by Deon Meyer
The little weird was the behaviour of the three whitey girls. Not the first time that he’d seen it though. You got it with the young ones who didn’t know the deceased very well. They hadn’t really yet experienced personal loss, they thought they knew how it must feel, and now they were faking it a bit. It was like they were mimicking some reaction they’d seen on a TV police drama. Not quite convincing, but that was because they weren’t totally emotionally invested in the victim. He was just an acquaintance to them.
‘We were starting to date in earnest,’ said Senekal, unaware of the pun. ‘We weren’t seeing other people any more.’
‘How long were you together?’
‘We met in October on Tinder. But only around the beginning of November did we really . . . you know . . .’
Tubby and Wannabe nodded, a sober, pious pair.
He didn’t know, actually. He’d only heard about Tinder, a dating app for smart phones. Apparently it was quite brutal, the way you could reject someone. Or block them.
‘You only began dating in November?’
‘Ja, you know . . . At first we only chatted on Tinder for a while. You have to be careful, there are so many weirdos out there . . .’
Tubby and Wannabe nodded in solemn agreement.
‘Did you know who he was?’
‘Obviously. You sign into Tinder with your Facebook profile.’
‘And his Facebook profile says he’s the boss of Alibi?’
‘Obviously.’
‘When did you begin dating just each other?’
‘The twentieth of November,’ swiftly, with certainty, as if it were a landmark date.
‘A week before he disappeared?’
‘Yes.’
They barely knew each other, he thought. But, hey, it’s a brave new world.
‘Okay, run me through your relationship . . . You chatted on Tinder until the end of October. And then you began seeing each other in early November.’
‘Ja. Our first date was lunch at Liza’s. You know, in Dorp Street. Their peanut butter cheesecake is divine. I’d told him it’s my favourite, so he surprised me. Ernst loved surprises. He took me in a helicopter around Table Mountain, from the Waterfront. All he said was, bring your shades, Cin, and then we went flying . . .’
‘He’s a pilot?’
‘No, no, he hired a helicopter.’
‘How often did you see each other, after the first date?’
‘The last two weeks before he . . . disappeared . . .’ Her lovely face contorted and her two friends squeezed her hands and rubbed her arms. ‘Sorry, I can’t believe he’s dead; he was so, like, alive. The last two weeks, almost every day. I’m a Wine Club Ambassador at Mooigelegen, so I work a lot at night, when we host wine club events, but Ernst was so . . . He understood, he always said, don’t worry, Cin, I’m my own boss . . .’ That was as far as she got before a flood of tears made her drop her head, body trembling.
Tubby and Wannabe comforted her, clucking and weeping a little in sympathy too.
Wannabe passed her a tissue. Cindy Senekal blew her nose.
‘. . . He said, I’m my own boss, I plug into your schedule . . .’
‘He talked about his work?’
She nodded. ‘Obviously. His work, his start-up was his life. It was practically all he talked about.’
‘He never said anything about trouble? Someone who was angry with him?’
‘You didn’t know him . . .’
Obviously, thought Cupido.
‘Everyone was crazy about him. Everyone. He was never in a bad mood; he was just hyper, the whole time. He said, “Cindy, I’m on a permanent high, life’s an adventure, just look where it’s taken me.”’
‘But I heard there were people who made death threats against him.’
Eyes widened. ‘Genuine?’
‘He never said anything about that?’
‘No! Who on earth would threaten him?’
‘Alibi got emails. Anonymous ones.’
‘I knew nothing of that. He . . . never said anything.’
‘He never mentioned problems, a bit of tension at work? Or in his personal life?’
‘No, I’m telling you, he was the most positive person in the whole world . . .’
‘Okay. In your statement you say that on the evening he disappeared, you had a dinner date.’
‘Yes.’
‘His phone records say you were the last person he spoke to on his cell that day. Round about four. What did you talk about?’
‘About that night’s date.’
‘Just the when and the where?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were supposed to meet him at the restaurant?’
‘Yes.’
‘He never picked you up at home?’
‘Always.’
‘Why not that night?’
‘Oh. Ja . . . He asked me to meet him at the Deli.’
‘Why? Did he say?’
She frowned. Both friends frowned too, empathy in stereo. ‘No. That’s weird, now that I think of it . . . On our first date I met him at Liza’s. You know, I wanted to be sure he was legit . . . But from then on, he always picked me up. At work, or here. Until that evening.’
15
Transcript of interview: Advocate Susan Peires with Mr Francois du Toit
Wednesday, 24 December; 1604 Huguenot Chambers, 40 Queen Victoria Street, Cape Town
FdT: My father got the family name, Guillaume. The sad thing was, that was just about all Pa did get from the Du Toit side. He took after Grandma Hettie’s side of the family much more. He didn’t inherit Grandpa Jean’s sporting genes either. Well, that’s probably not entirely . . .
When my son was born six weeks ago, I had a bit of a revelation. You look at your child and you look for yourself in him. Part of you wants him to be like you. God knows why; I’ve got so many faults, it must be an ego thing, or maybe we’re just built like that. Like the evolution guys say, the more we see ourselves in our children, the more we want to nurture them, or something. But then you look at your child and you see bits of yourself and bits of your wife, but actually it’s ridiculous, because children . . . People are like a complex blend of wine; there are parts of grandmas and grandpas, fathers and mothers, a whole mixture. But in truth they are completely new, unique – their own person.
Pa was . . . It’s hard to describe him, precisely because of the hard time he had with Oupa Jean. Pa was soft, but not weak. Pa was sensitive. I don’t know where it comes from, because Ouma Hettie was not really sensitive. She was strong. Maybe she couldn’t afford to be sensitive. I don’t know . . .
Now you must see how the stars lined up for Pa: Oupa Jean wasn’t a farmer at heart. He didn’t have a real love for the vineyard or winemaking. The allure of wine, its mystique, the secrets of viniculture, these meant nothing to him. But he wanted to be seen as a wine man, as the master of a historic wine estate, he wanted the aura of the big wine farmer when he went drinking with his mates at the Stellenbosch Club. He wanted his KWV quota . . .
If you had a quota, every year you could get so many cases of Roodeberg and other wines at KWV, and then everyone was your friend. He wanted that . . . Prestige too. And he clung to the aura of the almost Springbok, the ou who would have played for his country, if only he hadn’t broken his leg.
He wanted that whole aura and status, that image when he flirted with women. That was his other thing, apart from boozing with his bosom buddies at the Club. The affairs he had. Compulsively, chronically, as though he couldn’t make peace with the fact that his golden bachelor days had been snatched away by Ouma’s pregnancy; he still wanted to be the player, the ou who could just take, and who would always get.
So Oupa Jean was absent, in the first six, seven years after my father’s birth. And then Pa went to school, an
d around Grade Two or Three he played in his first rugby match and suddenly Oupa Jean saw how his son could restore the honour of the Du Toits, how his son would reach the heights that were stolen from him.
Ouma Hettie would tell how she felt equally sorry for her son, the coach and the referees, because Oupa Jean would stand at the side of the field, during practice and matches and shout at everyone. And all at once he began coaching Pa on the farm even. Passing the ball and kicking, but without a shred of patience. He wanted Pa to have the natural talent he’d had, and the more he realised it was just not there, the more he screamed and shouted. It went on like that for three rugby seasons. Ouma said she should have put a stop to it sooner, but by then she was pregnant with her third child, and she had to keep the farm and the household on the go, and at least there was some interaction between father and son, even though it wasn’t positive.
But then she stepped in. When Pa was twelve and a half, she told Oupa Jean, it was enough. Accept that the child just doesn’t have your talent. Support him. Let him enjoy the game in his own way.
Oupa Jean stormed out to the Club. And from then on he never really took an interest in his son again.
16
Cupido’s first chance to talk to Cindy Senekal alone was when she walked with him to his car.
He had to ask her about the marijuana in Richter’s Audi. And the sex in the car, because the forensic report said the semen on the seat was less than two weeks old. Touchy subject. Even in this day and age, you just didn’t come out and ask, ‘Listen, did you njaps Richter in the car,’ cause there’s loss and grief, even if half of it’s a bit forced. If the njaps wasn’t with her, she was going to freak out. But then, it was important for the investigation. So ask he must.
If only Benna were here . . .
‘Miss,’ he said, grateful for the half-darkness of the street, ‘I have to clarify a bunch of forensic things. And some of them are a bit uncomfortable . . .’
She looked at him enquiringly. It didn’t help.
‘They found marijuana in his glove compartment . . .’
‘Dagga?’ Her query came back too fast and the stiffening of her body gave her away.
‘I’m not here about recreational drugs. I don’t care what he smoked, and who smoked with him, daai moet jy mooi verstaan. But I have to see if there isn’t perhaps a drug deal somewhere here . . .’
‘I don’t know anything about dagga,’ she said, and he knew she was lying.
Fair enough. If that was her attitude, it made the next question that much easier . . .
‘Then I also have to ask, did you make love in his car in November?’
‘Make love?’ Half offended.
‘That’s right.’
‘In his car?’
‘Ja. The Audi.’
‘Why do you want to know?’ With an attitude that said now he was bordering on harassment. And for a moment he suspected it was because he was a coloured cop who was getting cheeky with a whitey. Maybe he was too sensitive, and Benna wasn’t here to save him. Till now she hadn’t been at all racist – give the girl the benefit of the doubt, he thought.
But he dropped the politeness: ‘Do you think I would ask if it wasn’t important to the investigation?’
Her eyes widened a bit, but she recovered quickly. She asked: ‘Make love, as in kissing?’
‘We’re talking more intense than that.’
‘No. We didn’t.’ Icy now.
It was midnight when he had to stop at the Dorp Street traffic lights. He used the time to send an SMS to Griessel’s cell number.
You all still awake?
Four minutes later, as he drove out of Stellenbosch, the answer came back: I am – Alexa.
He pressed the hands-free of his HTC into his ear, and called.
‘Hello, Vaughn. Benny’s asleep,’ said Alexa, but she sounded calm.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes. Doc Barkhuizen was here. Benny’s AA sponsor. He helped me get Benny into bed. There’s nothing more we can do tonight.’
‘True. But I was thinking, it’s very important for Benny to be at work the usual time tomorrow. Just in case the hase from the Fireman’s make trouble.’
‘I’ll do my best . . .’
‘I’m going to say Benny was out with me on the case tonight. Then no one can say he was so wasted that he couldn’t work, if you get my drift.’
‘Thanks, Vaughn.’
‘Daai’s niks, nothing to thank me for. But now I have to brief you, so you can prepare Benna in the morning.’
‘I will.’
‘Okay. Can you get a pen and paper?’
He drove down the Bottelary road, because Polkadraai was so choked up with roadworks, it had to be avoided at all costs.
He thought about Benna and Alexa.
Good people.
Because they had had a hard time. You only had to look, a whitey that hasn’t had a hard time, was basically a doos. You had to suffer first, before you could connect, before you could see we are all just human, irrespective of race, colour, creed.
Alexa, the famous music star who was dragged down by the dop, faded from the scene, and then her husband was shot. She’d been through kwaai times. But now she was making an effort to get back on her feet again.
And Benna. He should have been group leader of Violent Crimes. He should have had that promotion long ago. Hell, he should have been a brigadier. But Benna’s trouble was, he could not see himself there. Benna had a chip the size of Table Mountain on his shoulder, and Cupido could never quite work out why.
Just because he was a boozer? That didn’t make sense; there were very senior members who drank like fishes too, but they didn’t have that self-loathing that he could sometimes see in Benna. Where was it from? Everyone knew, he was a great detective, in his way. And Benna could work with people – with Mbali, with him, Vaughn, with witnesses, with suspects. It was like Benna was just plugged in, he had that sixth sense with people; he respected everyone, he knew what buttons to press.
But he hated himself . . .
Ours not to reason why, thought Cupido. Even if Benna made all the right moves, networked, believed, kissed ass a bit, he was white in a world of affirmative action. Basically fucked. Even the constitutional court said so recently, finding that affirmative action was all good and proper.
He thought about Alexa, still awake, there at Benny’s bed. Not easy, you would also want a drink, now you had to sit and watch over your sozzled other half.
Strange couple, those two alkies.
But at least they were a couple. He wasn’t even in a relationship, not of any kind.
Because he wouldn’t use things like Tinder. The first problem was, there were twenty guys for every girl. The second problem was, if you wanted to stand out, you had to lie like your feet stink. The whole online dating thing was one massive fraud – you could weigh 200 kilograms and look like Dracula’s grandma, but you just photoshopped your pic, or you stole a supermodel’s, wrote all sorts of cute things in your profile, and off you go. So there was no credibility, and he, Vaughn Cupido, had personality. How do you show personality on a dating website?
The right thing to do was, just go out and meet someone. He had a lot to offer.
But where did the top detective of the Hawks find any time for going out, and meeting someone?
In his office he wrote his notes about the interview with Cindy Senekal. He wrote a lie, there in black and white, that Benny Griessel was with him.
And then he turned back to his computer screen and went on reading the Rapport article by Isabeau Bekker.
He didn’t look like the boss of a lie factory, this open-faced boy, the only child from Cape Town’s northern suburbs who’d once nursed a dream of becoming an artist. How on earth had he got to this point?
‘Aah, you know, life
is strange . . .’
How strange?
‘No, the way you get these opportunities. My father died when I was fourteen. My mother was a housewife, then she had to step into his shoes. It wasn’t easy. My father had a brokerage firm, short term insurance, it wasn’t the sort of thing she could just take over. It had to be sold first, and then there wasn’t much money, she had to find work, with a child in high school. We struggled at times, but she always just said, we have a roof over our heads and we have food on the table and that’s more than a lot of people in this country have. We’ll make a plan . . .’
I ask him what his mother says about the plan he made with Alibi, and the smile wavered for the first time.
‘No, she asked me if that was really what I wanted to do.’
Is it?
‘I’m an entrepreneur. Entrepreneurs see opportunities and grasp them. This is not my first business, and it won’t be my last. Alibi is a stepping stone . . . My mother understands that,’ and the smile is back.
In school he excelled at art, won competitions. He thought that painting full time would be his career one day. His mother scrimped and saved so he could take extra classes with ‘Oom Werner van Heerden’, the famous artist of the Northern suburbs. ‘But if you’re alone at home in the afternoon, and you have a computer, then you discover gaming. And the internet. It becomes the place where you live, and you see the art in the games, and the aesthetics of websites, and you realise how the whole world comes to you on a screen – a PC screen, an iPad screen, a phone screen. And many of the designs are pure art, and many are pure . . . junk.’
In the Stellenbosch sunshine, at a table outside Häzz, Ernst Richter, the Great Sinner of Alibi.co.za, tells of his conversion to graphic design with an evangelical glow. ‘It was like a thunderbolt, in the July holiday of my Grade Eleven year, I knew: this is what I want to do. I want to design games. I want to make the world wide web a more beautiful place. Graphic design is the future, everything will eventually be graphic design, just as our lives are becoming all the more digital, as we live more and more online.’