‘Well you know what they say about the Free State, boss.’ Dog paused for comic effect. ‘It’s so flat you can see two weeks into the future.’
Shaun Hertzog chuckled at the old joke. ‘What else have you got for us, Detective van Sant?’
‘Not much. The local cops haven’t given us a great deal. The boy hasn’t even been missing for a week, so I guess I don’t blame them.’
‘Well considering that half the town is related to the station commander you woulda thought they’d have something more than this sad little file,’ Dog said, indicating the folder with a nod of his head.
‘Hmm.’ Hertzog nodded in agreement. ‘Strange indeed. I get a feeling there’s a lot more to this case than meets the eye.’
A silence as wide as the landscape reigned in the interior of the Landy. Each detective lost in private thoughts. Dog kept an intermittent eye on the Land Rover to their rear, driven by the patient Chaz Bosman, while beads of sweat rolled down his swarthy features. Up ahead a green signboard indicated that Kimberley was fifty kilometres in the distance.
Jools once again turned in his seat to face Hertzog. ‘There’s just one thing that bothers me.’ Hertzog looked at him with rapt attention. ‘If these two disappearances are indeed linked then that means we’re dealing with someone who’s seriously disturbed.’
Hertzog nodded gravely. ‘That’s not the only thing that worries me, detective. It also means we’re facing an opponent who’s very focused ... and determined.’ He stared out the window. ‘If these disappearances are indeed linked – which I believe they are – then I’m afraid we’re dealing with a madman of the highest calibre.’
Ten
Time can heal wounds. Or it can aggravate them.
Time can allow things to be washed clean. Or to putrefy.
To grow. Or fester.
Time is rejuvenation. Time is pollution.
If the life of the universe could be compounded into a single day, then during the last fraction of the last second, two Land Rovers rolled into a little place called Coffee.
On that Tuesday afternoon the usual people were milling around in the main street of Coffee, De Beers Street. Yes. It’s named after the same company that has a virtual stranglehold on the diamond market.
On an average weekday you’ll find white housewives, itinerant businessmen, shopkeepers and the odd school child. The majority of the pedestrians are from the local township however. Women, men and children. In the large parking lot of the OK Bazaars you’ll find the usual crowd of black children begging from the white shoppers.
On that afternoon, there was more than the usual to attract the attention of the practised beggar. It’s not every day you see two Land Rovers parked in the main street of Coffee. If that wasn’t enough, their Transvaal licence plates made them even more conspicuous. These were big city cars. And the people inside offered the tantalising possibility of big city wealth.
A tall man climbed from the back seat of one of the Land Rovers. Groomed and neat, he was at the same time serious-looking yet approachable. The gaunt figure was immediately surrounded by a swarm of children. ‘Oh my goodness.’ He laughed as a dozen outstretched hands formed the universal signs of supplication. He motioned for the driver of the rear car to join him. A stout man in his fifties with a squat bulldog face climbed from the other car. The children were far less eager to approach him and most shied away from his looming bulk. ‘Okay. Okay, I’ll see what I can do,’ the first man said, laughing. ‘Just wait here.’
Detective Captain Shaun Hertzog and Detective Sergeant Jake “Chaz” Bosman entered the OK Bazaars supermarket.
‘Just say no. It’s the only way to be firm,’ Chaz said, looking at the group of children gathering at the OK Bazaars entrance.
‘I know,’ Hertzog said with a soft smile. He stopped in front of the cooldrink fridge, located in the first aisle. He lifted a two-litre Coca Cola from the frosty shelf. ‘My only vice.’ Chaz nodded noncommittally. ‘Listen detective,’ Hertzog said becoming serious. ‘We’ve got some good detectives down in Bloemfontein. And I’m sure they’re doing a stellar job. But I need someone with our unit’s “eye for detail” down there. I’ll clear it with the chief. And organise you board and lodging. Plus the full co-operation of the Bloemfontein unit.’
Chaz nodded. ‘You want me down there?’
‘Yes. You can leave tomorrow. After breakfast. And the briefing. It’s less than two hours away.’
‘Yes, boss. No problem.’
‘Good man, detective.’ They strolled casually down the other aisles of the store. ‘I want you to send me daily reports. And inform me immediately if you find something interesting. Re-interview everybody. Talk to the aunt. Talk to the girl’s friends.’ Hertzog stopped in front of a display loaded with loaves of bread. He took four loaves from the shelf. ‘I know I can count on you. You’re basically handling the entire Bloemfontein part of our investigation.’ He squeezed Chaz’s shoulder. ‘Make me proud.’
‘That’s what I do, boss.’
They ambled into place at the back of a short queue at the only available teller. ‘Good.’ The line of people eyed the strangers with interest. In a town this size anybody unfamiliar stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. ‘Darnit.’ Hertzog shook his head in self-admonishment. ‘I promised the detectives I would get some meat for a braai tonight.’
Braai. Barbecue.
‘No problem, boss. I’ll hold our place while you go get it,’ he said, taking the few groceries from Hertzog.
‘Thank you.’ Hertzog stood uncertainly for a moment while he tried to locate the in-house butchery. ‘Aha,’ he said, heading towards the back of the supermarket.
The butchery was located next to a display advertising Chaka Briquettes. It featured a short counter with a glass front and a faded sign above that read, “Butchery”. Hertzog grabbed a bag of charcoal. He turned to address the lone attendant behind the display counter. And stopped.
Who’s to say what the dimensions and boundaries of human chemistry are. Who’s to say what ineffable equations drive its foundations of attraction and repulsion. Who really knows what strange properties bridge the gaps between people and turn the ordinary into the momentous.
She wasn’t beautiful by any standard definition of the word. Her lips were possibly too full. Her features slightly too angular. Her face maybe a little too long.
She stood behind the glass counter, wearing a branded apron over unattractive white butcher’s overalls. At first she didn’t see the tall man standing motionless before her. But then she looked up. And for a split second. For a fraction of a moment. There was something almost akin to recognition in her eyes.
Hertzog stared at her. His vacant look reflected confusion. Grasping.
Forever seconds passed. Time melted. Oozed through the pores of the universe. And became glued to the moment.
There was movement behind her. A bald bearded man poked his head through the doorway behind her. ‘Marike,’ he said with terse irritation.
The moment was broken.
She looked around, startled. Swallowed hard. And made a pathetic attempt at a polite smile. ‘How can I help you, sir?’ Her voice quivered ever so slightly.
Hertzog flashed the irate man a friendly smile and stepped up to the counter. ‘Good day. I just want some chops and some wors for ... ah ... for a braai.’
Wors. Sausage.
‘Certainly, sir,’ she said, casting a nervous eye at the man behind her.’ She pointed to a pre-packaged bundle. ‘Will this do?’
‘Yes. That would be fine.’ Hertzog tried to focus his attention where she pointed but couldn’t keep his eyes off her. ‘Just fine.’
She handed him the pack of chops. Their eyes met again. She paused. Her full lips parted. And smiled.
This time it wasn’t a distracted attempt at politeness. But an awkward glimpse into her soul. Hertzog’s eyes became imperceptibly bigger. And a slight rouge reddened his cheeks. Shy and fragile the smile lingere
d on her lips for only a moment. Until the bearded man’s shuffling exit snuffed it out.
She reached out with flustered hands and extracted another pre-packaged roll of Boerewors from behind the counter. ‘This is really ... good.’
Hertzog smiled. ‘I’m sure it is.’
She cast a quick look behind her. Then leaned forward. ‘You’re not from here.’
‘No. I’m not. I’m from Johannesburg.’
She looked at him uncertainly. ‘You’re a businessman.’
‘No. I’m a police detective.’ He paused. ‘We’re here to ...’
‘Because of the disappearances,’ she said with wonder.
‘That’s correct’ Hertzog reached out his hand. ‘My name is Shaun Hertzog.’
The girl took his hand gently, as if receiving something precious. And squeezed it softly. ‘I’m –’
‘Marike!’ The bearded man hovered behind her, hands on his hips. She jerked back her hand. As if it had been burned. ‘How many times have I told you not to bother the clients?’ He looked at Hertzog with poorly disguised irritation. ‘Please manage the store while I’m out. And don’t mess it up again.’
Marike bowed her head in shame, blushing. ‘Yes, Jack.’
The bearded man ripped off his apron and threw it at her. ‘I’ll be back in five.’ She flinched as the bloodied piece of cloth bounced off her head. Hertzog looked down at the torn linoleum of the floor as the butcher edged past him and strutted down the aisle. When he was sure the man was out of earshot he lifted his head and looked at her. ‘You weren’t bothering me at all.’ She met his gaze and smiled with pursed lips. ‘In fact, I cannot rightly recall a more pleasant experience at the butcher.’
Her thin smile blossomed. And her whole face lit up. ‘Thank you. You’re kind.’
Hertzog cleared his throat and his blush deepened. ‘Thank you. I’m sure this will be ... wonderful,’ he said indicating the packets of meat. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you ... Marike.’
Silence.
‘You too ... Shaun.’
He nodded curtly and walked off uncertainly. At the end of the aisle he paused and looked over his shoulder. She was staring at him intently. Like a child who had been caught doing something amiss she averted her eyes and stumbled into the rear of the butchery. At the end of the queue Chaz, who had been observing the whole incident, scowled in the direction of the exit. ‘What a bastard,’ he said as Hertzog joined him.
Hertzog shrugged. But said nothing. As they reached the teller, one of the black children from outside saw him and entered the supermarket, hovering near the exit. Hertzog placed the items on the teller’s conveyer belt and took a large bag of sweets from the display. The little boy’s eyes widened and he edged nearer. The male teller cast an angry look at him. ‘Get out of here,’ he said pointing at the exit. ‘How many times must I tell you that?’
Hertzog smiled politely. ‘I’m so sorry. He’s with me.’
The teller looked at Hertzog, chastened. ‘I’m terribly sorry, sir. I didn’t know.’
Hertzog dismissed the man’s awkwardness with a wave of his hand. ‘Of course. How could you?’
‘That’s very kind of you, detective.’ Hertzog looked around. Standing behind him was a tower of a man. Although he was clean-shaven and balding, the man reminded Hertzog of an ancient Frankish warrior, mauling Muslims with Charles Martel, the granddaddy of Charlemagne. His attire, of course, confirmed the opposite. He was the local NG Pastor – a man as powerful as the mayor or police station commander. ‘I’m sorry, how rude of me.’ He extended his hand. ‘I’m Dominee Frans Joubert.’ Dominee was the Afrikaans title for NG vicars.
‘Captain Hertzog. Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ Hertzog said. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Bosman.’ Chaz nodded politely.
‘Wonderful,’ the Dominee said sincerely. ‘I’m so glad you could come to help us with our ... problem. We are most appreciative.’
‘Thank you, Dominee. I’m glad we could be of assistance.’
‘Are you a believer, Captain?’
‘Most certainly, Dominee.’
‘Fantastic. It would be an honour to see you during our Sunday services. In fact, any time you feel like talking ... please feel free to come and see me.’
‘I will do that. Thank you.’
‘Please excuse me. I seem to be holding up the line. I will see you soon, Captain.’ Hertzog and Chaz nodded in greeting.
Outside Hertzog distributed the loaves and sweets amongst the clamouring group of boys. He fought his way to the back door of the Land Rover. As he climbed in he saw the bald butcher sitting in the outdoor section of the Bosveld Restaurant across from the supermarket. The butcher was sitting next to a pretty young girl in her early twenties. He was cradling her chin in his hands, smiling at her. Lovingly.
Hertzog climbed in and slammed the door of the Land Rover behind him.
‘We heading for the guesthouse, boss?’ Dog Doober glanced at Hertzog over his shoulder.
‘No.’ Hertzog scowled at the Bosveld Restaurant through the car’s tinted windows. ‘We’ve got a scheduled stop at Mayor Botha’s house.’
‘Wonderful,’ Jools said, sinking into his chair.
Eleven
‘I just want to affirm how terribly ... pleased we are to have you in our little ... corner of the world.’ Mayor Lloyd Botha paused and flashed a practised smile. Befitting the experienced politician he was he made a point of making eye contact with all of the detectives seated in the spacious lounge of his house. ‘I am sure I speak for everyone when I say you are most welcome.’ Next to him Major Dawid Bismarck remained silent. And impassive.
‘You are most generous, Mayor Botha.’ Captain Shaun Hertzog smiled politely. He nodded his head in recognition of the bulky politician’s words. ‘We are fortunate indeed to have such magnanimous hosts.’ The smile on Hertzog’s face froze. And was replaced with a pursed gravity. He looked down at the hardwood floor then back at the large man in front of him. The mayor appeared to dwarf the wooden chair that barely supported his weight. ‘I am saddened by the circumstances that brought us together, however.’ Hertzog looked at both men in turn. Genuine regret touched his eyes. ‘May I just once again express my condolences at the terrible ... events of the last few weeks. I know you are both related to the ... victims.’
The mayor stared at the floor. For a brief moment a hybrid of emotions passed over his face. Regret. Sorrow. And something else. Acceptance? Self-recrimination? Next to him the police chief didn’t move. His expression remained stony. Intractable.
Silence.
An antique wooden clock ticked loudly on the mantelpiece behind the chairs that seated the Coffee delegates. The rattle and hum of a fridge was audible from the kitchen. Somebody cleared his throat. Outside a dog barked. One of the detectives shifted uncomfortably. The chair creaked awkwardly underneath him. Somebody else cleared his throat.
Silence.
The mayor looked up and met the detective’s eyes. ‘Of course.’
Next to Hertzog, Chaz Bosman shifted on the sofa. The leather creaked and farted. He exchanged a tortured look with Dog, sitting on his left. Both men appeared to have extreme difficulty dealing with the tea cups and saucers in their hands. On the other side of Hertzog Jannie Duvehange sat on a stiff-backed wooden chair. The young detective perched on the very edge of the chair, unsure of where to look.
As if to fill up the awkward silence, Hertzog nodded slowly. His eyes passed back and forth between the two men from Coffee. Across from Duvenhage, Jools’s posture was in sharp contrast to everybody else’s. He lay back in a comfortable Lazy-Boy, the cup and saucer balancing on his chest. He looked at Hertzog with interest. A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
‘Yes, of course,’ the mayor continued. He stared at Hertzog. ‘Tell me, detective, how long do you think you will be ... residing in Coffee?’ Bushy gray eyebrows rose above his eyes, pushing his forehead into a frown. His large ruddy face was straddled by long sideburns, a
s curly as the gray hair on his head.
Chaz loudly slurped his tea. The ornate little spoon rattled on the saucer as he brought the cup back down to his lap. Somewhere another dog barked.
‘Well, that is very difficult to say.’ Hertzog looked at the station commander. He smiled in friendly fellowship. ‘I’m sure Major Bismarck would agree that these investigations assume a life of their own.’ Bismarck said nothing. And did not return the smile. Hertzog carefully studied the policeman over a hovering smile.
Outside an ice cream truck slowly drove past. The slightly eerie strains of Yankee Doodle blared over the truck’s loudspeaker. Jannie Duvenhage stared with longing at the street outside.
‘Of course,’ Botha continued. ‘Perfectly understandable.’
Dog Doober cleared his throat and placed his cup and saucer on the little coffee table with a loud clank. The spoon clinked and rattled in the saucer. Hertzog took a sip from his cup.
‘So, do you have anything yet?’ Botha looked at Hertzog quizzically.
‘Anything?’
‘Any leads?’
‘Not yet.’ Hertzog smiled. ‘Of course we’re going to undertake a detailed investigation. And we’ll be investigating all angles.’ Bismarck frowned. So slightly that it was almost imperceptible. ‘In fact,’ Hertzog said placing his cup and saucer on the table, ‘I was wondering if Major Bismarck could provide us with any additional information. I would love to have access to any notes or other material from his investigation.’
Bismarck said nothing. The overhead light reflected coldly in his Ray Bans. The mayor turned to Bismarck. ‘Major?’
‘Bloemfontein has been handling the disappearance of ... Michelle Bismarck,’ he said coolly. ‘As for Manie Botha ... he was only reported missing on Saturday. Since this is only Tuesday,’ he added, placing extra emphasis on the word “only”, ‘we have not been able to gather sufficient evidence ... yet.’
Jools turned to Hertzog in alarm. It was universal knowledge that the first forty-eight hours following a crime were by far the most crucial in any investigation. Hertzog quickly buried his concerns under a friendly smile. ‘I see.’
The Man in the Wind Page 5
