Devil's Peak: A Novel

by Deon Meyer

  34.

  He dreamed wild, mixed-up dreams that drove him from his sleep and made him get up twice before he finally dropped off again at three in the morning. He was busy talking to Anna, a conversation of no use or direction, when the cell phone woke him. He grabbed it, missed, the handset fell from the windowsill and landed somewhere on the bed. He found it by the light of the screen.

  “Yes?” He couldn’t disguise his confusion.

  “Inspector Griessel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry to wake you. Tshabalala here, from Oudtshoorn detective branch. It’s about your assegai murderer.”

  “Yes?” He felt for his watch on the windowsill.

  “It seems he was in Uniondale last night.”

  “Uniondale?” He found his watch and checked it. 04:21.

  “We have a child batterer here, Frederik Johannes Scholtz, out on bail with his wife. Stabbed to death in his house last night.”

  “Uniondale,” he repeated. “Where is Uniondale?”

  “It’s about a hundred and twenty kilos east of here.”

  It made no sense. Too far from the Cape. “How do you know it’s my assegai man?”

  “The wife of the deceased. The suspect locked her in the bedroom. But she could hear what was going on . . .”

  “Did she see him?”

  “No, he locked the door while she was asleep. She heard Scholtz shout from inside the house. And he said the guy had an assegai.”

  “Wait, wait,” said Griessel. “He locked her in the bedroom? How did he get the man out of the bedroom?”

  “The woman says they don’t share a bed anymore, since the child died. He slept in the sitting room. She woke up when Scholtz began shouting. She heard him say: ‘He’s got an assegai.’ But there’s something else . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “She said he shouted it was a black man.”

  “A black man?”

  “She said he shouted: ‘There’s a kaffir in the house.’”

  It didn’t fit. A black man? That’s not how he had pictured the assegai man in his head.

  “How reliable that is, I’m not sure. It seems they were fighting in the dark.”

  “What does the wound look like?”

  “The fatal wound is in the chest, but it looks like he was trying to fend it off with his hands. There are some cuts. And there is furniture overturned and broken. They obviously fought a round or two.”

  “The chest wound — is there an exit wound in the back?”

  “Looks like it. The district surgeon is still busy.”

  “Listen,” said Griessel. “I am going to ask our pathologist to phone him. There are a lot of forensic details they must see to. It’s important —”

  “Relax,” said Tshabalala. “We have it under control.”

  He showered and dressed before he phoned Pagel, who took the early call with grace. He passed on the numbers to call. Then he drove to the Quickshop at the Engen garage in Annandale Road. He bought a pile of pre-packed sandwiches and a large take-away coffee and drove to work. The streets were quiet, the office quieter still.

  He sat down behind his desk and tried to think, pen in hand.

  Union-fucking-dale. He opened a sandwich. Bacon and egg. He took the lid off the coffee. The steam drifted lazily upwards. He inhaled the aroma and sipped.

  It would be a day or two before they knew whether it was the same assegai, regardless of how much pressure the commissioner exerted. He bit into the sandwich. It was reasonably fresh.

  A black man. Scholtz wrestling with an attacker in the dark, frightened, he sees the long blade of the assegai. Had he made an assumption? Could he really see?

  A black man with a pickup. In Uniondale. Big surprises. Too big. The sudden detour to a place five hundred kilos from the Cape.

  They didn’t need a copycat, God knows. And this thing could easily spawn a lot of copycats. Because of the children.

  He began to jot down notes in the crime report file in front of him.

  “No, damnit,” said Matt Joubert and shook his head with finality.

  Griessel and Ngubane were in the senior superintendent’s office at seven in the morning. All three were too frenetic to sit.

  “I’ve —” said Ngubane.

  “Matt, just a few days. Two or three,” said Griessel.

  “Lord, Benny, can you see the trouble if he gets away? Flees the country? These fuckers have false passports like confetti. There’s no way . . .”

  “I —” said Ngubane.

  “We have the manpower, Matt. We can shut the whole place down. He won’t be able to move.”

  Joubert still shook his head. “What do you think Boef Beukes will do? He has the biggest drug bust of his career and you want to let his big fish out on bail? He’ll squeal like a skinny pig.”

  “Matt, last night I —” said Ngubane.

  “Fuck Beukes. Let him squeal. We won’t get bait like this again.”

  “No, damnit.”

  “Listen to me,” barked Ngubane in frustration, and they looked at him. “Last night I talked to one of the people from Investigative Psychology at head office. She’s here in Cape Town. She’s helping Anwar with a serial rapist in Khayelitsha. She says if he gets the chance, Sangrenegra will go to the child. Whether she is alive or not. She says the chances are good that he will lead us to her.”

  Joubert sat down heavily on his chair.

  “That makes our case very strong,” said Griessel.

  “Think about the child,” said Ngubane.

  “Let the commissioner decide, Matt. Please.”

  Joubert looked up at the pair of them leaning shoulder to shoulder over his desk. “Here comes trouble,” he said. “I can see it a mile away.”

  Pagel phoned him before eight to say indications were that the Uniondale assegai was the same blade, but he would have to wait for the tissue samples being brought by car from Oudtshoorn. Griessel thanked the prof and called his team together in the task team room.

  “There have been a few interesting developments,” he told them.

  “Uniondale?” asked Vaughn Cupido with a know-it-all smirk.

  “It was on Kfm news,” said Bushy Bezuidenhout, just to spoil Cupido’s moment.

  “What did they say?”

  “It’s all Artemis, Artemis, Artemis,” said Cupido. “Why must the media always give them a name?”

  “It sells newspapers,” said Bezuidenhout.

  “But this is radio . . .”

  “What did they say?” asked Griessel louder.

  “They said there is a suspicion that it is Artemis but that it can’t be confirmed,” said Keyter piously.

  “Our assegai man is black,” said Griessel. That shut them up. He described what they knew of the sitting-room battle in the small town. “Then there is the question of the tire tracks from yesterday. Forensics says he drives a pickup, probably a two-by-four. Not yet a breakthrough, but it helps. It can help us focus . . .” He saw Helena Louw shaking her head. “Captain, you don’t agree?”

  “I don’t know, Inspector.” She got up and crossed over to the notice board on the wall. There were newspaper clippings in tidy rows, separated into sections by pinned strands of different colored knitting wool.

  “We researched the publicity surrounding each of the victims,” she said and pointed at the board. “The first three were in all the papers, and probably on the local radio too. But when we heard about Uniondale this morning we had a look.”

  She tapped a finger on the single report in a red-wool section. “It was only in Rapport.”

  “So what’s your point, sister?” asked Cupido.

  “Afrikaans, genius,” said Bushy Bezuidenhout. “Rapport is Afrikaans. Blacks don’t read that paper.”

  “I get it,” said Jamie Keyter, followed by: “Sorry, Benny.”

  “Colored,” said Griessel. “Maybe he’s colored.”

  “We colored chaps are always handy with a blade,” said Cupido
proudly.

  “Or it could just have been very dark in that house,” said Griessel.

  Joubert appeared at the door with a somber face and beckoned Griessel to come out. “Excuse me,” he said and left. He shut the door behind him.

  “You’ve got four days, Benny,” said the senior superintendent.

  “The commissioner?”

  Joubert nodded. “It’s just the political pressure. He sees the same dangers I do. But you have till Friday.”

  “Right.”

  “Jesus, Benny, I don’t like it. The risks are too high. If it goes bad . . . If you want to get the assegai man you will have to use the media. Organized Crime is highly pissed. The child is still missing. There’s just too much —”

  “Matt, I will make it work.”

  They looked each other in the eyes.

  “I will make it work.”

  He took ten of the uniformed members of the task team along with Bezuidenhout, Cupido and Keyter and they drove in four cars to the house in Shanklin Crescent, Camps Bay to investigate the lay of the land.

  He knew the problem was the rear of the castle-like dwelling. It was built against the mountain, with a plastered wall to keep trespassers out, but it was less than two meters tall — and it was a large area.

  “If he comes here and spots us, he’ll disappear — we won’t find him in the bushes. So the men lying here must not be seen, but must be able to see everything. If you see him, you must allow him to get over the wall. Everyone understand?”

  They nodded solemnly.

  “If I were him, I would come down the mountain. That’s where the cover is. The street is too problematic, too open. Only two entry points and it’s practically impossible to get into the house from that side. So we will deploy most of our people on the mountain.”

  He checked his street map. “Kloof Nek runs up above, on the way to Clifton. If he doesn’t park there, he will at least drive up and down a few times. Which of you can handle a camera?”

  Keyter raised his hand like a keen prep-school boy.

  “Only Jamie?”

  “I can try,” said a black constable with alert eyes.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Johnson Madaka, Inspector.”

  “Johnson, you and Jamie must find a spot where you can watch the road. I want photos of every pickup that passes. Jamie, talk to the photography guys about cameras. If you have trouble, phone me.”

  “Okay, Benny,” said Keyter, pleased with his task.

  He divided them into two teams — one for day and one for night. He determined every point on the street and against the mountain that would be manned. He asked Bezuidenhout to find out if any house in the street was empty, and whether they could use it. “I’m going to talk to Cloete. The media should start humming by tonight. All of you go home and rest, but at six I want the night shift in place.

  He walked into Joubert’s office and found Cloete and the senior superintendent wearing graveyard faces. Cloete said: “I want you to know that I had nothing to do with this, Benny.”

  “With what?” he asked and Cloete handed him the Argus.

  COP SCRAP OVER ARTEMIS

  Front page.

  “They haven’t got news, that’s the fucking problem,” said Cloete.

  He read the article.

  Senior police officials are up in arms over the appointment of a confirmed alcoholic as leader of the task team investigating the Artemis vigilante murders in the Peninsula. A source within the senior ranks of the SAPS called it “a huge blunder” and “a mess-up just waiting to happen.”

  The top cop in the firing line is veteran Serious and Violent Crimes Unit Detective Inspector Bennie Griessel, who was reportedly admitted to Tygerberg Hospital just a fortnight ago after an alleged drinking binge. A hospital spokesperson confirmed that Griessel had been admitted, but declined to comment on his illness.

  “Fuck,” said Griessel, and all he could think about were his children.

  “Benny . . .” said Joubert and Griessel knew what was coming and said: “You’re not taking me off this case, Sup.”

  “Benny . . .”

  “Not a fock, Matt. Not a fock, you won’t take me off.”

  “Just give me a chance . . .”

  “Who are these cunts?” he asked Cloete. “Who gave them this?”

  “Benny, I swear I don’t know.”

  “Benny,” said Joubert. “This is not my call. You know I wouldn’t take you off if it was my call.”

  “Then I’m coming along to the commissioner.”

  “No. You have enough to do. You have to get the media sorted. Go. Let me talk to the commissioner.”

  “Don’t take me off, Matt. I’m telling you.”

  “I will do my best.” But Griessel could read his body language.

  He struggled to concentrate on his strategy with Cloete. He wanted to know who the shits were who had sold him out to the press. His eyes strayed back to the copy of the Argus lying on Cloete’s desk.

  Jamie Keyter, the well-known newspaper informant? He would kill him, the little shit. But he had his doubts: it was too political for Keyter, too sophisticated. It was interdepartmental. Organized Crime must have got wind of his plans. That was what he suspected. He had four people from Domestic Violence in his task team. And Domestic Violence fell under OC in the new structure, God knows why. Was Captain Helena Louw the tattle tale? Perhaps not her. One of the other three?

  When he had finished with Cloete, he drove into the city. He bought a newspaper at a streetlight and parked in a loading zone in Caledon Street. The SAPS Unit for Organized Crime was located in an old office building just around the corner from Caledon Square. He had to take the lift up to the third floor and he could feel the pressure of rage inside him and he knew he must slow down or he would stuff up everything. But what did it matter, they were going to pull him anyway.

  He walked in and asked the black woman at reception where he could find Boef Beukes and she asked, “Is he expecting you?”

  “For sure,” he said with emphasis, newspaper in hand.

  “I’ll find out if he can see you.” She reached out for the telephone and he thought what shit this was, policemen hiding behind secretaries like bank managers, and he slapped his ID card down in front of her and said, “Just show me where his office is.”

  With wide-open eyes that clearly showed her disapproval, she said, “Second door on the left,” and he walked out down the corridor. The door was open. Beukes sat there with his fucking ridiculous little Western Province hat. There was another detective present, seated, collar-and-fucking-tied, and Griessel threw the newspaper down in front of him and said: “Was it your people, Boef?”

  Beukes looked up at Griessel and then down at the paper. Griessel stood with his hands on the desk. Beukes read. The detective in the suit just sat and looked at Griessel.

  “Ouch,” said Beukes after the second paragraph. But not terribly surprised.

  “Fuck ouch, Boef. I want to know.”

  Beukes pushed the newspaper calmly back to him and said: “Why don’t you sit down a moment, Benny?”

  “I don’t want to sit.”

  “Was I ever a backstabber?”

  “Boef, just tell me — do you guys have anything to do with this?”

  “Benny, you insult me. There are only ten or twelve of us left from the old days. Why would I nail you? You should look for traitors at Violent Crimes. I hear you are one big happy family there after all the affirmative action.”

  “You are pissed, Boef, about Sangrenegra. You have the motive.” He glanced at the other detective sitting there with a taut face.

  “Motive?” Beukes queried. “Do you think we really care if you keep Sangrenegra busy for a few days? Do you think it makes a difference to us . . . ?”

  “Look me in the eyes, Boef. Look me in the eyes and tell me it wasn’t you.”

  “I understand that you’re upset. I would have been too. But just calm down so you c
an think straight; was I ever a backstabber?”

  Griessel examined him. He saw the mileage on Beukes’s face. Police miles. He had them too. They had been together in the dark days of the eighties. Copped the same deal, ate the same shit. And Beukes had never been a backstabber.

  Griessel sat in the back of the courtroom and waited for the moment when the state prosecutor said, “The state does not oppose bail per se, your honor.” He watched Sangrenegra and saw his surprise, how he stiffened beside his lawyer.

  “But we do ask that it be set at the highest possible figure, at least two million rand. And that the defendant’s passport be held. We also ask the court to rule that the defendant reports to the Camps Bay Police Station every day before twelve noon. That is all, Your Honor.”

  The magistrate shuffled papers around, made some notes, and then he set bail at two million rand. Lawyer and client conferred under their breath and he wished he knew what was said. Just before Sangrenegra left the court, his eyes searched the public benches. Griessel waited until the Colombian spotted him. And then he grinned at him.

  Sangrenegra’s shoulders sagged, as if a great burden had come to rest on them.

  He was on the way to Faizal’s pawnshop in Maitland when Tim Ngubane phoned him.

  “The blood in Sangrenegra’s BMW belongs to the kid. The DNA matches,” he said.

  “Fuck,” said Griessel.

  “So you’ll have to watch him very carefully, Benny.”

  “We will,” he said and he wanted to add: if I am still on the case by tonight. He thought better of it.

  “Tim, I have a suspicion Organized Crime have been after Sangrenegra longer than they let on. Just a feeling. I have just come from Beukes. He knows something. He’s hiding something.”

  “What are you saying, Benny?”

  “I wonder more and more whether they were following Sangrenegra before he abducted the child.”

  Ngubane paused before he answered. “Are you saying they know something? About the kid?”

  “I’m not saying anything. I’m just wondering. Perhaps you can try and find out. Talk to Captain Louw. She’s from Domestic Violence, but she’s working on my task team. Maybe her loyalty will be to the child. Maybe she can find out.”