by Deon Meyer
At 17.24 he walked to his desk. First he called his wife, Vera, in Paarl and said to her: ‘My darling, it’s going to be a long night.’ He listened to her complain that their youngest, their nineteen-year-old son, had broken up with his girlfriend again, because ‘That child just doesn’t know when he’s on to a good thing, Frankie’. He consoled Vera with ‘Give him time, my darling, he’s still very young’, said goodbye, and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt above the elbows. Then he spread out the printouts of Ernst Richter’s digital life on his desk.
Sergeant Lithpel Davids had explained in broad terms where each piece of information came from: first the SMS, WhatsApp and iMessages, then the Tinder interactions, the Twitter messages, personal and general, the Facebook conversations and all the dates in his calendar over the last three months. After that, the call register, which Davids said only represented the last two weeks before his death – calls received and calls made.
Fillander pulled open his drawer, took out the packet of chilli-flavoured biltong sticks, chose one and put the end in his mouth. He sat down, reached for the SMSes and began to read. He stroked his fingertips over the scar from behind his ear to his crown, where the hair traced the straight line in a grey strip. He was unaware of this mannerism, which he only displayed when deep in thought.
It took him over an hour to work through everything for the first time.
John Cloete, press liaison for the Hawks, received seventeen phone calls from the media after 16.00, as they prepared for evening news broadcasts, morning editions or the updating of websites. The reporter for the tabloid Son called him at 17.32 and asked if the post-mortem was completed.
‘All I have at the moment is that Richter died by strangulation, Maahir. And you are the first one to know; that’s your scoop.’
‘When will you release it for the rest?’
‘Later tonight.’
‘That won’t help me at all, John. The other papers will have it too tomorrow.’
‘But you’ve got a Twitter feed and a website.’
‘How about time of death?’
‘I still don’t have confirmation. The pathologist said the final report will take another couple of days.’
‘Then I’m going with what I’ve got.’
‘The rumour that he has only been dead a week?’
‘Right.’
‘Maahir, that’s speculation.’
‘So be it,’ said the reporter and rang off.
Cloete sighed, lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair.
When they were alone again in Desiree Coetzee’s office, Cupido sat down opposite Griessel with a sigh. Then silence between them, as though they both needed to gather their thoughts again. The whisper of the air conditioner was the only sound, and a phone ringing somewhere.
‘I will have to report to Major Mbali, Benna . . .’ Thoughtful, grave, there was much less venom in the ‘major’ now.
Griessel could see that the responsibility of being JOC leader was resting ever more heavily on Vaughn’s shoulders. Especially since they had made so little progress.
Another sigh from Cupido, then he told Griessel in careful point form about the call he had received from Vusi Ndabeni, about the pathologist’s suspicion regarding the time of death, and Forensics’ chemical analysis. He ended with, ‘So where’s your head with this thing, Benna?’
Griessel reflected. The healing glow of the lunch time regmakertjie had waned; he felt the fatigue in his body and brain. The best that he could do was: ‘I don’t believe it was Rick Grobler.’
‘My sentiments exactly. We actually have fokkol. No suspect, except for the faint possibility of a few thousand Alibi clients, all the people who were fired, and half of the staff who didn’t like Richter.’
Griessel nodded in agreement.
‘I scheme we should bring Bones in, ’cause just about all that’s left is the money,’ said Cupido without enthusiasm. Major Benedict ‘Bones’ Boshigo was a member of the Statutory Crimes Group of the Hawks Commercial Crimes branch. When it came to complex figures, he was the man to go to.
‘That’s good, Vaughn.’
‘What we don’t need is one of those opportunistic crimes. Richter stops that fancy car in the wrong place at the wrong time, they hijack him, wrap him up, somewhere on a wine farm . . . and then they get cold feet, and they don’t steal anything . . . No, that’s flight of fancy . . .’
They resorted to silence again.
‘I don’t think Desiree Coetzee has told us everything,’ said Griessel.
Cupido sat up. ‘You reckon?’ he asked in surprise and with a little bit of reproach, as though Griessel had committed a faux pas.
‘Just a feeling.’
‘I didn’t pick that up.’ Cupido considered the implications, and saw new possibilities. ‘Benna, we must make a start at Richter’s house. If you don’t mind. I’ll ask Willem and Vusi to give you a hand. I’ll call the major so long, and then I will chat with Coetzee again.’
The tweet appeared at 18.08 on Twitter:
NoMoreAlibis @NoMoreAlibis
Will publish full alibi.co.za client database on the web in 18 hours. URL to follow soon. #ErnstRichter #WhoKilledErnst #NoAlibi
The @NoMoreAlibis Twitter page didn’t show the usual profile pic – just a black A in a fat font against a white background, with a red stripe slashed through it, like a no-entry sign.
It took thirty-one minutes before it went viral, and Captain John Cloete’s phone began ringing off the hook.
41
Francois du Toit delved deep into his childhood.
He was thirteen months younger than his brother Paul. He could remember the house in Onder-Papegaaiberg, because that was where he spent his first six, nearly seven years with his father Guillaume, mother Helena and brother Paul. Happy, carefree memories, free from the sins of the father, unaware of the familial undercurrents.
He had darker features, inherited from his Ouma Hettie’s Malherbe side of the family. Paul’s hair was flaxen-white. Both boys had long locks on photos from that time, living evidence of their mother’s unconventional views and ways.
Francois couldn’t really differentiate between memories of Klein Zegen before and after they went to live there. He knew they visited the farm, sometimes when Oupa Jean was away. He could clearly remember Ouma Hettie on the veranda of the lovely homestead where she sat preparing beetroot, her hands scarlet, her voice gentle.
Years of political change that he as a child vaguely registered – among others his mother’s joy in 1990 when F.W. de Klerk made a groundbreaking speech to parliament. And at the same time his father’s concern about tension at work, a row between him and Dietrich Venske, apparently related to the new dispensation in the country.
The recollections of the first seven years all intertwined together, except the day of Oupa Jean’s death.
Francois only remembered the consequences, the rest he would hear from the recollections of his mother and grandmother. 1994. A time of renewal and optimism and hope after the darkness of apartheid. International wine markets opening up, the KWV facing big changes. On a chilly Saturday morning in the autumn young Paul was playing in his first rugby match for Eikestad Primary School’s Under-Nine team. The little blond boy, his hair now cut short in accordance with school regulations, stood out, by virtue of his astonishing talent.
Pa Guillaume stood beside the field, poker-faced. He hid his emotions over this prodigy, this sporting phenomenon sprung from his own loins, because he was uncomfortable. Upset, even. Partly out of surprise, partly due to his recognition of the origin of these sporting genes, and their potentially wider implications. But most of all because he could swear he saw his own father standing on the other side of the field between the screaming parents, slyly ducking out of sight now and then. At sixty-eight, Jean’s walk was limping and slow: he was a
man old before his time.
After the match, Guillaume’s discomfort evaporated in the flood of congratulations from the spectators. They went out to celebrate Paul’s achievements at the child’s restaurant of choice – burgers and milkshakes at the Arizona Spur. The family went home. Guillaume told his wife about Jean’s presence at the match – the first interest he had shown in his grandchild.
Some time after three, the phone rang. It was Hettie du Toit with the news. Jean had been found on the Blaauwklippen road. He was sitting in his bakkie, beside the road, as if he had parked the vehicle there, upright, his arm still resting on the open window. Only his head bowed in death, like a man finally feeling remorse.
They suspected a cardiac infarction.
And Guillaume du Toit, whose life could truly begin on that day, who had wrestled for so many years between rage and hatred, wept uncontrollably. Nobody would ever know precisely what he shed those tears for.
42
Fillander read once through everything on his desk, and then leaned back in his chair and thought, this Ernst Richter wasn’t a bad laaitie.
He knew bad. He had seen it in every possible shape and size. But this outjie didn’t fit in with any of those categories.
He wasn’t flawless though. There were a few things you couldn’t help noticing.
Number one flaw: People Pleaser. Richter wanted to be nice to everyone. On the Tinder online dating site he’d chatted up sixteen, seventeen chicks, with a particular liking for blondes with long straight hair and a kind of innocence in their pictures, fake or not, eyes glancing shyly sideways like virgins. The same with the SMSes and WhatsApp and the Facebook stuff: nice to everyone who lived and breathed, even the fanatics who cursed and threatened him.
Case in point. Someone who called himself ‘Jesus-is-Lord!!!’ on Facebook posted a message for Richter that said, ‘The lake of fire waits for you. You will burn. I will watch and laugh at you from the arms of the Lord. Revelation 21: But the cowardly, unbelieving, abominable, murderers, sexually immoral (!!!!!), sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars shall have their part in the lake which burns with fire and brimstone, which is the second death.’
And Ernst Richter wrote back to him: ‘I respect your view. We all have the right to believe what we like.’
Just that. Very nice.
This chappie wanted people to like him.
Number two flaw: Player. Note the seventeen chicks chatted up until October. And even though he was so nice with all the girls, you could clearly see he had an agenda. He wanted to get them into bed eventually. Nothing vulgar, nothing direct – all slow and smooth and subtle, yes – but heading inevitably in that direction, as you would expect from a man of his age and means and disposition.
Vaughn Cupido said this morning that Richter and the girlfriend, Cindy Senekal, had been an item since early October. Since then there was considerably less chaffing about. Only three girls got serious attention. But until early November he was still having an affair with one, if you looked at the WhatsApp messages – what looked like three lunch hour njapse at his house in Paradyskloof, Stellenbosch.
But what’s really interesting was that it was with an older woman, at least by Richter’s standards. Sarah Woodruff, forty-one, with a mysterious Tinder profile photo, just a glancing camera shot, her face half concealed behind a hoody. She didn’t look like his usual blonde babe, there was a hint of brunette there.
Which meant they would have to find her and talk to her. Fillander made a careful note.
Number three flaw: bit of a show-off. It began with his profiles on Facebook and Twitter and Tinder. ‘Chief Executive Officer, Founding Father and Majority Owner of Alibi.co.za. Serial entrepreneur, serious businessman, supports an open society, open internet, freedom of speech and choice. Love my job, love my life. Wealthy, healthy, happy.’ (And you could believe it, thought Fillander, because Richter’s photo beamed out such a big happy-go-lucky smile.)
But it was the ‘wealthy’ that was a bridge too far, because any blonde chick could figure out for herself that he was a rich shit if she read all the other stuff.
Unsubtle show-off.
And then there was the ‘humble bragging’, what Frankie Fillander’s pa called ‘fyn brag’. Every second photo that Richter posted or tweeted was designed to show how rich or cute he was. The car, the Audi TT, was often in the background. In June, a couple of Facebook photos of him in the Kruger National Park, with the words: ‘Quick getaway to The Outpost in Kruger for a breather.’ The expensive luxury of the resort was obvious. In August he tweeted a photo of a bottle of Alto M.P.H.S. on a beautifully set restaurant table, beside a half empty glass, a bread roll and butter dish, with the comment ‘R1,000 a bottle. Wonderful wine, would pay double the price.’
An avalanche of fyn brag.
Richter wanted everyone to believe he was rich and successful but nice, Frank Fillander thought. That’s what he was going for.
He took another stick of biltong, pushed it in his mouth and started from the beginning again. To make sure he hadn’t missed anything.
‘I’m not going to let the media determine how we investigate this case,’ said Mbali Kaleni with an expression of total disgust on her face.
‘That’s not what I’m saying, Major,’ said the ever-calm John Cloete. ‘But I have to give them some sort of answer.’
‘I don’t understand the question.’
‘The question is,’ he said with a great deal of patience, ‘whether we are going to investigate the apparent attempt by someone to publish the full Alibi client database on the internet.’
‘Why would we investigate that, Captain? It’s not our problem.’
‘Major, with all due respect, if we give them that answer, the SAPS will not look good.’
‘Why not? We are investigating the murder of that man. We did not use those alibi services. We’re not here to protect philanderers and cheats.’
Cloete sighed inside. ‘Shall I say that we are looking at all the matters pertaining to the murder investigation?’
‘Will that help?’
‘For a while.’
‘Then you can say that.’
‘Can I add that, should we find a link between the attempt to make the database public and the murder, we will be investigating?’
Kaleni considered. ‘Okay.’
‘Thank you, Major.’
‘Does Vaughn know about these shenanigans?’
‘I . . . I don’t know. I came straight to you.’
She nodded. ‘Then I had better call him.’
Cupido stood anxiously waiting for Desiree Coetzee in front of a restaurant in Drostdy Street called The Birdcage.
He’d seen how tired and upset she seemed after the stresses of the day. And he spotted an opportunity. He apologised for needing to talk to her again and said ‘It doesn’t have to be here’.
‘Thank God,’ was her reaction.
‘Can I buy you coffee?’
‘And lemon meringue pie?’
‘Of course.’
She suggested The Birdcage and he agreed to meet her there. He drove there, pleased with himself. But the place was shut. The sign on the door said Monday–Friday: 09.00–17.00. Saturdays: 09.00–13.00. Sundays: Closed. Now, at 18.42, he was left wondering whether she had known this all along. Was she trying to avoid him?
Why? Didn’t she like him or was Benna right, that she had something to hide?
His cellphone rang. It was the DPCI number. He answered.
Griessel tried to hide the tremor in his fingers when he and Mooiwillem Liebenberg pulled on their rubber gloves in front of Ernst Richter’s house. It was a big, modern double-storey in Mont Blanc, a secure development in Paradyskloof, high up on the slope of the mountain. Three garages, grey tiled roof.
‘He lived here alone?’ asked Liebenberg.
&
nbsp; ‘That’s what they say.’
Griessel unlocked the door.
‘Three garages,’ said Liebenberg philosophically.
They went inside. The alarm warning beeped. Inside it was warm and smelled a bit musty, because the house had been closed for three weeks. Griessel walked quickly to the alarm panel and tapped in the code that the station commander had given him, along with the key. Then he and Mooiwillem fetched their murder cases and brought them inside.
Liebenberg opened the door to the left to have a look at the garages.
The space was almost empty. On one of the shelves against the back wall were a few bottles, aerosol cans and tins for cleaning cars, and a pile of cloths.
‘Three garages and you only use one . . .’ said Liebenberg.
Griessel wasn’t feeling well: a faint nausea, the first signs that the headache was returning, a buzzing in his head like a distant swarm of bees. The hands trembling, jissis, it was the first time in three years that his fokken hands were shaking. And fatigue, a strong urge to lie down. It was rubbish; he could handle his drink, always could, but now his middle-aged body was betraying him. He shook his head to deny it all. ‘I’ll take the . . .’ he said, but then Liebenberg’s phone rang.
Mooiwillem answered. He listened for a long time, said ‘At his house’ once, repeated ‘Okay’ a few times, and rang off again. He grimaced and said to Griessel: ‘Vaughn thinks Rick Grobler is threatening to put the names of Alibi’s clients on the internet. He wants me to go and talk to him. He lives just down here . . .’
Liebenberg walked to the door.
They knew it was policy that at least two detectives searched a house together. A lawyer for the defence would be quick to ask, ‘Is there a witness that you found this piece of evidence? Or did you plant it?’
But Benny Griessel knew that if Liebenberg slipped out quickly, it gave him the chance to find a bottle. And relieve the worst of the pain.
‘Vusi will be here just now,’ he said.
‘Okay, partner, I’ll be back soon.’ And Liebenberg was gone and Griessel was alone in the big, empty house.