by Deon Meyer
‘It’s a big step, Fritz. To get a tattoo.’
‘Pa, it’s a small tattoo on my arm. My shoulder.’
‘Carla says you want to tattoo your whole arm.’
‘She’s talking shit, Pa, she exaggerates so much …’
‘Fritz, you can’t talk to me like that.’
‘I learned it from you, Pa.’
Touché. ‘What kind of tattoo do you want?’
‘What does it matter, Pa?’
‘I’m just curious.’
‘Pa, you won’t like it anyway.’
‘So you might as well tell me.’
A long pause. ‘Parow Arrow.’
‘Parow Arrow?’
‘With an arrow through it.’ Very defensive.
‘Because you play in Jack Parow’s band.’
‘No, Pa. Parow is in my roots.’
‘You were born in Panorama Medi-Clinic and you grew up in Brackenfell.’
‘Parow is where you grew up, Pa. It’s part of my working-class heritage.’
Griessel sighed. He suspected ‘Brackenfell Brak’ was a tad too long for a skinny teenage shoulder, which was why Fritz was suddenly taking his ‘heritage’ from his father’s origins – and the contrived name of Jack Parow. And the ‘working class’ was pure hip hop. ‘Just do me one favour,’ he said.
‘What, Pa?’
‘Just wait a week.’
‘So Pa can tell Ma.’
‘I won’t say a word.’ He and Anna couldn’t talk about anything without arguing anyway. She would blame him for this too.
‘You swear, Pa?’
‘I swear.’
Long silence. ‘OK.’
When he turned the handle of Alexa’s front door and found it unlocked, he knew.
He found her in the sitting room. She was slumped in the big easy chair, snoring softly. An empty glass lay on the carpet, a bottle of gin stood on the table, three-quarters empty. The ashtray was overflowing.
‘Fuck,’ he said quietly. He couldn’t help it.
He picked up the bottle first and emptied it down the kitchen sink. That smell in his nostrils … Gin had never been his poison, but the desire for what it could do moved like a paralysing wave through him, so that he just stood there. His brain said, Fetch a glass, just pour a little one.
He shook himself. Jissis. He threw the bottle in the rubbish. Where had she got it?
He went up to her room. The bed was unmade. He pulled the sheets straight, readied it for her. Went back down to the sitting room. Woke her up, with a great deal of difficulty. She was very drunk, mumbling incoherent words, her body as limp as a rag doll when he tried to get her to stand. She smelled of drink, sweat and cigarettes. They struggled up the stairs for the second night in a row. At last he laid her on the bed.
‘Where were …?’ she said, forming the words with effort, her eyes already closed.
He sat down beside her.
‘… were you?’
‘At work,’ he said quietly.
Her eyes slowly opened. ‘You … stay … please,’ she said, still struggling with the ‘s’ sounds.
‘I’ll stay,’ he said.
Her eyes closed again, followed by a lazy nod.
DAY 3
Monday
17
At a quarter to six in the morning he put the coffee cup on her bedside table, sat down next to her and said her name, over and over, louder and louder, until she began to stir, and eventually opened her eyes.
She looked terrible, her skin pale and sallow, with red blotches, eyes bloodshot. There was a white trail of dried saliva down her chin. She was disorientated at first, said, ‘What?’ and struggled to sit up.
‘I brought you some coffee.’
She shifted upright against the pillows, as the present slowly penetrated.
‘You can’t see me like this,’ she said, and covered her face with her hands.
But she hadn’t cared about him seeing her dead drunk in the sitting room the night before. Those words were on the tip of his tongue, along with the déjà vu: Anna’s reaction to his drunken state, Anna’s reproaches during so many hung over, morning talks and his own denial and self-justification back then, all this came back to him now and he struggled to shake the memories off. He realised he was tired – two nights with little sleep, tossing around, worrying about the case and Alexa, waking every now and again in the strange bed. It was going to be a long day.
‘Two hundred and seventy days ago my boss pulled me out from behind my desk,’ he said, ‘because I was drunk at work.’ His tone was firm, unsympathetic: any sympathy he’d felt had evaporated some time during the course of the night. ‘Mat Joubert was my commanding officer at the time. He drove me to Danie Uys Park in Bellville, and showed me Swart Piet. Swart Piet was once a health inspector in Milnerton. Wife, children, house, he had the lot. And he drank it all away, became a bergie, a hobo, with a Checkers shopping trolley in Danie Uys Park. I was furious with Mat that day, how could he possibly compare me to Swart Piet? But the thing is, I was going that way too.’
‘I don’t want you to see me like this,’ she said.
‘I don’t want you to throw it all away, Alexa. Not now.’
She didn’t reply, still hid her face behind her hands.
‘Where’s the other bottle?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Alexa.’
She raised her knees, put her arms around them, and dropped her head behind them.
‘Where did you hide it?’
One hand moved away from her knees, a finger pointed at the dressing table.
‘Which drawer?’
‘The third one.’
He got up, pulled open the drawer. Underwear. He put his hand in, felt around, found it. More gin.
‘Is this the only one?’
She nodded, her face still hidden.
He sat down with her again, the bottle in his hands. ‘You bought it at a hotel.’ The seal was broken.
Nodded.
‘The Mount Nelson?’
Nod.
That was the place she went to drink, in the past. She had told him.
‘I’m going to my flat now to wash and eat. I’ll pick you up at seven.’
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, with fear in her voice.
‘I have to go to work. you’ll have to come along until I can make another plan.’
‘No, Benny …’
He knew it wouldn’t help to argue. He stood up. ‘Please, Alexa. Just be ready at seven.’ Then he walked out.
At three minutes past seven he knocked on the front door of her house. She opened. She had repaired the damage reasonably well. She was wearing a grey skirt and jacket, with a white blouse. Her face was made up, her hair clean and neat. Only her eyes betrayed the drinking.
‘Come, we have to go.’
She stood still. ‘You’re angry with me.’
‘I’m the last one who could be angry with you. Come on, please.’
‘Benny, you can’t look after me. I won’t drink. Not today. I’m rehearsing this afternoon.’
‘I’m going to be late. Come on, please.’
‘You are angry.’ But she came out reluctantly, locked the door behind her, and walked with him to his car.
When they were on the road she said again, ‘You can’t look after me.’
‘Your face is on the poster, Alexa.’
Her head drooped. ‘Yes. My face is on the poster.’
Griessel reached over to the back seat, picked up the white envelope and handed it to her. ‘Look at that, please.’
She unfolded the flap, took out the photographs.
‘Her name is Hanneke Sloet. She was murdered in her flat on the eighteenth of January. Just over there.’ He pointed down at the city.
‘She was beautiful.’
More sexy than beautiful, but he didn’t say that. He knew men and women didn’t think the same about beauty. ‘She was a corporate lawyer, and she hadn’t been i
n a steady relationship for over a year. Last year in April she had her breasts enlarged. These photos were taken then. Why do you think she did it?’
‘Why did she have the pictures taken?’
‘Yes.’
She studied each photo carefully while he drove through the heavy traffic in Buitengracht. Eventually she said, ‘It’s a celebration of her beauty. Her new assets. Her sexuality.’
‘Why was she celebrating it?’
Alexa looked at him enquiringly.
He explained, ‘Did you ever celebrate your beauty like that? I’m not talking about photos for your work …’
‘You can’t compare me to her.’
‘Why not? You’re lovely …’ Griessel couldn’t help it, he dropped his eyes fleetingly to her bosom, ‘… and all.’
‘I am forty-six. I’m a lush.’ But by her curt laugh he could tell that she liked it.
‘She was thirty-three,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you do that in your thirties?’
‘I didn’t have the self-confidence.’
‘Is that the only reason?’
‘I suppose not … It takes a certain kind of personality.’
‘What kind?’
She grasped it at last. ‘Aha. You’re consulting me.’
He nodded.
‘I’ll have to think about it,’ she said, pleased.
Alexa waited for him in a coffee shop on the corner of Long and Riebeeck Street while he asked at the reception in Silberstein Lamarque House to see Hannes Pruis.
His office was on the twelfth floor, spacious and quietly luxurious, like the building. Pruis was short and strong, the thick black hair expensively cut. He was maybe fifty, full of bubbling joviality. There was a little diamond in each of the cufflinks in his snow-white shirtsleeves. The small, rectangular glasses were the same shade as his silver temples.
And he was a talker.
‘Captain, have a seat,’ he said in a melodious courtroom voice. ‘Coffee? Sugar and milk?’
Griessel said, ‘Please’, and Pruis ordered over the intercom. Then he continued, ‘I see you are in the media firing line again, somewhat undeserved. I must say I was most impressed with the first investigation. The man … can’t remember his name … Nxesi, thank you, Nxesi, thorough fellow, very thorough. I assume you studied my statement? It was an enormous shock to us all, enormous. Hanneke, what a fantastic person, such a terribly huge loss. And so senseless. We still can’t explain it. And now the man who is shooting your people over her case, have you any idea …?’ The door opened, a pretty woman with long black hair brought in the tray, put it down in front of them.
‘Please, help yourself,’ said Pruis. ‘Thank you, Natalie.’ She nodded and smiled, went out again. Pruis remained standing, one hand on the desk. ‘Have you any idea who is shooting at you?’
‘I hoped you would be able to help us,’ said Benny and took out his notebook.
‘No, dear God, Captain, not the faintest idea. I mean, the whole thing was inexplicable from the start, there is nobody who would want to harm Hanneke.’
Griessel nodded. ‘Mr Pruis, someone did harm her. And the scene indicates that it was someone she knew one way or another. There are two possibilities. Work or personal life. Or both. There are sources who say Miss Sloet had an affair in 2002 with a married colleague.’
‘Now, you have to be careful …’ Pruis raised a warning finger.
He didn’t have the desire or the energy for a pissing contest. ‘Mr Pruis, the only thing I have to do is my job,’ said Griessel. ‘If a source makes an allegation, I have to investigate it.’
‘It’s a very vague allegation.’
‘The source says it was Werner Gelderbloem. Did you know about it?’
That stopped Pruis for a second. Then he sat down in the high leather chair and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Yes, I knew about it,’ he said stiffly, ‘but it’s old news. It was a long time ago. Eight, nine years ago.’
‘Are you sure?’
The jovial mood had evaporated. The lawyer leaned forward, pointed his finger at Griessel. ‘You’re poking your nose into this because you have nothing else, that’s the problem. Let me tell you now, it’s old potatoes, it only went on for a month or two. These things happen. I’m sure you’ve also had a bit on the side.’
‘Are you sure the relationship was completely over?’
Pruis leaned back in his chair. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ He sighed, reconsidered his attitude. ‘Listen, I’m probably a little sensitive about this, but Werner Gelderbloem … he’s retiring in two years … I mean, Captain, Hanneke was a desirable woman. At a certain age … You realise you’re getting old, you’ve been with the same woman for thirty years, call it a mid-life crisis, here is this smart, pretty young thing who admires you … I mean, which of us wouldn’t be tempted? He made a mistake. Nearly nine years ago. He ended it. We transferred her from Corporate Litigation to Commercial Law, and it died a silent death. If there was the slightest chance that it had anything to do with her murder …’
He was protesting too much, thought Griessel. ‘Mr Pruis, we all have behaviour patterns. We do the same thing over and over. If she had an affair at work once, the chances are good …’
‘No.’ Angry. ‘Why do you think she only became an associate two years ago? She was brilliant, one of the sharpest here. The thing with Werner … We called her in at the time, we told her, you’re young and inexperienced in this sort of thing, you get one chance. One. It stays on your record for five years, one more time and you’re out. It gave her a fright. A big, big fright.’ And the finger was back: ‘I won’t allow Silberstein’s name to be dragged through the media mud, let me tell you.’
Is that why he was so defensive? Griessel nodded, opened his notebook on a new page. ‘I will have to ask about the deal she was working on …’
He saw Pruis raise his eyes heavenwards.
‘Were there any communists involved?’ he asked.
The gear changes were visible on Pruis’s face. ‘Communists?’
‘Yes.’
The lawyer pondered, and then to Griessel’s astonishment said, ‘Maybe one or two. Why?’
18
‘There were communists involved?’
‘Captain, it’s a BEE transaction, and I can’t tell you the political affiliation of all the parties involved. There surely are some who are members of the South African Communist Party. Or were. You know, the cadres, the alliances …’
‘A BEE transaction?’
‘Black Economic Empowerment.’
Realisation came to him slowly, all the connotations, the implications, the link to the sniper’s emails. Griessel’s heart sank. ‘Mr Pruis, can you explain the whole transaction to me. In layman’s terms.’
‘Captain, there are no layman’s terms for this sort of transaction. It’s complicated. But it remains a typical BEE transaction, there is one every month or two. Where is the connection to Hanneke Sloet’s death?’
‘Please try to explain it to me,’ Griessel said.
Pruis looked at his watch and shook his head in irritation. ‘Ingcebo Resources Limited is the BEE company. Majority of black shareholders, seven black people on the board of directors, some of them were formerly in government. Ingcebo is borrowing a fraction over four billion rand and using it to buy a fifteen per cent share in Gariep Minerals Limited. Because it’s very risky to buy a single share with borrowed money, Ingcebo’s financiers have to reduce their risk by structuring it as a five-year convertible loan.’
Griessel raised his hand. ‘Mr Pruis, I need to understand that.’
‘I told you, it’s complicated – that’s why there are so many legal professionals involved.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Basically it comes down to Gariep Minerals selling a fifteen per cent shareholding to Ingcebo, risk free. Ingcebo still has to finance the amount through banks and other investors, but Gariep’s support makes it possible. The whole thing is structured in such a way that … Are you sure you want to know all
this?’
‘Please.’
Pruis pulled open a drawer, took out an expensive leather-bound writing pad. He opened it, pushed it closer to Griessel and drew a circle with a fountain pen on the paper. ‘Here is Ingcebo Resources Limited, the BEE mother company. OK?’
Griessel nodded.
Pruis drew another circle beside it. ‘This is Gariep Minerals. It’s a mining company, nearly a hundred years old, in white ownership. They are mostly in gold, platinum, aluminium. They are a local entity, but operate internationally. They have mines here, in Canada, Australia.’
Griessel nodded. He was keeping up.
Pruis drew a line from Ingcebo Resources Limited, connected it to a smaller circle. ‘This is Ingcebo Bauxite. It belongs to Ingcebo Resources Limited. A full subsidiary. In other words, Ingcebo Resources Limited owns Ingcebo Bauxite. You understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now, Ingcebo Bauxite, the subsidiary, lends four billion rand to Gariep Minerals, the white company, for five years. If Gariep’s share price falls over the period, they have to repay the loan with interest, or simply issue the shares to Ingcebo. Because the shares are worth more than the bank loan, Ingcebo can repay the banks in full and retain the balance as profit or an unencumbered share in Gariep.’
‘Jissis,’ said Griessel.
‘I told you this is complicated.
‘So where does Silbersteins come in?’
‘We are only one of four legal firms involved. SA Merchant Bank is our client. They are underwriting a part of the loan to Ingcebo Bauxite. There are four banks involved: two from America, one from England, and the local SA Merchant Bank. We have to see that SA Merchant Bank’s contracts are watertight.’
Griessel realised he wasn’t going to get his head around everything. ‘The communists are with Ingcebo?’
‘I’m not saying they are communists. I said they might have been.’
‘Did Hanneke Sloet have any contact with them?’
‘With the directors of Ingcebo?’
‘With the possible communists.’
‘No. I mean, she must have met them briefly, somewhere at one of the meetings. But there was no contact other than that. Remember, we work for SA Merchant Bank, not for Ingcebo.’