7 Days

by Deon Meyer

  Griessel rang off. He wondered about Cupido’s fervour for Egan Roch – first as Sloet’s murderer, now as the shooter. There was something about Roch that made Cupido smell a rat. He understood that, he was like that too, an intuitive detective – get a scent, follow it like a bloodhound. But Cupido was too erratic, he didn’t always think everything through properly. And after the fiasco of the Steyn case they had to be careful, they couldn’t afford to focus exclusively on a single suspect again.

  Besides, he didn’t share Cupido’s suspicion of the vat maker. Roch hadn’t shared the whole truth with Nxesi because, Griessel believed, he wanted to protect Hanneke Sloet’s reputation. And because he had a watertight alibi in any case.

  The problem with this case was that he had no feel for it, no intuition about it. He was hanging by the tips of his fingers over a cliff of ignorance, of too many complex things that he only understood in the broadest terms. And he wasn’t even completely sure of those.

  He would have to give the case to Bones. Before he made a fool of himself again. Before he was responsible for more policemen being shot. Brigadier Manie wasn’t going to like that. Yesterday the Hawks had announced with a fanfare that he, Benny Griessel, would be taking over the case. And the media would crow all over again if the investigative officer changed within twenty-four hours.

  Let them talk to Henry van Eeden, the big deal maker first. Then he would bring up the subject.

  ‘Big money,’ said Bones Boshigo when they stopped in front of the big wrought-iron gate in Hohenhort Avenue, Constantia. ‘Very big money.’

  A high, white plastered wall, but through the gate they could see the paved driveway that wound between expansive green lawns and dense trees. The house was not visible from here.

  Boshigo pressed a button on the intercom beside the driver’s door. A tinny voice answered after a while. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Major Benedict Boshigo and Captain Benny Griessel for Mr van Eeden.’

  ‘He is expecting you. Drive straight on to the house, please.’ The big decorative gates swung slowly and silently open.

  They drove in. The estate opened up, the view of Constantia Mountain beyond to the right, and False Bay to the left. The house appeared on the rise behind oak trees, Cape Dutch and massive.

  ‘Eish,’ said Boshigo. Griessel just stared.

  The driveway flowed into an oval parking area. A white sports car was parked outside one of the four garages, crouched like a predator, glittering in the sun. A black man in neat overalls was polishing it. ‘Lamborghini Gallardo,’ said Bones. ‘Two million, Benny. Eight years’ salary.’

  They got out. Griessel looked at the swimming pool that sparkled one level down, at the rose bushes in full white bloom, the borders spilling over with multicoloured summer flowers, at the rolling lawns, the perfect neatness. How did you mow all that? How many people did it take to look after this garden? How big was their water bill? He followed Bones towards the front door. Suddenly, just to the left of the path, someone stood up from behind the roses – a woman in a light blue sun hat, wearing gardening gloves and holding pruning shears in her hand.

  For a second Griessel froze, because he thought it was Alexa Barnard – the same long blonde hair, green eyes, tall, full figure. But then he saw this woman was more beautiful, perhaps younger than Alexa. The elegant sweep of cheekbone and mouth and chin was so lovely to him that he suddenly felt guilty. Her nose was delicate, the skin unlined and flawless, without the damage of drink. And the smile was warm, serene, a woman without demons, content with her world.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said.

  He realised he was staring. ‘Afternoon, ma’am,’ he said, and introduced himself and Bones. She shook their hands with her gloves on. ‘Annemarie van Eeden,’ she said, and pointed the pruning shears at the house. ‘You must be looking for Henry. Just knock, the door is open.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ They walked on, and all he could think of was that that was how Alexa could have looked if she hadn’t been a drinker. Again the feeling of guilt – it was wrong to make comparisons.

  Up the broad sandstone steps. Elegant garden furniture arranged under umbrellas on the long veranda, the front door was wide and beautiful. Bones walked ahead, and raised a hand to knock, but someone was already approaching from the cool interior. A man in his forties, athletic, energetic, in a yellow golf shirt and dark blue trousers, running shoes. His black hair was short and neat, he wore a large watch on his arm. ‘Major Boshigo,’ he said. ‘I am Henry van Eeden.’

  They sat on the veranda and drank Earl Grey tea from fine porcelain. Bones and van Eeden talked economics. ‘Our future lies in the hands of the Greeks, of all nations,’ said van Eeden.

  ‘Go figure,’ said Boshigo.

  Griessel was listening with half an ear. He looked over False Bay, sparkling in the distance, and he wished he were clever. Being clever made you rich. This man who talked so easily with them was clever enough to study law. Clever enough to set up a black empowerment transaction on his own. Clever enough to see there was big money in it. Being clever made it possible for him and his beautiful wife to live here on Constantia’s lovely slopes. While he, Griessel, had to make do with a bachelor flat in Gardens, with furniture from a pawn shop, and no wife. Because he was barely smart enough to scrape through matric. With an E for maths. And woodwork. Carla had inherited her mother’s brains, the first Griessel in this branch of the family tree to go to university. And what does she choose? Drama. On the strength of one inspirational conversation with the stepdaughter of his friend and former colleague Matt Joubert, who was already studying it. They had money, Matt’s wife Margaret restored houses and sold them, they would be able to help if Michele couldn’t find work. But what was he going to do? He could barely manage Carla’s university fees. And now Fritz was talking about going to university too. God knows what he wanted to study. Music? Maybe he and Anna should have followed Marna Sloet’s example, taught their children from when they were little to be ambitious. Hungry, for success and riches.

  ‘How can I be of assistance to you?’ Henry van Eeden asked, putting down his empty cup and leaning back comfortably in the upholstered veranda chair.

  ‘We are on the horns of a dilemma, nè,’ Boshigo said. ‘The investigation is at a sensitive stage, we can’t tell you everything. But there are questions about A. T. Masondo. Trouble with a pension fund.’

  ‘You are well informed,’ said van Eeden smoothly.

  ‘We think if the banks knew about Masondo and the pension money, they would have asked Ingcebo to kick him out.’

  The smile broadened. ‘Major, in a perfect world that could surely happen. But not here.’

  ‘Are you saying they knew?’

  ‘Gariep knew. From the beginning. That is why they insisted that Masondo was replaced as managing director of Ingcebo Bauxite.’

  ‘And the underwriters? SA Merchant Bank? HSBC? Did they know?’

  ‘I suspect they did. They are very thorough when it comes to four billion.’

  Griessel’s heart began to sink. If this communist was not their man, where would they find another one?

  ‘But you’re not sure?’ Bones asked.

  ‘The banks’ due diligence is exhaustive. And their evaluation reports are confidential. They don’t even share them with each other. Silberstein Lamarque would know whether SA Merchant Bank knew of it. I would be very surprised if they didn’t. But no, I don’t know for sure.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Boshigo, disappointed.

  ‘Major, I gather you suspect Hanneke Sloet’s murder had something to do with the transaction.’

  ‘That is one possibility.’

  ‘I would very much like to help,’ said van Eeden in earnest.

  Bones looked at Benny. Griessel nodded, because he couldn’t see what harm it could do.

  ‘You’ll have to keep it confidential,’ said Boshigo.

  ‘Confidentiality is my bread and butter, Major.’

  ‘We rec
eived information that there was a communist involved with the murder of Sloet.’

  ‘A communist,’ said van Eeden. Then he smiled carefully, as though he thought Boshigo was pulling his leg. ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘I am.’

  Van Eeden nodded, suddenly sober. ‘Hence A. T. Masondo.’

  ‘We thought Hanneke Sloet might have heard of his trade union tricks. Maybe she wanted to stop the loan. Or go to the press. And Masondo wanted to silence her, to stay on the gravy train.’

  Van Eeden pondered it all, and then he said. ‘I understand your theory. But there is just one problem: if Hanneke wanted to interfere with the deal – or with Masondo – it would have exploded in her and Silberstein Lamarque’s faces. They would have been fired.’

  29

  ‘The competition,’ said Henry van Eeden, ‘is phenomenal. Every big legal firm in the country would give an arm and a leg to be players in the BEE world. And once you’re allowed into the inner circle, you want to stay there. Silberstein Lamarque would have fired Hanneke like a shot … And I’m sure that’s the last thing Hanneke would have wanted. The other question is, the banks’ due diligence was completed fourteen months ago. Why would she want to do something with that information only in January this year?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Boshigo.

  ‘Mr van Eeden …’ said Griessel.

  ‘Henry, please.’

  ‘You say you are sure that is the last thing Hanneke would have wanted.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Van Eeden opened his hands as if he was sharing a secret. He sat up straight, searching for a moment for the right place to start. ‘I’ve been involved with BEE for nearly fifteen years. I’ve worked with literally hundreds of people. Businessmen, politicians and former politicians, bankers, auditors, legal people. I have seen it all. The honest, the greedy, the chancers, the professionals and the inept, the lazy and the dedicated. Hanneke was a first. Unique. So much unyielding focus, so much hard work, so much desire to learn about every detail. She didn’t just want to know how she could do her work with the merchant bank contracts as well as possible, she wanted to know everything. About the whole transaction. In January last year she asked me if I would mind sharing my knowledge with her. She made an appointment, and for four hours she grilled me. In the minutest detail. In April and September she did it again, shorter sessions, but with the same intensity. Later I said to her it looked like she wanted my job.’ His smile at the recollection held a hint of tenderness. ‘And then she asked me what I thought was the biggest gap in her arsenal, what could possibly keep her from doing my work. Just like that. And then I said, the building and maintenance of a relationship of trust with the right people.’

  ‘And then.’

  ‘She wrote it down. My point is, A. T. Masondo, despite his past, has influence. A network. He is one of the “right people”. Hanneke knew that. She would have her priorities right.’

  Before they left, Griessel asked some half-hearted questions, his heart in his boots. He wanted to know from van Eeden if he had been worried that Sloet’s ambitions could have negatively influenced his own business.

  A roguish laugh, then van Eeden said, ‘Captain, this is probably my last BEE transaction. The Chinese potential is massive, so many of them want to invest here. Fallow earth, ready for the plough. That is where I want to focus now.’

  ‘Did Hanneke Sloet have any contact with Masondo?’

  ‘Not really. Maybe briefly at a meeting or a cocktail party.’

  ‘What about email? Telephone?’

  ‘I seriously doubt that,’ said van Eeden. ‘She simply had no need to communicate with him.’

  ‘Are there any other communists involved with this whole deal?’ Griessel wanted to know.

  ‘Masondo was the only member of the SA Communist Party. The others showed no sign that they had any ideological leaning in that direction.’

  They thanked van Eeden and drove away, in silence.

  Griessel had two voice messages on his cellphone. The first was from Cupido. He said there were two firearms registered to the Bonne Espérance Estate. A two-seven-oh and a thirty-oh-six. They hunted occasionally, especially up in Limpopo. Apart from that, nothing. Egan the Vegan was most likely not the shooter.

  The second was from Cloete, the media liaison officer. ‘Benny, call me, please.’

  Griessel called him back.

  ‘They are calling him the Solomon Shooter, Benny,’ said Cloete, with the guilty tone of a parent explaining the behaviour of a naughty child.

  ‘Because of the Bible verses.’

  ‘Yes. Because of the verses. Benny, they like the guy. They like his references to corruption, they like his Latin even more. They are asking for comment from the National Commissioner and the cabinet, stuff like, “Is this not another sign that the SAPS are failing at their job?” And, of course, about the assertion that we actually know who the murderer is.’

  ‘It’s not true,’ said Griessel wearily.

  ‘Are we one hundred per cent sure, Benny? God knows, it will come back to haunt us …’

  ‘It’s not true, John.’

  ‘OK. Have you anything I can clear with the Camel?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Griessel could hear Cloete slowly blowing out cigarette smoke. ‘OK,’ said the liaison officer, ever-patient. ‘We’ll talk again.’

  Griessel put the phone away, leaned back against the headrest and said, ‘Jissis.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Benny,’ said Boshigo. ‘I tried.’

  ‘No, Bones, I don’t know what I would have done without you. It’s just … It’s five o’clock. And this mad bastard is going to shoot one of our people any moment now, and we have nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m beginning to think he’s playing us, Bones. There is no communist. Or he wants us to suspect Masondo, to waste our time. And I can’t think of a single reason why he would want to play us. Except that he likes shooting policemen. And that means he is mad and cunning, and you know how difficult it is to catch those ones.’

  ‘They always make mistakes.’

  ‘Sooner or later. But we don’t have time. We don’t even have a suspect. Nothing. I look at this whole thing and I see nothing. That apartment of hers, the block was not even finished when she moved in. There were plumbers, electricians, labourers … There are the men who carried in her boxes. One of them could have stolen her spare key … Or sold her some story. Practically impossible to catch a guy like that, there’s nothing forensic, just a ball hair in the bathroom, and old fingerprints on the boxes – which helps us not one bit.’

  ‘Shit, nè.’

  Griessel thought long and hard. Then he said, ‘Footwork. Footwork and a big stroke of luck. That’s all that’s going to save us.’

  In Otto du Plessis Drive, trapped in the snail’s pace of rush-hour traffic, the sniper watched the IRT bus passing him in the fast lane. He felt envious.

  On the radio of his Audi A4 he heard the five o’clock time signal, and he turned the sound up a bit to listen to the news.

  In another email to the media the Cape Shooter, who has already wounded two policemen, justified his actions with the statement that extreme diseases required extreme cures. This quote was made famous by the Roman Catholic political extremist, Guy Fawkes, who tried to blow up the British Parliament with gunpowder in 1605.

  The sniper, whom some in the media are referring to as the Solomon Shooter, due to his quotes from the biblical book of Proverbs, alleged in the email that the South African Police Services know who murdered the late corporate lawyer Hanneke Sloet.

  A spokesperson for the Directorate of Priority Crime Investigations said a statement about the situation would be released later today.

  The Solomon Shooter.

  He liked it. The wisdom of Solomon. The opposite of this morning’s accusations of incoherence and religious extremism, homophobia and racism.

  The Solomon Shooter. Who was wise enough to
know that the SAPS would have ramped up its guard on police stations significantly. In two hours he would have a new surprise for them.

  Before he went to tell Manie and Nyathi that there were no communists with any motive for taking Hanneke Sloet’s life, Griessel sat down in his office and phoned Hannes Pruis, the director of Silberstein Lamarque.

  Pruis didn’t answer his cellphone. Griessel phoned the office number. Eventually his PA answered. ‘I am sorry, sir, Mr Pruis is in a meeting.’

  ‘Go and get him out of it,’ said Griessel.

  ‘I’m sorry, Captain, I can’t do that.’

  ‘Miss, we have two options. Either you go and get him out of that meeting, or I drive all the way to the city and haul him out myself.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  While he waited, he checked his laptop to see whether Fritz had sent him an email yet.

  It was right at the top, the only one that wasn’t a Hawks bulletin. The subject was Your new son-in-law.

  He clicked on it.

  The Hypocrite and the Tatoo Dude, Fritz had typed at the top, spelling mistake and all. In the photo, Carla was laughing, happy. She looked directly into the camera. And beside her, with a huge arm possessively around her shoulders, towered the muscle man, his eyes fixed on her with an expression of complete enchantment. Griessel could see the black flames of a tattoo curling out from under the tight, short-sleeved shirt and down the bulging biceps. ‘Fuck,’ said Griessel.

  ‘What?’ said Hannes Pruis over the phone.

  ‘Mr Pruis …’

  ‘This better be good, Captain, I’m in a meeting.’

  ‘You knew about Masondo,’ said Griessel.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You knew that Masondo has misused trade union funds. You knew he is a communist. And you said nothing.’

  ‘It had absolutely nothing to do with Hanneke’s death,’ Pruis said, curt and angry.

  Not enough sleep, the frustration of not getting anywhere with the investigation, the man’s attitude, and the muscle man photograph all conspired together. Griessel lost his temper. ‘But I asked you specifically about communists. And then you were very vague and said maybe. And you gave me seven names. While you knew very well that there was only one communist, and he had already made trouble. As far as I know, that is called obstructing the course of justice.’