question a couple of weeks ago. She wanted the number of a private detective.”
Jade put the newspaper back down on the table and turned to Piet. “Did you tell the police?”
He spread his hands. She noticed his fingers were stained brownish-yellow on the tips. Paint, perhaps. Or nicotine.
“I forgot about it till now.”
“It could be important.”
“I suppose so. I’m sorry.”
“Who was she trying to contact?”
Piet rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes. He put one in his mouth. He didn’t light it. He spoke with the cigarette in his mouth. It moved up and down, punctuating his words.
“She wasn’t trying to get hold of anyone special. She just told me she needed a private detective.”
“Do you know why?”
“She never said why. I didn’t ask. That’s what I learned from being married to her. She didn’t like to be quizzed. She’d tell you when she was ready.”
“What did you tell her? Did you give her any names?”
He shook his head. The cigarette followed the motion. “I told her she should look in the Yellow Pages. She said she didn’t know if she would be ripped off by a person from the Yellow Pages. She was like that. Careful with money.”
“Did she mention it again?”
Piet’s cigarette waggled to and fro. “No. She never spoke about it again.”
“Did she sound scared or worried when she asked you?”
He thought for a minute.
“She sounded the same as always. Curious, maybe. If she’d sounded scared I would have been worried. But she didn’t, so I forgot about it.”
He patted his pockets, looking for a lighter. Finding none, he took the cigarette out of his mouth and put it back in the packet.
After Piet had pushed the gate closed behind her, he walked over to the yard and let the dogs out. They bolted for freedom. One of them lunged at him as it ran past, forcing him to leap aside.
Jade shook her head as she pulled out onto the lonely road. She had a feeling that the dogs preferred women to men. Which was unfortunate for Piet.
5
Jade drove back to the cottage and rechecked the information in Annette’s file. There was one other avenue that she wanted to explore.
She had to sign an entrance register before the security guard allowed her to park outside Annette’s workplace. The building was a mishmash of steel, glass and face-brick. She supposed the architect had been aiming for a modern indus-trial effect. She wondered if he’d burst into tears when he viewed the finished result.
She asked the receptionist to call Yolandi Storr, Annette’s colleague.
Yolandi was a small, frail-looking woman with a mop of badly dyed hair and a stooped posture. Her face looked as if, over the years, it had been etched into a permanent expres-sion of dread.
“Come through, please,” she said. She pushed open the security door that led to the offices.
Jade followed her down blue-carpeted corridors, listening to the hum of the air-conditioning and the muted noise of phones ringing and business being done. She wrinkled her nose at the strong camphory scent of Yolandi’s perfume. They passed a pair of men in dark suits and striped ties striding along importantly. Jade thought they must be managers. They had that look.
“This cold is terrible, isn’t it? Just unbearable.” Yolandi pushed open another security door. Without waiting for an answer, she continued. “I can’t give you much time. We’re all going into a meeting at two.”
“What business are you in?” Jade asked.
“We manufacture plastic kitchen goods.”
“And Annette worked in accounts?”
“Together with me.” Yolandi turned her distraught face to Jade as she unlocked an office door. Her hands were trembling.
If Annette had worked with state secrets or been involved in the manufacture of weapons of mass destruction, Jade might have wondered if her murder was linked to her job. However, managing accounts for a firm that made bowls and scrapers didn’t seem to be a high-risk occupation.
“I do hope that you manage to find the people who killed her,” Yolandi went on. “We’ve all been shaken by this. It’s a dreadful thing. But then, crime in this country is out of control, isn’t it? My two daughters are both in Canada where it’s safe. They worry about me here. I get phone calls from them almost every day. I’d go too, but it’s so expensive to emi-grate and I just don’t have the funds.”
Presumably, in Canada the cold wasn’t terrible or unbear-able. For an uncharitable moment Jade wondered whether her daughters had emigrated to find a better life, or to get away from their mother’s complaining.
“This is our office.” Yolandi pushed open the door and Jade followed her in. The room contained two desks, two high-backed office chairs and two flimsy steel chairs for visitors. One desk was piled high with papers. A computer keyboard and monitor were wedged into the remaining space. The other desk was empty.
“How long had Annette worked for the company?”
“Twelve years.”
Jade took the seat that was offered to her. It was the kind of chair that made people glad to be standing. It was like sitting on gravel. She faced Yolandi across the cluttered desk and wondered what it must be like to spend twelve years of your life working for one company, in one place.
As a child, she had traveled with her father wherever his investigations had taken him. When Commissioner de Jong spent time away from home, his daughter went with him. Jade had spent long hours in planes and cars watching the landscape speed by and listening to the detectives discussing whatever case they were busy with. She was used to being locked in a hotel room with a selection of books, a box of bis-cuits, and firm instructions not to open the door to anyone unless it was her father.
She had to crane her neck to see Yolandi over the towers of paper. “Did you know Annette well?” she asked.
Yolandi adjusted the clasp on a string of plastic beads that hung around her drooping neck. “As well as anyone. She kept to herself. I considered myself her friend, you know. We’d worked together for years. You’d think there’d be no secrets between us. I’m an open book, myself. But Annette hard
ly ever spoke about her personal life.”
“Did you notice any change in her behavior in the last month or so?”
Yolandi thought for a while. She stared at a spot on the wall so intently that Jade looked too, to check whether she had noticed something interesting. She hadn’t.
“No change, really. She was stressed about the move. Pre-occupied. But that’s natural when you’re packing up house, isn’t it? And she was working hard. Working late some eve-nings. This was going to be her last month here. She wanted to get everything finished before she left for Cape Town.” Yolandi glanced at the empty desk.
“Her husband told us she was looking for a private investi-gator a couple of weeks before her death.”
Yolandi nodded. “Yes. I knew about that.”
“What did she say?”
“She asked me if I could recommend anyone.”
“And could you?”
“Well, I used an investigator during my divorce. To prove my husband was cheating. I gave her his number.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s a man named Dean Grobbelaar.” Yolandi’s face pulled down into a more extreme expression of defeat. “Not a nice person. But then, divorce isn’t a nice business. He was reliable and he did the job. And he didn’t charge the earth for it.”
“Do you know why Annette needed a detective?”
Yolandi sighed. “She never said. I asked, but she wouldn’t tell me.” She looked up at Jade. “I knew, of course.”
“Why?”
“Her husband.”
“Piet? What about him?”
“He was having her followed.”
Jade edged the chair closer to the desk, and leaned forward. Her elbow pushed against the biggest pile of paper and it tee-tered sideways. She withdrew her arm hurriedly.
“Piet was having her followed?”
“She never said it was him. But he’d done it before, a year or two ago.”
“How do you know that?”
“Annette was a clever woman. She noticed things. She found him out. And he admitted to it. Then last week, she said she was being followed again.”
Random Violence Page 3