‘Will do. And you?’
‘Following orders: going home. I’ll call you when I get there, check everyone’s in place. Get some sleep, and I’ll meet you here at six a.m. And, Don – tonight, go home to sleep.’
De Vries lies awake, windows and curtains open to gather the breeze. He’s feverish. He hears his family talking in the house, yet knows they are 1,500 kilometres away. He hears wind in tall trees, yet the night is still; sees Bobby Eames in a tree-house, the little cut-out window barred. He sees Marc Steinhauer, with his pageboy haircut, huge cupped hands, his fingers around three young boys . . .
At 4 a.m., De Vries wakes, finds his bed wet with sweat, his limbs clammy. He stumbles to the bathroom, urinates, strips and towels himself down, climbs back into bed, rolling to his wife’s side, cold and empty, but dry.
As dawn breaks, he finds himself in a jailyard scrum, jostled and beaten. Every man around him is crooked or crazy, greedy for violence, Machiavellian, deluded. Every man is ugly inside and out, and their stench is overwhelming him. He looks up at the overpoweringly dark monolith; in a tiny window at the top, he sees the faces of the top brass, the judges, the press, the public. They watch him falter in the seething mass. They do nothing.
By 6 a.m., de Vries knows that Steinhauer hasn’t left his beach-house; knows that both du Toit and Don February have beaten him into headquarters. With his little sleep, intense dreams, he feels worse than he did before. As he drives into town, wired and dishevelled, the traffic snarls up at an accident on the Nelson Mandela Boulevard, leaving him to watch the sun come up over the harbour, seep between city skyscrapers, its soft rays already heating the thick air trapped beneath the glittering copper smog over town. To his left, the Mountain looms tall and dark, watching over the city.
‘We’re unanimous?’
Du Toit in his office, sealed in; four men in his sofa corner, coffee, biscuits: de Vries, Don February and Norman Classon, attorney-at-law.
De Vries says: ‘The overriding factor must be Bobby Eames. Norman has told us that we have plenty to make the arrest, hold him. That gives us three days to get him talking, find out where he kept them.’
‘But, I reiterate,’ Classon pronounces nasally, ‘that in my opinion, you will not sustain a prosecution based on the evidence you have. The bulk of your forensic evidence is circumstantial. That eyebrow is, in effect, uncorroborated. A decent attorney will blow that away, since we know that this Fineberg cheese was present at the crime scene. The hair is in the cheese. The cheese could have got there innocently. You have to find supporting links to the bodies. In effect, find the crime scene.’
‘We have time,’ de Vries tells them, charged. ‘I want to interview the wife, his children, his friends. Find out about this so-called aunt in Riebeek West. We know if we do nothing, there’s no way he’ll visit wherever he’s keeping Bobby Eames. The boy will starve before he ever goes there again.’
He turns to Don, who says: ‘We have an area to search for this site in. Steinhauer drives every week to Riebeek West. If we find that he usually travels with his family to their Betty’s Bay house, then we can rule that out, and we will know he visited his captives somewhere between his Stellenbosch farm and Riebeek. Someone will have seen that big city car there.’
‘In three days?’ du Toit.
‘We have no choice,’Vaughn insists. ‘Steinhauer is unstable and we can bring it out of him. I think we have to use his family. He is most protective of them.’
Du Toit agrees. ‘It’s not going to be pretty, but you are right. Keep it simple, Norman: where are we if we don’t get a confession?’
Classon balances his chin on the tips of his fingers, palms together.
‘I am afraid I don’t think I could recommend prosecution based on what you have. A powerful motive, or even history would carry weight. I agree that the circumstantial elements are strong; a judge could be swayed. But I think I have to say no. He would walk away.’
De Vries says: ‘That’s not going to happen.’
The squad room is busy, extra men drafted in, expectation electric. After seven years, a breakthrough.
Du Toit, de Vries at the board, Don a few steps to one side. Director du Toit clears his throat; the room falls silent.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. As you now know, we have a bulk of persuasive evidence, some forensic evidence, pointing to Marc Steinhauer as the murderer of Toby Henderson and Steven Lawson. This leads us to believe that he was their abductor back in 2007. Even those of you not with us then know how significant this crime was, and remains today. We must solve it, honestly, openly and fully.’ He looks to Vaughn.
De Vries picks up his cue.
‘Marc Steinhauer is under surveillance in Betty’s Bay. I will make the arrest at nine a.m., bringing him here immediately by road. You are not to discuss this with anyone outside this room. That means no one. We have to keep this within a small group. We have seventy-two hours to produce a confession, or discover sufficient further evidence to assure a charge and conviction. If we do not get those, we do not have enough. I stress to each of you, if we don’t get more, Steinhauer walks.’
He pauses, allowing the gravity of the comment to percolate.
‘Steven and Toby were alive six days ago. We must now be optimistic that the third abducted boy, Bobby Eames, is still alive. We must find where Steinhauer imprisoned them, and rescue Bobby. Steinhauer will never return to that site. If Bobby is alive now, then he will starve to death if we don’t find him.’ He gestures to Don. ‘Warrant Officer February will distribute your assignments. Ensure everything is done fully and by the book. Steinhauer’s attorney has beady eyes. Everything will be checked. I will be interrogating Steinhauer myself. If we don’t break him today, we’ll try again tomorrow. You have that time to complete your enquiries and report. We have to make it happen.’
Don steps forward, begins to assign tasks to different officers. Du Toit leaves. Vaughn stands back, his brain numb, spinning with questions, for Steinhauer; for himself.
Don finds de Vries in the car park, smoking.
‘All done.’
‘Good,’ de Vries replies. ‘When do you leave?’
‘Warrants ready in fifteen minutes, then we go.’
‘Tell me again?’
‘I will question Mrs Steinhauer at the farm. I have four guys with me. They will search the whole estate: focus on plastic wrapping materials, borehole water supply. Personal computers will be seized. Staff to give statements at the estate.’
‘Good. I won’t start with Steinhauer until I speak with you. I want to know whether they could both be involved. The longer he has to wait, the better. I want him to know we have his wife and children, his staff, everyone.’
Don studies his watch. ‘He should be back here by ten forty-five for a meeting with Hopkins. Maybe one p.m.?’
‘Whenever. I’m happy to keep him sweating. We need to know for how long Steinhauer went away, how regularly. Was Riebeek West the only place he visited?’
‘We have two teams heading there now,’ Don says. ‘They will go into every shop, every service station, with pictures of Steinhauer and his car. Two officers are visiting the aunt. She is old, but still living at home, with full-time nursing care.’
‘Good.’ Vaughn lights another cigarette from his glowing stompie.
A call comes from the rear exit of the building. ‘Colonel? A Ralph Hopkins on the telephone for you.’
‘What?’
‘Ralph Hopkins.’
De Vries turns to Don, mutters under his breath, ‘Shit.’ He puts up two fingers, mouths, ‘Two minutes,’ watches the officer duck back inside and says, ‘How the fuck . . . ?’
‘It may be nothing.’
‘It’s seven a.m., Don. We’ve got a fucking leak.’
Vaughn can feel the pulse in his head, his heart pumping as if he has been running. He pushes his cigarette into the side of a black car, breathes, watches the bright sparks tumble over metal, flutter to the ground, t
he butt bounce on the tarmac, still smouldering.
‘Get du Toit. Tell him. I’ll take it in my office.’
He sits, breathes again, snaps the receiver to his ear. ‘De Vries.’
Hopkins, wide-awake, calm: ‘The truth, Colonel. Marc called me at midnight last night. He claims there are police watching him at his house in Betty’s Bay.’
‘Marc Steinhauer is not under arrest, Mr Hopkins. I told you that you will be informed if that event occurs. You have my word.’
‘You haven’t answered my question. This a matter of harassment, intimidation.’
‘Police operations are just that. Police matters. I would be very surprised if Marc Steinhauer can see any policemen in Betty’s Bay.’
A pause.
‘Is that all you have to say to me, de Vries?’
‘You will be informed if and when.’
‘Very well. Understand this: this is going above you, right to the top.’
Suddenly de Vries finds his voice. It is quiet.
‘Anywhere you like.’
He hangs up, stands up. Du Toit appears at his door.
‘I’m leaving now,’ Vaughn tells him.
Du Toit blocks his way. ‘What did he say?’
‘Steinhauer called him apparently, last night, claiming he was being watched. He wanted to know whether that was what we were doing. I told him nothing but said that we would inform him when, and if, we arrest Steinhauer.’
‘Damn. You better have watched what you said,Vaughn. He’ll have taped that.’
‘I stated the position. And he’s going to pull rank on us, so you can expect a call from above.’
Du Toit swallows, pushes back his shoulders.
‘Go get him. Make it textbook.’
At 8 a.m., a SAPS driver speeds De Vries across the arid, rocky plateau between the mountains guarding the seaside towns of Rooiels and Betty’s Bay. Either side of them, the sun illuminates the tops of the rock-strewn mountainsides, nothing but scrubby fynbos on their lower slopes.
As they circle the guarding mountains, the outskirts of Betty’s Bay begin: cluttered, poorly built little houses, architectural aberrations one and all. Behind them, two vast curves of mountain, barren and dark; to their front, the ocean pounding the rocky shore, sending up sprays to catch the first sunlight. The main road is deserted, the town still asleep. They find the mini-mall where the surveillance team is based, turn into the empty car park.
An officer meets them, presents the senior officer, leads them both through a small supermarket and up stairs to a storeroom above the shop. At the window: an officer looking through binoculars, three empty cans of Windhoek Light beer, a takeaway smell pervasive.
‘He’s there?’
The officer at the binoculars looks up.
‘He is, sir. In his bedroom we believe from eleven p.m. last night. No movement noted after that time until five past six this morning. We can’t see the kitchen from here, but he’s been seen drinking from a mug and walking up and down in the garden to the rear of the property.’
De Vries gestures at the binoculars. ‘Let me see.’
The officer stands, tilts the plastic chair towards De Vries.
‘It’s the house directly on the sea. Grey tin roof, open stoep at the back. You can just see the far left corner of the balcony at the front. We realized that we couldn’t get anywhere near, so we found this place for height and angle.’
De Vries adjusts the focus on the glasses, then looks back up at the officer. ‘Did he see you?’
‘Unlikely from here, sir. No reaction. I’ve been on duty since two a.m.’
‘He make any calls last night?’
‘Not according to the log, and not while I’ve been on.’
‘No marked cars at any time?’
‘Ultra discreet. The shop-owner lives across the way there. We made it clear he was to contact no one, but he couldn’t know who we might be looking at.’
De Vries puts the glasses back to his eyes, looks down to the main road to find his bearings, then raises them slowly past one house and garden to the house identified as Steinhauer’s. He sees no one, but senses a flickering of light, as if Steinhauer is moving around. The building is modern, smart compared to most of the surrounding architecture. A track leads down from the main road, past a small single-storey property, and onto to a wide plot, enjoying perhaps fifty metres of rocky beach. Beyond the narrow, rocky garden and patchy lawn, the plot extends onto the jagged rocks and down to a small horseshoe-shaped bay. De Vries sees a flash of white spray spewing into the air, the wind whipping it horizontally. He waits for Steinhauer, but he does not see him.
‘Good. I will now arrest Marc Steinhauer. Continue your watch from above, should he resist. There are four officers at the perimeter. When we have him, we will be driven back, two more officers in a car to escort us back to Cape Town, stationed right at the end of the driveway there. We’ll go in three minutes. Ja?’
The officer nods, heads to the back of the storeroom to tell his colleague. Calls are made, arrangements set.
De Vries addresses the Kleinmond officer.
‘I’ll make the arrest. I want you to keep him calm. If he wants to call his lawyer, inform him he can do so in the car. Agreed?’
They retrace their steps down the narrow wooden stairway, through the dark shop, and back out into blinding low sunlight. The South-Easter has risen and is blowing hard across the landscape.
There is no one in the side street; no one on the main road.
De Vries waits for the officers to disperse around the property. He hears a car powering up the main street, assumes it to be the back-up car, wills it quieter. His cellphone rings.
‘Surveillance A reports unknown vehicle approaching, indicating right. Slowing, turning into . . .’
De Vries sees it. A dark blue S Class Mercedes, one driver, a shock of white hair.
De Vries pockets the cellphone, shouts: ‘It’s his fucking lawyer. Go now. Go, go, go!’
He starts to run across the main road. Over his panting, the howling wind, de Vries can hear a tinny screaming. Still jogging, he fumbles for his cellphone, puts it to his ear, hears: ‘Suspect and unidentified male are outside at rear; argument.’
They reach the house. De Vries shoulders a side gate, feeling the wood crack down the length of his right side. He and two other officers jog around the house to the garden. Vaughn can see two figures silhouetted against the blinding silver sea, Steinhauer stumbling. They run across the garden, around a dark narrow pool, and reach jagged rocks, pick their way gingerly across them. Vaughn shouts for Steinhauer and Hopkins to stop, but his cries are stolen from him by the driving wind.
He looks down for his footing, up again to see Steinhauer and Hopkins still moving away. Glances down, looks up; two officers sprinting from the perimeter, across the garden towards Steinhauer. Looks ahead, blinded by shimmering fireworks of light on the boiling sea.
Steinhauer has stopped at the edge of the horseshoe bay, steep vertical sides fall maybe five metres into chaotic, churning water. Ten metres out, Hopkins is shouting at him, gesticulating. De Vries stops five metres short of him.
‘Step back, Hopkins!’ he calls. ‘Step back here.’
He hears Hopkins shout again.
De Vries runs up level with Hopkins, but maybe three or four metres away from him. Above the wind, he calls out: ‘Marc. There’s no problem. We’ve just come to talk. Your lawyer is here.’
Steinhauer turns his face to him, fearful and distraught, then looks away.
De Vries moves forward slowly. ‘We just want to talk. We’re delivering your car back to you this morning. We’re speaking with your wife.’
Steinhauer looks down into the water, back at Hopkins, then at de Vries, holds up his palms, pushes them away.
De Vries stops, says: ‘Can we talk in your house?’
Suddenly, Hopkins is shouting, ‘Marc. For God’s sake. Think of your family.’
De Vries snaps to him,
‘Shut up and stay back.’
The two back-up officers reach the scene, stop well back from de Vries, hands on guns. They see de Vries step forward. They watch Steinhauer mime pushing him away. They hear what might be a cry. They see Steinhauer fall off the rocks, disappear. They all run forward.
De Vries steadies himself, away from the edge, but close enough to see down, without getting blown over. The wind howls, the sea is intense and unremitting, foamy, whisked by the jagged layers of interleaved rock. He is soaked by the sharp, stinging spray. He rubs fists in his eyes, tries to focus, finds Steinhauer, his head momentarily visible amidst the surf. An officer is slipping off his belt, preparing to go in.
De Vries stops him, barring his way. Shouts, ‘Don’t! It’s suicide.’
De Vries sees flamingo pink in the foam, Steinhauer’s body limp, gashed, repeating soundless thumps against the curving, serrated rocks. Momentarily, it rises, and de Vries see the man’s face slashed, spewing blood, his features blurred in the bloody foam on the water’s surface. There is no struggle, no attempt to swim, no life in any limb. It is jerked away, underwater, dragged around the edge of the horseshoe, sucked into the next spiky inlet.
De Vries turns to the officers, his voice hard, demanding.
‘His body must be retrieved. Call the Coast Guard. Do not enter the water, but do not lose sight of his body. Get him out of there and into a coroner’s van. When he is secure, start writing up contemporaneous reports. Exactly what you saw. Everyone comes back to Cape Town.’
He turns to the Kleinmond officer.
‘Get men here. Call whoever you need, tell them this is from me. I want this house sealed; the scene untouched and guarded until further notice. You understand?’
The officer looks very pale, unmoving.
Above the wind, de Vries bellows at him: ‘Do it now.’
He turns to the other men. ‘The moment back-up arrives, we go back to Cape Town in convoy. All of us. Move.’
The First Rule of Survival Page 12
