by Deon Meyer
‘Yes, the Transnet section manager,’ said Verwey. He was young. His haircut was trendy, a complex array of indents, layers and waves.
‘The same one who was supposed to bring us the key?’ Griessel asked.
‘That’s correct.’ As though he was under cross-examination in court.
Cupido shook his head slowly and sighed audibly. ‘Okay, let’s take it from the top.’
‘Captain?’
‘Tell us the whole story, Sergeant, how all this unfolded for the SAPS in Beaufort West.’
‘It’s all there in the docket.’
‘I know it’s in the docket, but the docket is not exactly a masterpiece of detail and eloquence, to put it mildly.’
‘My docket is professional,’ said Verwey, stung. ‘Strictly by the book.’
Griessel intervened before Cupido could react. The dossier wasn’t a shining light of efficiency, but he could see this was not the time to bring it up. ‘You know how it is,’ he said to Verwey. ‘A docket is a summary. We want the bigger picture.’
Verwey must have suspected he was just being humoured. He squared his shoulders slightly, shooting Cupido an indignant glare. ‘My docket is professional.’
Griessel nodded. Cupido mercifully refrained from speaking.
Verwey stared across the plains. ‘The Transnet guy . . . Chungu, that’s his name. He found him here.’
Griessel nodded again, encouraging.
‘Chungu inspects the train tracks between Beaufort and Hutchinson – that’s his territory. He was driving past here, and he smelt something, something rotten, and he said that’s not such an uncommon thing. Sometimes the trains hit a kudu or something, even a donkey from time to time. So, he looked out and saw nothing, because Johnson was lying half in the sloot. So Chungu stopped where the smell was worst, got out of his railway bakkie and stood just about there, and then he saw Johnson lying here. He saw the white shirt first. And then the flies and maggots and the whole smittereens, and the smell was so bad he couldn’t take it. He drove his bakkie away, and then he phoned the Beaufort West station.’
‘Smittereens?’ Cupido asked.
‘That’s correct. Totally broken up. Johnson Johnson’s head. Completely smashed.’
‘I see,’ said Cupido. ‘This Chungu, does he follow a routine for his inspections?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He found the body on a Monday, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So, does he check this bit of track every Monday?’
‘Oh. Okay, I see what you mean.’
‘Well?’
‘I’ll have to ask him.’
‘So he called the Beaufort West station and they sent the two constables,’ Griessel coaxed.
‘That is standard practice,’ said Sergeant Verwey.
‘For two constables to come and throw up on the crime scene?’ Cupido asked. ‘To let the entire troop of the Karoo’s Blue Bums trample over everything?’
‘The crime scene was on the train. They just threw Johnson off here,’ said Verwey. ‘That’s not rocky science.’
‘Rocky science?’ asked Cupido.
‘That’s correct. Rocky science. It means it’s not too complicated.’
‘I can see clearly now,’ said Cupido, and Griessel was sure that something serious was bothering his colleague. Under normal circumstances there would have been a hint of amusement in his voice by now. He would have shot Griessel a sidelong glance and they would have suppressed a chuckle that later, driving home, they would share. But today wasn’t normal circumstances. Something had angered Cupido, last night perhaps, or very early this morning, a brooding, growing rage, contained like steam in a pot. Griessel knew Cupido: it wouldn’t help to ask before Cupido was ready to talk. And it might burst out before he did ask. He just wanted to prevent that happening right here and now.
‘And then?’ Griessel spurred him on.
Detective Sergeant Aubrey Verwey of Beaufort West SAPS was oblivious to the undercurrent. He drew himself upright for his moment in the limelight, and he talked. About the two uniforms who finally got their nausea under control enough to inspect the corpse closely. And then, judging by the quality of the black suit and white shirt, they’d concluded that it wasn’t ‘just a local joker’.
‘Local joker,’ Cupido repeated sternly.
‘That’s correct,’ said Verwey. ‘So they radioed in for a detective.’
The station commander of Beaufort West had sent Aubrey Verwey. When he arrived at the scene there were two police vehicles from the tiny SAPS station in Hutchinson, and two from Victoria West. The bush telegraph of the law in the Karoo was very effective. They didn’t suspect that it was Johnson Johnson’s body, as none of them had seen the reports in the news the previous week.
Verwey emphasised that he had reprimanded the curious officers for trampling over the crime scene, told the men from Victoria West that he felt fokkol for their arguments that this location was just across the Northern Cape boundary and therefore fell within their jurisdiction. Detective Sergeant Aubrey Verwey had been called out, and therefore it was Detective Sergeant Aubrey Verwey’s case. And, as he had done with the two Hawks, he had emphasised the word ‘detective’.
Verwey had tied a handkerchief over his nose, but it hadn’t helped. He’d put on his latex gloves, stretched the yellow crime tape and ordered everyone to stay behind the line. He’d taken photos with his Samsung cell phone because the Beaufort West police photographer’s entire camera bag had been stolen five months ago. From the police station. It hadn’t yet been replaced, so the cell phone was the best he could do. He also searched the pockets of the victim, and found his cell phone, in pieces. The device must have been smashed when Johnson Johnson struck the pylon beside the track, or perhaps had hit a stone on the ground on falling out of the train. ‘Beyond reasonable doubt. Totally beyond reasonable doubt.’
And that was all that was to be found in the pockets of Johnson Johnson. The cell phone. An LG G5.
‘So I tagged it and I bagged it,’ said Verwey.
‘Then I found the blood and brains on the ’lectric pylon, just over there. You can still see it. The CSI man from George only found his way up here the next day, and I told him, ‘You must analyse that.’ Then I phoned my Station Commander and he reported it higher up, and the police spokesperson in the Cape told the media that a John Doe was found beside the railway . . . A John Doe is what you call an ou that’s dead but isn’t yet IDed.’
‘We live and learn,’ said Cupido, casting his eyes up to the ’lectric pylon.
Griessel took a few deep breaths.
‘And then some reporter from Die Burger called me and she asked, “Isn’t that Johnson Johnson?” That was the first time I even heard of the ou. But I told her, no comment, ’cause the victim wasn’t IDed. Only when I processed the sim card from the LG phone was it beyond reasonable doubt that it was Johnson Johnson. Completely beyond reasonable doubt.’
They drove back to Beaufort West. Cupido at the wheel, Aubrey Verwey in the back seat. Verwey talked a lot, mostly about the cases he had solved with his ingenious detective work: crystal meth dealers, house burglaries, stock theft and two local domestic murders.
They suspected he had an agenda. When they drove into Beaufort West, he said: ‘Okay, what must I do to become a Hawk?’
Cupido made a strangled sound, like a dog being kicked, but quiet enough that only Griessel heard it.
Griessel said: ‘Just keep on doing what you’re doing.’
‘But you guys will put a word in for me, right?’
‘We’ll try.’ As close to the truth as he could say.
They dropped him off at the police station in Bird Street. ‘Hold on a minute. Vodacom’s call list has come in. I’ll get it quick,’ said Verwey, and ran into the building.
Cupido dropped his head and banged it a few times on the steering wheel.
Griessel smirked.
Verwey was back with the envelope. �
�These are Johnson Johnson’s cell-phone records. It came after I sent you the docket.’
They said goodbye, and as they drove off, Verwey shouted: ‘Put a word in for me!’ He stood on the pavement waving until they disappeared around the corner.
Griessel felt a bit sorry for him. To be stuck in this place . . .
They filled up at an Engen station. Griessel went to buy meat pies and cold drinks. Then they took the N1 back to Cape Town in silence.
Just a kilometre on from the entrance to the Great Karoo National Park, Cupido abruptly pulled off the road without warning, heading into the dusty lay-by, with its spindly saplings and concrete tables and chairs. He stopped the car and got out, leaving the door wide open as he paced a short distance away. The spot was deserted, no other cars or people in sight. He stood still, turned around.
‘Jissis, Benna,’ he said. Rage and despair, all in one.
Chapter 9
Here it comes, Griessel knew, and it was a good thing.
‘That,’ said Vaughn Cupido, pointing in the direction of Beaufort West, ‘that is the future of the SAPS.’
The full impact of his statement seemed to overwhelm him, because he shuddered. ‘That is the future of the Hawks. That is the future of this land. That “rocky science”. That “smittereens”. I ask you. Smitte-fucking-reens.’
He came back to the Ford. ‘For fuck’ sake, Benna, they can’t even speak properly. How can they write? No wonder that docket looks like a dog’s bum. How they gonna conduct a murder investigation? “The crime scene was on the train” so all the Blue Bums could throw up where they liked. No, o jirre, Benna, here comes anarchy. We’re in deep shit.’ He waved his hands in despair. ‘Did you see his hair? There was more time invested in that haircut than in this case. And then he tries to tell us what a John Doe is. Jissis . . .’ Cupido stared out over the wide plains.
‘What happened, Vaughn?’ Griessel knew Verwey was just the trigger. Something else had cocked his colleague’s gun. It must have been serious, because for Vaughn Cupido to brood for 444 kilometres was virtually unequalled.
Cupido took a deep breath. Another impotent wave of the hands. Then he stood in the car’s doorway. ‘Last night, when I was at Desiree’s . . .’ he began. A deep, drawn-out sigh. ‘. . . her son was there, Donovan. And he’s got this new friend, Brantley. What sort of name is Brantley, Benna? Brantley. I ask you. What were they thinking? No wonder the kid turned out to be this facetious little wise-ass. Anyway, Brantley is very quick with the lip, an’ he asks me, “Uncle, is Uncle in the Hawks?” And I say, “Yebo, yes, I am a captain in the Hawks, pappie.” And he tunes me, “My daddy says you’re captured.” And I say, “What do you mean, captured?” And he says, “You know, those businessmen from India who became rich and then became crooks and then captured the president . . . My daddy says the Hawks are captured too. Everyone is captured now. Those Indians own you, you’re getting rich from envelopes under the table, and the people are getting poor from all the capture.” Jissis, Benna, you know how I feel about the Hawks. They are my life. My pride. But that’s nothing. Brantley was messing with me in front of Donovan. For months I’ve been trying to win that boy’s trust, trying to connect with the kid, ’cause I’m serious about Desiree, and I know the road to a real relationship runs through her kid . . . Now Brantley’s throwing this capture idea around and I see Donovan looking at me like he knew this guy wasn’t going to turn out well.’
‘Ay,’ said Griessel.
‘So I sit there and think, I could say, “No, we’re not captured, us Cape Hawks, our Serious and Violent Crimes Unit, we’re still clean, even though the shit has hit the fan in Durban, and nobody knows what the hell is going on in Jo’burg,” but us, Benna, we work our asses off. We used to be one hundred and forty-two brave souls, five years back, and now we’re barely thirty, but fuck knows, we’re clean and we work. Night and day. And I sat there thinking, I can’t even take Donovan to work with me to show him we’re clean because the Department of Public Works is too damn useless to come fix our toilets and lifts, our lights and tiles. So what do I do, Benna? What must I do? And then we come here and Detective Sergeant Aubrey Verwey is this arrogant little moron, the future of the SAPS, with his “Okay, what must I do to become a Hawk?” All that ambition, but they don’t want to do the work for it. And then I thought, Everything’s going to hell, and I want to beat someone until they listen, Benna. Please fix the dykes. Somebody must fix the dykes ’cause I feel like that boy with all his fingers in the holes in the dyke, but it’s springing another leak and another, and I haven’t got any more fingers left. I’m going to lose Donovan and I’m going to lose Desiree, and I’m going to lose my pride. And then? What do I have left, then, Benna?’ Cupido walked back towards the veld. He stood beside the wire fence, hands on hips, staring out at nothing.
He came back at last, got into the car.
‘I can tell you you still have me. But the Department of Personal Works has also neglected me a bit. My lift’s stopped working long ago,’ said Griessel.
‘Hah!’ There was just a dash of humour in Cupido’s retort, but it brought a measure of relief.
‘The one thing this country has taught me, Vaughn,’ said Griessel, ‘things never get as bad as you think they will. And things are never as good as you want them to be. There was a time when I nearly gave up hope. When it looked like everything . . . The wheel turns. Things will come right, Vaughn. Sometime or other. Not so right that we’ll be dancing in the street. But they will get better.’
That was the best he could do for now.
Cupido turned the key. The Everest’s engine took. ‘I hope you’re right.’ Twenty kilometres further on, he said: ‘Give me that meat pie. Where’s the music you brought along?’
Griessel passed him his pie and a cold drink, took out the old David Kramer album, Jis Jis Jis, and pushed the CD into the player. Before Leeu-Gamka they were both singing along. Near Laingsburg, Cupido laughed, for the first time that day, at the lyrics of ‘Tjoepstil’. Just outside the town he said: ‘That was a good one, Benna. Department of Personal Works.’ And he chuckled quietly.
Beyond Touws River Griessel phoned Rovos Rail’s Cape Town office to ask for Mrs Thilini Scherpenzeel’s telephone number.
They put him through to Mrs Brenda Strydom, the railway company’s head of communications. She said they had read in the press that the case was in the hands of the Hawks now. If there was anything they could do . . .
‘We’d like to talk to you tomorrow.’
‘Of course. But please understand that not all our rail personnel will be here tomorrow.’
‘I understand,’ said Griessel.
‘We have compiled a list of contact details of everyone who was on the trip on the fifth to the seventh of August. You may contact them anytime. We will also fly the hospitality manager of that train to Cape Town if you want to talk to him in person. He has been placed on standby.’
‘Thank you very much. We can’t say yet if that will be necessary. But I’d like to interview Mrs Scherpenzeel as soon as possible.’
‘She has already agreed to allow us to make her contact details available to you. Here is her number . . .’
‘Hold on,’ he said, as he clamped the phone under his neck and took out a notebook and pen.
When she read it out to him, he said, ‘That’s an overseas number.’
‘Yes. She went back to the Netherlands a while ago. We did notify the detective.’
‘Sergeant Verwey?’
‘No, it was . . . Just a moment . . . Here it is, a Warrant Officer Bandjies.’
‘From Brackenfell.’ The man who had helped Robyn Johnson when she’d reported Johnson Johnson as missing.
‘That’s right. He contacted us after the disappearance. We notified him that Mrs Scherpenzeel had gone home. He said it wasn’t a problem.’
That was before Johnson Johnson’s body had been found, so Griessel couldn’t fault Bandjies’ decision. ‘Thank you,’ h
e said.
‘Mrs Scherpenzeel did request that you call in the morning between nine and twelve. She usually rests in the afternoon.’
That made him wonder how old she was. He asked.
‘Ninety-one,’ said Strydom.
Cupido was listening to the conversation while he drove. ‘How old, Benna? Twenty-nine, right?’ he whispered.
‘I see,’ said Griessel to Strydom.
‘And so active still,’ she said. ‘Wide awake and on the go. Incredible woman. You know she’s the widow of Joop Scherpenzeel?’
‘Who?’
‘Joop Scherpenzeel, the billionaire. The man who started the Sonnenborgh brewery. In Utrecht.’
‘No, I didn’t know.’
‘An exceptional woman,’ said Brenda Strydom. ‘Truly an exceptional woman.’
As he ended the call, Cupido was asking again how old Scherpenzeel was.
Griessel told him.
‘It’s just not my day, Benna. It’s just not my day.’
‘But she’s still very active, Vaughn. Wide awake and on the go. Widow of a billionaire too.’
‘You’re just a regular ray of sunshine, aren’t you, Benna?’
Chapter 10
August, Daniel Darret, Bordeaux
He didn’t recognise her immediately. Initially he was aware only of the strangeness of her appearance there: she was elegant and dressed with care, bright red lipstick under a jaunty sun hat. But she stood awkwardly, arms folded, as if she knew how obvious it was that she didn’t belong in the coarser texture of the Saint Michel neighbourhood.
Then he realised it was the giraffe lady. Instinctively he looked left and right, because it didn’t make sense for her to be alone – if she was here, she must have brought trouble with her, as she had before.
There was no one else, only Wackett on the threshold, and his first thought was: What does she want?
