by Deon Meyer
He walked back to the flat, showered and changed and drove to the hospital. Cliffy was resting, they told him. He was stable, in no danger. He asked them to tell him Benny had been there.
It was just before seven. He drove north with the N1, on a freeway still quiet — the Cape only got going by about ten o’clock on a Saturday. Down Brackenfell Boulevard and the familiar turnoffs to his house. He drove past the house only once, slowly. No sign of life. The lawn was cut, the postbox emptied, the garage door closed. A policeman’s inventory. He accelerated away because he did not want his thoughts to penetrate the front door.
He drank only coffee at a Wimpy in Panorama, because he had never been one for breakfast, and waited until the shops opened.
He found a two-seater couch and two armchairs at Mohammed “Love Lips” Faizal’s pawnshop in Maitland. The floral cover was slightly bleached. There were faint coffee stains on the arm of one chair. “This is too much, L.L.,” he said over the R600 price tag.
“For you, Sarge, five-fifty.”
Faizal had been in Pollsmoor for eighteen months for trafficking in stolen goods and he was reasonably certain three-quarters of the car radios had been brought in by the drug addicts of Observatory.
“Four hundred, L.L. Look at these stains.”
“One steam clean and it’s good as new, Sarge. Five hundred and I don’t make a cent.”
Faizal knew he was no longer a sergeant, but some things will never change. “Four-fifty.”
“Jissis, Sarge, I have a wife and kids.”
By chance he saw the bass guitar, just the head protruding from behind a steel cabinet of brand new tools.
“And that bass?”
“You into music, Sarge?”
“I have tickled the neck of a bass in my day.”
“Well bless my soul. It’s a Fender, Sarge, pawned by a wannabe rapper from Blackheath, but his ticket expires only next Friday. Comes with a new Dr. Bass times two-ten-b cabinet with a three-u built-in rack, two-two-fifty watt Eminence tens, and a LeSon tweeter.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“It’s a bloody big amp, Sarge. It’ll blow you away.”
“How much?”
“Are you serious, Sarge?”
“Maybe.”
“It’s a genuine pawn, Sarge. Clean.”
“I believe you, L.L. Relax.”
“Do you want to start a band now?” The suspicion was still there.
Griessel grinned. “And call it Violent Crimes?”
“So what then?”
“How much are you asking for the guitar and amp, L.L.?”
“Two thousand, for sure. If the wannabe doesn’t return the ticket.”
“Oh.” It was too much for him. He had no idea what these things cost. “Four-fifty for the sitting-room suite?”
Faizal sighed. “Four seventy-five and I’ll throw in free delivery and a six-piece coaster set with tasteful nudes depicted thereupon.”
He got the three bar stools at the place in Parow that sold only pine furniture and he paid R175 apiece, a scary amount, but he loaded them in the car, two on the back seat and one in front, and took them to his flat, because tomorrow his kids would be here and at least there was something for them to sit on. By eleven he was sitting with a newspaper at the laundromat, waiting for his clothes to be clean and dry so he could pack them in his new plastic laundry basket and iron them on his new ironing board with his new iron.
Then Matt Joubert phoned and he said: “I know you are off, Benny, but I need you.”
“What’s up, Boss?”
“It’s the guy with the assegai, but I’ll explain when you arrive. We are at Fisantekraal. On a smallholding. Come via Durbanville on Wellington Avenue, right on the R three-one-two and just opposite the railway bridge go left. Phone me when you get there and I will direct you.”
He checked the cycle on the washing machine. “Give me forty,” he said.
It was an equestrian establishment. High Grove Riding School. Riding lessons for adults and children. Outrides. He drove past the stables before he reached the house. Everything was in a state of partial dilapidation, as all these places were, never enough money to fix everything. Police cars, a SAPS van, Forensics’ little bus. The ambulance must have left already.
Joubert stood in a circle of four other detectives, just two from their unit, the other two probably from Durbanville station. When he stopped there were dogs, barking, tails wagging, two little ones and two black sheepdogs. He got out to the smell of manure and lucerne hay.
Joubert approached him with outstretched hand. “How’s it going, Benny?”
“Sober, thank you.”
Joubert smiled. “I can see. Are you suffering?”
“Only when I don’t drink.”
The commander laughed. “I respect your tenacity, Benny. Not that I ever doubted . . .”
“Then you must be the only one.”
“Come, so we can talk first.”
He led him to an empty stable and sat on a bale of hay. The sun projected perfect round dots on the floor through holes in the corrugated iron roof. “Sit down, Benny, this will take some time.”
He sat.
“The victim is Bernadette Laurens. She was released on Thursday on bail of fifty thousand rand. Charged with the murder of her partner’s five-year-old daughter. They lived together as a couple. Partner’s name is Elise Bothma. Last weekend the child was hit on the head with a billiard cue, one blow . . .”
“Lesbetarian?”
Joubert nodded. “Last night the dogs began to bark. Laurens got up to see what was going on. When she did not return to bed, Bothma went to look for her. Fifteen meters from the front door she found the body. One stab wound to the heart. I am waiting for the pathology report, but it could be the assegai man.”
“Because she killed a child.”
“And the stab wound.”
“The papers say it is an assegai woman.”
“The papers are full of shit. There’s no way a woman could have murdered the previous two victims. Enver Davids was a jailbird, well built, strong. According to the scene, Colin Pretorius had time to defend himself, but he didn’t stand a chance. Laurens was a strong woman, round about one point eight meters tall, eighty kilograms. And women shoot, they don’t stab with a blade. In any case, not multiple victims. As you know, the chance that a woman is involved in multiples is one per cent.”
“I agree.”
“One of the sheepdogs is limping this morning. Bothma believes it might have been kicked or hit in the process. But apart from that, not much. The Durbanville people will come and help to question the neighbors.”
Griessel nodded.
“I want you to take charge of the whole investigation, Benny.”
“Me?”
“For many reasons. In the first place, you are the most experienced detective in the unit. In the second, in my opinion, you are the best. Third, the commissioner mentioned your name. He’s very pleased with your work yesterday and he knows big trouble when he sees it. We have a circus on our hands, Benny. With the media. An avenging murderer, punishment for crimes against children, death penalty . . . you can imagine.”
“And fourth, I have the time, now that I no longer have a wife and kids.”
“That was not part of my reasoning. But I must say this: I thought it might help — keep you too busy to think of drink.”
“Nothing could keep me that busy.”
“The last thing that made me ask you is that I know you enjoy this kind of thing.”
“That’s true.”
“Are you in?”
“Of course I’m fucking in. I was in the moment you said ‘assegai.’ You could have saved the rest. You know that ‘positive feedback’ shit never worked with me.”
Joubert stood up. “I know. But it had to be said. You must know you are appreciated. And, oh, the commissioner says you have all the manpower you need. We must just let him
know where we need help. He will do the necessary. For the present, Keyter is your partner. He’s on his way . . .”
“Not a fock.”
“Cliffy is in hospital, Benny, and there is no one else available full-time . . .”
“Keyter is an idiot, Matt. He is a little braggart station detective with an attitude and a big head. He knows fuck-all. What happened to the manpower you just promised me?”
“For foot work, Benny. I can’t spare men from the unit. You know everyone is snowed under with work. And Keyter is new. He has to learn. You will have to mentor him.”
“Mentor him?”
“Make an investigator of him.”
“It’s times like this,” said Griessel, “that I know why I’m an alcoholic.”
24.
Griessel, Keyter and the dogs sat in Elise Bothma’s sitting room. Keyter, in a loose white shirt, tight jeans and new bright blue Nike Crosstrainers, asked the questions as if he were the senior investigator. “What sort of dog is this, ma’am? Looks like a Pomeranian cross, but don’t they bark a lot at night? I hear they bark so much, the genuine Pomeranians . . . looks like there is a bit of Dachshund in this one. You say you heard the dogs and then Miss Laurens went out to look?”
She was a fragile woman. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her voice gentle and she hadn’t been expecting the question at the tail end of the dog speech. “Yes,” she said. She sat hunched up and did not raise her head. Her fingers were entangled in a tissue. The room smelt strongly of dogs and rooibos tea.
“Do you know what time that was?” asked Keyter.
She said something, but they couldn’t hear it.
“You need to speak louder. We can’t hear a word you say.”
“It must have been just before two,” said Elise Bothma, and sank back, as if the effort was too great.
“But you are not sure?”
She just shook her head.
“Do we know what time she phoned the station?” Keyter asked Griessel.
He felt like getting up right there and taking the little shit outside to ask him who the fuck did he think he was, but this was not the time.
“Two thirty-five,” said Griessel.
“Okay,” said Keyter. “Let us say the dogs began barking just before two and she got up then to look. Did she take something with her? A weapon? Snooker stick or something?”
Bothma shuddered and Griessel decided this was the last one he would stand before taking Keyter outside. “A revolver.”
“A revolver?”
“Yes.”
“What revolver?”
“I don’t know. It was hers.”
“And where is the revolver now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did anyone find a revolver with the body?”
Griessel just shook his head.
“So the revolver is missing now?”
Bothma nodded slightly.
“And then, when did you get up to go and look?”
“I don’t know what time it was.”
“But why did you go out? What made you?”
“She was too long. She was gone too long.”
“And you found her lying there?”
“Yes.”
“Just as she was when we came?”
“Yes.”
“And nothing else?”
“No.”
“And then you phoned the station?”
“No.”
“Oh?”
“The emergency number. One zero triple one.”
“Oh. Then you waited in the house until they came?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” said Keyter. “Okay. That’s the story.” He stood up. “Thank you very much and sorry for the loss and all that.”
Bothma made the slight nod of her head again, but still no eye contact.
Griessel stood and Keyter moved towards the door. He was taken aback when he saw Griessel sitting down on the sofa next to the woman. He didn’t turn back but stood there in the doorway looking impatient.
“How long were you together?” Griessel asked her, gently and sympathetically.
“Seven years,” said Bothma, and pressed the tissue against her cheeks.
“What?” said Keyter from the door. Griessel looked at him meaningfully and held a finger to his lips. Keyter came back and sat down.
“She had a temper.” A statement. Bothma nodded.
“Did she sometimes hurt you?”
Nod.
“And sometimes hurt your child?”
The head said “yes” and tears ran.
“Why did you stay?”
“Because I have nothing.”
Griessel waited.
“What could I do? Where could I go? I don’t have a job. I worked for her. Did the books. She looked after us. Food and clothing. She taught Cheryl to ride. She was good with her most of the time. What could I do?”
“Were you angry with her over what she did to Cheryl?”
The thin shoulders shook.
“But you stayed with her?”
She put her small hands over her face and wept. Griessel put a hand in his pocket and took out a handkerchief. He held it out to her. It was a while before she saw it.
“Thank you.”
“I know it’s hard,” he said.
She nodded.
“You were very angry with her.”
“Yes.”
“You thought of doing something to her.”
Bothma paused before she said anything. On the carpet a sheepdog scratched itself. “Yes.”
“Like stabbing her with a knife?”
Bothma shook her head at that.
“The revolver?”
Nod.
“Why didn’t you?”
“She hid it.”
He waited.
“I didn’t kill her,” said Elise Bothma and looked up at him. He saw she had green eyes. “I didn’t.”
“I know,” said Griessel. “She was too strong for you.”
He waited until Keyter was in his car and then he stood at the window and he talked quietly, because there were still other policemen in the yard. “I want you to understand a few things fucking well,” he said, and Keyter looked up at him in surprise.
“Number one. You will not open your mouth again during questioning, unless I give you permission. Do you understand?”
“Jissis. What did I do?”
“Do you understand?”
“Okay, okay.”
“Number two. I did not ask for you. You were given to me. With the instruction that I must teach you to be a detective. Number three. To learn, you will have to listen. Do you understand?”
“I am a fucking detective.”
“You are a fucking detective? Tell me, mister fucking detective, where do you start a murder investigation? Where is the first place you look?”
“Okay,” said Keyter reluctantly.
“Okay what, Jaaa-mie?”
“Okay, I get it.”
“Get what?”
“What you said.”
“Say it, Jaaa-mie.”
“Why do you keep calling me, Jaaa-mie? I get it, okay? First you look near the victim.”
“Did you look there?”
Keyter said nothing, just held his steering wheel in the ten-to-two position.
“You are not a wart on a detective’s backside. Two years at Table View Station says nothing. Burglaries and vehicle theft don’t count here, Jaaa-mie. You button your lip and listen and learn. Or you can go to Matt Joubert now and tell him you can’t work with me.”
“Okay,” said Keyter.
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I won’t talk.”
“And learn.”
“And learn.”
“Then you can get out again, because we are not finished here.” He took a step back to make room for the door. Keyter got out, shut the door and folded his arms on his chest. He leaned back against his car.
“Are we sure
that she didn’t do it?” asked Griessel.
Keyter shrugged. When he saw that was not sufficient, he said “No,” cautiously.
“Did you hear what I said inside there?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think she could have done it?”
“No.”
“But she wanted to?”
“Yes.”
“Now think, Jaaa-mie. Put yourself in her shoes.”
“Huh?”
“Think the way she would think,” said Griessel, and suppressed the impulse to cast his eyes heavenwards.
Keyter unfolded his arms and pressed two fingers to his temples.
Griessel waited.
“Okay,” said Keyter.
Griessel waited.
“Okay, she is too small to stab Laurens.” He looked at Griessel for approval. Griessel nodded.
“And she can’t get her hands on the revolver.”
“That’s right.”
The fingers worked against his temples.
“No, fuck, I don’t know,” said Keyter with an angry gesture and straightened up.
“How would you feel?” said Griessel, patience dragging at his voice like lead. “Your child is dead. And it’s your lover who did it. How would you feel? You hate, Jamie. You sit here in the house and you hate. She is sitting in the police cells and you know she will get out on bail, sometime or other. And you wish you could beat her to death for what she has done. You imagine it in your head, how you shoot her, or stab her. And then on the radio you hear about this man who has his knife in for people who mess with children. Or you read the papers. What do you do, Jamie? You weep and you hope. You wish. Because you are small and weak and you need a superhero. You think: what if he comes with his big assegai? And you like thinking about it. But the week is too long, Jamie. Later you start thinking: what if he doesn’t come? Bothma said the revolver was hidden. So ten to one she had looked for it. Why, Jamie? In case the assegai man didn’t come. And then, what is the next logical step? You look for the assegai man. And where do you begin to look? Where do you look for someone who has it in for Laurens just as much as you? Because she had a temper. A hard woman. Where do you look?”
