And you, thinks de Vries, your manner is also revealing.
‘Did you believe him?’
‘I didn’t disbelieve him.’
De Vries snorts. ‘That’s what you get paid for, isn’t it?’
Hopkins looks at him, his head cocked.
‘Never to answer a question directly.’
Indignant: ‘I did not disbelieve that you might have placed surveillance on my client; neither did I discount the possibility that Marc was paranoid. He feared that you would come for him without notifying me, and prevent me from representing him during questioning. Is that direct enough for you?’
‘Did you assure him that I would do no such thing?’
Hopkins laughs sourly, sips his Sauvignon Blanc. ‘Not in so many words.’
‘Marc Steinhauer dumped the bodies of two teenage boys in a skip behind a farm-stall. We have a witness who places him there, behind the kitchens, DNA evidence that confirms he handled at least one of the boy’s bodies.’
‘I’ve seen no such evidence.’
‘You will. If he dumped those boys, he knew who killed them, knew who abducted them and where they were kept. Did he tell you where they were kept?’
‘Of course not. It would not be unethical for me to say that Marc revealed nothing privately to me that he did not discuss with you in interview. He maintained his complete innocence. I believed him then and, until you show me evidence to the contrary, I believe him now.’
‘That is very professional of you.’
‘This has nothing to do with professionalism. Marc admitted to driving into MacNeil’s farm-stall. He was quite open about it. There is no evidence that he got out of his car – which he denies doing – and I have not been shown any evidence which links him, even remotely, to those two boys.’
The bill is laid at the centre of the table. Vaughn slides it towards himself, places a credit card in the small black folder, pushes it away.
‘If I find that you have withheld any information which could lead us to where those boys were kept – where one boy is still imprisoned – for seven years, I will pursue you forever.’
Hopkins finishes his wine, smiles back at de Vries.
‘Then I have nothing to worry about. Whoever took those boys, if one is still alive, I want to see the culprit caught and tried. Don’t doubt me on that.’ He places his napkin on the banquette. ‘When do you intend to interview Mary Steinhauer?’
‘When I’m ready.’
‘In Cape Town?’
‘Wherever I say. You will be informed.’
‘I hope you will not separate her from her family. I hope this brittle exterior of yours conceals a man with some . . . compassion.’
De Vries repeats: ‘You will be informed.’
Don meets de Vries in the SAPS building’s main foyer, blocks his way to the elevators, ushers him onto the street, tells him to follow. They walk in silence to Long Street, then up to a small Mexican café. There is no one on the street but for some forlorn tourists. Don talks to the dreadlocked man behind the tatty wooden counter, and then leads de Vries through a door covered by a painted face of Che Guevara, and upstairs to a small private room: four threadbare sofas, a burned wooden coffee table, the smell of old cigar smoke, stale beer. Don gestures for de Vries to sit down. Don sits down opposite him, opens his briefcase, pulls out a file. He finds the page he is seeking, flattens it out and swivels the file to face de Vries.
‘It’s bad news.’
De Vries looks down at the file: a page to which a copy of a photograph has been stapled. Underneath the picture is typed: Claremont, 9 March 2007? The picture is a mug-shot of Robert Ledham. The arrest date: 23 July 2005.
‘Where did this come from?’
Don bows his head. ‘The abductions docket. The original inquiry.’
De Vries shakes his head, frowns.
‘There’s no reference who submitted it, but it accompanies work reported by Constable Kohle Potgieter.’ Don peels back a sheet and shows de Vries the previous entries in the same typeface.
De Vries stops shaking his head. ‘It wasn’t there,’ he says. ‘I have read these files repeatedly. It isn’t even a contemporaneous entry: there is no page number.’
‘It was in the pile you hadn’t reached yet.’
‘I’ve read all of it. Do you understand? All of it. Many times.’
‘It looks like addenda material. Casual information, inserted as background. Easily missed.’
‘No, Don. I would have remembered Ledham. When you came to me with his name, I didn’t know it. I knew he had not been involved with the inquiry.’ De Vries is completely certain. Almost completely certain.
‘I’ve not reported this,’ Don tells him.
De Vries dismisses that information. ‘Du Toit has the authorized copy. I want to check that.’ He falls silent, unmoving. ‘You did the right thing, Don. Waiting to show me this first. It’s not right.’
Now Don is quiet. Neither move, yet both are focused.
De Vries is the first; he stands up. ‘This needs to be sorted out now.’
De Vries takes the authorized copy of the 2007 multiple abduction case from du Toit’s office, his secretary shunned. He carries it down to his own office. Don February stands inside by the door, closes it after him, remains where he is.
De Vries spreads the file, rifles through the pages, pulls out the exact same page; a photocopy. He stares at it, doubt flooding him, his brain drenched and disorientated. He looks at the paper, compares it to the surrounding pages; the pages have the same hue, lightly faded and fingered with grease. He swallows. It is inconceivable to him that he has failed to process this page, this addition. He cannot believe it, yet it is there, in front of him. He looks up at Don.
‘It – it’s not right, Don. I trust myself.’
‘So, what does that mean?’
‘If I don’t trust myself, I have nothing.’
Don stares at him, watching self-belief ebb. He says quietly, ‘Talk to Kohle Potgieter. Ask him if he remembers submitting this material.’
De Vries sighs, rubs his face. ‘I can’t. He’s dead.’
‘What?’
‘Shot four, five years back; interrupted an armed robbery in Kenilworth. Two officers murdered, one bastard killed, three more living at our expense somewhere, still with their lives.’
‘Jesus.’
‘This stinks, Don.’ De Vries is still again, his hands bracing his desk.
‘Do we bring in Ledham?’
De Vries turns to Don February, exasperated.
‘No. Robert Ledham did not appear in the original inquiry. I know I haven’t seen this before – I know it.’
He stands straight, points at Don. ‘Find out who has had access to the file in the last few days. Ask his secretary, ask du Toit if necessary. Tell him it’s from me, because this . . . I don’t understand.’ He gathers his jacket and starts to move.
‘Where will you be?’ Don asks him.
‘Talking with my Inspector.’
De Vries uses the snail’s pace on the Eastern Boulevard – or Nelson Mandela Boulevard as it has been grandly renamed – to call Dean Russell. First his cellphone, then his home. His wife tells him that Dean will be home soon; he has been playing golf. De Vries checks that he has their new address, wonders how his old colleague will look. He has not seen him for four years.
The house in Rondebosch is a double-storeyed Victorian on a large corner plot. De Vries walks past the swimming pool, through a playground of over-sized toys, follows Lizzie Russell to the stoep, wide and airy, overlooking their tree-filled garden. She gestures to one of the wicker sofas.
‘We haven’t seen you for ages,’ she says as she puts down a can of Windhoek lager in front of him. ‘Have you seen anything of Dean?’
‘No,’ Vaughn tells her. ‘Too much work, too much pressure. You know how it is.’
‘Leaving the SAPS was the best move Dean ever made. For himself. For all of us.’
De Vries gazes at the garden. ‘Looks like it.’
She smiles out of the corner of her mouth. ‘You still with them?’
‘Just about.’ He snaps open the ring-pull on the can, takes a sip, nods towards the garden. ‘This is nice. When did you move here?’
‘Two summers ago. It’s close to the kids’ schools; they have a garden to play in. Before, we could never have afforded anything like this.’
Vaughn murmurs, ‘No.’
They hear a car drawing up, the gates to the short driveway opening, then the garage door rising, an engine idling, revving finally and dying. Dean Russell appears through the garden, almost jogging, cheerful. He sees de Vries, stops and frowns, walks forward and smiles uncertainly.
‘Vaughn?’ He looks up at his wife, who says: ‘Your cell was off.’
Dean Russell pats his trouser pocket, leans forward to kiss her. He turns to Vaughn, offers his hand.
‘Social call?’
‘No. I need your brain for a few moments.’
Russell points at de Vries’ can. ‘Another?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll get myself one and join you.’
He turns to his wife, smiles reassuringly, leads her back indoors. Vaughn hears hushed voices, and then Russell returns, sits at the other end of the sofa from him, swivels to face his old boss.
‘What do you want,Vaughn?’
‘Not pleased to see me?’
‘Not if this is SAPS business, no. You could have contacted my office tomorrow.’
‘This is a personal favour.’
‘Okay . . .’
De Vries leans back in his chair, focuses on Dean Russell.
‘You look well. Security suiting you?’
‘You know it is.’
‘Girls okay?’
‘They’re eleven and thirteen, and they’re women already. What is it,Vaughn?’
‘Mine are good too,’ de Vries continues blankly. ‘In Jo’burg now, studying, but doing good.’
‘So, everyone’s good, man. Just tell me why you’re here.’
De Vries puts down the can, sits up. ‘Think back to Steven, Bobby and Toby.’
‘Oh Jesus, I read about it. Those two boys . . . it’s for real?’
‘Oh ja. Very real and just like last time. Nothing concrete, nothing that links. But I need you to think back for me, Dean. I need you really focused. How many times did you reread the dockets?’
‘This is six, seven years ago. I don’t know. I got away from all that, put it out of my mind. Had to.’
‘Well, I need you to think about it now. For me. Think of the suspects we questioned, those on the paedophile list. Was there a Robert Ledham?’
‘How should I know?’
‘We lived that case every single fucking day for months.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Think about it for me. Robert Ledham. Is that a name you recognize?’ He watches Russell thinking. ‘Kohle Potgieter might have written an addenda notice on him.’
Russell shakes his head. ‘No. I haven’t heard that name before. I can’t tell you that it didn’t come up, but I don’t remember it. Why?’
‘Long story. You sure you’ve really thought, Dean? We’ve talked to him just now because he was in the vicinity of the dump-site for the two boys, but now a new page has appeared in the original murder book and the authorized copy. A page with his mug-shots from an earlier arrest, a note suggesting he might have been in Claremont on the date Bobby Eames was taken: ninth March, 2007.’
‘That all? Why didn’t we follow it up? We would have tied it up, for sure.’
‘That’s what I think.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know. Either we missed this guy – God knows we had enough to work on – or maybe someone thought we’d spoken to him and didn’t follow it through. But I don’t remember that name and neither do you, so this is shit, and I have to work out what kind.’
‘Is he a possible suspect?’ Russell asks.
De Vries is in a trance.
‘Vaughn?’
‘No. That’s the point. He’s turned up now after we spoke to him. But if he was involved originally and we let him go, it’s going to look bad, and I have Internal Investigations looking at me, scrutinizing everything we did, and they want to get me, Dean.’
‘We would never have let a lead go like that.’
‘I know.’
‘Is someone messing with the docket?’
‘It’s possible. If they have, they’ve done a good job. The paper looks old; the copy feels right. I’m beginning to doubt myself.’
‘For what it’s worth, boss, I don’t doubt you. Didn’t then; don’t now.’ Russell lets himself relax into the wicker armchair, takes a draught of lager. ‘This is why I left. Every day you deal with the scum of the earth. Not a fucking decent guy amongst them, and then your own colleagues, someone on the team, higher up, lower down, they come and stiff you.’
‘Maybe you made the right decision, after all.’
‘You ever doubted it, man? I lead trained men. They’re mixed, and some of them are as thick as shit, but on the whole they’re okay. I go to meetings, I organize and instruct. But, you know, things happen, work gets done, clients are happy – Jesus, I even get thank-you letters. There’s even some respect. I don’t have to work the front line, no stress. My migraines are gone. I have a happy wife, happy kids. All I worry about is paying the mortgage each month, and wondering if I’m going to get laid ever again.’
De Vries raises his beer can. ‘Welcome to a long and happy marriage.’
Russell laughs, but he is still serious. ‘In truth, I couldn’t take it. I had to leave to survive.’
De Vries gets up. ‘I’ll leave you to your braai.’
Russell stands, shakes Vaughn’s hand, meets his eye.
De Vries says, slowly: ‘Robert Ledham?’
Russell pauses, but Vaughn knows it is only for show.
‘Nothing. It means nothing.’ He puts his hand on Vaughn’s shoulder. ‘If we didn’t follow it up and run it down, it wasn’t there.’
De Vries, almost completely certain now, says: ‘No.’
Don February reads: ‘Robert Ledham was arrested on twenty-third July 2005. Pinelands division were called to a playground where Ledham was taking photographs in the kiddies’ park. Two mothers called them in, suspicious of a middle-aged man with a bag of sweets in his lap, photographing their children. According to the report, he became abusive when officers tried to move him on. They arrested him. He was questioned and then released; no charge.’
‘Despite his conviction?’
‘For whatever reason, they did not find his conviction in Pretoria.’
‘Why didn’t we know this before, when Ledham’s name first came up?’
‘It is the same story as usual: one piece of information is lost, then the whole chain of data becomes contaminated. Even the divisional computers do not talk to each other. There was not a charge. They did not know about Pretoria. It probably was not even entered.’
Don February is sitting up in his chair, facing de Vries across his desk.
De Vries mutters: ‘Fucking circus.’
Don looks back at the print-out on his lap.
‘He was required to check in with police in PE when he moved there a couple of months later. That is where he lived until 2009, when he came back to Cape Town, to Muizenberg, where he still lives.’
‘The entry is only a question: was Robert Ledham in Claremont the day Bobby Eames was taken? And, even if he was, did he take him? Why would he, eight hundred ks from home? And he’s into little girls, isn’t that right?’
‘It does not say here, but that is what he told us.’
De Vries scowls. ‘This is bullshit, Don. Someone is messing with us. Who had that authorized copy?’
‘I spoke to the Director himself. He said that Colonel Wertner requested it yesterday.’
‘Wertner?’
‘Kept it until twelve noon today, then had it delivered back to the Director’s office.’
‘Anyone can get into my office,’ de Vries muses. ‘Wertner probably has a key to every fucking office in the building.’
‘Why would Colonel Wertner try to mislead the inquiry? Why would he take that risk?’
‘Wertner has his own agenda.’ De Vries starts tidying the files on his desk, locking certain ones into a filing cabinet behind him, slamming each door.
‘What now?’
‘We ignore it. You’re going to have to trust me, Don. If I screwed up back then, I’d tell you, and I know that I didn’t. Whatever the reason for this shit, whoever is responsible, it is designed to delay us – and that is not going to happen.’ He looks at his Warrant Officer. ‘You satisfied with that?’
Don hesitates only for a second. ‘Ja. If I change my mind, I’ll tell you first.’
‘All right.’ Vaughn stands up, starts to count items off on his fingers. ‘Tomorrow, we go to Rooiels to interview the Widow Steinhauer. I want two local cops there with us. Call Ralph Hopkins – he’s the family’s lawyer too – tell him we’ll be there at ten a.m. Next, find out where the psychologist is, the guy who profiled our abductor. His name was Dyk. Tell him what we want to talk to him about and set up a time in the afternoon, say three p.m.’
Don nods.
‘Did you find out about the brother?’ De Vries asks.
‘I have someone on it. He left South Africa five weeks ago, flying to Buenos Aires,Argentina. We called his office in Johannesburg, but there is just a recorded message saying it is closed for two months from five weeks back. I requested that local officers visit it to find a contact number, but I have not heard back.’
De Vries pats his Warrant Officer’s shoulder. ‘Good, Don. That’s good.’
David Wertner has worked with the now General Simphiwe Thulani for eighteen years. Where Thulani has gone, Wertner has followed: loyal, dependable, predictable. He is under no illusion as to why Thulani has kept him so close. An honourable black man keeps a grifting coloured man at his side for one reason only: it is his dream ticket. Thulani will ride it all the way to the top. He has his Zulu supporters and Wertner will keep the embittered, disenfranchised coloured men and women officers quiet with veiled promises of happier times to come. And David Wertner knows that if Thulani can rise under Mandela and Mbeki, it is certain that under a Zulu like Zuma, he will move further and faster.
The First Rule of Survival Page 15
