by Deon Meyer
COBRA
Also by Deon Meyer
Dead Before Dying
Dead at Daybreak
Heart of the Hunter
Devil’s Peak
Blood Safari
Thirteen Hours
Trackers
Seven Days
DEON
MAYER
COBRA
Translated from Afikaans
by K. L. Seegers
Atlantic Monthly Press
New York
Copyright © 2014 by Deon Meyer
Jacket design by Marc Cohen/MJC Design
Jacket art credits: cobra © Vmaster/shutterstock.com,
bullet © Al Mueller/shutterstock.com
Author photograph © NB Publishers
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First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK Company
Originally published in Afrikaans in 2013 as Kobra by Human & Rousseau
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-0-8021-2324-4
eISBN 978-0-8021-9191-5
Atlantic Monthly Press
an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
154 West 14th Street
New York, NY 10011
Distributed by Publishers Group West
www.groveatlantic.com
1
The rain drummed down on the corrugated iron roof. Ten past eight in the morning. Captain Benny Griessel clicked open his homicide briefcase on the wall of the wide, high veranda, removed the shoe protectors first, then the thin, transparent latex gloves. He pulled them on, vaguely aware of respectful eyes on him, the uniforms and two station detectives who sheltered in the open garage beyond the curtain of rain. His anxiety and fatigue faded, his focus was on what awaited him here in this big old house.
The heavy front door stood open. He approached the threshold. The grey morning cast the entry hall into deep dusk, the second victim appeared as a dark, shapeless mass. He stood still for a moment, holding his breath. Considering the advice of Doc Barkhuizen: Don’t internalise. Distance yourself.
What did that mean, now?
He looked for a light switch, found it inside, just beside the door jamb. He clicked it on. High up against the baroque ceiling a chandelier shone white and bright. It did nothing to dispel the chill. The man lay outstretched on the gleaming oak floor, four metres from the door. Black shoes, black trousers, white shirt, light grey tie, top button undone. Arms outstretched, a pistol gripped in the right hand. Mid-thirties. Lean.
Griessel warily stepped closer. He saw the bullet wound in the forehead, diagonally above the left eye. A thin streak of blood, now almost black, ran down to the right. Under the head, which was turned to the left, a puddle, thicker, saucer-sized. Exit wound.
He felt relief at the simplicity of this death, the swiftness of it.
He sighed, long and slow, trying to rid his body of this tension.
It didn’t work.
He surveyed the hallway. On an antique table to the right was a light blue vase filled with a green and white mass of fresh arum lilies. On the opposite side, against the left-hand wall, was a hat stand beside an umbrella rack. Six old-fashioned portraits hung on the wall in heavy oval frames. Dignified men and women stared out of each one.
And at the back, deeper in, a sitting room opened out between the two pillars.
He made his calculations from the position of the body, the probable trajectory of the shot, so he could walk where it would least disturb the invisible blood spray and spatter. He stepped around and crouched down beside the pistol, saw the Glock emblem on the barrel, and after it 17 Gen Austria 9x19.
Griessel sniffed the barrel. It hadn’t been fired. He stood up.
Most likely the shooter had stood in the doorway, the victim more or less in the centre of the hallway. If the murder weapon was a pistol, the casing would have been ejected to the right. He searched for it, didn’t find it. Perhaps he had used a revolver. Perhaps it had bounced off the wall, lay under the victim. Perhaps the shooter had picked it up.
The exit wound meant the bullet would have hit the wall somewhere. He drew an imaginary line that led him to the sitting room.
He trod carefully, making a wide detour around the corpse, past the pillars, where he picked up the faint scent of burnt wood. The hall chandelier illuminated only a small track in the spacious room and it cast a long Griessel shadow, sending him in search of another light switch. He found three in a row, just behind the pillar, pressed them one by one, and turned around. Soft lighting. Thick wooden beams in the ceiling. Shelves against the walls, filled with leather-bound books. A huge Persian carpet, silver and blue, giant sofas and easy chairs arranged in two separate seating areas. Coffee tables, gleaming, golden wood. Too many lamps and vases, combined with the fussy wallpaper, all intended to create an impression of old-world elegance. In the centre, stately and impressive, was the great hearth, the embers cold. And to the right, just visible behind a dark blue chair – the shoes and trouser legs of the third victim. In the background, on the stark white passage wall, he saw a bright fan of blood spray, like a cheerful, surreal artwork.
Griessel noted the similarities, and unease settled on his heart.
The body in the passage had the same military haircut, the same build – broad-shouldered, with a lean fitness – as the one in the hallway. Also the same black shoes, black trousers, and white shirt. Another bloodied Glock beside a ruined hand. Only the tie was missing this time.
Another head wound, between the temple and the right eye. But the first bullet must have hit the hand – two joints of the finger lay rolled against the white-painted skirting board.
And then he spotted the two shells shining dully on the edge of the carpet in the sitting room. The shooter’s, had to be, lying there within ten centimetres of each other. His mind started to play its old tricks; he heard and smelled exactly how it had all happened. The murderer was a shadow slipping through this space, pistol stretched in front of him, he saw the man in the passage, two shots, the hand was a small scarlet explosion. The intense agony, short-lived, before death, no time for fear, just the short silent scream into eternity.
Griessel let out an exclamation, deliberate and loud over the drumming rain, to suppress it all. He hadn’t had enough sleep. The fucking stress of the past weeks. He must pull himself together now.
He walked carefully around the body, crouched down beside the pistol. Exactly the same as the other one. Glock 17 Gen 4. He sniffed. No smell of cordite.
He stood up, eyes scanning around him, and further down the passage he found the two holes in the right-hand wall.
He had to tread carefully, because the body, the finger, the pistol, and the blood covered the full width of the passage. H
e hopped from one foot to the other until he was over it. Bent down at the holes. Both bullets were there, buried deep in the plaster. That would help.
Then he went in search of the fourth victim.
The first room, up the passage to the left, had the door open, curtains drawn. He switched on the light. There was a suitcase on the double bed, open. A blue-grey tie, and an empty black shoulder holster lay on the dressing table. In the en-suite bathroom, shaving material and a toothbrush were neatly arranged. Apart from that, nothing.
He walked to the second bedroom. Tidy. Two single beds. A small travelling case at the foot of one. A jacket on a hanger, hooked into the handle of the dark brown wardrobe. A toilet bag hung from a rail in the adjoining bathroom.
He walked out into the passage again, opened a door to the right. It was a big bathroom, gleaming white, with a bath on ball-and-claw feet, a washbasin on a marble slab, bidet, and a toilet.
The next two bedrooms were empty, with no sign of occupation. The last one was right at the end, on the left. The door was open, the room inside almost in darkness. He switched on the light.
Outside the rain stopped abruptly, leaving an eerie silence.
It was a large room. In chaos. The loose carpet lay rucked up. The double bed was askew, the mattress and bedding thrown off. The chair in front of a beautiful antique desk lay on its back, the standard lamp on the desktop was overturned, all the drawers were pulled open. And the doors of the massive wardrobe stood wide too, a pile of clothes on the ground. A large suitcase in the corner, upside down.
‘Benna!’ A sharp interruption to the softly dripping silence, from the front door, startling him.
Captain Vaughn Cupido had arrived.
‘I’m coming,’ he shouted back. His voice echoed hoarsely through the huge empty house.
Cupido stood on the threshold in his long black coat, a new piece he confessed he had picked up ‘at a factory shop in Salt River, for a song, pappie; classic detective style, the Hawk in Winter, I’m telling you’.
And as Griessel carefully negotiated the hall, he was suddenly conscious of his own crumpled trousers. The thick blue jersey and jacket hid his shirt at least. Yesterday’s clothes. And Cupido wouldn’t miss that.
‘Howzit, Benna. How many are there?’
Griessel walked out onto the veranda, began taking off the gloves. The dark mass of clouds was gone; the sun was trying to break through, making him blink. The view was suddenly breathtaking, the Franschhoek valley unveiled in front of him.
‘One of the farm workers is lying in the vineyard. There’s been too much rain; I haven’t been able to get there. And there are two inside.’
‘Jissis . . .’ Then Cupido looked sharply at him. ‘You OK, Benna?’
He knew his eyes were bloodshot, and he hadn’t shaved. He nodded. ‘Just slept badly,’ Benny Griessel lied. ‘Let’s go and look at the one out there.’
The first victim lay on his back, between two rows of vines – a coloured man, dressed in what looked like a dark red uniform with a silver trim. Cupido and Griessel stood on the edge of the lawn, just four metres from the body. They could see the large exit wound between the eyes.
‘He was shot from behind. And dragged over there.’ Griessel pointed at the two faint, washed-out furrows that ended at the man’s heels. ‘And these are the footprints of the labourer who found him lying here this morning.’
‘It’s a brother,’ said Cupido, and then, accusingly, ‘In a slave outfit.’
‘He works at the guesthouse. According to the—’
‘This is a guesthouse? I thought it was a wine farm.’
‘It’s a wine farm with a guesthouse—’
‘As if they don’t make enough money. You’re sure you’re all right?’
‘I’m fine,Vaughn.’
‘Did you go home last night?’
‘No. According to the—’
‘Was there a case I don’t know about?’
‘Vaughn, I worked late. You know how the admin piles up. And then I fell asleep.’ He hoped Cupido would just let it go.
‘In your office?’ Sceptical.
‘Yes. The station—’
‘So that’s how you got the call so early?’
‘That’s right. According to the station detectives, around about nine last night this worker was supposed to come to top up the firewood and check that all the guests were happy. When he didn’t come home, his wife thought he must have gone out on the town . . . Then the morning shift found him here. Then they saw the other one in the hallway. The trouble is, they say there were three.’
‘Now you’re losing me, man. I thought there were three?’
‘There were three guests. Inside.’
‘So there shoulda been four victims?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘So where’s number four?’
‘That’s the big question. The thing is . . . We have three head shots, Vaughn. The other one in there was shot through his pistol hand and in the head, the two shells are lying this close together . . .’
It took a second for Cupido to grasp. ‘Jissis, Benna. Double tap.’
‘On a moving target . . .’
Cupido merely shook his head in awe. ‘That’s sharp shooting, pappie . . .’
‘What bothers me most: the last bedroom shows signs of a fight. Now why would a man who can shoot like that wrestle with a person?’
Cupido looked at Griessel anxiously. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’
Benny didn’t want to say it, the implications were serious. He merely nodded.
‘There’s a newspaper photographer at the gate, Benna.’
‘Fuck,’ said Griessel.
‘Kidnapping. When last did we see that?’
‘There’s more trouble. Both the men inside look like . . . If I think of their build, hair, the clothes, both carrying Glock Seventeens. I think they are law enforcement. Or military, or Spooks . . .’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘And a man who shoots like that, faultless . . . He’s had training. Task force, Special Forces, Intelligence . . . Something like that. A pro.’
Cupido turned around and stared at the house. ‘Shit. Trouble, Benna. Big trouble.’
Griessel sighed. ‘That’s right.’
‘We’ll have to get moving, pappie.’
‘I’ll have to call the Giraffe. They’ll have to manage the press.’
They didn’t move. They stood side by side, heads bowed – Cupido a head taller than the stocky Griessel – mulling over all the implications, hesitating before the chaos that they knew would ensue.
Until Cupido, with the tails of his Hawk in Winter coat flapping in the icy wind, put his hand protectively on Benny’s shoulder.
‘Benna, at least there’s one silver lining.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The way you look this morning, I thought you must’ve gone on a bender again. But a dronkgat couldn’t do it; you couldn’t have figured all that out if you’d been pissed . . .’
He turned and began to walk towards the guesthouse.
2
Tyrone Kleinbooi saw the aunty climb up into the third-class carriage, here where the Metrorail train 3411 stood at Platform 4 of Bellville Station, just before 8.50 on the Monday morning. She was clearly in her best outfit, wearing a sober headscarf, clutching her large handbag with both hands. He shifted up a little to make the empty seat beside him seem more alluring.
She looked at the seat, and at him, and then she headed towards him, as he knew she would. Because he looked respectable. Even features, as Uncle Solly used to say. You’ve got even features, Ty. It’s a boon in this industry.
Industry. As if they worked for a company.
She sat down with a sigh, balancing the handbag on her lap.
‘Morning, aunty,’ he said.
‘Morning.’ She looked him up and down, taking in his tall, skinny frame, and asked: ‘Now where do you come from?’
; ‘From the city, aunty,’ he said.
‘And where are you going to?’
‘Stellenbosch, aunty.’
‘You swotting there?’
‘No, aunty.’
‘Then what you doing there?’
‘Going to see my sister, aunty.’
‘So what’s she doing there?’
‘She’s swotting, aunty. B.Sc. Human Life. First year.’
‘That’s a grand course, nè? What do you do with that?’
The train lurched, and pulled out of the station.
‘There’s lots you can do, but she wants to become a doctor. She didn’t make the selection last year, now she’s trying to get in like this.’
‘A medical doctor?’
‘Ja, aunty. She’s a slim kind, very clever.’
‘I would say so. Medical doctor nogal. And you? What do you do?’
‘I’m a pickpocket, aunty.’
She gripped her handbag more tightly for a moment, but then she laughed. ‘Ag, you,’ she said, and bumped her elbow in his ribs. ‘What do you do, really?’
‘I’m a painter. But not pictures. Houses.’
‘I didn’t take you for a manual labourer, but that’s good honest work,’ she said, ‘for a young lat like you.’
‘So where is aunty going to?’
‘Also to Stellenbosch. Also to my sister. She struggles with gout. It’s so bad she has to go and lie down . . .’ And Tyrone Kleinbooi, dark as full-roast coffee beans, and even-featured, nodded politely and listened attentively, because he really did enjoy it. He was only vaguely aware that the rain had stopped. And that was good. Rain was bad for his industry. Pickings had been slim this month.
The modern farmyard of La Petite Margaux was higher up the mountain, minimalist, stacked glass squares held in almost invisible frames of concrete and steel.
The German owner met Griessel and Cupido at the front door, clearly disturbed. A large, bald man with the neck and shoulders of a weightlifter, he introduced himself as Marcus Frank. ‘It is a great tragedy,’ he said, with just a hint of a Teutonic accent, as he led them to the sitting room. The ceiling was two storeys high. On both sides was a wide, impressive view over mountain and valley.
