by Deon Meyer
Standing on the lawn of the guesthouse, Griessel brought them up to date with the details. He had to concentrate, because the weariness was a burden growing steadily heavier. And he was increasingly self-conscious about his appearance, and the looks that he was getting from his colleagues. He asked Ndabeni and Fillander, the gentlest of the officers, to question the farm workers, and told Radebe and Liebenberg to talk to the bodyguards.
Then he and Cupido walked to the veranda to hear whether Forensics were finished yet. The wind blew suddenly chill again.
‘Global warming?’ said Cupido as he looked up at the dark clouds once more looming in the east. ‘Seems to me every winter is colder and wetter.’
Griessel’s cellphone made a cheerful sound in his trouser pocket. He knew who and what it was.
His colleague looked keenly at him. ‘But that’s an iPhone you got there.’
‘Yes,’ said Griessel.
‘Since when?’
‘Friday.’
Cupido’s eyebrows remained raised.
‘Alexa gave it to me,’ said Griessel.
Alexa Barnard. The new love in his life, the once famous singer, now a rehabilitated alcoholic, one hundred and fifty days sober now, and slowly rebuilding her career.
‘The iPhone 5?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Jy wietie?’ Cupido chortled at his ignorance.
Griessel took the phone out of his pocket and showed it to him.
‘Yip, iPhone 5C. It’s not an Android, but Benny, broe’, dai’s kwaai. Welcome to the twenty-first century. You have graduated from appie to pro.’
Over the last few months Cupido had been one of Griessel’s technology mentors. He had been nagging Benny for a long time to get an Android smartphone.‘An HTC, Benna. Just don’t go and get a Samsung. Those guys are the new Illuminati, taking over the world, gimmick by gimmick. Never trust a phone company that makes fridges, pappie.’
At the front door of the guesthouse Cupido called inside: ‘Jimmy, are you done?’
Griessel quickly read the SMS on his screen. Missed you. Good luck. Can’t wait for tonight. Have a surprise for you. Xxx
From inside the house came the reply: ‘Close enough. Just put shoe covers and gloves on again.’
They obeyed in silence, and picked their way through the hall, sitting room, and down the passage. They found Thick and Thin in the last bedroom, busy packing away fingerprint paraphernalia.
‘Found a couple of weird things,’ said Arnold.
‘So did we,’ said Cupido. ‘You two.’
‘Sticks and stones,’ said Jimmy.
‘Water off a duck’s back,’ said Arnold. ‘Firstly, there is blood spray on the front door, which doesn’t make sense with the way the bodies are lying.’
‘Inside or outside?’ asked Griessel.
‘On the outside of the door.’
‘The door was open when I got here. The blood could have come from inside.’
‘We considered that,’ said Jimmy, ‘but it still doesn’t make sense.’
‘Secondly,’ said Arnold, ‘we found another cartridge in the hallway. In amongst the arum lilies. The same calibre, the same cobra engraving.’
‘One shooter for both victims,’ said Jimmy.
‘Thirdly, all the man’s clothes are new,’ said Arnold. ‘As in brand new. And I mean everything. Even the underpants.’
‘The suitcase too,’ said Jimmy. ‘Practically out of the box.’
‘And his passport.’
‘Where’s the passport?’ asked Griessel.
‘Top drawer, on the right, in a little leather cover, new, fancy,’ said Arnold.
Griessel stepped carefully over the rucked-up carpet and the bed linen on the floor, and pulled open the drawer of the bedside table. Inside was a shiny leather pouch. He picked it up, unzipped it. There were boarding pass stubs for Air France and SAA inside. They showed that Paul Anthony Morris had taken Flight AF0990 from Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris to Johannesburg on Thursday at 23.20, and on Friday, Flight SA337 from Johannesburg to Cape Town. Business class, both times.
The passport was tucked into a compartment of the pouch. Griessel pulled it out. It seemed very new still, the red cover with its gold lettering and national coat of arms was smooth and without creases or marks.
He opened it, paged to the photo ID. It showed a man in his fifties with a long, symmetrical face, no hint of a smile. His hair covered his ears, but neatly trimmed, dark, with grey wings at the temples. He looked slightly downwards at the camera, which made Griessel wonder whether he was tall.
To the right of the photo was his date of birth – 11 September 1956 – and the date the passport was issued. Barely a week ago.
Cupido came and stood beside Griessel as he paged over to the immigration stamps. There were only two: France, last Thursday, and South Africa, Friday.
‘Brand new,’ said Cupido.
‘That’s what we were trying to explain to you,’ said Jimmy with an exaggerated long-suffering sigh.
‘Did you see a wallet anywhere?’ Griessel asked.
‘No,’ Arnold said. ‘If he has one, it went along. Or it’s somewhere else in the house.’
‘Anything else?’
Jimmy put his hand in his briefcase and took out a transparent evidence bag. ‘A cable tie,’ he said, and held the bag up. ‘It was here, half under the bed.’
Griessel took the bag and inspected it closely. The cable had been tied, and then cut.
‘Just the one?’
‘That’s right.’
Griessel let the police photographer take pictures of the passport first – the outside page, stamp page, and information pages. He asked Cupido to travel with the photographer, wait for prints, and take them to the British Consulate. ‘Be diplomatic,Vaughn,please . . .’
‘Aren’t I always?’
‘And phone the Giraffe first, find out if he’s greased the wheels yet.’
‘Sure, Benna.’
He would rather have gone himself, so he could think. About the case. About his sins. And also because Cupido was the least diplomatic of all the Hawks. But he was JOC leader. For now he would have to stay here.
He jogged through the drizzle to the garage where Radebe and Liebenberg were questioning the two Body Armour employees.
The four men stood in a tight circle, which they opened up to include Griessel. Liebenberg introduced him to the two bodyguards, Stiaan Conradie and Allistair Barnes. The same short haircut, broad shoulders, black suits, and white shirts as the victims. Their faces were grim.
‘I’m sorry about your colleagues,’ said Griessel.
They nodded.
There was an uncomfortable silence, eventually broken by Captain Willem Liebenberg who spoke while referring to his notebook: ‘They relieved the night shift every morning at seven-thirty, and worked twelve hours, till nineteen-thirty. The procedure for handing over was a cellphone call from outside, with “green” and “red” as code words for safe or unsafe. Then the front door would be unlocked from inside, and locked again. They said the British guy . . . Morris, was friendly, but not very talkative—’
‘You do understand, we don’t encourage conversation,’ said Barnes.
‘It distracts us from our work,’ said Conradie.
‘So they actually know very little about the man,’ said Liebenberg. ‘He’s about one point eight metres tall, more or less ninety kilograms, black hair, brown eyes. He speaks with a distinct British accent. Every morning after breakfast, and every afternoon after four, he went for an escorted walk of about forty minutes here on the farm, and every—’
‘Did he request that? The walk?’ asked Griessel.
Conradie replied: ‘We give the clients a portfolio of choices. That was one that he chose.’
A portfolio of choices. If Cupido had been here, he would be going on about that: An ex-policeman talking fancy.
‘And that’s safe?’
‘Safety is relative,’
said Barnes. ‘Unless the client divulges the nature of the threat. Which Mr Morris did not do.’
Radebe shook his head. ‘Did you ask him?’
‘Miss Louw does that. The background research. She said the client chose not to divulge. Our responsibility is to convey the portfolio of choices to the client, and to accommodate them. If he believes the threat is of such a nature that it’s safe to go for a walk, we must accept that,’ said Conradie.
‘He asked us if we were sure no one had followed them from the airport,’ said Barnes.
‘Were you?’
‘If there were any signs, Fikter and Minnaar would have reported it.’
‘OK,’ said Griessel.
7
The bodyguards said Morris sat in the dining room during the day with his computer and iPad, and in the evening, by the fire with a book that he had found on the sitting-room bookshelves. Sometimes he just stood at the window in the dining room, looking out over the Franschhoek Valley. ‘I never knew this country was so beautiful,’ he had apparently once said.
Griessel asked them where he kept the computer and iPad.
‘He didn’t. Every time that we left, they were still on the dining-room table,’ said Conradie.
‘And at mealtimes?’
‘Morris ate in the dining room; we ate in the kitchen.’
Conradie saw Griessel frown. ‘It’s protocol,’ he said.
‘Did he have a cellphone?’
‘He must have. We never saw him with it,’ said Conradie.
‘But he could have used it in his room at night when you weren’t with him.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘He never asked you to phone anyone?’
‘No.’
‘Is there Wi-Fi in the guesthouse?’ asked Radebe.
‘Yes.’
Radebe made a note.
‘This place . . .’ Griessel indicated the wine farm. ‘I still don’t understand why you brought him here. It’s not hard to get in, if you really want to.’
Barnes frowned, sighed softly, and said: ‘Personal security is as good as the client’s briefing. We have safe houses and safe apartments that a full SWAT team would not get into, if there were enough PSOs that knew what they—’
‘PSOs?’
‘Personal Security Operatives.’
‘OK.’
‘But this guy said nothing about the nature of the threat. We can’t force him. The protocol is, if they don’t tell us anything specific, the boss describes all the options, and then he has to decide for himself.’
‘This place is fine if no one knows you’re here,’ said Conradie.
‘But someone did know he was here,’ said Griessel.
The bodyguards nodded, uneasily.
‘How? What are the possibilities?’
‘He might have told someone,’ said Barnes.
‘Before he came,’ said Conradie. ‘Or while he was here. He could have sent someone an email . . .’
‘What else? The men who abducted him are professionals.’
The silence stretched out longer, before Conradie said: ‘If the pros follow you . . . It’s not always possible to spot. If they’re very good. If they use two or three cars. If they attach a GPS tracker to your car.’
‘That’s it,’ said Barnes. ‘The only possibilities.’
Griessel nodded. ‘And he never seemed afraid or concerned?’
‘No. He was relaxed. And a nice guy. One of the easier clients we’ve had in the past few years.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Radebe. ‘Anything that he wanted?’
‘Yesterday Morris asked for South African financial magazines and newspapers. I bought them yesterday evening at the CNA at the Waterfront, and brought them along this morning.’
They took down both bodyguards’ details, and let them leave.
‘I will follow up the Wi-Fi, Benny,’ said Radebe. ‘Find out who the service provider is for this place. Philip and his guys can get the logs.’
Over the past months Griessel had worked hard at his limited technological knowledge. Cupido and Captain Philip van Wyk of IMC, the Hawks’ information management centre, were good, enthusiastic teachers. He didn’t know very much yet, but he did know it was possible to track someone’s Internet footprints in that way.
‘Thanks, Ulinda. IMC will have to look at cellphone calls as well. Morris must have had one. Any foreign numbers . . . and if we can identify his phone . . .’
‘. . . we can trace him. These bodyguards would have phoned to be let in the door; if we can get the phone numbers of the two victims, it will make it easier to track Morris. Same cellphone tower, if you get my drift.’
Griessel nodded. He should have thought of that. ‘Vaughn is in the city – I will ask him to get that from Body Armour. Thanks, Ulinda.’
‘No problem.’
The rain whispered softly on the roof.
Griessel and Liebenberg searched the big guesthouse from top to bottom. Griessel was in Morris’s bedroom carefully going through everything again when Fillander and Ndabeni returned from questioning the farm workers. They came and stood in the doorway, their heads and shoulders shiny and wet with rain.
‘Nothing,’ said Fillander. ‘The ones who were here didn’t hear or see anything unusual. There are four labourers who left on Saturday for Robertson for the weekend. Family funeral apparently, they will only be returning today. Maybe too much of a coincidence, Benny. I asked that they phone us when the people are back.’
‘Thanks,’ said Griessel.
‘What’s next, Benny?’ Ndabeni asked.
‘I need you to walk the farm perimeter,’ he said. ‘The perpetrators did not enter at the main gate, so there might be signs somewhere . . .’
‘OK, Benny.’
‘I’m really sorry, but I don’t trust the station uniforms to do a thorough job in this weather. And if we wait until the rain stops, there might be nothing left. Ask Christel de Haan, the hospitality manager if you can borrow umbrellas.’
‘OK, Benny, no problem.’
And then he was alone again, and he picked up the overturned desk chair and sat down so that he could think and get the weight off his feet.
Jissis, he was getting old. Two, three years ago he wouldn’t have been so poegaai after an exhausting night of . . .
Better stick to the matter at hand.
He tried to visualise it, the entire event: Last night. Just after nine. The suspects hiding here somewhere, watching Scarlett January and her father, Cyril, carry the trolley down the steps, Scarlett wheeling it away.
One gunman for both victims, Thick and Thin had said. But to abduct a man would be hard for just one person.
One gunman, with helpers?
They hide until the bodyguards open the door, survey the area, and let Cyril out.
They wait until the door is closed again. They close in on Cyril. Pistol to the head. They take him back to the front veranda. Phone them inside. Tell them you forgot something.
Cyril calls.
They shoot him from behind. Blood spray on the outside of the front door. With a silencer? Probably, as no one on the farm heard anything, and the sound of a shot would have alerted the bodyguards inside.
Why hadn’t Cyril used the alarm code over the phone?
If they don’t open, if anything goes wrong, you’re dead.
Shoot Cyril before the door opens. Ram the door so the bodyguard staggers backwards. Shoot the bodyguard. He falls back, in the hallway.
The second bodyguard is in his room, deep inside the house. He hears something, grabs his pistol, comes running down the passage. The suspects are already in the sitting room. The executioner shoots the second bodyguard, first through the hand, then in the head.
The executioner gets Morris. Pistol to the head, but it doesn’t help, he puts up a fight. Wrestles him to the ground. Makes him lie down. Handcuffs his wrists with cable ties.
Why snip off one cable tie? Was it too tight?
&
nbsp; Morris’s wallet is missing. Morris’s computer and iPad are missing. Probably a cellphone too, though the bodyguards have never seen it. The clothes were strewn about, the cupboard moved.
At first they tie Morris to the bed with a spare cable tie – or something else – while they search for something? And cut it loose when they take him away from the house?
Why take the wallet, computer and iPad?
What else is missing?
What were they looking for?
Why not shoot Morris too, why kidnap him?
There was only one person who could answer those questions: Paul Anthony Morris. And they didn’t have the faintest idea who he was.
Suddenly Griessel’s cellphone rang in his pocket, the old-fashioned ringtone that Alexa had chosen. He took it out.
‘Vaughn?’
‘Benna, the photos of the passport are now in the hands of the Deputy Consul General of the British Empire, Madam Carlisle. She says it will take a day or two.’
‘I’ll phone the Giraffe,Vaughn. Maybe he can do something.’
‘Where do you want me?’
He hesitated before asking: ‘Can you go see Louw again?’
‘Of course. I’m not scared of a bit of lesbetarian,’ he said with glee.
Griessel wondered if it wasn’t a big mistake.‘Vaughn, we must work nicely with her. She’s lost some of her men.’
‘Sure, Benna, I’m cool.’
‘Get Morris’s email address and all the documents that he filled in. And we want his cellphone number, Vaughn. Ask whether she kept records of all the calls last week. And the cellphone numbers of the two deceased as well.’
‘I’m all over it. Like a rash.’
8
On the train back to Cape Town, Tyrone Kleinbooi switched off, leaned back, swaying with the motion of the carriage. He liked riding the train. It was an escape from his industry, here in third class. Everyone poor, but there was a hint of hope, as though you were on your way to something better. When he was down, if he had had a hard day at the office, he would often take the train and go somewhere. Lentegeur, Bellville, Simon’s Town, he had twice gone all the way to Worcester by Metrorail, and then he dreamed of Europe by rail, one day. To Barcelona, the Holy Grail of pickpocketing, Uncle Solly always called it.
