by Deon Meyer
The feelings threatened to overwhelm Griessel. He disguised the wave of emotion with a last big gulp of Coke, and lit a cigarette.
‘I don’t want to offend, but really, white people will always be an enigma to me,’ said Vusi.
Frankie Fillander said coloured people like him didn’t even know what ‘enigma’ meant.
The detectives laughed, quietly, out of consideration for the people in the nearby homes.
‘How can one guy live in such a huge house, all on his own?’ asked Vusi and shook his head in disbelief. ‘Such a waste.’
‘If he was a darkie,’ said Cupido, ‘at least twenty-eight people would have moved in here.’
‘Exactly,’ said Ndabeni, his smile gleaming in the glow of the street lamp.
‘I have a theory,’ said Fillander.
‘About darkies?’ Cupido wanted to know. ‘Too late. Steve Hofmeyr has already formulated them all . . .’
Vusi clicked his tongue. ‘That guy, he’s bad news for this country.’
‘Amen,’ said Cupido.
Fillander said no, he had a theory about Richter. He had listened to Liebenberg’s report about his conversation with his mother. He had listened to Cupido’s feedback on their day at the Alibi offices, and his insights after the date with Desiree Coetzee . . .
Cupido said, it wasn’t a fokken date, Uncle Frankie. And Fillander said, so why do your eyes shine like that, Vaughn, when you talk about that chick? ‘Every time you say “Desiree”, rose petals fall from your tongue. Not to mention the candle-lit dinner for two . . .’
Cupido said there were no damn candles . . .
Fillander said, ja, sure. He said he had also thought about all Richter’s social media stuff, everything he had read through this afternoon. He jerked a thumb in the direction of the house behind them, said he had taken a good look at the place. That big bedroom up there had to be put to one side, in the correct compartment, because Ernst Richter was a man of three parts.
‘The bedroom belongs to Richter The Player; let’s call it this guy’s Part One. Look at that extra-large king-size bed, fancy duvet cover and all the pillows; that antique chest of drawers; the tasteful nude painting on the wall. It’s like he called in an interior decorator. Look how different the bedroom is compared to the rest of the house, fancied up so nice. It’s a love pad, for all the chicks that Richter Tindered and chatted up on his phone. One of which seems to be a married woman, and that’s significant, but I will get back to her just now.
‘Part Two is Richter The Kid. Check it out down there, by the flat screen. Two games machines, and those game controllers are well worn; he spent a lot of time there. And all the games on the iPhone, and that thing they told us, him sitting with all the people who have to fake the alibi documents. That chap was still just a laaitie at heart. Maybe because he couldn’t be a child when he was meant to be. I kind of got the impression that everything was a game to him, and that’s also significant, because those sorts of guys don’t think properly about consequences.
‘And then there’s Part Three. And I keep trying to remember the name of that chappie who made himself wings of candle wax and chicken feathers, and then tried to fly . . .’
‘That sounds like Billy April from Bishop Lavis,’ Vaughn Cupido said. ‘You know, that crazy crackhead who jumped stark naked from the . . .’
‘No, no, no, that outjie in Greek mythology,’ Frank Fillander interrupted him.
‘Not my jurisdiction,’ said Cupido.
‘Icarus,’ said Vusumuzi Ndabeni.
‘Icarus!’ Fillander snapped his fingers as if it had been on the tip of his tongue all along.
‘Not bad for a darky from Gugs, Vusi,’ said Cupido. ‘Greek mythology, nogal. But please keep it to yourself. I can just see some Mitchells Plain mama calling her son Icarus Fortuin when that gets out.’
They laughed, louder than they meant to, and Fillander said: ‘Kêrels, quietly, the neighbours will complain. Anyway, Icarus, that’s the kêrel. And then he flew too high, and the sun melted the candle wax, and he crashed and burned in his moer in. Now that’s Part Three of Richter. Look at the house. It’s rented to impress. Look at the car; it’s on nearly every Facebook photo. Look at the company, Richter just pumped money in; let’s keep up appearances, at all costs. And now Vaughn says the Coetzee chick said it’s because Richter’s own money ran out that he had to go and borrow. But according to her arithmetic, he put in way more cash than she thought he had in the first place.’
‘So, what is your theory, Uncle Frankie?’ Mooiwillem asked.
Fillander got up stiffly from the paving. ‘These old legs,’ he groaned. ‘I’m getting to that, Willem. This morning I read the piece that the Rapport wrote about Richter. How he explained that his father had died when he was fourteen years old. What a hard time his mother had. Now, when I listen to all that, I think it was a whole lot worse than he let on. I think that mother of his was devastated. Husband dead, finances in chaos, child to care for, and maybe genuine poverty, for a while at least. Now, a laaitie of fourteen who sees his mother struggling desperately, he’s going to feel responsible, and powerless. He’s the man of the house, but he can’t help; he has to watch his mommy suffer. You see it a lot in the coloured community.
‘But young Ernst, he has more troubles, because he’s in school with the rich kids; he’s going to feel inferior when she drops him off in their old skedonk of a car. He can’t take pals home, because there’s no Coke in the fridge or snacks in the cupboard. He’s going to get damage, that laaitie. The sort of damage that will shape his love life and his financial life, for the rest of his life . . .’
‘That’s deep, Uncle Frankie,’ said Vaughn Cupido.
‘But it’s true,’ Vusi agreed. He knew real poverty.
Fillander nodded and continued. ‘Now, I’ve seen that a lot, people who grow up in hard times, and make something of themselves. They compensate for the rest of their lives, ’cause why, they don’t want to go back to the tough times, by hook or by crook. They do stupid stuff . . .’
‘True story,’ said Cupido.
‘Now what are the three most common motives for murder?’ asked Fillander.
‘Domestic squabbles, money and revenge,’ said Vusi.
‘That’s right,’ said Fillander. ‘And we’ve just ruled out domestic, ’cause there is no . . .’ – and he pointed at the house again – ‘domestic life to speak of. So my theory is, revenge, or money. That revenge could come in the form of a jealous husband, and I’ll follow up on that tomorrow. But I’m sort of leaning in the direction of money, because it sounds to me as if there were all sorts of financial shenanigans going on with this kêreltjie.’
Liebenberg nodded thoughtfully. Ndabeni stroked his perfectly manicured goatee. Cupido softly let out a fizzy-drink burp and said: ‘There’s another financial shenanigan . . . maybe . . .’
Everyone looked at him.
‘During my interview with Miss Coetzee’– Vaughn emphasised the word ‘interview’ and ‘Miss Coetzee’ emphatically while looking at Fillander – ‘she told me a very weird thing happened in November of last year. She said she was working a bit late one night, and when she left at tjaila time and was walking to her car, this dude got out of his car. Grand car – Mercedes S-Class by the sound of it, those things retail for a million and a half. Dude was fifty-something, whitey, but smart: classy suit, designer rimless glasses, hair manicured all professional-like. And he comes over to her and asks in fancy English, do you work at Alibi? And she says yes. And he says, you’re the operational manager, Desiree Coetzee. And she says yes, but she’s rattled, ’cause it’s not exactly common knowledge, Richter is the only public face of the company. So the classy dude says, Someone’s trying to blackmail me, here from Alibi, and let me tell you, I will go public, but pay I will not. If I go down, you go down. I will give you a fight you will not survive.
And the dude turns around and gets in his Merc and drives away.’
‘Bliksem,’ said Mooiwillem Liebenberg.
‘Wow,’ said Vusi.
‘That’s right,’ said Cupido. ‘She says she’s completely shocked, and she stands there thinking for a long time, and then she phones Ernst, there from the parking lot, and she tells him about this dude. She said he went all quiet, for so long she thought the line was dead, ’cause why, MTN’s cellular service sucks here in the Stellenbosch. And then he came back and he says Des, we have to check this out, this is very bad. Let’s talk tomorrow. So she worries all night long, next morning first thing she pops in to see Richter. And he says, What can we do? It could be anybody; we can’t just throw out a general staff memo that says “Please don’t blackmail the clients”. But he would check the computer logs; he would reconsider whether all the programmers really needed access to the database. And they left it there, never to be spoken of again. Only a few days later, when she was lying in bed, ’cause the thing worried her kwaai, and she thought, wait a minute, Ernst is the one who looks through the database to see who all the rich and famous clients are. She caught him one time: two of the techies had come and whispered in her ear. He’s the one who’s so worried about the finances; he’s the one pumping money in. Could it be him? But she had no proof, and the thing blew over.’
‘Well, I never,’ said Frank Fillander.
‘She said about four months later, sort of half by accident she saw a photo on a news site, a guy that got a Chamber of Commerce achievement award, and she thought, but this is the dude with the Merc. Not absolutely sure, ’cause it had been quite dark in the parking lot, and a few months had passed, but it looked like the dude – fancy haircut, fancy glasses, his name and all, there by the photo. Turns out he’s a captain of industry, chairman of the board of a company that does marine cargo insurance, ShipSure, here in the Cape. So she does a little detective work herself, slips into the database, and sure enough, a guy with the right initials and surname made a few big payments for an extensive alibi, September of 2013 – fake airline ticket to London, fake hotel bills, that sort of thing.’
‘So, what did she do?’ asked Vusi.
‘Nothing. Sort of filed the info away in her head. She couldn’t remember the guy’s first name, surname is Habenewt or something, she’s going to SMS the details tomorrow.’
They all chewed over the information, until Cupido looked up at where Griessel sat on the wall, head down. ‘What do you think, Benna?’
At that moment, his only thought was one of shame. Because his colleagues had been thinking about the case, the whole day long. And he, Griessel, had been mainly concerned about his next dop – and how he could get away with it – and, while he had helped to search Richter’s house, about Alexa and whether he should go home or not. Because he didn’t know what kind of welcome, if any, he would get from her, and he didn’t have the strength for a confrontation or tears. Shame, because they looked at him with so much expectation and respect, they thought something meaningful and intelligent was going to come out of his mouth.
From somewhere – he didn’t know where – something leapt from the back of his mind. He said: ‘I think . . . it matters that he was buried other side Blouberg. It . . . says something, Vaughn. His house, his office, everything is here in Stellenbosch. His car was found two kilometres from Alibi, but the body in Blouberg. The problem is, I don’t know what it says.’
They all nodded, agreeing.
He wanted to tell them not to be so impressed by the statement; he didn’t deserve it.
47
The brother Paul, the firstborn son who would inherit the Du Toit’s family farm, was always a wild, unfathomable creature.
He was a beautiful child, with his pale blond hair, his fine features and the supple body with its athletic promise, which later exceeded all expectations.
His sporting prowess was astonishing, the natural talent so blindingly obvious. His light burned so much brighter than his peers that Guillaume received calls from as far as Pretoria about the child’s possible rugby future. Large sports bursaries were mentioned while the boy was still in primary school.
The combination of appearance and ability enchanted everyone, from schoolmates to teachers, so that they dismissed other signs, the less positive characteristics, as the idiosyncrasies of the genius, the future superstar in the making. In general there was an unspoken feeling of privilege for them to be able to see this success unfolding in front of their very eyes. One day I will be able to say I knew him in primary school.
Young Paul du Toit paid no attention to instructions on the rugby field; he had no feeling for the team or his role in it. Every match was an exhibition of his personal brilliance; his game was always selfish and narcissistic. And as long as it helped them win, the coach didn’t criticise him for it.
In the classroom there were acts of disobedience, defiance of authority. When Paul was thirteen and in Grade Seven, his new teacher – an experienced teacher, and no worshipper of the Great God Rugby – objected to this kid glove treatment, and called Helena to arrange a meeting. Helena came to listen, with an open mind. But when she went home, she chose not to discuss it with her son or husband.
Partly because Guillaume was so terribly busy rebuilding Klein Zegen, and so was she.
Partly because she was aware that her own rebellious genes were also part of Paul: in opposition to her conservative father’s one-dimensional views, her philosophy was that Paul’s individuality must be protected. They could shape and direct it later. Her suspicion of any official system, and the one-size-fits-all approach of all primary schools, made her reluctant to take the teacher’s feedback seriously. Children must be allowed to be children – a bit wild, a bit free. Goodness knew, more than enough years of restrictive adulthood lay ahead.
Helena had also previously pondered the complexity of the psychology her wonderchild was caught up in. The glorification of his rugby talent in this country, and especially in this town, at such a young age, would invariably have a huge influence. They – the school and all the staff – couldn’t expect to enjoy only the benefits.
She tried her best to keep Paul’s feet on the ground, to expose him to activities and interests that lay outside his natural abilities. Without success.
Perhaps the sheer normality of the younger brother Francois also had an influence on how the parents reacted. Francois was the stabilising counterweight to Paul’s tempestuous nature. He was the one who was interested in the farm, the vineyards and the wine, who was academically stronger, who read, who barely made the second team in rugby and cricket. And he was humble in the face of his brother’s astronomical ascent, merely content to bask in reflected glory.
48
At 22.52 Major Mbali Kaleni’s cellphone rang.
‘I’m sorry to call you at home, Mbali,’ said Brigadier Musad Manie, commander of the Hawks in the Western Cape.
‘I’m at the office, sir,’ she said with a touch of reproof in her tone.
Manie understood his commander of the Serious and Violent Crimes group well. He knew better than to let this bother him. ‘Anything I should know?’
‘No, sir. I’m waiting for my team to get back. They’ve just left Stellenbosch.’
‘Any progress?’
‘Captain Cupido should give me a full report within an hour, sir. They have put in a lot of work, but I don’t think there is a solid suspect yet.’
‘Okay, Mbali . . . I’ve had a call from our National Commissioner. Now, I just want to let you know, I’ll manage it from my side, but . . . This thing about the database, you know, the clients of that company, the guy on Twitter making the names public . . .’
‘Yes, sir, Captain Cloete has been keeping me posted.’
‘Okay. The Commissioner says she is getting a lot of pressure from . . . well, from higher up, if you know what I mean.�
� He broached the topic warily: he had a strong suspicion what Kaleni’s reaction was going to be. ‘Now, I’m not—’
‘Sir, I will not have my team distracted by—’
‘Major, please, let me finish. I’m not saying you should do anything about it. I will manage it from my side, as I said. I just wanted to let you know, there is pressure, and there is concern. The word is that there is a member of parliament who has been contacted by the press in this regard: a very respected member of parliament, a husband and a father. And apparently, this member of parliament is completely innocent, and is being implicated as part of a smear campaign by the oppo—’
‘Sir, I do not believe that . . .’
‘Me neither. But that’s not the point. I have to report back in the morning, and all I’m asking is, if there is any information pertaining to this leak of the database, please let me know.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thank you, Mbali.’
Griessel drove back with Cupido. The Bottelary road was quiet at this time of night.
Cupido prepared his speech. Only beyond Devonvale was he ready to talk to Griessel.
‘You know I’m your friend, Benna?’
Griessel sighed; he could guess where this was leading. ‘Vaughn, I don’t want to talk about the booze.’
‘You don’t have to. I just want to make a speech; use it, don’t use it, your choice, it’s a free country. But if I’m your friend, it’s my duty, wraggies, Benna. Friendship is not saying the things you want to hear, but the things you need to hear. I understand this thing with Vollie Fish, Benna. And man, I understand the thing about Colonel Nyathi getting killed. These things stick to a man’s clothes. Remember Barry Brezinsky of Narcotics? Barry the Whole Pole? Gunned down in his driveway just before he could testify? I was on that same case with him, Benna; he was the lead investigator, big drug syndicate. That morning I was standing next to his car, Barry dead there inside, blood everywhere, and his wife and children standing in the doorway and they didn’t cry, Benna, they just stared, with that look that says we don’t know what the fok we’re going to do now. The future had just evaporated, there was just desolation stretching out in front of them. Took me two years to get over it, he was like a bru’ to me; he was my mentor, Benna. From a wet-behind-the-ears constable, he made me the detective that I am. Lots of anger after Barry, I’m telling you now. A hell of a lot of anger. I wanted to go out and round up all the dealers and suppliers and beat each and every one to death with a blunt instrument. So I know the feeling. But I went to see a shrink, and he helped me a lot, Benna. There’s no shame—’