by Deon Meyer
‘And some of the noble cultivars like Chardonnay and Pinot Noir don’t like the high temperatures, the vines struggle. The problem is, the world prefers the more subtle wines of Bordeaux and Burgundy. The best of those wines are in fact made from Chardonnay and Pinot Noir. If you want to export, if you want to compete over there, if you want to reach more than just the local market . . .
‘In any case, Tim Hamilton-Russell bought land in the Hemel-en-Aarde valley near Hermanus, one of the coolest wine growing regions in the country. And then he smuggled Chardonnay in, and planted that and Pinot Noir, and the KWV said he was not allowed to produce wine because he did not have a quota.
‘Then Hamilton-Russell bought a farm with a quota, and he outwitted the quota inspectors, and he made outstanding wine. And in the end KWV had to start changing their rules.
‘All these things happened in the 1970s. And Pa knew about it all. In his heart, his whole being, he was a wine rebel and vine smuggler; he shared and admired the dreams and aspirations of all these men. But he was forced to work as a quota inspector at the KWV. That was the only work he could get.
‘Now you will understand just how rotten his stars were.’
30
In the main room of the Hawks Information Management Centre Sergeant Reginald ‘Lithpel’ Davids was hard at work on Ernst Richter’s iPhone.
While he worked, he said to Frank Fillander: ‘Hell, Cappie, this Richter was quite the player.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Chaffing girls on Tinder. Wyd en syd, left, right and centre.’
‘Let me see.’
‘Hang on, Cappie, let me capture the info first. We’re working with a phone that locks if you don’t keep it busy.’
‘Okay.’
Lithpel laughed quietly and shook his head.
‘What?’ asked Fillander.
‘No, I’m thinking of a story that my old pêllie tells . . . Digital dating is trouble, Cappie, I’m telling you.’
‘Dating of any kind, if you ask me.’
‘True. This mate of mine, he says, there’s a dude he knows in Mitchell’s Plain. About a year ago, this dude joined an SMS flirting service, and he began chatting up the cherries in a big way. But it’s all anonymous, you give personal info as you choose, you understand, Cappie?’
‘I’m old, but I’m not stupid,’ said Fillander.
‘Just checkin’. So, this dude is flirting and chatting something vreeslik, and he checks out which cherries are witty and smart, because he’s quite picky, you know, so he tries to weed out the dogs and the duds. He wouldn’t mind a njaps, but actually his motives are noble, he’s actually looking for a meaningful relationship . . .’
‘On an SMS flirting service?’
‘To each his own, Cappie. Anyway, after about two weeks, he realised this one cherry, she just gets him, if you catch my drift. Laughs at his little jokes, her own jokes are lekker sharp, there’s a vibe, Cappie, a bit of chemistry . . .’
‘Right,’ said Fillander.
‘So he begins focusing more and more on this cherry, and they have long chats, and finally he eases into the erotic zones, but carefully, slowly, slowly, catchee monkey, remember, he has a long-term plan, Cappie. That quest for a meaningful relationship. So he tests the sexy talk waters, and where he goes, she goes along, all the way, and it gets all hot and steamy, and he says to her, do you want to see my member, and she says, ja, gooi me a photo. And he goes for it, and she says, ai, a pretty member, do you want to see mine. And he says, of course. But it’s still anonymous, Cappie, all the way, and it’s one naughty pic after the other, but only the anonymous body parts, like it’s a game to them. They both want to avoid the face photo, dead worried that it will be this moerse letdown. So the chat gets red hot, and they are so lus for each other’s members for real that they can’t stand it any more, and finally, after weeks of teasing she says, come and visit, and he says, a fyndraai, a special visit, and she says jis. And he says gooi me the address, and she sends it and he sees, but this is his sister’s address.’
‘Jirre,’ said Frank Fillander.
‘That’s right, Cappie. Hy skrik sy gat af, huge fright, he schemed someone was having him on. And he says to her, okay, time to own up, what is your name and surname. And it’s his own sister’s name and surname.’
‘Fokkit, Lithpel, that’s sick.’
‘I’m telling you, Cappie. That dude de-registered from the flirting service right then and there, and he deleted every photo on his phone, and it took him six weeks before he could talk about the thing, then he went and fessed up to his mate and, his mate told me, the dude hasn’t yet seen his sister at all, he just can’t face her. Who, by the way, was at least a single girl.’
‘Now why are you telling me this story, Lithpel? How am I going to get those images out of my head?’
‘Moral lesson, Cappie. Stay the fuck away from digital dating.’
‘And you scheme I need that? I have been happily married for thirty-one years, and you want to give me a moral lesson on digital dating.’
‘Cappie can pass it on to the children and grandchildren.’
‘Jirre. You. What’s taking so long on that phone anyway?’
‘Screen shots of everything: Tinder conversations, emails, text messages, Facebook messages, Twitter DMs and mentions, Instagram pics, the works. Then I mail the screen shots to my mail account, then I send them to all of you. It’s going to take time.’
‘How much time?’
‘Give me another hour or two.’
‘Has Stellenbosch sent Richter’s PC?’
‘MacBook, Cappie.’
‘What’s the difference?’
Lithpel Davids shuddered, as if someone had walked over his grave. ‘I’m working with Stone Age barbarians,’ he said.
‘That is insubordination,’ said Frank Fillander. ‘I’m a captain, you’re just a lowly sergeant.’
‘An indispensable genius of a lowly sergeant, and that’s the truth. No, Cappie, nothing from Stellenbosch yet.’
‘Let me go phone them. Then I’ll find out how Philip and the team are getting on with the spider web.’
‘Cool bananas, Cappie. Cool bananas.’
The young computer programmer, the one Benny Griessel had got the chewing gum from, was called Vaughn Stroebel. He sat nervously watching the three detectives doing their rounds from desk to desk. Like predators, he thought, three old lions on the African savannah moving through a herd of nervous springbok. The two white policemen looked like real detectives, in their jackets and ties. The coloured ou looked like he was trying hard to be young and cool, with his T-shirt and trainers. Probably a mid-life crisis, or maybe it was some kind of detective strategy, trying to look dumb, so that you underestimated him.
Each detective spoke to one of the IT guys, one by one. The coloured guy was only a desk away from him.
What was he to do?
They were from the Hawks.
Fuck.
The Hawks were the elite unit; that he knew. If there was a news report that said the Hawks had struck it was usually all over for the crooks. Finish and klaar, end of story. You didn’t mess with the Hawks.
And the ou with the slightly bloodshot Slavic eyes, the messy hair and the bruise on the cheek had asked him for chewing gum. Did he really want the gum, or was it some clever cop trick. He had seen that a lot on TV: the detective asking to borrow something, but really it was to get your fingerprints, or your DNA, without you knowing.
Why would they want his fingerprints? Did they suspect something?
We know it’s one of you. Here at IT. And the detective said it with the attitude of ‘We’re in no hurry, we’ll get to you’.
He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans.
Here came the coloured guy with the neon trainers.
‘Jis, p�
�llie, what’s your name?’ asked the detective.
‘Vaughn Stroebel?’ He heard the question in his statement and he thought, What the fuck, get a grip.
‘Vaughn Stroebel?’ said the coloured guy, suspicious.
‘I swear,’ said Vaughn Stroebel. And he glanced at the door.
‘Why are you looking so katvoet?’
‘It wasn’t me,’ said Vaughn Stroebel. Somewhere in the back of his mind there was astonishment at how badly he was handling all this. He had thought he would be okay. But then the ou had asked for chewing gum, and . . .
‘If your name is Vaughn, then you must be one of the good guys,’ said the coloured detective with a faint smile.
What did that mean? Was he sarcastic? Or did he know everything? And now he was toying with him?
‘Okay?’
‘It wasn’t you that did it?’
He knew. Vaughn Stroebel could see that clearly now in the detective’s eyes.
Stroebel’s courage deserted him. ‘I only provided the dope,’ he heard himself say, and disappointment washed over him. He was such a weenie. But, Lord, there was also relief, to be able to unburden himself of this heavy load. ‘I swear. That’s all that I did.’ He spoke quietly, because he didn’t want the other IT guys to hear what a coward he was. ‘Ernst came and asked me if I had any dope. I don’t know why he asked me. I wondered if perhaps he asked everybody, but how do you find that out? I gave him the dope. And he paid me. I didn’t want to take money for it, but he said, please. Then he said, it was difficult for him to get weed, because of his high profile. And could I supply him. I could up the price a bit, make a profit. I didn’t want to, I swear, I didn’t like it one bit; I don’t want to be a dealer, but he’s the MD, he’s my boss . . . Sorry, he was my boss. But that’s all. I only supplied him with the dope. Only to him. Nobody else. I’m not a dealer. I haven’t got any dope with me now. I had two zols, in my rucksack, this morning. But I flushed them down the toilet. After you arrived.’
And then he shut up, and the coloured detective stared at him. He could see the disbelief on his face.
This ou also thought he was a total weenie.
‘Vaughn Stroebel,’ the detective said. ‘Can you believe it?’
‘Can you believe it?’ asked Captain Frank Fillander.
‘We will find it,’ said the constable from Stellenbosch station over the phone.
‘Wait, let me get this straight. The laptop was booked in as evidence with you?’
‘That’s right, Captain. On Friday 28 November, at 16.48. All good and proper.’
‘All good and proper?’
‘That’s right, Captain.’
‘And it was there, in your locker?’
‘That’s right, Captain.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because the register says so.’
‘And now it’s gone.’
‘We’ll find it, Captain. It must be here somewhere.’
‘Does the register tell you that too?’
‘No, Captain.’
‘You know as well as I do that that laptop has been stolen.’
‘No, Captain, it must be here somewhere.’
‘Listen to me carefully. If I don’t hear from your SC in the next ten minutes, if he does not tell me that you have found the laptop, there will be hell to pay. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘All good and proper se gat.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
31
In January 1977 Dietrich Venske and Guillaume du Toit both began working at the KWV in Paarl – Venske in the accounts department and Guillaume as quota inspector. They were both single, young and shared a dream ‘of making wine one day’. Till that one day came, they had to work together for the KWV. Guillaume had to inspect the quotas for wine and grapes on farms, and Dietrich had to pay the wine farmers for them.
Thirty years later the young Francois du Toit asked Venske to tell him what his father had been like in those days. Venske recalled the slowly developing friendship at KWV and his perceptions of Guillaume, the man he sketched through his reminiscences as ‘a loner’, quiet, reserved, incredibly private.
He carried out his duties as quota inspector with a dogged resignation and measured stoicism. He endured the dislike that the role elicited from many farmers, and simply stared into the distance whenever anyone asked him if he was the Guillaume du Toit, son of Jean du Toit of Klein Zegen.
It was as if he didn’t want to be recognised, Venske recalled. Not yet. It was as if this job was a self-imposed exile, a message, a statement to his father Jean: ‘I will do the work that you have the least respect for, and through that show the world how little I respect you.’
Or perhaps: ‘I will endure anything while I wait for my inheritance. And I will do it for as long as I have to.’
‘Something like that,’ said Dietrich Venske. ‘Maybe it was his way to unmask Jean as the bitter, jealous old man that he was. Perhaps it was because Guillaume did not want to make wine any other way than according to his own, clear vision. If he really wanted, he could have worked in the KWV’s production unit. He had the degree, and they would have taken him, if he had been prepared to wait a while. But when I suggested it, he didn’t even answer me. To him, compromise was impossible.’
And yet, said Venske, Guillaume was not unhappy. He was part of the wine world, he could steal with his eyes and his ears, he learned and secretly perfected his own plans, ready for the coming of that ‘one day’ when he could make his own wine. And the KWV was a pleasant place to work – fraternal, fair, tolerant, and not without status in wider society.
At first Guillaume rented a room in Paarl. Later he bought a small house in Nantes Street. But he was always the inspector who was willing to travel, to do the Robertson district inspections, to get away, to be on the move.
Until 1979. When he met Helena Cronjé.
32
‘I probably need a lawyer now,’ said the frightened programmer Vaughn Stroebel. And then as an afterthought: ‘I don’t even know where to find one.’
‘I am deeply disappointed,’ the detective said to him.
‘I never needed a lawyer before,’ the programmer said defensively.
‘No, that’s not why I’m disappointed. I’m disappointed that your name is Vaughn, and you’re one of the bad guys.’
‘Oh?’ Total bafflement.
‘My name is Vaughn too. And now you’ve shamed the name.’
‘Oh. I . . . You . . . That’s why you . . . Shit . . .’
‘Where did you get the dagga?’
‘I don’t want to . . . It doesn’t matter.’
‘Do you know what the gangstas do to outjies like you in the tjoekie, Vaughn Stroebel?’
‘No . . . ?’
‘Unspeakable things.’
‘But I’m cooperating with you now.’
‘Then come clean, brother. Who supplied you?’
‘It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know anything about my arrangement with Ernst. Nothing. He just thought I was a big smoker.’
‘Are you?’
‘No!’
‘How much do you smoke, Vaughn Stroebel?’
‘I’ve got this trouble with my back. The dope helps my back.’
‘Medicinal purposes,’ said Vaughn the detective, as though he understood completely.
‘That’s right.’
‘How sore is your back?’ A pause, and then the detective laughed at him.
The realisation dawned on Stroebel, the cop was playing with him. And he was such a complete weenie, he realised. He tried to pull himself together. ‘I smoke very little.’
‘How little?’
‘Every third or fourth day.’
‘I think you’re lying,’ said the policeman. �
��I think Ernst Richter sat down with you guys, and he saw, ja, this outjie is a roker. Because of your red eyes and the sniffle and the snacks you sit and munch, all day long. I think you smoke heavily, Vaughn Shame-on-the-Name Stroebel. And I think, to feed your habit, you deal far and wide . . .’
The detective took a set of handcuffs out of his jacket pocket. ‘Let me gooi a pair of cuffs on you, let’s see if a few nights in the cells can make an honest Vaughn out of you . . .’
‘I swear,’ said the programmer, louder than he intended. All his colleagues looked at him. ‘I swear,’ he repeated, more quietly this time. ‘On my word of honour, it was only Ernst. He smelled me. I went outside to smoke and when I came back in, he was sitting there and he smelled me, and then he asked me.’
‘You smoke every day.’
‘Yes.’
‘A zol or two.’
‘Yes.’
‘And it’s not for your back.’
‘No.’
‘Where were you on the evening of Wednesday 26 November?’
‘I . . . I don’t know. In my flat . . . Probably in my flat.’
‘Busy with what?’
‘DOTA 2.’
‘Doe what?’
‘DOTA 2.’
‘What is Doe-tah two?’
‘It’s a game.’
‘A computer game?’
‘It’s a MOBA: a multiplayer online battle arena. Defense of the Ancients: DOTA. A Warcraft three mod sequel.’
‘Bullshit baffles brains.’
‘No, I swear. I play every night . . . If I’m not working . . .’
‘Or smoking . . .’
‘Yes. No . . . I . . .’
‘Or do you smoke when you play DOTA too?’
‘I . . .’
‘Can you prove it, that you were on DOTA that night?’