Whitethorn

by Bryce Courtenay

  Settled in his office, and after the African day constable brought in coffee, the sergeant said, ‘So now, tell me, Tom, what’s the big secret, why have you come down?’

  ‘Sergeant, I’ve come to ask you about a matter we were both involved in,’ I began. ‘Myself, when I was seven years old and at The Boys Farm and you, of course, as a policeman at the same time. I refer to the murder of the Bantu Mattress Malokoane who was killed by a person or persons unknown.’

  ‘Ja, I remember it well,’ Sergeant Van Niekerk said.

  ‘Do you still have your investigation file?’

  ‘Why do you ask? I didn’t have the experience at that time; today, maybe it would turn out differently, hey?’

  I ignored his premature attempt at justification. ‘Is the case closed?’

  ‘Man, I can’t remember exactly, but I can take a look. It will be in an old file in the storeroom at the back.’ He paused. ‘But maybe not. The roof leaks, I can’t guarantee it, you hear? Last year in the big rain we lost a lot of the old files to water damage.’

  ‘Could you possibly find it, the file?’

  ‘Tom, what are you trying to say? The native is long dead, over twenty years already.’

  ‘Sergeant, I want to ask you to reopen the case. That is, of course, if you closed it.’

  ‘Here, Tom, what are you talking about?’

  ‘I think I have sufficient evidence to file an indictment in the High Court against Mevrou and the Van Schalkwyk brothers for the murder of Mattress Malokoane.’

  Sergeant Van Niekerk’s surprise was immediate and he jumped up from behind his desk. ‘Whoa! Stadig! Slow down! What are you saying? You want to file a murder charge?’ His hands flew above his head. ‘Wragtig! Against the Van Schalkwyks?’

  I had rehearsed this moment too many times in my imagination to show any surprise. ‘Ja, I’m asking you to be the police prosecutor, Sergeant,’ I said in an even voice.

  Sergeant Van Niekerk took several moments to recover and in the process resumed his seat. He shook his head like a boxer trying to shake off a punch, then looked directly at me. ‘Are you mad, man? Only two years ago the six brothers came out of prison, the whole town turned out to greet them, they’re big heroes in this dorp, you hear? It’s impossible, man!’

  I had prepared myself for this moment. ‘Sergeant, you probably won’t remember, but the morning after Mattress was murdered you said to Meneer Prinsloo outside Mattress’s hut, “Hy is ‘n slimmetjie”. You called me clever and that was the first compliment I could ever remember receiving from a white person. Mattress was always saying nice things about me and perhaps that was one of the reasons I loved him. But when one of my own people said something nice that was a big moment in my life. Then later, after we’d met again in the headmaster’s office, in your brother’s office, afterwards you took me to the Impala Café and Mevrou Booysens served me the one-legged bowl of ice-cream with ten different toppings, that was when I decided that I could trust you. You were the first of my own kind I’d ever trusted. I knew then if you could you would find out who lynched Mattress and bring them to justice.’ I paused. ‘I still believe you can.’

  ‘It’s twenty-one years, Tom!’

  ‘There is no statute of limitations on murder, Sergeant.’

  Sergeant Van Niekerk, tapping a pencil against the desk, his chin resting on his chest, was silent for quite a while before he looked up. ‘You don’t know what you asking, Tom. It’s easy for you. The people in this town they verkramp, they will never forgive me. I’ve got four kids and a wife and we have to live here, you don’t. Let me tell you something, twenty-one years is nothing; it’s still the same, the same place you left, you can ask Doctor Van Heerden or my brother. The people here, they diehards, only now it’s our government in Pretoria so they feel even stronger. A dead native is nothing, man!’

  I sighed. ‘Sergeant, I do understand how cramped and narrow these mountain people are and that you and Marie and the kids have to live here. To be perfectly honest I expected you to refuse the offer to be the crown prosecutor, but I felt I had to ask anyway. I will act as both advocate and prosecutor.’ I paused. ‘Sergeant, you don’t know how much I hate saying this, but I must warn you I may have to subpoena you as a principal witness.’

  ‘Ja, I see,’ he said.

  ‘And I’m begging for your cooperation in the matter of police files and any evidence you may have gathered.’ I hesitated. ‘Sergeant, I don’t want to hear that all of a sudden the files have been rain-damaged and lost.’

  Sergeant Van Niekerk laughed. ‘You’re still a slimmetjie, Tom.’

  ‘Last year was the worst drought in the Northern Transvaal in twenty years, Sergeant.’

  ‘Ja, no problems, Tom. I will give you complete access to the files and cooperate in every way possible, including acting as a willing witness. I am still a policeman and will do my duty.’

  I thanked him, then added, ‘One more question. Sergeant, was the body of the murder victim mutilated in any way?’

  Sergeant Van Niekerk appeared to be taken by surprise. ‘You mean apart from being dragged behind a bakkie? Why do you ask?’

  ‘Sergeant, I’m going to ask you the same question in court, but I’d like to know now if you’re willing to answer.’

  ‘How the hell did you know, Tom?’ he asked, clearly bemused.

  ‘Please, could you answer the question, Sergeant.’

  ‘Ja, as a matter of fact, it was, but it was never officially announced, it was something people wouldn’t believe white men would do.’

  ‘And that something was . . . ?’

  ‘Ag, the victim had his sexual organs removed.’

  ‘And this appears in your case notes?’

  ‘Ja, of course . . . everything.’

  I must say, contrary to what you might expect, I was relieved that Sergeant Van Niekerk had refused to prosecute the case and understood that had he done so he would have been made a pariah in Duiwelskrans. All I had hoped for was his complete cooperation and now that I had achieved this outcome, I could spend the rest of the day and the next day or two examining the evidence in his files before returning to Johannesburg.

  In fact, the files were brought to me and I got stuck into the evidence immediately, had a sandwich for lunch and decided to stay on at the police station after Sergeant Van Niekerk prepared to go home at six o’clock that evening. ‘We’ll keep your dinner warm in the oven,’ he promised before leaving. ‘If we’re in bed just help yourself, Marie will leave coffee on the stove.’ I was left with the night-shift staff, two African policemen who remained in the front of the station while I worked in the sergeant’s office.

  At around seven o’clock a black policeman entered the office holding a tray on which rested several small tin dishes with lids, a plate, fork and spoon as well as a starched napkin.

  ‘The coolie, he is bringing this,’ the constable announced, placing the tray down on the desk.

  ‘Thank you, Joseph, is he still outside?’

  ‘No, Baas, now he is going back,’ he replied.

  An envelope was propped against one of the dishes.

  Dear Mr Fitzsaxby,

  The sergeant is telling us you like very, very much curry.

  We are also sending chicken tandoori. Most welcome home again, we are remembering well the one-pound note.

  Yours faithfully and so on and so forth,

  J. Patel & Sons

  Impala Café – Mixed Grills and Bombay Class Indian Curry

  You can imagine my surprise when the following morning at breakfast and after the kids had left for school Marie brought a fresh pot of coffee and sat down with the sergeant and myself at the kitchen table. ‘Tom, last night when you were working at the station, we had a family talk, you hear?’ She smiled over at her husband. ‘First it was only Jannie and me, then his boetie came over and then we called my ma and the doctor and they came too. We told them about what you want to do and how you asked Jan if he would be the police
prosecutor.’

  ‘Ja, Marie, I understand, I really do, his position in this town would become untenable,’ I interrupted hastily.

  ‘No, listen, Tom!’ Marie said sharply.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, suitably chastised.

  ‘Well, we changed our mind, Jannie will do it.’

  I raised both my arms. ‘Whoa! It’s not necessary for the sergeant to stick his neck out, I’ve already told him there’s another way around the problem.’

  ‘No, Tom, you wrong, it is necessary, a murder is a murder and in the eyes of God this is about a human being.’

  ‘In my eyes too, Marie,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Ja, of course, we all humans. But Jannie is a policeman but also an Afrikaner; whatever the cost to us in this godforsaken dorp, in the end a person has to live with himself. A man has to do his duty. I want my children to be proud of their father.’

  ‘Tom, it’s not just the family’s decision, I want to do it,’ Sergeant Van Niekerk said firmly.

  I was silent for a moment. ‘Thank you, Marie, thank you, Sergeant. Now, may I say something?’

  ‘Say away,’ Sergeant Van Niekerk offered with a flip of his hand, obviously pleased that everything was out in the open.

  ‘May I refuse?’

  ‘What do you mean, Tom? You don’t want him? You don’t want Jannie to help you?’ Marie asked, confused.

  ‘No, Marie, of course I do. But there are two major parts to this trial, crown prosecutor and principal witness. I have spent almost fifteen years gathering evidence, and after reading the case file yesterday I realise I know more about the murder than the police do. What I don’t know is what happened in the days following the murder. I was too young at the time to understand fully what was occurring. I can handle the dual role of prosecutor as well as advocate, but I must have a principal witness with impeccable credentials in the eyes of the judge. Such a witness is, of course, the sergeant. You see, I want to avoid a jury if possible. I’m going to ask the court to appoint two assessors instead, two lawyers, to act with the judge to reach a decision. It’s taking a chance, I know, but in the present political climate and with the ongoing Treason Trial, I’m not at all sure I could get a jury in Pretoria that would reach a fair decision. If the police officer who investigated the murder is a witness, well, that’s far more important in this context than if he acts as the crown prosecutor.’

  Marie looked at me, still unsure. ‘Tom, you’re not just saying this, I mean, you know, to get us off the hook?’

  ‘So, why did you ask me in the first place to be the crown prosecutor?’ Sergeant Van Niekerk asked pointedly.

  It was a good question. ‘Well, in the first place, I hadn’t read your investigation file.’ I hesitated. ‘I have to be honest, Sergeant, your reaction to the offer would have told me whether you would be a hostile witness under subpoena, or one willing to come forward voluntarily. I was always aware there was a lot at stake for you and your family.’ I smiled. ‘But there was a fair bit at stake for me as well, I stood to lose not only a dear friend but the first white man I trusted with my heart and soul. Your reaction yesterday and willingness to be a witness confirmed I had exactly the witness I wanted. It also told me that a child of seven can still be an excellent judge of character.’

  ‘Ag, you right, Tom, I don’t even know if I could do that job, you know, crown prosecutor. It’s the High Court, I’ve never done anything like that, I’m a country policeman, mostly it’s just Magistrate Du Plessis from Pietersburg.’

  Marie rose from the table and put her ample arms around me, then kissed me on the side of the cheek. ‘You’re not only a good midwife and also a diplomat, but you’ve turned from a very nice little boy into a very nice man. I think you’re going to be a pretty good trial lawyer, Tom Fitzsaxby. Thank you.’

  ‘Ja, we both thank you,’ Sergeant Van Niekerk said quietly. Then he said, ‘You know, Tom, I’m glad. I’m still an Afrikaner, you understand? But I’m glad we going to do the right thing for a change, the death of that native boy, it’s stayed on my mind a long time.’

  ‘Marie, Sergeant, I appreciate how much guts it took to say what you’ve said this morning and it is me who needs to thank you and your family. You’ve all stood by me, defended me and cared for me from the very beginning. I love you all very much and have from the first green sucker, one-legged ice-cream, red book and “To thine own self be true” Shorter Oxford English Dictionary. As for nice people, just look who’s talking!’

  Before I filed an indictment with the High Court in Pretoria against the six Van Schalkwyk brothers and Mevrou, whose real name was Johanna Katrina van Schalkwyk, there was one more essential piece of evidence I would have to try to obtain. I didn’t like my chances and when I returned to Duiwelskrans to inform Sergeant Van Niekerk of the possible existence of the canned-fruit jar and its brandy-pickled contents he couldn’t believe his ears.

  ‘The mutilation? Are you sure, Tom? That Vermaak kid was a born liar.’

  ‘Ja, but how could he possibly know Mattress had been mutilated unless she told him or, as he said, showed him the jar? You said the evidence wasn’t made public.’

  I’d since learned that when Meneer Prinsloo had been transferred to Pretoria the new superintendent at The Boys Farm had dismissed Mevrou and she’d returned to the high-mountains Van Schalkwyk family farm.

  ‘You’re right, but would she keep it all these years?’ Before I could answer, he did so himself. ‘Ja, she’s a Van Schalkwyk, she would, definitely. They’re all mad and bitter, that lot. It’s a pity their life sentence got commuted to sixteen years. They’re not true Afrikaner patriots, they’re filth, vermin, but this dorp thinks they’re living martyrs. Frans van Schalkwyk, the oldest brother, stood for the farmers’ representative on the town council last year. Can you imagine? I’m telling you, man, he would have got in on a landslide, only I checked with Pretoria and you can’t be a councillor with a criminal record. He can’t even read!’

  ‘So you think it’s worth a try?’

  ‘Ja, I’m game, but we’ll have to go to Pietersburg to see Magistrate Du Plessis and ask him to issue a search warrant.’

  ‘Will he cooperate?’

  Sergeant Van Niekerk shrugged. ‘Normally yes, I think so, but this isn’t a normal case, Tom.’

  We drove to Pietersburg and were well received by the veteran magistrate in his chambers, who, it was readily apparent, liked and respected the sergeant. When I was introduced the old man said, ‘Ah, the true genius has returned.’

  Sergeant Van Niekerk and I looked at each other, not understanding. ‘I beg your pardon, Magistrate?’ I said, somewhat confused.

  ‘Tom Fitzsaxby! I never forget a name. Duiwelskrans railway station, 1945, when they were farewelling the Afrikaner genius, Gawie Grobler, from the back of a lorry. Now tell me, son, what has happened to you since then?’

  You can get lucky in this world. Over a cup of coffee I filled in the intervening years and eventually got around to why we needed a search warrant. He puffed on his pipe for a while, then said, ‘Tom Fitzsaxby, don’t waste your great intellect on a rubbish case like this.’ I was about to protest when he put up his hand to stop me and turned to the sergeant. ‘Nevertheless Lieutenant Van Niekerk, you shall have your search warrant; sometimes a man has to go against his own better judgement. This Van Schalkwyk woman, I remember her too.’ He laughed. ‘She once came to see me in the District Court, she wanted to report Doctor Van Heerden for leaving some kind of medical instrument in a dead native’s stomach. “Was it an expensive piece of equipment?” I asked her. “No, Magistrate, it was a pair of tweezers,” she replied. “Never mind, the Government can afford it,” I told her.’ Magistrate Du Plessis chuckled at the memory and we all laughed.

  Sergeant Van Niekerk then asked, ‘I will need three white constables from here to operate a dawn raid, Magistrate Du Plessis.’

  ‘Ja, I will sign the authority with the search warrant; let me know if you find Exhibit A, Lieutenant
.’ We shook hands and I thanked him. ‘Tom Fitzsaxby, take my advice, even the greatest genius will end up badly if he starts to defend dead kaffirs for a living. Sterkte, strength, Advocaat.’

  I would have given a great deal to have been present at the dawn raid on the high-mountains Van Schalkwyk farm, but instead had to rely on Sergeant Van Niekerk for the details. A few prior enquiries had established which of the five houses on the property Mevrou lived in and the police had decided to go directly to her cottage on the far side of the family compound. They arrived at half past five, just as daylight began to appear, entering the compound and immediately setting off a dozen farm dogs. One of the dogs, a large Alsatian, attacked one of the police officers as he stepped out of his van and it was shot on the spot. The raid went badly from that moment on. Brothers carrying shotguns and rifles emerged from the various houses in their nightshirts with their wives following in voluminous nightdresses. Sons and daughters, the snotty-nosed wild kids that had once played outside the Dominee’s church on Sundays, now young men and women who were grown-up, were among them. Soon over thirty people surrounded the two police vans with the four policemen hopelessly outgunned.

  Frans van Schalkwyk, the oldest brother, an enormous man in a dirty nightshirt and bare feet and brandishing a shotgun, stepped up to Sergeant Van Niekerk. ‘Who fokken killed my dog?’ he demanded.

  ‘Meneer Van Schalkwyk, I have a search warrant to enter the home of Johanna Katrina van Schalkwyk,’ Sergeant Van Niekerk said evenly, presenting the warrant to him, knowing he couldn’t read.

  Frans van Schalkwyk took the warrant, glanced at it briefly and handed it back. The six brothers had been incarcerated for too many years to have any respect for authority. ‘Who says?’ Frans demanded. ‘Nobody is going to do a search, you hear? Now fok off before somebody gets hurt.’ He kicked at the corpse of the dead dog. ‘He’s a pedigree, you’ll hear more about this, Sergeant.’