The Last Hunt

by Deon Meyer

  ‘Jissis,’ said Griessel, pointing them out. It indicated poor control of the crime scene and endless difficulties for the state prosecutor, should the case go to court.

  ‘Ja. Country bumpkins. What do you expect?’ Cupido said rhetorically.

  Correspondence with other SAPS departments or external institutions, like banks or employers, was stored in the docket’s Part B. It contained only a single copy of an Article 205 subpoena that the detective in Beaufort West had used to acquire information on a mobile phone from Vodacom.

  Part C was the investigation journal on the SAPS5 form. That, too, had been skimped on. The final entry recorded moving the body to the state mortuary in Salt River only two days ago. No post-mortem had yet been done. The body had not even been officially identified as that of Johnson Johnson.

  Griessel sighed.

  Cupido stood up and cleaned the whiteboard on the wall. ‘Benna, let’s try and make some sense of this thing,’ he said.

  Griessel worked through each docket entry from the start, while Cupido created a timeline with cursory details on the board. They were still busy at lunchtime. They sent out for takeaways from Voortrekker Road. Griessel ordered a Jalapeño Mayo burger with chips from Steers, his current favourite. He could eat what he liked because he was riding at least 140 kilometres per week on his mountain bike up and down the slopes of Kloof Nek. He was seven kilograms lighter than he had been a year ago.

  The contents of Cupido’s stylish wardrobe were becoming uncomfortably tight. He wanted to conquer the heart of his new love, gorgeous Desiree Coetzee from Stellenbosch, who loved cooking and eating out. But his spare tyre bothered him. Considerably. So he was following, in secret, the same diet he had freely mocked Colonel Mbali Kaleni over when she began practising it – the famous Banting lifestyle espoused by Professor Tim Noakes. Embarrassed by his formerly outspoken criticism, he had confessed this only to Griessel.

  Cupido ordered two fish fillets from Catch of the Day, no chips, and a Coke Zero. They ate and worked until, by three o’clock, they had a rough grasp of how the case fitted together.

  Johnson Johnson (34), according to a file entry, was a ‘private protection consultant’. Seventeen days previously, on Saturday, 5 August, he had boarded a luxury Rovos Rail train in the Cape with his client, for whom he was acting as bodyguard, a Dutch tourist, Mrs Thilini Scherpenzeel. The train was en route to Pretoria.

  ‘Thilini Scherpenzeel,’ Cupido rolled the words in his mouth. ‘That’s some name, pappie, all elegance. I bet you she’s a looker.’

  Johnson had last been seen on that Saturday: after he had enjoyed dinner with Mrs Scherpenzeel on the train, he had escorted her to the door of her compartment. A spokesperson for Rovos later confirmed that Johnson was not on the train when it arrived in Pretoria on Monday. His client and the train staff had assumed he had left the train voluntarily on Saturday night, as his suitcase was also missing. It was only found on Monday when the train reached its destination in Pretoria, pushed deep under his folding bunk.

  That Monday afternoon Johnson’s ex-wife Robyn realised he was missing. Late that night she reported it at the police station in Brackenfell, the northern suburb of Cape Town where she and Johnson lived apart.

  No attempts to trace Johnson had yielded fruit.

  One week later, on Monday, 14 August, the body of a man was found beside the main railway line near Three Sisters in the Karoo. The apparent cause of death was massive skull fracture. A SAPS forensic investigator from George found blood, tissue, bone splinters and hair on the steel pole of an electrification pylon, at a height that indicated the deceased had hit it when he jumped from the train, or was thrown. There was a broken cell phone in his inner jacket pocket. It was his body that appeared in the photographs in the docket.

  On Wednesday, 16 August, the investigating detective from Beaufort West, Sergeant Aubrey Verwey, established via the IMEI number of the broken phone that the deceased was most probably the missing Johnson Johnson.

  That was more or less the sum total of the information at their disposal.

  Cupido put down the blue marker and took a step back. ‘Jurisdictional nightmare,’ he said. ‘Brackenfell, Pretoria, Three Sisters, Beaufort West, and nobody knows where this dude died. We’ll have to start from Ground Zero.’ Ground Zero was a spot in the Karoo beside a railway line beyond the tiny hamlet of Three Sisters. Cupido phoned Beaufort West, talked to Sergeant Aubrey Verwey and made an appointment to drive through the following day to inspect the scene where Johnson Johnson’s body had been found.

  Griessel began to collect the scattered photos and documents, slipping them back into the yellow-brown folder. ‘Let’s go and talk to the ex,’ he said.

  ‘And we have to see Thilini Scherpenzeel as well,’ said Cupido, hopefully, ‘sooner or later.’

  ‘Aren’t you the man courting a certain Desiree Coetzee of Stellenbosch?’ Griessel asked.

  ‘I am that man,’ said Cupido. ‘My interest in Mrs Scherpenzeel is purely professional.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Griessel.

  It was just past three in the afternoon. They walked out, down the half-lit corridor, some of the fluorescent lights flickering, others dead.

  Chapter 3

  August, Daniel Darret, Bordeaux

  He was unsettled for days after the fight at the river, and grateful that his employers were away on vacation. His face was bruised and swollen, his hand bandaged.

  The sense of risk gnawed at him. He lived in the multicultural Saint Michel neighbourhood; there was a mosque just a block away from his apartment. It was common knowledge that the French DGSI, the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Intérieure, was active there. His lifestyle and connections would have reassured them long ago that he was harmless, but his photo would be on a database somewhere. The police in the city were efficient, too, with an extensive system of CCTV cameras at their disposal. It would be possible to connect him to the fight and track him down. Even if he pleaded self-defence, even if there was a witness to confirm it, it was the attention, the close scrutiny, he wanted to avoid. That was something he couldn’t afford.

  He was disturbed that five young amateurs could do him so much damage, disturbed at how age had weakened and slowed him.

  And now he had to start looking over his shoulder again, had to keep close watch on place Camille Pelletan below his apartment window again, keep his ears tuned when he heard a siren, tense at the sight of a uniform. That was a life he never wanted back.

  The newspapers covered the story, of the five who were involved in a ‘bloody gang war’ across the river. Two were sought for other crimes.

  There was no knock on the door, no policeman eyeing him dubiously.

  It all blew over. The swelling on his face subsided.

  But nothing was quite as it had been before.

  And then Madame Lecompte spotted him.

  Chapter 4

  August, Benny Griessel, Brackenfell

  They stopped in the parking lot of the Fairbridge Mall in Brackenfell, and made for the big pet shop at the back near the railway line. They walked side by side, Benny Griessel and Vaughn Cupido. Griessel, with his tousled hair, always overdue a cut, the dark almond eyes that had been described as Slavic: he had been on the wagon for more than two hundred and forty days now, but his long battle with the booze had left deep tracks on his face, making him seem a decade older than his forty-six years. Next to him, a flamboyant Vaughn Cupido, a head taller, aged thirty-nine, sporting an elegant winter coat, had been saying for months: ‘The big four-oh, pappie, it’s coming for me. And you know what they say, when forty hits, you have to hit back . . .’ He hadn’t yet revealed how he would retaliate.

  The pet shop looked like a mini farmyard and farmhouse. The big sign read Robyn’s Ark. They had to enter through the gate and cross the garden, with its chickens, rabbits and ducks, before they reached the shop entrance. The interior reeked of bird droppings, dog food and cat urine. A cacophony of parrots,
canaries, finches and puppies filled the air. One entire wall was lined with fish tanks, which contained the only silent life form there.

  A woman approached, thirty-something and full-figured, her make-up and hair a bit overdone, earrings large, nails long, painted dark crimson. ‘I’m Robyn,’ she said. ‘You’re from the SAPS, right?’

  ‘The Hawks,’ said Cupido.

  ‘I know policemen. I was married to one for a long time,’ she said. ‘It’s about time they got the Hawks involved.’

  They introduced themselves, asked if they could talk to her about Johnson Johnson.

  ‘Of course, but everyone called him JJ. Come through, we’ll talk in my office.’

  ‘We’re very sorry for your loss,’ said Cupido. ‘It must have been really hard.’

  She stood at the door, waited for them to enter. ‘Yes, it’s hard. Especially for the children. But it’s been three weeks and I’m coping better. I actually knew, when JJ didn’t pitch up that night . . . I actually knew. So I’ve had time to grieve . . .’ She closed the door behind them.

  They sat around her desk. She lit a slim cigarette. The detectives took out their notebooks and pens.

  The walls were decorated with posters of animals – dogs, cats, ducks – with comic expressions and funny captions. The colourful files on the shelf behind the desk lent a cheerful air to the room. A framed photograph of two girls, perky ponytails pulled back from their pretty faces, stood on the desk. It felt strange to Griessel to be talking about death.

  ‘Excuse us, ma’am, but we want to start right at the beginning,’ said Cupido. ‘Cast a fresh eye on the whole investigation.’

  ‘We’re going to ask questions that you will already have answered,’ said Griessel.

  ‘It’s okay, shoot,’ she said, and drew deeply on her cigarette.

  ‘Mr Johnson was in the Police Service a long time,’ said Griessel.

  She nodded and tapped the ash off with a long fingernail. ‘From age eighteen, two years before we got married. He was Flying Squad at the station in Hermanus, then made detective in Bellville, spent five years at the VIP Protection Unit in Pretoria before he turned freelance. Private protection consultant.’

  ‘What precisely did that work involve?’ Griessel asked.

  ‘JJ . . . His ambition was to be the go-to guy at all the five-star hotels for briefing the tourists on staying safe in South Africa, and he’d be available if they wanted to hire him as a bodyguard. But it’s not easy to get in with the grand hotels. JJ said they’re a closed system – they don’t like money flowing to the outside. So, here and there he got briefing opportunities with the smaller tour operators, and sometimes he rode shotgun for them – that’s what he called it. He would ride along in the bus with them, just to give them peace of mind. It was in the last few months that the bodyguard jobs started coming in. But not officially, through the hotels,’ she said.

  ‘His name was Johnson Johnson, genuine? Just like that?’ asked Cupido, who had a thing about names.

  ‘Yes. His mom christened him that. All her life she said the double feature gave him gravitas and dignity. Bless her soul. But everyone called him JJ.’

  ‘How long did he freelance?’ asked Griessel.

  ‘Nearly two years.’

  ‘Solo?’

  ‘Yes. He even had an offer from Body Armour, the protection agency in Cape Town, but JJ said, why would he give twenty per cent of his income to someone else? He wanted to try on his own. The first ten, twelve months were tough for him, but he never stopped marketing himself and networking. He handed out his business card everywhere. And I do mean everywhere. Stuff started trickling in, and from about January things were improving. He never missed a single payment in child support, I’ll have you know. Those two girls,’ she pointed at the photograph on the desk, ‘were everything to him.’

  ‘When were you divorced?’

  ‘When he was in Pretoria, three years ago. I stayed here. You know, the shop, I had no choice – I’m the sole proprietor . . . But a long-distance marriage just didn’t work for us. JJ . . . Let me just say, like most men, he wasn’t good at being alone at night. But we managed to conduct the whole divorce thing in an adult and civilised manner because of the kids. JJ rented a flat down the road, so they often stayed overnight at his place. And we were the best of friends . . .’

  ‘His home address was here in Springbok Park, Olympus Street,’ Griessel said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you can provide us with the keys?’

  She opened a drawer, took out a set and put it on the desk. ‘Please don’t leave a mess. I have to vacate the place before the end of the month.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Griessel.

  ‘Ma’am, we’d like to know the sequence of events, please, from when he left here on the train,’ Cupido said.

  ‘You last saw him on Saturday, the fifth of August?’ Griessel asked.

  ‘You can give us as much detail as you can remember,’ Cupido added.

  ‘I understand,’ she said, and drew on the cigarette again as if it gave her the strength to go on.

  Robyn Johnson said her former husband had dropped off his daughters at the pet shop just after nine. They had spent the night with him at his flat, as they did most Fridays. They were four and six years old, and they immediately began to whine that they wanted to go with their father because ‘Daddy’s going on a fancy train, Mommy. Why can’t we go too?’

  ‘So I asked him, “What’s the story with the train?” He said some Dutch aunty had hired him. His business-card distribution was paying off again. The maître d’ at the Cape Grace Hotel had recommended him. And the aunty was going to Pretoria on the Rovos Rail. It’s ultra-luxurious, and he’d get his own cabin and everything. Plus she was paying him good money for his services.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything else about the client? Why she needed protection?’

  ‘Nothing more. He was serious about the confidentiality of the client relationship. I respected that, so I didn’t press him.’

  ‘He was cool? No worries?’ asked Cupido.

  ‘That day?’

  ‘That day, that ball park.’

  ‘JJ was always cool. He used to say worry never sorted anything, just burned up energy you could use to solve the problems.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Cupido, ‘and then?’

  ‘Then he said to me, “Jewel” – he called me “Jewel” because my name, Robyn, means “ruby” – “I’m flying back one o’clock Monday. I’ll be in Cape Town at three. I’ll come pick up the kids at four.” Now, there’s a few things about JJ you have to understand. Number one, he’s never late. Not when it comes to those two girls. Never, ever. Number two, if something unforeseen happens that could delay him, he always calls. Always. Number three, every night he calls his girls. Depending on his schedule, somewhere between six and eight, but every night he phones, unless he tells me, “Jewel, I’m busy tonight, send the girls my love.” That man had his faults, but he was a wonderful father. He lived for those two girls.’

  ‘Point taken,’ said Cupido.

  Griessel nodded and scribbled in his notebook.

  ‘Right. So, he phoned that Saturday night, and I heard him tell the girls they were at Matjiesfontein, the train had stopped there, and he told them how fancy the train was, how they had high tea, I ask you, and he sent them some photos on WhatsApp.’

  ‘What time did he phone?’ Griessel asked.

  ‘Just after six.’

  Griessel made a note.

  ‘Do you still have the photos?’ asked Cupido.

  ‘Yes. My phone is in there.’

  ‘We can look at them later, thank you. Are there any photos of the Dutch aunty?’

  ‘He would never do that. He was too discreet. Only photos of his compartment, all that lovely wood panelling, and the cake they had for high tea – JJ had a sweet tooth . . . And of the historic buildings at Matjiesfontein, and the outside of the train.’

  ‘O
kay.’

  ‘Please continue,’ said Griessel.

  ‘So. That Sunday evening, he didn’t call. I began to worry just a little bit – what was going on? – because he always called. Always. But you say to yourself, He’s working, maybe it just wasn’t convenient. And you wonder, you just can’t help it, how old the Dutch aunty is, and what she looks like, because JJ is JJ, if you know what I mean . . . Anyway, I let it go. Until the Monday. All day I heard nothing, which was fine, but when three o’clock came and he didn’t appear, and then four o’clock and still nothing, I phoned him, because, as I said, he was never late when it came to picking up the girls. But his phone went straight to voicemail, and I thought, Okay, maybe he’s still on the plane, maybe it was delayed, and I left him a voice message and said, ‘Call me, JJ. You’re making me worry.’ By six o’clock I knew there was trouble. That was when I called Rovos. Those people were very nice, you can imagine, they can’t just hand out details about their passengers, but they went out of their way to help, and I think they could hear how upset I was. They did say there was one passenger who got off the train sometime on Saturday night or Sunday morning, they couldn’t give me details, but I should maybe go ahead and report it. So I went to the police station here – there’s a warrant officer who worked with JJ in Bellville, Neville Bandjies, they would even still braai together sometimes, and we made out the missing-person report. But I already knew, that night, something very bad had happened because Johnson Johnson loved his two little girls too much not to call them.’

  Chapter 5

  August, Daniel Darret, Bordeaux

  It was pure chance. Daniel Darret was standing at his front door, key in hand, in the same instant that the woman came round the corner.