by Deon Meyer
Like this one.
They were usually media parasites, studying every piece that appeared about a case, reacting to it, quoting it, embroidering on it.
This one didn’t do that.
They almost always gave themselves a name when they wrote, some mythological or astrological or awe-inspiring pseudonym.
Not this one.
This one had a new tactic with every communication. This one went abruptly silent for two weeks before the final email. Which he had sent in daytime, a Saturday morning, twelve hours before he went out shooting.
This one referred to a motive in the last email: You know why she was murdered.
This one had carried out his threats, he had done the one thing that would ignite the wrath of the SAPS – he had shot a policeman. And he was threatening to do it again.
Something was not right here.
He put the emails back one by one in their file and drew the hefty Sloet folder closer. He opened it, he wanted to start at the beginning, take a look at the murder scene first, the photos, the forensic report, the pathologists …
Someone knocked on his door, softly and apologetically.
He was brought back from his reverie. ‘Come in,’ said Griessel.
Brigadier Musad Manie’s nickname in the DPCI was ‘the Camel’. Because ‘Musad’, one of the Hawk detectives had learned from a Muslim friend, meant ‘loose camel’ in Arabic. And when the tall, lean Colonel Zola Nyathi was appointed head of the Violent Crimes group – with his slow and stately, deliberate, slightly bent forward walk – he was swiftly dubbed ‘the Kameelperd’ or in the simpler English, ‘the Giraffe’.
It was the Giraffe who ducked through the door now, his shaven head shining under the fluorescent lights of Griessel’s office.
‘No, please, Benny, don’t get up …’ He walked up to the desk, his slender fingers putting down a car key.
‘You can use the BMW.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Benny, you know we’re a family here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You know that we approach investigations as one big team.’
‘Yes, sir. I just want to study the files first …’
‘I understand that, Benny. But when you’re ready, get the guys involved. I’ve already called Vaughn, he’s on standby …’
‘Yes, sir.’
Nyathi tapped a finger on the case files, his voice suddenly soft and confidential. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘You’re an old hand. I don’t have to spell it out for you …’ The colonel hesitated, lifted his head, looked Griessel right in the eyes. ‘You come talk to me, Benny. Or to the Brig. You find any monkey business anywhere, you come to us …’
Griessel didn’t know what to say.
‘Are you with me, Benny?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said in the hope that he would be able to decipher what the Giraffe meant later.
‘Good.’
Nyathi turned and walked to the door. Just before he closed it, he said: ‘Good luck.’
Griessel sat and looked at the door. Manie and Nyathi had also been taken by surprise over this affair, by Afrika’s request and involvement. They were playing along, but cautiously.
He shook his head. Politics. Not his favourite game.
But he appreciated Nyathi’s gesture. The problem was that he was not entirely convinced of this we-are-one-big-family-and-we-work-as-a-team strategy of the Hawks. He hadn’t been part of the unit for even three weeks, he had only recently learned that JOC stood for Joint Operational Centre – group heads and detectives of the various DPCI units thrown together under one operational leader to investigate a case. Too many people – a recipe for chaos. He was accustomed to one shift partner, or to working alone, especially during the past year when he had been in Afrika’s office.
He sighed. He still had no idea why Afrika had transferred him to the Hawks.
He reached for the case file, took out the crime-scene photographs one by one and arranged them in rows in front of him.
In full colour, Hanneke Sloet lay on the big, highly polished marble tiles beside a single round pillar. The red-black blood in stark contrast to her sleeveless white dress and the light grey floor. She lay on her back, right arm over her body, the right hand pressed to the wound in her belly. She had tried to stem the massive blood loss to the very end.
Her bare left arm was slightly outstretched, her hand open.
Her head on the floor, the back of the skull resting in blood, her dark hair fallen across her face, covering her eyes and nose, but the mouth was visible. A full mouth, dark red lipstick, almost the same colour as the blood.
She was barefoot, the dress with the skirt shifted up, her legs exposed to far above the knee.
It looked like a single wound, just below and to the right of her heart.
He wanted to get a feel for the scene, and studied the photos one by one. The apartment was new and modern, the walls and the single pillar were snow white, the floor grey and shiny, the windows large and without curtains – they looked out on a wide balcony outside, and over the multicoloured Bo-Kaap and Signal Hill.
Sloet lay in a spacious room. Behind her, in the centre, was a white couch and two chairs, square and stylish, on a loose white shagpile carpet. Against the long wall was one huge, unframed picture, the kind of modern art that Griessel did not understand – shapes and stripes in white and grey, like an aerial photo of waves in the sea. A single glass-and-chrome shelf housed a hi-fi system and two small speakers.
In the corner furthest from where Sloet lay, there was a spiral staircase that led to an upper level – gleaming light brown wood, with a narrow stainless steel rail.
At the window, a white telescope on a tripod pointed at the buildings of the city.
Behind the pillar there was a small open-plan kitchen – modern cupboards behind opaque olive-green glass, and an angular chrome-coloured fridge.
The front door was three metres to the left of the kitchen, and four metres from where Hanneke Sloet’s lifeless body lay.
He looked at the last row of photos, of the two bedrooms in the apartment. The larger one was clearly where Sloet had slept. For the most part it was painfully neat. A wide double bed on a square white platform. The bed was made up with snow-white linen, with two dark brown pillows, matching the dark wood of the bedside cupboards.
The desk, a smooth white wooden top on two brown trestles, bore the only signs of activity: a laptop, a pair of folders, one of which was open, a fountain pen, uncapped. A glass of red wine, three-quarters empty, an Apple iPhone. The brown high-backed chair was pushed back, turned a little to the side. A brown standard lamp to the right was switched on.
The second bedroom was smaller. A single bed, without bedding, cardboard boxes on it, unopened. An empty white bookshelf, two rolled-up Persian carpets.
Griessel picked up the thick folder and placed it in front of him, on top of the photos. Like all SAPS case files it consisted of three parts: Section A contained the interviews, reports, statements and the photo album; in Section B the correspondence between SAPS departments, or other concerns such as banks or employers, was stored; Section C was the journal of the investigation on the SAPS5 form, this one comprised a detailed, chronological history of the case, with references to documents in Section A.
He paged to the pathologist’s report in Section A, and was relieved to see that Prof Phil Pagel had done the autopsy. Pagel was the smartest man he knew, vastly experienced, extremely thorough. Above all, Pagel knew how to write a report so that detectives could both understand and use it. At the top there was always a summary that made the investigating officer’s life easier – normal language, numbered points, short sentences and paragraphs, useful information.
Griessel read:
• Time of death: Between 20.00 and 0.00 on Tuesday, 18 January. Probably around 22.00.
• Cause of death: radical loss of blood due to a single stab wound from the front, 8 mm above the fourth rib, 20 mm
left of the breastbone (gladiolus), through the left lobe of the liver and the inferior vena cava (the large artery, carrying oxygen-poor blood from the lower body to the heart), to the T7 vertebra.
• Wound pathology and weapon: the wound pathology indicates a stabbing object with, most likely, a sharp point (very even angle) and a double, asymmetrical cutting edge (diamond geometry?). The blade is apparently straight. The measurements of the blade are probably 6.5 to 7.5 cm wide, 1.5 cm thick, and longer than 20 cm (no bruising from a handle or hilt. The stabbing angle 85 to 105° relative to vertical torso.
• A single, fatal stab wound and the complete absence of defensive wounds to hands indicates significant violence of the stabbing action, or a very sharp blade, or a combination of the two. (Surprise attack?) (Home-made weapon? Assegai? Ornamental dagger? Sword?)
• Wound pathology and suspect: suspect is probably 200 to 400 mm taller than the victim (size of weapon, angle of stab wound, possibility of considerable violence). Single stab wound and unknown weapon prevents further speculation.
• Wound residue: none.
• No indication of sexual activity.
With the new information in mind, Griessel examined the crime-scene photos again. Stabbed only once. She lay four metres from the front door, and there were no cuts on her hands to show that she had tried to defend herself.
No obvious signs of robbery, the brigadier had said. And according to Pagel, no signs of sex. That meant an absence of semen, of bruising on the victim.
He wondered who had found the victim. How did the building’s security work?
He paged through Section A, looking for statements, found a white A4 envelope, loosely inserted behind the photograph album. Someone had written a single word on it in blue pen: Sloet.
He opened it, removed the contents.
Three large colour prints. Of a living Hanneke Sloet.
They excited him immediately, making him forget what he was looking for.
All three photos had been taken in a studio, under professional lighting. In the first, only her head, right shoulder and part of her arm were visible. She wore a thin white dress, etched against the smooth, tanned skin of her shoulder and arm. Her head was angled to the right, she was looking down, her eyes veiled, the right side of her face in dark shadow that accentuated the full lips and strong cheekbone. A single strand of hair draped across her face, down to her chin. The shoulder and arm were feminine, muscular. The grey background was an interesting texture, out of focus.
It was quite a sensual photo.
Lovely woman. And she knew it. She liked it, she was displaying it a little.
The second photo was of her upper body, her head slightly dipped so that her dark eyes looked up at the camera. She had an easy smile, showing a narrow gap between her front teeth. Her hair was tied back now. A thin, tight-fitting and collarless blouse with a low neckline displayed the full, prominent breasts, with a certain innocence.
The third was a nude study, dark and artistic. Tasteful. The background was pitch black, the lighting from the right and behind, her body turned, so that only a cheekbone, the tip of her nose, a large, round earring, the slim line of her neck, a shoulder, a single perfect breast and nipple, a hip and the outline of her leg were visible.
He suspected the photos had been taken recently, she seemed mature, close to her age of thirty-three, according to the file.
He arranged the photographs in a row. Looked over them again. What personality, what reason had motivated her to go to all this trouble? How many hours, to make the appointment with the photographer, choose the right clothes, complete the photo sessions? This woman, the corporate lawyer.
And the breasts. Unnaturally large and perfect, like someone who had had them surgically enhanced.
For whose benefit? he wondered. For whom had she had the photos taken?
He sat there staring, fascinated by this smouldering woman.
His cellphone rang, sudden and shrill.
He returned to the present with a vague feeling of guilt, had to look around for the phone first. He found it in the pocket of his jacket, hanging over the chair. He took it out: ALEXA, the screen read.
Fuck. He ought to have called her. He looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven.
He answered: ‘Alexa, I’m so sorry …’
‘No, this is not Alexa,’ said a man’s voice. Hostile. ‘She asked me to call you to come and collect her.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s drunk, sir. Falling down drunk.’
5
He jogged to the car with the files in his arms and the knowledge that it was his fault. He had embarrassed her, left her alone, kept her in the dark. She had been sober for a hundred and fifteen days and now he had driven her back to drink.
He opened the rear door of the BMW 130i, put the files on the back seat, slammed the door shut in frustration, got in the front and drove away.
He should have known that Alexa used to drink because she suffered from stage fright, and tonight was a sort of stage, her first interaction with the music people in years, her timid return to the limelight. He should have thought, should have controlled his language and his reactions. He should have told the brigadier he couldn’t come right away, he should have taken Alexa home first. But no, all he could think of was his own humiliation. He was a dolt, a fucking idiot policeman.
What was wrong with him?
Doc Barkhuizen’s warning flashed through his head: ‘Careful, Benny, you haven’t been dry a year yet. Two alcoholics … that’s double the risk.’
He had protested and said they were only friends, he could support her, encourage her, they could attend AA gatherings together. And Doc had just shaken his head and said, ‘Careful.’
How had he supported her tonight?
He should have listened to Doc. Doc knew the ‘just friends’ explanation was a smokescreen. Doc could see he liked Alexa. More and more.
And she liked him, he had thought.
And now? Now he’d fucked it all up.
Why did he always do that? Why was his life never simple? Never fucking ever. He was forty-five, the age at which you are supposed to reach inner calm and wisdom and resignation, the age at which you are supposed to have all your life shit sorted out. But not him. His life was constant chaos. An endless stream of trouble, a never-ending struggle to cope. But he just could not win, it was one thing on top of another. You could never get ahead.
He had only just, this past month, started to get used to the whole divorce thing, tried to make peace with the fact that he and Anna were over. Totally, irretrievably over. He still struggled with the fact that she was ever more seriously involved with a lawyer. A fucking lawyer. But he was working on that, fuck knows, he was trying.
He had cut back to pay the maintenance, and his contribution to Carla’s studies, and he could almost live with that, though he felt he was being ripped off, he paid far more than Anna, and they earned about the same.
He’d worked hard the past weeks to fit in with the Hawks, the new relationship, the new structures, the new ranks. Everybody’s rank had changed, back to the military hierarchy of the old days. Everybody’s except his own, because a captain was still a captain. But he had accepted that too.
He had got back into a routine with his children. Carla, who was studying drama at Stellenbosch. Drama, as though she hadn’t had enough drama in her life with an alcoholic policeman father and the whole divorce disaster. Drama. Where would the child find work? And his son, Fritz, who might or might not pass Matric, because he was playing guitar for Jack Parow’s band. Jack Parow. Hip hop or rap or whatever you called it, swore worse than a policeman. But what could he do? Fritz had talent – Jack had approached him personally, come and play for me. Griessel had made peace with the fact that the world had changed, that children had choices today, that their approach to careers was different.
Peace with many things. On the brink of getting things straight.
And now in one night he had made a complete arse of himself in front of three people for whom he had immense respect: Anton Goosen, Lize Beekman, and Alexa Barnard. And driven the last one to drink.
He would just have to accept it. He was a fuck-up.
The words hung for a moment in his thoughts and he realised: it was the swearing. That was the problem, the thing that had caused all the trouble tonight. Here, now, it had to end. He was through with swearing. Finished. For the rest of his life. The same way he had stopped drinking, he would stop fucking swearing too.
And tomorrow, when she was sober, he would explain to Alexa about the Sloet case and ask her forgiveness, and get her to phone the other two, so she could tell them, it was all due to admiration and nerves, maybe it happened to other people too, maybe he wasn’t the first.
And then he thought how beautiful Alexa had looked and his fleeting hope, at her house, that he would get lucky tonight, and he snorted in disgust at himself, at this world, in his Hawks BMW on the N1. And he thought, life is never fu—Damn. Life is never flipping simple.
He found no pleasure in his new word.
He stopped at the Artscape. His cellphone rang. It must be the centre manager again, about Alexa. He answered hastily, to say he had arrived.
‘Griessel.’
‘Captain, it’s Tommy Nxesi from Green Point.’ There was a wary note to his voice.
It took a moment to register – it was the warrant officer who had originally investigated the Sloet case.
‘Yes, Tommy.’
‘Captain, do I still have to come in?’
‘No …’ he realised the detective had been waiting for him to call, at the request of John Afrika. ‘Sorry, Tommy, I should have let you know …’ Griessel thought of what lay ahead, with Alexa. ‘You don’t need to … Can we talk tomorrow?’
‘So, you don’t need me tonight?’
‘No, thanks a lot …’
‘OK,’ said Tommy, relieved.
‘Thanks …’ then he remembered, he wanted to have a look at the scene of the crime. ‘Tommy, do you still have the keys to Sloet’s apartment?’