7 Days

by Deon Meyer

  ‘Because she was no longer in a relationship?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Ma’am, Egan Roch said they had a good relationship.’

  ‘They did! She just wasn’t ready for the big step. She worked so hard, she had so little time for herself. What you need to know about Hanneke, Captain, is that she set very high standards for herself. She had goals. Dreams. And I think she wanted to attain them before she thought about marriage.’

  ‘Did she say anything about Egan Roch? When she was with you at Christmas?’

  ‘She just said she was glad they had parted as friends. She saw him a few weeks before, took him some of his things. And she said it was good to say goodbye like that. On good terms.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘No, nothing else … Why do you ask?’ Sudden concern in her voice.

  ‘Ma’am, we have to make sure we look at every angle.’

  ‘Egan is a wonderful man. We liked him so much.’

  ‘Did she talk about her work?’

  ‘Her work was her life. Sometimes it was all she could talk about.’

  ‘Did she say anything about the big transaction she was working on?’

  ‘She did. Not that I could understand everything. But she said she was enjoying it very much. And she was meeting the most interesting people. She said she would very much like to specialise in that area. Or she would … I wish I had paid more attention … It was very complex, she tried to explain, but what do I know? In any case, she said there was so much potential in the black transactions. She was very excited about a proposal she wanted to make. To her bosses, when these contracts were finalised. And then she said she might go on her own – I remember that well, because I said she mustn’t bite off more than she could chew, she had such a good job. Then she said she would approach her bosses first.’

  ‘You don’t know what the proposal was?’

  ‘I can’t remember the detail. It sounded to me as though she wanted … She said, “Ma, the sums are astronomical. We can do so much better.” ’

  ‘And the interesting people that were involved …?’

  ‘That is all that she said. “There are such interesting people involved.” I noticed, because Hanneke didn’t say things like that lightly. She was … quite critical of people. Because she was so sharp. She didn’t suffer fools gladly …’

  He waited for her to say more, but nothing came. ‘Ma’am, was she very religious?’

  She hesitated only for a moment. ‘Is this about the religious extremist?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘No, Hanneke was not religious at all.’

  ‘So she didn’t belong to a church?’

  Marna Sloet was quiet for a while. Then in a muted voice, ‘No. Her father had a habit of blaming his professional and personal failures on the Higher Power, Captain. Hanneke hated that. Her motto was that you were responsible for your own fate.’

  27

  He needed time to absorb it all. That was how his head worked. Anna always used to say it was like a washing machine: he would put all the dirty laundry in and let it tumble and turn, and when the time was right, when his instinct kicked in, he would open it up and take out a fresh, clean theory.

  Hanneke Sloet wanted to take a proposal to her bosses. She had thought of going it alone. Because there were large sums involved, and they could do so much better. And the ‘interesting people’? What did she mean? Politicians? Communists? Something else? This fucking deal, he’d best just get up and hand the whole thing over to Bones, because he couldn’t make head or tail of it.

  His door burst open and Cupido leaned half-way in. ‘Barrel maker is a no-go for the murder. The air hostess just phoned. Egan the Vegan chatted her up on the flight of the eighteenth. They would have had dinner here in the Cape on the twentieth, but he phoned her and said he’d just lost someone near and dear.’

  Griessel was surprised that Cupido showed so little disappointment. Until his colleague said, ‘Jissis, Benny, those French chicks. You gotta hear that accent, pappie, sensuality dripping from every word. That mouth is begging for a French kiss, Danielle Fournier …’ Her name was pronounced in his best French accent, as though it was the most captivating thing he had ever heard.

  ‘Thank you, Vaughn,’ said Griessel.

  ‘He could still be the gunman. And Captain Cupido will check it out. Voilà.’ He turned and nearly bumped into Mbali, who bustled in with a sheet of paper in her hand.

  ‘Voilà is French, Mbali,’ said Cupido to her. ‘Not profanity.’

  ‘Get a life,’ she said to him. Then she closed Griessel’s office door behind her, sat down and passed the document over to him. ‘His new email to the newspapers …’

  He read.

  762a89z012@anonimail.com

  Sent: Monday 28 February. 13.30

  To: jannie.erlank@dieburger.com

  Re: Proverbs 21:15

  The police call me an extremist.

  Am I?

  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.

  Our country has descended into corruption. Murderers walk free. It is the just who are destroyed. The motto is Extremis malis extrema remedia.

  You will see, only an extremist will let justice be done. The SAPS knows who the murderers of Hanneke Sloet are. I know that for a fact. Now, destruction shall be to them, unless they do their work.

  ‘You were right,’ said Mbali. ‘He is still not saying a word about the communist. Just the hints about corruption …’

  ‘That’s Latin,’ said Griessel.

  ‘Yes. He’s educated. And he’s grandstanding, he’s playing politics. The public will love this.’

  A polite knock on the closed door.

  ‘Come in,’ Benny called.

  Bones Boshigo opened it, his eyes bigger than usual. ‘Good afternoon, Captain Kaleni. Benny, that iceberg, nè. I think you should come with me …’

  On their way out, Boshigo walked quickly down the corridor, and Griessel had to scurry to keep up. The Hawks’ unwritten dress code was jacket and tie. Bones was in his usual T-shirt, jeans, and running shoes. This rebel streak made him popular with his colleagues, and made top management shake their heads. But the reason Griessel had so much respect for him was because the skinny man never touched a drop of alcohol. ‘Don’t see the use,’ was all he would say about it.

  ‘I talked to Len de Beer, Benny. He’s a genius, nè. Runs a subscription blog on share trading and investment, a thousand rand a month to read it. He’s very weird, you’ll see. Anyway, I couldn’t get anywhere, so I phoned Len – he’s been my source ever since I worked with Vusi. And Len said he would take a look. He phoned back just now and he said, “There’s smoke, Bones.” But Len is like that, he won’t talk on the phone, you have to sit down with him. Which is an experience in itself. Eccentric, nè. But clever, very clever.’

  While Bones drove to the city, Griessel phoned Alexa.

  He heard the young sitter’s whispered answer, ‘This is Ella.’

  ‘This is Benny Griessel. Is everything OK?’

  ‘Sort of. She’s onstage, she’s going to rehearse now.’

  ‘Why do you say “sort of”?’

  ‘She’s having a hard time, Benny. She took a handful of pain pills. She’s perspiring and shaking, and she’s very irritable. But she says she made a deal with you. She’s very brave.’ Still whispering.

  ‘OK,’ he said, relieved. ‘Thanks. You know you can call me.’

  ‘I know, Paul Eilers. Relax. I can handle it. Have to go. Bye.’

  He put the phone away. One less thing to worry about.

  ‘Bones, are you on Facebook?’ Griessel made certain he had the right preposition.

  ‘I was, Benny. Been there, done that. Facebook is yesterday’s news. I’m on LinkedIn.’

  ‘Is that like Twi
tter?’

  Boshigo laughed. ‘No. Let me put it to you this way. Facebook is for people you went to school with. Twitter is for people you wish you went to school with. And LinkedIn is for people who don’t think about school any more, they want to do business.’

  ‘But you know Facebook?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘If I want to find a photo of someone, how do I go about it?’

  ‘You become a friend.’

  ‘But it’s family.’

  Boshigo’s chortle was so infectious that Griessel had to laugh along. ‘Vaughn says I am old school, Bones.’

  ‘From now on I’m calling you Noah, nè. First you have to register with Facebook. Then you can see everyone’s public photos. But if a photo is private, then you send a friend request to the one whose photos you want to see. Then, if they accept you, you can see them.’

  Griessel shook his head. It seemed too complicated. ‘But I don’t want to register with Facebook.’

  ‘Then you have to get someone who is on Facebook, and you ask them to email you the photo.’

  ‘OK,’ said Griessel, taking out his phone and calling his son.

  Len de Beer lived in Bertram Street in Sea Point, where the pitched-roof houses were small and squeezed together. There was an unkempt garden the size of a blanket, a white picket fence, and a slightly rusted iron gate that protested on opening.

  He was a big man in a blue short-sleeved checked shirt, old grey tracksuit pants and slippers, considerably overweight, his voice surprisingly high as he said, ‘Come in, come in’. The thick bushy hair and beard were dark red, and he reminded Griessel of Hagar the Horrible. Behind a pair of cheap black-rimmed glasses mended with tape his eyes were clear and bright blue. He greeted Bones with a practised township handshake of grip and re-grip, shook Griessel’s hand briefly, and walked with a heavy tread to his study.

  It smelled of smoke. There were bookshelves from floor to ceiling, a massive desk with a green lamp, a keyboard, mouse, four computer screens, and two television screens that apparently provided share prices and financial news.

  De Beer waved them to chairs, sank down in his own with a sigh, tapped a Gauloise out of a blue pack, lit it with a match, and inhaled the smoke deeply. While his eyes flitted from one computer screen to the next, he asked, ‘Clever then, are you?’ His mouth was barely visible behind the beard that he combed lovingly with his fingers.

  Griessel realised the question was aimed at him. He shrugged, unsure how to answer. ‘I don’t understand this transaction at all.’

  ‘Doesn’t make you dumb. Bones says you aren’t with corporate crime.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Layman’s language,’ de Beer said, like a memo to self.

  Griessel looked at Bones, who winked at him.

  ‘Pension funds,’ said de Beer in his high voice, the hand in the beard again. ‘Milk cows of South Africa. Large scale fraud. A thousand ways. One works like this: trade union has its own pension fund. Pension funds are run by trustees. You with me?’ His eyes remained fixed on the screens in front of him.

  ‘I’m with you.’ Griessel began to understand the ‘eccentric’ tag.

  ‘Lovely. Trustees decide about the investment of pension funds. Trustees are chosen from the membership of trade unions, election of trustees is manipulated. Not all trade unions. Some of them. Get the right people on the board. Simple people. Labourers. Uninformed. Grateful for the good fortune. Easy to manipulate. You with me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lovely. Financial Services Board has to regulate and monitor everything. They are hopeless. Fertile ground for monkey business. Example: You establish an investment company. Get your tame trustees to invest two hundred million with you. Take the money, finance your lifestyle. Or buy another company with it. Or set one up. You with me?’

  ‘Yes.’ But Griessel wasn’t all that sure any more.

  ‘Lovely. You’re clever.’ And de Beer’s fingers danced over the keyboard first, then he leaned forward and focused on one of the screens. Typed some more. Used the mouse, clicking repeatedly, eyes dancing from one screen to the next. Eventually he looked up, stroked his beard, and for the first time focused all his attention on Benny. ‘Very well. Finished multi-tasking.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Now we can discuss this, unimpeded and with full attention. Comrade Ambrose Thenjiwe Masondo, the communist that Bones asked me about, is a man who, in 2007, was elected to the board of trustees of the NASWU pension fund. The National Aluminium Smelter Workers Union. And afterwards he made work of getting the “right” people on the board with him, so that he could persuade them to entrust money to his brand new investment company. Which they duly did, to the tune of one hundred and ninety million rand.’

  De Beer scanned the screens quickly, nodded in satisfaction, and lit another cigarette. ‘I will try to keep it simple. A. T., as our comrade is known, invested the money in a new mining company, in which he coincidentally held the majority share. And he began to spend it just as fast on a very large salary for himself, and on an attempt to win a concession for the exploitation of a rich deposit of bauxite ore near Ponta do Ouro in Mozambique. Bauxite, just so you know, is the ore you get aluminium from. But as is often the case, decision-making is slow in Mozambique. And because A. T.’s attention was divided between all his many irons in the fire, he realised too late that advocate Victor Dlamini was elected to the NASWU pension fund board of trustees in 2009. This advocate is a firebrand, an activist, a right-or-wrong kind of man, with a very good head for figures. When Dlamini looked at the books, he began asking questions about the hundred and ninety million rand, the poor investment, the self-enrichment, and the fact that NASWU was yet to receive one cent in dividends. Captain Benny, am I still making sense?’

  He was struggling to get it all into his head, but he said, ‘Yes.’ He could hear from de Beer’s tone of voice that they were nearing a conclusion.

  ‘Excellent. As you probably suspected, our A. T. began to get seriously concerned. He had to get himself out of a tight spot. His solution was to court Ingcebo Resources Limited – with Gariep as bait.’

  ‘Court?’ asked Griessel.

  ‘A. T. told Ingcebo: Buy my faltering mining company, and I will bring you fifteen per cent of Gariep as a BEE deal.’

  ‘The photo, Benny, nè,’ Bones helped. ‘A. T. knew the people of Gariep.’

  ‘Exactly. That was the heart of the whole transaction that Hanneke Sloet was working on. In short: A. T.’s mining company was bought by Ingcebo, and the NASWU money was more or less paid back. Without a cent in interest. That mining company is now known as Ingcebo Bauxite.’

  ‘The company that is lending billions of rands to Gariep,’ said Griessel, with huge relief that he could keep up.

  ‘He’s a genius,’ said de Beer to Bones Boshigo, who shook his head laughing.

  ‘But how does that help me?’ Griessel asked. ‘Where’s the motive for murder?’

  ‘Aha,’ said de Beer. ‘The four-billion-dollar question. I suspect not one of the banks that are involved would be completely comfortable underwriting and financing four billion if they knew of A. T.’s capers. And Hanneke Sloet and Silberstein Lamarque were looking after the interests of one of those banks.’

  ‘How can the banks not know? You know,’ said Griessel.

  ‘Oh, Captain, my Captain.’ Len de Beer made an expansive gesture towards the monitors in front of him. ‘I know everything. And I can read between the lines as well. A. T. was managing director of Ingcebo Bauxite. But suddenly, just before the BEE deal kicked off, they redeployed him. He is still director of the mother- and sister-companies, because they needed him. But they drastically reduced his profile. They wanted to conceal his sins from the banks.’

  28

  ‘You will have to find out,’ said Hagar the Horrible, ‘whether Hanneke Sloet knew of A. T.’s misdemeanours.’

  ‘How?’ asked Griessel.

  ‘If you
want to know the way a river flows, you need to find the source.’

  ‘What source?’

  ‘BEE deals begin with the big player, the initiator, the so-called deal maker. That is the man who watches the business world, spots opportunities, tests the water, brings the different companies together. Great work if you can get it, because it’s big money for relatively little work. You kickstart the deal, and then you just massage until everything is complete. The deal maker in the instance of Gariep–Ingcebo is the legendary Henry van Eeden.’

  The name sounded familiar to him. ‘He sounds white.’

  ‘Indeed, white and Afrikaans. He was in-house legal advisor to ConProp, the chaps who develop and own forty per cent of our shopping centres. ConProp was one of the first companies to apply black economic empowerment, around about 1997. Henry managed that transaction just about single-handed. It was pioneering work, basically, a steep learning curve, and very valuable experience. Then he took his experience and did his own thing. Right time at the right place, he must have brokered ten or twelve BEE deals. I believe he is starting to work with Chinese companies that want to invest here. I think one can describe him as “extraordinarily wealthy”. Lives in Constantia.’

  ‘And he would know if the banks knew about A. T. Masondo’s shenanigans?’

  ‘If anyone knew, it would be him. And Henry van Eeden would also be able to tell you whether Hanneke Sloet had access to that information.’

  That was when Griessel remembered where he had heard van Eeden’s name for the first time. According to Tommy Nxesi, the last email Hanneke Sloet had sent before her death, was to van Eeden. ‘Official stuff, a sort of progress report,’ was how Tommy had described it.

  In the car Griessel phoned Cupido and asked him to get van Eeden’s contact details from the case file.

  ‘OK,’ said Cupido. ‘And by the way, the barrel maker has a licence for a Taurus pistol. The PT92. But nothing else. I’m checking the people at the wine estate now. Call you back.’