7 Days

by Deon Meyer

  She dealt with the phone call. Then she noticed that the computer was on, with a screen that read: Shut down. Log off. Restart. She realised Henry had been in too much of a hurry for the last command. She sat down, without a plan. And she saw the little block that signalled a new SMS.

  It was from ‘that woman’.

  It asked: Are you there?

  So she answered: Yes.

  And so the conversation began.

  The rest just happened, while she was perpetuating the fraud. Because later, the woman asked: Why don’t you come around quickly?

  Quickly for a quickie? she answered, in the language she had been familiar with for over a month.

  A cum-quickly quickie.

  You’ll have to make it worth my while.

  Shall I wait for you without panties?

  I want more.

  What exactly are you thinking, Mister Kinky?

  She looked up, and saw the sword in the glass case. A moment’s hesitation, then everything fell into place. In her mind’s eye she could see how it might unfold.

  A blindfold.

  That’s new. I like that.

  At the door.

  On the carpet?

  No. At the door. Ten o’clock. Sharp.

  She left at about twenty to nine, with the sword on the seat beside her.

  At ten o’clock she unlocked the door with her duplicate.

  The woman was standing there, wearing the blindfold.

  She lifted the sword, and with a sense of incredible relief and immense violence, she stabbed it into the woman’s heart, and pulled it out. The woman fell, silent, the only sound the crack of her head hitting the floor.

  She put the sword down. Because she knew the police would find it, along with the SMSes on the laptop. They would accuse Henry.

  That was what she wanted. That he should be punished for the pain. She had already lost her man, it was the rest she wanted to protect.

  ‘Would you like to continue the story, Henry?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Correct me if I get something wrong. Apparently she had sent Henry another SMS, to his phone. Something like: I’m not going to stand at the door blindfolded and without panties the whole night you know. Because she assumed he was on his way to her already, and not at his computer. Dear Henry only received it after his speech, and he knew something was wrong. So he phoned her, but she didn’t answer. Then he drove to her apartment. I can’t deny it, it gives me pleasure to imagine what he must have thought when he saw his sword lying there, beside his soulmate. Then he saw the SMSes on her laptop. He tried so hard to clean up, to protect himself and me. But it didn’t work, did it, Henry?’

  DAY 7

  Friday

  64

  His cellphone woke him.

  He mumbled, ‘Jissis,’ grabbed it and said, ‘yes?’

  That’s when he saw that it was already nine o’clock.

  ‘Benny,’ said Colonel Nyathi, ‘I know you were probably sleeping, but I just wanted you to know the brigadier is flying back this morning. The hearing was cancelled.’

  ‘That’s good, sir,’ he said in a voice croaky with sleep.

  ‘He asked me to thank you, Benny. He will do it personally when he gets back.’

  ‘But it wasn’t me, sir. It was Vaughn who cracked it.’

  ‘That’s not what Vaughn is saying. Oh, and we’re waiting for you before we start the meeting.’

  ‘What meeting, sir?’

  ‘The celebratory one.’

  ‘Sir, my car is at work …’ Cupido had dropped him off at four this morning.

  Nyathi laughed. ‘I’ll send someone.’

  He stood waiting at the gate to his block of flats for a detective from the Violent Crimes group to pick him up. He looked at the opposite corner where Brecht had sat in wait for him. He thought how he had got it all wrong.

  Mbali Kaleni and Fanie Fick had caught the shooter.

  Vaughn Cupido, who had wangled the timely phone call last night with a program on his cellphone. ‘It’s an Android app, Benna. Fake-Call Me.’ And he still didn’t know how it worked. Cupido had caught the van Eedens, and now he was giving Griessel the credit – his respect for his colleague had risen to new heights.

  But it was only one of the many things that he had read incorrectly. Cupido, the shooter, the Sloet case. He had to accept that he didn’t have the head for the deals, the companies, the trusts. He didn’t have the knowledge of computers and cellphone modems and iPhones that couldn’t ‘hotspot’.

  He wasn’t worth a Hawk’s arse.

  Old fox. Wily old veteran. Fool. Alexa Barnard didn’t even want to talk to him. It was her concert tonight, and she wouldn’t want him there to share her great moment.

  Because he was a fuck-up.

  Mbali shook her head when the gathering applauded her. She waddled to the front, and then said, ‘Some of you thought that I was appointed because John Afrika could manipulate me.’

  A murmur rippled through the room.

  ‘I heard the gossip,’ she said. ‘I know I am not popular. I know I can be difficult to work with. I know it is not easy to have a woman around. But I want you to know nobody will manipulate me. So, let me tell you what happened in Amsterdam, so that it can be out in the open.’

  Dead silence.

  ‘Our hosts, the Amsterdam police, thought it would be a treat to take us on a bicycle tour of the city. And I was too proud to tell them that I cannot ride a bicycle. I did not want them to think that South Africans are backward. So I tried. And I lost my balance, and I lost my way, and I rode into a canal. They had to rescue me from that filthy water. With a boat. It must have been pretty funny. But for me it was a very big embarrassment. And then my pride kept me from laughing at myself, and I wanted to keep it a secret. But I have now learned that secrets have consequences. Next time it will be different. Thank you.’

  And she sat down, in the midst of them.

  Griessel made another mistake.

  Nyathi said, ‘Go, Benny, take the rest of the day off, you deserve it,’ and he instinctively drove to Stellenbosch, to someone who cared for him, someone who said with pride: ‘My father is doing the Sloet case.’ To look for comfort there.

  He phoned Carla when he arrived on the campus, and said he was there to take her to lunch. She was uncomfortable and said, ‘We’re in the Neelsie …’ She hesitated before she invited him to join them.

  He found her there, with the Neanderthal, a giant. He towered over Griessel and over Carla, as she introduced him, ‘Pa, this is Calla; Calla this is my pa.’

  The Neanderthal crushed his hand, pumping it enthusiastically: ‘Oom, it’s a privilege, Oom.’

  They sat down, Carla and the Neanderthal close together, his muscular arm around her. Carla’s little hand was on the tree trunk of a leg.

  ‘Calla is my friend, Pa.’

  ‘I’ll look after your daughter very well,’ he said.

  He can actually talk, Griessel thought.

  ‘You’d better,’ said Carla, and gazed at her rugby player with love and admiration. ‘My pa is a Hawk.’

  ‘With a gun,’ said Griessel. He wanted to say it light-heartedly, but the threat was still there.

  They didn’t hear him. They kissed. Right there in front of him.

  He drove to his flat, collected his dirty laundry and took it to the Gardens Centre.

  He sorted it in pathetic little piles in front of the washing machine. The sum total of his wardrobe.

  He thought of searching Henry van Eeden’s walk-in wardrobe, the row upon row of shirts and trousers, brand new and fashionable, that had been hanging there. He thought of Makar Kotko’s expensive suit and shirt.

  Life wasn’t fair.

  He hung the clothes up on the washing line at the block of flats. He must buy underpants, there were too many with holes. And more new shirts. Some time or other, when his credit card recovered.

  In his sitting room he took out his bass guitar and
sat down on the couch. He found no solace in it. It reminded him of the concert tonight, and that he wouldn’t be going.

  He lay down on his bed, his head filled with self-pity.

  The ringing of his cellphone woke him.

  This is no life, every fucking day the same thing, he thought.

  He answered.

  ‘Benny, Alexa has gone,’ said Ella, shrill and anxious. ‘And she has to sing at eight.’

  ‘What’s the time now?’

  ‘It’s nearly half past six.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We were here at her house. She was terribly nervous, since yesterday, after the bad rehearsal. She hardly slept at all. She was so stubborn, I practically had to beg her to get ready. I was in the bath, and when I came out, she was gone.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘About fifteen minutes.’

  ‘OK,’ he said.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I’ll go and fetch her.’

  He found her sitting in the Mount Nelson’s Planet Bar, at one of the little tables, alone. There was a bottle of gin on the table, a glass in her hand.

  He first walked to the barman, unnoticed. He asked for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  ‘I’ll have to open it, sir.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  He paid, got a glass, and walked over to her. Pulled out a chair and sat down.

  She looked at him in surprise.

  He picked up the bottle of Jack, and poured a full glass.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said in a frightened voice.

  ‘I’m drinking with you.’

  ‘Benny …’

  ‘Alexa, be quiet. I’m drinking.’

  She put her glass down. ‘You’ve been clean for two hundred and twenty days.’

  ‘Two hundred and thirty three.’ He lifted the glass to his mouth, his whole being ready for the heavenly taste.

  She grabbed his arm. The liquor spilled on the table. ‘Benny, you can’t do it.’

  ‘Alexa, please let go of my arm.’

  ‘You can’t do it.’

  ‘Why not? At least I have an excuse. I’m a fuck-up. What do you have?’

  ‘What happened, Benny?’ she asked, but she didn’t let go of his arm.

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘Benny, please. What happened?’

  ‘Everything happened. Fanie Fick was shot dead, because I am a moron. My colleagues had to solve the Sloet case, because I’m not a detective’s arse. I can’t read people any more. I have lost Carla, the only person … the only woman who still wanted anything to do with me. She’s in love with the Missing Link. My son wants to have “Parow Arrow” tattooed on his arm, and I have no way to stop him, because I need to ask him to give me lessons about Wi-Fi hotspots and Twitter and Facebook and cellphone modems, so that I don’t make more of a fool of myself than I already have. Like Saturday night, when I humiliated the woman I am half in love with, in front of her friends. And drove her back to drink. And now she won’t answer me when I call. That’s my reason to drink, Alexa, not the pile of crap you have deluded yourself about. Let go of my arm.’

  She clung to him even more tightly. ‘Benny, why did you never say you were half in love with me?’

  ‘Because you are Xandra Barnard, and I am just a stupid policeman.’

  ‘Why only half in love? Because I drink?’

  ‘I am totally in love with you, Alexa.’

  ‘So why don’t you ever touch me?’

  ‘Because I’m afraid you won’t want me to touch you.’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because to me you are so beautiful. And sexy, and smart. And deep. And arty-farty. When you’re sober.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Alexa, are we going to drink, or are we going to coo?’

  She looked at him with a deep tenderness, then she put her glass down and beckoned a waiter closer. ‘Can you take all this away?’

  She turned to Griessel and she said, ‘We are going to coo,’ and tried to wrest the Jack Daniel’s from his grip.

  ‘And then will you go and sing?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then you are going to touch me.’

  He let go of the glass.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  One of the greatest challenges of the writing process is to do justice – and express the extent of my gratitude – to the people whose valuable time, help, advice, knowledge, insight, goodwill, support, and encouragement made the book possible. Whatever is credible in 7 Days is due to them. The leaps of fiction and errors are my own. I would like to express my deepest appreciation of:

  • Theo Winter of the institutional investment firm Sortino (and a BMW motorbike man), who explained to me and Benny the complex secrets of BEE transactions and contracts, pension funds, and the financial world in general with so much patience and trouble, and, in addition, helped to identify sources of conflict and potential mischief. And thereafter checked the manuscript to make sure we didn’t make total fools of ourselves.

  • Captain Elmarie Myburgh, criminal behaviour analyst of the SAPS Investigative Psychology Section. Once again she answered countless questions, made suggestions, shared knowledge and contacts, and helped to read the final manuscript under great pressure.

  • Colonel Renier du Preez of the Directorate of Priority Crime Investigations, for the day that I could spend with the Cape Hawks. His and his team’s professionalism, dedication, approachability, generosity, and patience made a strong impression on me, and left me with much greater insight (and respect for their incredible work). Thank you also to Assistant Commissioner Angie Bhuda, Colonel Giep Joubert, and Colonel Johan Schnetler of the DPCI in Pretoria for their time and trouble.

  • Gavin Smith of Villiersdorp, gunsmith and master craftsman of silencers.

  • The hospitable friendship of Daniel Cathiard of Château Smith Haut Lafitte, and the estate’s cooper, Jean-Luc Itey.

  • My wife, Anita, who makes everything possible with her love, tolerance, support, and sacrifice.

  • My editor, Dr Etienne Bloemhof, and agent, Isobel Dixon, for their immeasurable loyalty, wisdom and insight, and Hester Carstens for her input and eagle eyes.

  • Colonel Patrick Jacobs of the Bothasig SAPS station, Peet van Biljon, John Serfontein, and Sunell Lotter.

  • I am pleased to give credit to the following sources:

  • Investigating the Russian Mafia, Joseph D. Serio, Carolina Academic Press, Durham, 2008

  • McMafia, Seriously Organised Crime, Misha Glenny, Vintage Books, London, 2009

  • From Fear to Fraternity, Patricia Rawlinson, Pluto Press, New York, 2010

  • Illicit, Moisés Naím, William Heinemann, London, 2006

  • How sharp is sharp? Towards quantification of the sharpness and penetration ability of kitchen knives used in stabbings, S.V. Hainsworth, R.J. Delaney, G.N. Rutty, International Journal of Legal Medicine, 2008

  • Forensic Pathology: Principles and Practice, David Dolinak, Evan W. Matshes, Emma O. Lew, Academic Press, 2005

  • Silencer 101, Cameron Hopkins, Guns Magazine, July 2000

  • Media 24’s chronological newspaper archives of Die Burger, Beeld, Volksblad, Mail & Guardian

  • www.Fin24.com

  • www.sake24.com

  • www.saps.gov.za

  • www.marketwatch.com

  • www.beretta.com

  • www.defenceweb.co.za

  • www.islamfortoday.com

  • chemistry.about.com

  • www.authorstream.com

  • www.detectpoint.com

  • www.cellucity.co.za

  • www.sako.fi

  • www.sakosuomi.fi

  • www.wikipedia.org

  • www.ableammo.com

  • www.science.howstuffworks.com

  • www.chana-sa.co.za<
br />
  • www.allexperts.com

  • www.cienciaforense.com

  • www.library.med.utah.edu

  • www.myarmoury.com

  • www.enotes.com/forensic-science/hair-analysis

  • www.arkivmusic.com

  • www.old-smithy/bayonets/ak47_and_related_bayonets.htm

  • www.pamgolding.com

  • www.deonmeyer.com/afrikaans/indeks.html

  GLOSSARY

  Afslaer: Afrikaans for ‘auctioneer’.

  Ag: Very similar to ‘ai’: ah!, oh!; alas, pooh!, mostly used with resignation.

  Ai: Ah, oh; ow, ouch, mostly used a little despairingly.

  Amandla: A rallying cry in the days of resistance against Apartheid, used by the African National Congress and its allies. It is a Xhosa and Zulu word meaning ‘power’. (Also see ‘Ngawethu’ below.)

  Anton L’Amour: A legendary rock guitar virtuoso in South Africa.

  Assegai: Originally from Berber za ya ‘spear’, Old French ‘azagaie’ and Spanish ‘azagaya’) is a pole weapon used for throwing or hurling, usually a light spear or javelin made of wood and pointed with iron. (Source: http://en.wikipedia.org)

  Befok: Afrikaans expletive with wide application. Can mean ‘very angry’ (He is befok) or ‘really great’ (The experience was befok.)

  Bergie: Cape Flats Afrikaans for a homeless person, often a vagrant, living on the side of Table Mountain (berg = mountain). (Cape Flats slang refers to the Afrikaans spoken on the Cape Flats, a vast area east of Cape Town, where the majority of ‘Cape Coloured’ people reside. ‘Coloured people’ refer to the descendants of Malaysian slaves in South Africa (forced migration by the Dutch East India Company), who intermarried with white farmers and local Khoi people – as opposed to Blacks (descendants of the Bantu people) and Whites (descendants of European settlers).

  Bliksem: Mild profanity, used as an exclamation or adjective (‘Damn!’ or ‘damned’), a verb (I will ‘bliksem’ you = I will hit you hard).

  Blikslater: Milder form of ‘bliksem’ (see above).

  Chana van: Chana is a Chinese automotive company. Various vehicles are imported to South Africa, including the ‘Chana Panel Van’, a light delivery vehicle (http://www.chanab4.co.za/models/panel-van)