by Deon Meyer
Two hundred and twenty-seven days without a drink.
Maybe he ought to get himself a soft drink, something to hold in his hand, rather than just standing here, a dull island in a sea of glitterati. Look at Alexa, she was at home, in her element, she glowed.
Jissis. What was he doing here?
When he met Schalk Joubert the moment was almost too big for him.
‘Schalk, this is Benny Griessel, he also plays bass,’ Alexa introduced him, and he could feel his face turn red. With a trembling hand, ‘Pleased to meet you, it’s a helluva privilege.’ His voice was hoarse and he was startled by the swear word that slipped out.
‘Ah, a brother. Thank you very much, the privilege is all mine,’ said Schalk Joubert easily and comfortably, his tone smoothing away Griessel’s fears, making him relax. The enormous compliment of ‘a brother’ filled Griessel with gratitude, so that, in the light of Alexa’s encouraging smile, he found the courage to strike up a conversation with Theuns Jordaan and Anton L’Amour. He asked them how Kouevuur had been put together. And then, emboldened by their generosity: ‘So when are you going to record “Hexriviervallei” properly, a complete track? That song deserves it.’
He began to unwind, chatting here, laughing there, wondering what he had been so worried about. He felt almost proud of himself, and then Alexa tugged at his arm and he turned around and saw Anton Goosen and Lize Beekman, side by side, right in front of him, conspiratorial, a moment of silence that opened up in the hubbub and it was too sudden and too much and his brain shut down and his heart beat wildly and he grabbed for the tall, beautiful, blonde singer’s hand, completely star-struck, and all that came out of his mouth, the word idiotically long and drawn-out and clear in the silence, was: ‘Fok.’
And then his cellphone began to ring in his jacket pocket.
He just stood there. Frozen.
Somewhere in his head the impulse came: Do something.
He dropped Lize Beekman’s hand. Shame and humiliation burning through him, he mumbled, ‘Excuse me.’ He fumbled for his phone, turned away, pressed the instrument to his ear.
‘Hello.’ Even his own voice sounded strange to him.
‘Benny, I need you,’ said Brigadier Musad Manie, commanding officer of the Hawks. ‘Like now.’
He drove, too fast, angry with himself, angry with Alexa, how could she do that to him? Angry with the cellphone for ringing, he could definitely have recovered from his massive mistake, he could have added something, his practised sentence of ‘this is a special privilege’, it would have defused the whole mess. Angry with the brigadier making him come in on a Saturday night, his weekend off, angry because he couldn’t get the damning chorus out of his head: he had made a complete and total arse of himself. That awful moment, the word uttered, hanging like a dead, black bird between him and Lize Beekman, everything frozen except the irritating ringing of his cellphone and the knowledge that sank down in him like lead: he had made a massive unforgivable arse of himself, in spite of all his resolutions and plans and preparations.
It was really Alexa’s fault. She had wanted to know who he was keen to meet, two weeks ago already. From the beginning he had said nobody, he would just be around, available when she needed him. Because he knew he might lose it. But she had drawn the names out of him one by one, and she had said, ‘I really want to do this for you,’ and he had said, ‘No, please,’ but with ever diminishing conviction, because the prospect began to tempt him. Until he had agreed, for her sake, but the butterflies had been in his belly already, the faint terror, no, the premonition that he might not handle it well.
His fault. Just his own fucking fault.
He knew there was big trouble when he saw the three senior officers of the DPCI – the Directorate for Priority Crime Investigations – and General John Afrika, Western Cape head of Detective Services and Criminal Intelligence.
The burly Brigadier Musad Manie, commander of the Hawks, sat in the middle with a face of granite. On either side were Colonel Zola Nyathi, head of the Violent Crimes Group, and Griessel’s immediate boss, and Colonel Werner du Preez, group head of Crimes Against the State (CATS). Afrika was on the opposite side of the table.
They greeted him, Manie invited him to sit down. Griessel saw there were files and documents in front of each of the senior officers.
‘Sorry to interrupt your evening, Benny,’ said the brigadier. ‘But we’ve got a problem.’
‘A nasty problem,’ said Afrika.
Colonel Nyathi nodded.
The brigadier hesitated, holding his breath, as if there was a lot more to say. Then he reconsidered, pushed a sheet of paper across the table. ‘Let’s start with this.’
Griessel pulled the paper towards him, began to read, conscious of the four sets of eyes on him.
[email protected]
Sent: Saturday 26 February. 06.51
To: [email protected]
Re: Hanneke Sloet – you were warned
Today it is precisely 40 days since Hanneke Sloet was murdered. That is
40 days of cover-up. You know why she was murdered.
This is my fifth message but you don’t listen. Now you leave me no choice. Today I will shoot a policeman. In the leg. And every day I will shoot a policeman, until you charge the murderer.
If you don’t have a report in the newspaper tomorrow that says you have reopened the Sloet case, the next bullet will not be in the leg.
No name. Griessel looked up.
‘As you can see, this was sent this morning,’ said the brigadier. ‘And tonight Constable Brandon April was shot by a sniper in the leg in the parking lot of the Claremont Station. Just before seven.’
‘Long distance shot,’ said Afrika. ‘They’re still looking for the bastard’s vantage point.’
‘The knee is bad,’ said Nyathi. ‘Shattered.’
‘A young man,’ said Afrika. ‘Won’t ever walk normally again. This crazy bastard …’ and he pointed at the email in Griessel’s hands, ‘has written to me four times. Very confused emails, they don’t make sense.’ He tapped the file in front of him. ‘You’ll see.’
The brigadier leaned forward. ‘We would like to announce that you will be leading the reopened investigation into the Sloet case, Benny.’
‘I personally asked the brigadier if we could give it to you,’ said Afrika.
‘Cloete is currently working on the Sunday papers, he says there’s a chance we can get something into the Weekend Argus and Rapport’s Cape section,’ said Manie. Cloete was the liaison officer of SAPS who handled the press.
‘We are going on radio as well, but I don’t know if that will help,’ said Afrika.
‘It’s a bit of a mess,’ said Nyathi, his frown deepening. ‘To say the least.’
‘If you’re willing, Benny. We will back you up. All of us.’
Griessel put the sheet of paper down on the table, straightened his new, fashionable black jacket and asked: ‘Hanneke Sloet … she was the lawyer?’
3
‘That’s right,’ said Manie and pushed the file across to Griessel. ‘Mid-January. Green Point investigated the case …’
Griessel took the fat pack of documents and tried to remember what he had heard about the Sloet murder. There had been a small media storm about six weeks back, his colleagues had discussed the case constantly.
‘Five blocks away from my office in her fancy apartment,’ said Afrika. ‘Nailed her.’ And then half apologetically he added: ‘With one helluva knife.’
The brigadier sighed. ‘They found nothing. Nothing. Look at the investigation diary, you’ll see, they followed up everything.’
Griessel opened the dossier at the SAPS5 form in Section C, quickly paged through it, saw the extensive, detailed notes. ‘You know how it’s been since the Steyn case,’ said Afrika. ‘Everyone makes doubly sure, nobody takes chances any more. The Sloet investigation was by the book. The forensics were good, the footwork was thorough, they talked to everyone who l
ived and breathed, there’s no motive that stands up to scrutiny.’
‘Except that she was a lawyer,’ said Nyathi philosophically. ‘Big clients. Big money.’
‘True …’ said Afrika.
‘Crime of opportunity,’ said Nyathi. ‘Impossible case.’
Afrika sighed. ‘Trouble is, she moved into the flat on the third of January, she was murdered on the eighteenth. She hadn’t even finished unpacking. Nobody could tell the Green Point detectives if anything was stolen.’
‘Let’s not disclose everything,’ said Manie carefully to the general. ‘We want Benny to look at this with fresh eyes. Work through the file from the beginning, see what he can find.’
Afrika nodded in agreement.
Griessel picked up the email. ‘Brigadier, what about this “cover-up … you know why she was murdered”?’
Before Manie could answer, Afrika said vigorously: ‘It’s rubbish, Benny, absolute rubbish. Take a look at his other emails. Dreadful insinuations. We are protecting the communists and the Antichrists and whatnot.’
‘The guy’s a loony,’ said Nyathi. ‘White supremacist, hates us, hates the government, hates gay people, hates everybody.’
‘A terrorist, that’s what he is, a terrorist hiding behind an anonymous email address. Untraceable.’ Afrika slid the thin folder that lay in front of him over to Benny as well. ‘Here are the other letters. You’ll see.’
Was he supposed to investigate the sniper affair too?
The brigadier picked up on his uncertainty: ‘You know how it is with these crazies, Benny – sometimes they fixate on a specific case. But if there is a connection between the gunman and Sloet, and we have missed it … CATS are going to hunt the gunman. Colonel du Preez is the JOC leader.’
‘Mbali will be our official investigator, Brigadier,’ said du Preez. ‘She arrived back from Amsterdam yesterday …’
‘Amsterdam, oh, Amsterdam,’ said Afrika, shaking his head, but with good humour.
The unit had been abuzz the past week, over ‘the incident in Amsterdam’. The stout Mbali Kaleni, a member of du Preez’s CATS team for the past six months, had been one of a group of detectives taking a course in Holland. Something had happened to her – according to the bush telegraph it was a great embarrassment. But, despite pointed speculation in the corridors, nobody really knew what had happened. Except the top management, and they were as silent as the grave.
‘You will have your hands full, Benny, but it’s important that you know what progress CATS are making, what they are looking into. And if you find something that could help them …’
‘You know how we work, Benny,’ said Colonel du Preez. ‘One big team …’
Griessel nodded again.
Nyathi folded his arms and sighed. ‘Benny, if word gets out there’s someone blackmailing us, shooting policemen … Feeding frenzy for the press, public panic.’
‘Cloete will keep the constable’s knee out of the papers. Just so you know, Benny,’ said Manie. ‘Please be careful with the press. In any case, Adjutant-Officer Nxesi is the Green Point detective who handled the Sloet case. You can call him, any time, he’s ready to come in.’
‘Our whole team is ready to support you,’ said Nyathi.
‘Not to put any extra pressure on you, Benny,’ Afrika said seriously, ‘but you must get moving. This mad bastard is going to keep on shooting policemen until you solve the case.’
At half past ten on a Saturday night Griessel walked to his office down the deathly silent, wide corridors of the DPCI – the Hawks – building. He was amazed at the effect that the Steyn affair, which Manie had referred to a few minutes ago, had had on the SAPS this past year.
Estelle Steyn, a newly qualified young chef, had been strangled eighteen months ago in her Pinelands town house – with a piece of material, probably a tie. No signs of breaking and entering, theft or sexual assault – it must have been someone whom she knew and trusted. Like her tie-wearing fiancé, the sombre, emotionless KPMG consultant with cold eyes and a key to her door. Within seventy-two hours he had been arrested and charged, and the media and fascinated public immediately declared him guilty. Because Estelle Steyn was a joyous, lively bundle of sunny energy, a brilliant cook with a bright future according to her colleagues. Alongside her blonde, smiling beauty on the front pages of the papers, her fiancé’s photo looked brooding and forbidding, the taciturn stare turned away from the camera. Like a man burdened by his misdeeds.
Then came the court case.
Like a pack of wild dogs, the defence ripped apart the carcass of poor crime-scene management, the narrow focus of the investigation, and the creative assumptions of the forensic testimony.
After seven months of sensation, the fiancé walked away a free man.
The media scolded and squawked, the public were shocked and dumbstruck. Months later best-selling books by criminologists and forensics experts analysed and criticised every SAPS misstep. In parliament, time and again the opposition used the whole as a stick with which to beat the government – the damage and scandal would not go away.
The career of the investigating officer, Fanie Fick, was over. He was tucked away in the Information Management Centre (IMC) of the Hawks now, retrained and redeployed as a computer analyst, but everyone knew he would not be promoted again. Behind his back they talked about ‘Fanie Fucked’, the guy who relieved his pain after hours every day at the Drunken Duck in Stikland.
That was why the Sloet file that Griessel carried to his office was so painfully detailed and ‘by the book’. The police service’s wounds were still raw, their honour deeply dented, the fear of another detective scapegoat, of more punishment and criticism from top management, the press and Joe Public, loomed large.
That was why General John Afrika had sat in on the meeting at the DPCI tonight, and why he had asked for a specific investigator.
Fear. The Hawks did not usually accept orders or input from a provincial head of investigations. They were too protective of their independence, of their own structures.
Fear, he thought, was also the reason they were allowing the gunman to blackmail them. In the old days the SAPS would not have bowed to threats from a sharpshooter.
Griessel sighed, unlocked his office door. It was a recipe for trouble.
Life was never simple.
He arranged the files on his desk, first opening the slim one that John Afrika had given him. He began to read the emails in chronological order, initially struggling to focus, too many things had happened too fast tonight.
[email protected]
Sent: Monday 24 January. 23.53
To: [email protected]
Re: Hanneke Sloet
You know very well who murdered Hanneke Sloet. Arrest the communist, or I will hand everything to the press.
The second one was much longer:
[email protected]
Sent: Monday 31 January. 23.13
To: [email protected]
Re: Hanneke Sloet, you’re all going to hell!!!
You are ungodly and sinners (1 Timothy 1:9, Proverbs 17:23).
The truth will come out about the communist and about the money he is paying you. You are all equally corrupt. Your time is running out.
1 Timothy 1:9-10: Knowing this, that the law is not made for a righteous man, but for the lawless and disobedient, for the ungodly and for sinners, for unholy and profane, for murderers of fathers and murderers of mothers, for manslayers, for whoremongers, for them that defile themselves with mankind, for menstealers, for liars, for perjured persons, and if there be any other thing that is contrary to sound doctrine.
Proverbs 17:23: A wicked man taketh a gift out of the bosom to pervert the ways of judgement.
Proverbs 21:15: It is joy to the just to do judgement: but destruction shall be to the workers of iniquity.
In the third he used a new tack:
[email protected]
Sent: Sunday 6 February. 22.47
To: [email protected]
Re: Hanneke Sloet – on your conscience.
You have three weeks to arrest Hanneke Sloet’s murderers. The process to let justice prevail has begun.
I warned you twice, but you did nothing. What is to come is on your and your communist bedfellows’ consciences, not mine. You leave me no choice.
Let justice be done.
And then, the second last one, sent on Sunday 13 February, thirteen days ago:
Ecclesiastes 3: To every thing there is a time.
Verse 3: a time to kill, and a time to heal, a time to break down, and a time to build up.
Verse 8: a time of war, and a time of peace.
Griessel put the email down and arranged all five in a row, his eyes moving from one to the other.
Then he read them all over again.
4
When he was done, he propped his chin in his hands, and thought.
The dates of the emails. The pace had increased systematically. The first two were a week apart. Then six days. Then five. A fixed rhythm. Except for the last one.
Almost every one had been sent late at night.
In the first and second emails, the references to ‘communist’. Singular. Then it became ‘murderers’. And ‘communist bedfellows’. But back to the singular ‘murderer’ in the last one.
The sudden jump to Bible verses, the religious justification, the building momentum of a crusade. But in the last one there was a stronger style, more confidence. And purpose. Suddenly a man with a mission.
He could understand why John Afrika and Zola Nyathi thought these were the words of a disturbed man. All the signs were there: crazies did their things at night. And they became increasingly urgent with the passage of time, their communications more frequent. They phoned, breathless and anonymous, or wrote, disjointed, often full of racism or conspiracy theories or warning of the Day of Judgement, of the gods’-vengeance-on-a-land-of-sinners.