‘Is this the car you see driving around the back of the farm-stall?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Slowly now . . . Imagine first seeing the car. What do you notice?’
She squeezes her eyes and then relaxes them again. Vaughn hears nothing but distant birdsong, a light breeze in the trees.
‘I don’t know . . . It’s moving quite quickly . . . It’s very shiny. Grey, slate-coloured. I think the windows are slightly tinted.’
‘And you watched it drive towards the back of the farm-stall?’
‘Yes. I don’t know why. I just waited a moment or two. I think I thought it was moving too fast to be looking for a parking space.’
De Vries hears the timbre and speed of her delivery begin to mimic his and he knows that she is focused on what he needs now.
‘Did you see anyone in the car?’
‘No. No – I think there was only a driver. The windows were dark. Not black, but dark. I thought it was a man, I don’t know why. Maybe because he seemed to be driving the car . . . assertively.’
De Vries continues, calm and focused. ‘Did you try to look into the windows as it passed you?’
‘No – yes . . . I suppose so.’ She furrows her brows, eyes still pressed shut. ‘There wasn’t anybody in the back though.’
‘Where did the car go after you saw it? What did you see?’
‘It turned at the end.’
‘How do you know that the car was driving behind the farm-stall?’
‘I saw it. I saw it turn at the end of the car park. If you turn left, you can’t get anywhere but round the back, can you? I mean, maybe he was going somewhere else?’
‘No, you are correct, that turn leads to the back of the shop only. Did you see that car come back?’
‘No. I went inside. I was late. I mustn’t be late.’
‘You never saw the car again?’
‘No.’
‘All right, we’re nearly there. Think back again to when the car passed you. You watched it pass you. You looked at the back of the car before it turned left. Picture that now. What was on the back of the car?’
Her face is beginning to sag, her bottom lip moist with saliva.
‘Blinds,’ she says suddenly. ‘There were blinds down the back window. Like you have for babies, but smart ones. Grey material – kind of folded . . . corrugated.’
‘Anything else? Numbers, letters?’
Vaughn sees her eyes dart back and forth behind her eyelids. He knows that she is seeing what she saw all over again.
‘Yes . . . Silver numbers . . . Five, three, zero, maybe. I think maybe that.’
‘On the rear window?’
‘There was a sticker in the right-hand corner,’ she says positively. ‘Oval, with gates on it, very pale.’
‘Any more detail? Imagine you are seeing the sticker now . . .’
‘It looked like a gate. Gold gates . . . ?’
Vaughn’s voice is a whisper now. ‘That’s excellent. Look down now, to the boot of the car. What do you see in the middle of the boot?’
‘A badge. I don’t know. Circular, oval . . .’
A piercing scream from the garden, then laughter, but Sarah Robinson is straight up on her feet, disorientated, dizzy, turning to see outside. Her son is running circles around Don February.
Vaughn stands up.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘Mothers’ instinct. Run to your child.’
‘That was excellent, Mrs Robinson. Thank you.’
‘It was? What were we talking about?’
‘You were telling me what you saw at MacNeil’s farm-stall.’
She looks perplexed. ‘Was I? Good.’
‘It is standard technique. Relaxation, a meditative state. People can often recall great detail.’
‘Did I?’
‘You did very well. You remembered several small, but possibly vital details. I’ll get my Warrant Officer and your children back now.’ He walks through the doors and waves at Don, gesturing him to return. When he turns back, Sarah Robinson is looking at her watch anxiously. She sees him look.
‘My husband will be home soon. Do I need to tell him about this?’
‘That’s up to you,’Vaughn tells her. ‘But I doubt we’ll need to bother you again. If we do, I’ll make sure we are discreet.’
‘Thank you.’
The children are bouncing around Don. She turns to them.
‘You two!’ she shrieks. ‘Hey! Your father will be back just now. Remember what he warned you about?’ The children fall silent, shoulders slumped, hands at their side.
‘Thank you again,’ de Vries says charmingly. ‘And thank you for calling. It may lead to finding who took those three children years ago and who hurt them now.’ De Vries offers his hand, and she shakes it gingerly. He pats the two children on the head.
‘Goodbye.’
They both lower their heads shyly.
Don squats down and says goodbye to them also, but they do not meet his eye.
Vaughn and Don walk through the pristine entrance hall to the big double doors at the front of the house. When Don closes the front door, he says, ‘Anything?’
‘Yes,’Vaughn says quietly. ‘More than I wanted.’
Once they’ve cleared the property’s main gates, de Vries recounts his interview. The windows are open, air conditioning off. The car is filled with warm breeze, the engine sounds loud and strong. There is a feeling of movement in this car, right now.
‘Write this down somewhere,’ Vaughn tells Don. ‘BMW 530, metallic grey, or – what do they call it – agate? Here’s the really important bit. Rear window: blinds, maybe factory-fitted, pale round or oval sticker, bottom right-hand corner, perhaps with a gate or gates on it; maybe gold on white.’
Vaughn looks over at Don writing in his notebook. Tells him: ‘Get that out to everyone you can, as soon as possible. Then we have to decide whether to advertise that description to the public. Let’s get a print-out of all BMW 530 models licensed in the Western Cape. And, Don? Think about that badge. Maybe there’s a website or something, where you can look up what a gate or gates might be?’
‘We can try. Is this him? Is this our guy?’
De Vries tilts his head. ‘It could be, couldn’t it? Sarah Robinson may just be the first person in seven years to know that she’s seen him.’
The car accelerates, the wind blows harder through the cabin. Don looks straight ahead, contemplating.
‘What did you mean, back at the Robinson place, “more than you wanted”?’
‘Just an impression. She is afraid of her husband. That’s why she didn’t call until today; she doesn’t think he’d approve. And those kids. Did you see what they did when she mentioned their father? I wonder what he said to them?’
De Vries wakes in his office, stiff and bleary. It is morning and, peering through his tightly closed blinds, still early. His desk phone is ringing. He snatches it up.
‘De Vries.’
‘Asleep on the job?’
‘Who is this?’
‘David Wertner, Colonel. You didn’t do your job properly seven years ago, and now it looks like déjà vu all over again.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘So am I. Internal Investigation is looking at your failed investigation under the supervision of then Senior Superintendent Henrik du Toit. Let’s hope we don’t find any glaring errors, eh? Would be a shame to lose you and your Brigadier; whole department might have to close. Courtesy call, Colonel. I’m on your case; I’m watching your every move, and the public is watching the man supposedly in charge, and none of us are remotely impressed.’
De Vries tries to stay calm, but his voice is hoarse.
‘You find anything, you tell me. Unlike you, I have only one goal: find the boy, and the guy who did this.’
‘Well, you find him, and make sure you tell me. Might save your career. And when this is all over, Colonel, when you’re back to cherry-picking your cases and you have time on y
our hands, we’ll have a little chat. Seems to be some missing time in your schedule a while back. An unannounced foreign trip, perhaps?’
‘Whatever you think you have,Wertner, you haven’t. Save your time investigating us and do some policework.’
‘I am the police, and I represent the people. I know you hate the people, Colonel de Vries.’
Wertner chuckles and hangs up.
De Vries replaces the handset gently, aware of a mighty morning headache starting deep inside his brain. He wants coffee, but he doesn’t want to move. He thinks about the Internal Investigations Chief’s call, looks at his watch and realizes that Wertner must have come to work extra early, perhaps seen him asleep in his office; perhaps come into his office and watched him sleeping. The thought repulses him.
He struggles up, stretches, and raises the blinds. Cape Town is coming to work. Beneath him, the traffic is already beginning to become dense. De Vries studies the roofs of the cars eight floors below, searching for a grey BMW. When he can’t see one, he leaves his office and walks the corridor to the squad room. Two officers are at work, hunched low in their booths; the coffee jug is empty. De Vries retrieves it and heads for the canteen, still half asleep.
‘Come in,Vaughn,’ du Toit tells him cordially.
Vaughn doesn’t like this.
‘Very good news about this car. For God’s sake, let’s find it, and the driver, and find out, one way or another. I’m with you on not publicizing it yet. You have my go-ahead on that. But make it happen, ’cos this thing is nearly dead in the water, and this department, and the whole damn SAPS with it.’ Du Toit gestures to a corner of sofas. ‘Let’s sit over here. There’s coffee and cake.’
De Vries has never before been invited to the sofas.
‘I received a call from David Wertner this morning,’ du Toit says casually.
‘So did I.’
‘He’s been scrutinizing the docket and all the other files from the 07 abductions. I thought you had it all.’
‘I guess unofficial copies have been made,’Vaughn tells him. ‘I don’t know, but the originals are in my office. I’m almost through them, but there’s a lot there.’
‘Well, keep your office locked,Vaughn. I’m getting it from all sides. You know the new order would like nothing better than to be rid of us. I don’t want to give them the excuse.’
‘We haven’t got time for politics.’
‘Wertner’s making some very unpleasant noises about you. Gone on record, calling for you to be replaced. ’Course, he probably doesn’t know about yesterday’s developments . . . Nasty, opportunist move, but par for the course. They’re taking the fight public,Vaughn.’
Four years ago, Henrik du Toit got the nod to Director, officially the rank of Brigadier, though he encourages his men to use his old title, associated to Robbery and Murder, Western Cape Province, his own fiefdom. His rival, Simphiwe Thulani, riding the fading crest of positive discrimination, Assistant Provincial Commander, General now – a higher rank, but less freedom, more politics. Separate departments, but jealousy undimmed. Du Toit got de Vries where he wanted him: a free agent in Western Cape Province, leading tough investigations that needed a forceful approach. Thulani got David Wertner in to lead his brainchild: a new Internal Investigations Bureau. Since then,Wertner has been hunting for anything to hasten the downfall of de Vries and du Toit, leaving their places free for successors sympathetic to the new order, for the last of the old guard to be retired. As if the SAPS didn’t face enough enemies. This is petty office politics, played hardball.
‘You’d think the old school would stick together. I know there’s a new generation of apartheid in the SAPS, but you’d think Wertner would realize that he’s creating a glass ceiling for himself: the black guys won’t promote Wertner again any more than they want us anywhere near the top.’ Du Toit pours himself a cup of coffee, pushes the handle of the cafetière towards Vaughn. He picks up a biscuit. ‘I had Thulani’s lackey, Julius Mngomezulu, demanding updates for his boss.’
‘I can’t even pronounce the little fuck’s name.’
‘You’re a dinosaur,Vaughn.’
‘At least I don’t have to practise it in the mirror every morning.’
Du Toit sticks his finger in de Vries’ chest. ‘You’re damn lucky – I do.’
‘I hope you told him where to stick his updates.’
‘I told him that if Thulani wants in, he’s in as the boss. His call. Doubt we’ll hear anything more from him directly. He’d rather watch us crash and burn.’
‘Men like Mngomezulu,’ de Vries mispronounces it quite dramatically, ‘whatever colour they are, I don’t trust them. You wear a suit buttoned top to bottom, pointy little shoes, you’re not planning on running anywhere, are you? Chasing down scum on a dirt track. You ever look at his collar? White as a fucking baby’s bottom. I doubt that man has ever sweated in his life.’
‘I’m surprised, Vaughn,’ du Toit says, ‘at your eye for the sartorial. To look at you sometimes, you wouldn’t think it.’
‘These are work clothes.’
‘Forget Mngomezulu.’ Du Toit pronounces his name perfectly. ‘It’s Wertner and Thulani we have to watch.’
‘They have to make a move sometime,’ de Vries says. ‘Kicking us when we’re down must seem like the right thing for them to do.’
‘Colonel Wertner hinted at information regarding actions of yours outside our jurisdiction. Do I know about this?’
‘Nothing to know. Wertner’s fishing. I may operate at the perimeters of the law, but always within it. You know that.’
Du Toit smiles. Neither man knows that, believes that, for a moment. The new South Africa sometimes needs the old South Africa’s policing. Du Toit puts down his coffee mug, brushes crumbs from his dark, brass-buttoned jacket, sighs.
De Vries gets up slowly.
Du Toit says, ‘Find that car,Vaughn. Find it today.’
2007
De Vries walks wet, damp-dog smelling, from an outdoor parking space in town, amidst rain thick and dark as fog, to SAPS city building, up in the elevators to the top-floor corridor, towards du Toit’s office. He is dog-tired, and he knows what will be said: the official seal on his failure.
‘I have sanctioned two officers to pursue the abductions,’ du Toit tells him, without meeting his eye, ‘until progress is made, or I deem it time to conclude the continuing inquiry. Trevor Henderson is off the radar. I can only imagine what the man is going through. I sent word for him to take indefinite leave, but I’ve heard nothing.’
‘I was told his wife returned to the UK with their other child. No one has heard from him for weeks.’
‘I take it,’ du Toit says, ‘that no new evidence – indeed, any evidence at all – has been discovered in the last forty-eight hours?’ De Vries shakes his head. ‘I understand how you feel,Vaughn. This is on my head too but, blunt as it is to say it, life goes on. And we must be available and responsive to police it.’
He looks across his desk to de Vries.
‘Vaughn?’ du Toit says, his voice almost imploring. De Vries looks up. ‘There will always be cases like this. You must know that.’
‘I am aware of that, yes, sir.’
‘Nobody could have tried any harder. I reviewed all the files at the weekend and you covered every possible corner. Now, listen to me. There may be a media reaction to the announcement of the scaling down, but we’ll just have to bear it. You look half dead. Take a week off,Vaughn. That’s an order. I need you back fit and working well.’
De Vries nods silently. Then asks: ‘Have you spoken with the parents yet?’
‘No, but that is something I must do. You’re off Lawson, Eames and Henderson as from this minute. Go home, go on holiday. Do something to get your body rested and your mind focused anew.’
‘I’d sooner speak to the relatives, sir.’
‘I’ve already made my decision. You, me, the department – we will all live through this experience. We will move on. We mus
t move on.’
Vaughn sighs, begins to nod slowly; an acknowledgement that it is over for all but the families of Steven, Bobby and Toby. He wonders whether he can bear their sorrow.
2014
‘The guys checked out all BMW 530 models, grey, silver, variations of the above, registered in the last five years. There are a lot of them. We have cross-checked with criminal records and nothing stands out.’
Don February jogs to keep up with de Vries. Finally, they reach his office.
‘What is the matter, sir?’
De Vries curses. ‘Too much traffic, too many people, too many BMWs, sanctimonious journalists and the public. I fucking hate the public. And you, Don, always telling me “nothing”.’
‘Sorry I asked.’
‘I’m aware,’ de Vries says, collapsing into his chair, ‘that you are not personally responsible for “nothing”. But once, just once . . .’ His hands make fists. ‘I want one break on this. Seven fucking years it’s been “nothing”. Now, for Christ’s sake: something!’
‘I will extend the search. We will go to six years out, then seven. I can contact the main dealers if necessary. We both think this is a solid lead. I will work it.’
De Vries says: ‘Good, Don. You try to solve problems with work.’
‘It is the only way.’
De Vries looks at his watch.
‘Call me, anytime.’ He sighs. ‘I won’t be sleeping.’
2009
For fourteen months he lived in isolation while his house was being built. Neighbours and acquaintances tried to lure him out, but he rejected them until, one by one, they gave up. Just before Christmas, his closest friend in town, a Capetonian he’d met at university, Simon Van Wyk, asked him to escort his new wife to a grand party, he being sick.
‘You don’t have to do much, man. These media types talk a lot but they don’t say anything. Jane needs to network, but she can’t arrive alone. The food will be good and the bar is free all night.’
John Marantz looked into his kitchen, saw staleness and, on a whim, agreed. He was sober enough to drive; the shaking had subsided sufficiently for him to be able to shave. For the first time, the thought of standing up in public, being seen, being spoken to, did not terrify him. He liked Jane Van Wyk – a prominent young architect; she and Simon had helped him with his house, and they never asked questions of him.
The First Rule of Survival Page 8
