by Deon Meyer
He just waited.
‘Sure, Benna.’
‘We’ll be back soon,’ he said to the other two.
71
Francois du Toit told her how a man had arrived at the homestead in late January 2012, pulled up in a white Toyota Corolla, at about eleven in the morning.
In his hand he held a paper bag containing a bottle. He was charming and friendly, but in an appropriately quiet way, out of consideration for their recent loss. He offered his condolences immediately, apparently with genuine sympathy. He had an easy manner, with a tone that was professional yet informal. Impressive: so young and yet so self-assured. He introduced himself.
‘I’m Ernst Richter. I’m an entrepreneur. I would like to talk to you about a business opportunity.’
What sort of business opportunity?
Is there somewhere we can talk?
Of course, come through to my office.
Francois du Toit suspected it was insurance – crop insurance, or life insurance. Perhaps chemical pest control; there had been enough reps for that on the farm back when he was still at school. And in those seconds he reasoned that he might as well get the information for future reference, even if he wasn’t going to buy now.
It could do no harm.
Ernst Richter sat down in the office. In its contents and atmosphere, everything about it, it was still his late father Guillaume’s office; he hadn’t had time to change it yet.
Richter put the paper bag down on one side of the desk, and outlined his proposal in a calm, rational and well-prepared manner. He said that in the last few months he had done a great deal of research into the wine industry, as he had recently returned from the Far East, where he had identified incredible business opportunities. And now he was looking for someone to realise these opportunities with him.
He offered information on the Chinese wine market, statistics and figures of which Du Toit was generally aware. In the Gironde, in fact, in the whole French wine industry, the Chinese market was a hot topic.
The opportunities were precisely in that market, Richter said, especially this one specific and enormous opportunity.
First he named the figures, like a good salesman who had carefully done his homework about Francois du Toit and the situation on Klein Zegen: I can guarantee you two million rand. Two million profit. The first half million within the next week – that’s a deposit. The second half million within six months. And when you deliver, another full million.
And what do I have to do?
You must invest your crop in the transaction. And you must make wine for me.
What kind of wine?
Ernst Richter nodded, reached for the paper bag, put his hand inside and pulled out the bottle. He put it down between them.
It was a bottle of 2010 Château Lafite Rothschild.
This wine, Ernst Richter said.
72
Griessel led Cupido to his car.
‘We’re going somewhere?’
‘Yes. To Jonkershoek.’
Another curious look, but Vaughn got into the car. They drove away.
‘The only appointment I could get with the shrink today was this afternoon at six o’clock,’ said Griessel. ‘Just so you know where I am.’
Cupido looked at him. ‘That’s good, Benna. Proud of you.’ But without total conviction, as if he was hesitant to believe too soon.
As they passed through the town centre Cupido asked: ‘What’s in Jonkershoek?’
‘Stellenbosch’s station commander. They have a Christmas braai for the station staff.’
‘Are you going to tell me what it is that we want there?’
‘We’re going to . . . Let me tell you what bothers me. The Stellenbosch detectives’ docket on Richter’s disappearance, what does the quality of that docket say to you?’
‘Solid policing. Everything by the book.’
‘That’s right. It’s good work. The whole investigation back when he was reported missing, it was good work. Richter’s car was brought in, kept under lock and key. When Vusi and Forensics wanted to look at it, everything was available and in good order. The detectives searched Richter’s house, and left everything neat and tidy. The house keys – I went to collect them from them. No problem, they knew where they were. Everything “by the book”. And you know where good work begins.’
‘With the SC. Good, solid reputation.’
‘Precisely. We know where the rotten eggs are in the SAPS in the Cape, and Stellenbosch is not one of them. It’s a good station. And if you’re a good SC, and your people are investigating a disappearance that is going to bring the whole country’s media down on you, then you speak strongly, and you tell them to make sure there are no fokkops.’
‘Okay . . .’ said Cupido. ‘What’s the punchline?’
‘A very good investigation. And then they suddenly lose the laptop?’
Cupido digested this. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
‘When we’re talking millions, and if we’re talking drugs . . . Where do the big bosses of the Nigerian drug cartels live?’
‘Parklands . . .’
‘Near Blouberg.’
‘Okay . . .’
‘That storm Wednesday morning . . . They didn’t think anyone would ever find Richter’s body. But then it was found, and the Hawks got involved and the media went berserk. And they got worried. What would it take to bribe one of the detectives? Get that laptop for us, there is evidence that we don’t want the Hawks to see. For fifty thousand, or a hundred thousand, that’s small change to those guys.’
‘Jirre, Benna, you’re genuinely sober.’
‘Only just,’ said Griessel.
Cupido smiled and looked at Griessel for the first time, with a mixture of relief and surprise.
At the entrance to the Jonkershoek grounds Griessel said, ‘There was nothing in the newspaper this morning . . . about the Fireman’s . . .’
‘We just stick to the story, Benna.’
‘Thanks, Vaughn.’
Cupido nodded.
‘For everything.’
The Stellenbosch SAPS Christmas braai was a jolly affair. Music thumping from a car boot, people laughing and talking, glasses in hand, paper plates with remains of barbecued lamb chops and potato salad on a table, beside two boxes of wine. Smoke lazily drifting from the cooling coals, and the faint smell of boerewors hanging in the air.
When they saw the two Hawks approaching, the noise level dropped.
Griessel and Cupido stopped a little way off and waited for the SC to come to them.
Griessel thought their approach worked well. Let everyone see them. Let the guilty ones start worrying. Force them out into the open.
The colonel put down a can of beer and walked over to them. They knew him, and he knew them, from crime prevention seminars and provincial meetings and training courses.
‘Gentlemen . . .’ said the colonel, with a concerned expression, because he knew this visit meant trouble.
‘Colonel, sorry to bother you . . .’
‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s about the laptop, Colonel.’
‘I thought so.’
‘We believe it was stolen. And not to sell.’
He didn’t react, but from his frown they could see that he must have considered this possibility already.
They waited for him to say something else.
‘It’s difficult,’ he said. ‘I have fifty-four people.’
‘We think we should start with the two detectives.’
He immediately shook his head. ‘It’s not one of them.’
‘Colonel, we know it’s . . . awkward,’ said Griessel, but the SC interrupted him, adamant.
‘It’s not them. I know those two men, and I can tell you now, nobody can bribe them. They are the b
est that I have. That’s why I put them on the Richter case.’
‘We’re going to have to investigate them. We’re going to put their cellphone numbers through the system . . .’
‘You can, but it’s a waste of time.’
‘Who should we look at then?’
‘I really don’t know. You’ll have to take all our numbers.’
Griessel merely nodded. ‘If you could get them for us, please, Colonel.’
The SC’s stiff neck showed that he didn’t like this one bit. And they understood. If you were a good policeman, who ran a good station, you didn’t want to hear stuff like this, because it reflected on you, it would be in your record forever. It broke down morale, in these difficult times when police got so little respect anyway.
Before the SC could respond, Cupido’s cellphone rang. He took it out and looked at the screen. ‘It’s Bones,’ he said.
‘Bones just says Bingo, we must come and see,’ said Vaughn as they got into the car.
Griessel’s cellphone rang too and it was Captain Philip van Wyk of IMC: ‘We found the number that called your regional bank manager on the eighth of May. So we put it through the system. And it gets interesting . . .’
‘How interesting?’ Griessel asked.
‘The thing is RICA-ed with a false ID and a fake proof of address – a Telkom account. But it is Ernst Richter on the ID photo, doctored a little but it looks like a very good forgery. Which makes sense, if you look at the cellphone number’s activation date. According to the IMEI details that are linked to the number, he bought the phone in November last year in Brackenfell, and activated it immediately. It’s within the time frame when RICA was enforced more strictly. You couldn’t buy a sim card then without an ID.’
Griessel thought about the forged aeroplane tickets and hotel bills Alibi made, and Ernst Richter’s interest in that division of his company.
Everything fitted.
‘And the call register?’
‘From November last year until the last call in May this year there were only seventeen calls from this number, and eleven SMSes. One call and one SMS was to your regional bank manager. We are busy extracting the other numbers now. Oh, and Lithpel Davids brought us a duplicate of the Alibi database last night. We are running the numbers through that too.’
‘No calls after May?’
‘Nothing. It’s as though he got rid of the phone then.’
When they stopped at the Alibi offices, Griessel said: ‘I have to see the shrink, Vaughn. But I’ll come back as soon as I’ve finished.’
‘Take your time, Benna.’ Cupido climbed out and held the door open as he spoke: ‘Last night, I was sitting here in my office, and I was really pissed off at you, and I was asking myself, but why, really? If you really want to suip, why should I care? It’s your life. And then I got it, Benna. It’s comradeship and all that shit, but actually, the heart of the matter is, I can’t be Vaughn the Terrible if you aren’t Benna the Sober. It’s like that line in the movies: You complete me.’
‘And now you’re going to kiss me?’
‘That’s the Benny Griessel I know and love. Fokkof. Go sort out your kak.’
‘Take a look,’ said Bones Boshigo, pointing a finger at his computer screen. ‘The year 2012 was a really good one for the late Mr Richter.’
Cupido peered over Bones’ shoulder. Then he leaned forward even further and whistled. ‘Is that accurate?’
‘Of course it’s accurate. I have a degree and all. And Excel can’t lie.’
‘Four point three million?’
‘That was what he had in October of 2012. But wait, there’s more. He came back from South East Asia in 2011, nè?’
‘Yes. November.’
‘See, that was his bank balance in November 2011: six hundred and seventy thousand. Lots of money spent on travelling, that’s what he had left. And, one year later, four point two million. Which he received in just three payments: August 2012, one million thirty-one thousand and change; September 2012, one million thirty-one thousand and change; October 2012, two point one six million and change.’
‘Where did he get it from?’
‘There’s always a bit of bad news, nè . . .’
73
Ernst Richter asked Francois du Toit to fake ten thousand bottles of 2010 Château Lafite Rothschild.
That’s impossible, Du Toit said. It’s Château Lafite Rothschild. It’s a unique blend, a unique vintage from a unique terroir, an ancient vineyard. Impossible.
Richter said: Look at the bottle. What do you see?
Du Toit looked, but didn’t understand.
You see the red seal with the black-and-white logo, Richter said, and pointed out each item with his index finger. You see the shape of the bottle and the vintage and the five little arrows that are cast on the outside of the bottle, above the label. You see the colour of the wine behind the glass. And you see the label, the old etching of people working in the field in front of the chateau, and you see the words Mis en Bouteille au Château, then Château Lafite Rothschild, and then Pauillac. That is what you see. Have you got a corkscrew? And two glasses?
‘We can’t drink that . . . It must be laid down, for several more years still.’
‘I have another eleven of them,’ Richter said. ‘Do you have a corkscrew?’
Richter opened the bottle and poured the divine liquid into two glasses. ‘Look at the colour of the bottle now. We are going to have those bottles made exactly like this. And I am personally going to duplicate the labels and the seal. Precisely. No one will see the difference. All you have to do is to match the colour of the wine, so that it looks exactly like this in the bottle. And you must make the best wine that you can. Do you really think that in two or five or ten years a Chinese millionaire who bought twenty cases of our Château Lafite, is going to taste the difference? And let’s say there are a few that think they may just have been taken for a ride. Do you think they are going to say anything? Those guys will never lose face. And besides, there will be no way they will be able to trace it to you.’
‘That’s . . . against the law.’
‘To make wine?’
‘To fake wine.’
‘You’re not faking anything. You are just copying. You are copying the best wine in the world. Isn’t that what everyone is trying to do? To make wine like the French? Just as good, or better? That’s why you all go there to work and learn. I’m asking you to deliver the best possible Bordeaux blend. I will do the forgery. And the shipping.’
Francois du Toit sat there, dumbstruck.
‘You don’t have to give me an answer now. Sleep on it.’
Du Toit tasted the wine.
‘Two million,’ Ernst Richter said. ‘That’s what you will make. Two million rand. And within a week you will receive half a million to renovate your cellar and buy your vats.’
‘How did you know . . . ?’
‘I’m an entrepreneur. I do my research.’
74
‘The payments were made from a foreign bank. The statement only provides the SWIFT code, but if you go to the swiftcodes dot com website, you can trace it, which is what I’ve done,’ said Major Bones Boshigo.
‘Richter received those amounts from Guangdong China Banking Corporation in Guangzhou. That’s a city in China. And that is really bad news because the chances are very slim that they will provide us with information about the origins of the money, or who that account belongs to, nè. I’ve also had a look at the amounts, per se, and I’m pretty sure it was paid in dollars. If you multiply a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars with the exchange rate of August 2012, you get one point zero three million and just about that exact change. Same for September. And if you multiply two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in October, that gives you the two point one six million rand.’
‘So he was
paid in dollars,’ said Cupido slowly.
‘Yebo yes.’
‘From a bank in China.’
‘Yip.’
‘Bad news.’
‘That’s what I said.’
Benny Griessel sat and stared at the teddy bear in the shrink’s office while she read to him from a thick book: ‘Without treatment, or overcoming it, a person suffering survivor guilt may begin a downward spiral that might include self-medication with drugs and/or alcohol; regression in recovery from post-traumatic stress disorder; major depression; increased anxiety, and suicide.’
She looked up at him, this attractive woman with the soothing voice. ‘Does that sound familiar to you?’
Griessel nodded reluctantly.
‘You are trying to drink it all away. Self-medicating. And you are right when you say your colleague Adjutant van Vollenhoven would not have committed that family murder if he had been a drinker. But alcohol abuse only delays the inevitable . . .’
‘Vollie didn’t have survivor guilt, he had . . .’
‘Survivor guilt is one of the four conditions or subscales that we associate with the fear of harm to others. The other three are separation guilt, omnipotent responsibility guilt and self-hate. Policemen and soldiers are just about the only ones who are exposed to all four. I think . . .’
‘I don’t know what all those terms mean.’
‘I think you do know, but you don’t want to know, because it makes you afraid that you might be suffering from all four. Like Van Vollenhoven. Separation guilt in this instance is your pathological fear that something bad will happen to your loved ones if you’re not with them. Most mothers have this in a mild form, when their children are far away . . .
‘Omnipotent responsibility is separation guilt on steroids. Omnipotence is when you feel that you – and only you – have the power to do everything, to protect everyone. It is common with policemen, because they become accustomed to the power of protecting, enforcing justice, even the right to kill people who break the law. But when it comes to your loved ones, that omnipotence lets you down. You see all the gruesome things, but you feel powerless to protect your loved ones from them. And then the self-hatred . . . The combination of all those things is what drove Adjutant van Vollenhoven to destroy his family and himself.’