The First Rule of Survival

by Paul Mendelson

  When Thulani got the nod for his promotion this time,Wertner knew he had to move then – to diverge from his leader’s path. The deal was simple: his continued patronage, but his own department. A new Internal Investigation Bureau, structured to his strengths, with promises to realign the old guard so that men like Henrik du Toit and Vaughn de Vries would never rise again. Let them believe that there is no glass ceiling and then entomb them. And Thulani, so pleased to be ahead, at last, of Henrik du Toit, agreed. Now, Wertner has control. He could even break Thulani if he pleased. This independence gives him such confidence.

  ‘Who watches the watcher?’ He often meditates on this theme, rubbing his wide buzz-cut scalp, smiling to himself that the new South Africa is not entirely new.

  Don February drives de Vries along the same twisting coastal road that leads to Betty’s Bay. They draw up in the preceding cove, down at the edge of the beach where, in a sprawling Tuscan villa, Tony Hansall waits with his mourning daughter and his confused granddaughters. He meets the officers as they get out of their car, leads them inside to the kitchen through the side entrance, and offers them coffee. They take their mugs, but Hansall stands between them and the internal door.

  ‘My daughter, Mary . . . she is still coming to terms with what has happened.’ He bows his head, breathes deeply. ‘I haven’t shown her the newspapers.’ He stands over them. ‘You have to understand. Marc wasn’t a clever man – he wasn’t particularly talented. I have been lucky, so the family have money. But he was a good husband, a good father. What they are writing in the press – it isn’t true. I would have known. Mary would have known, and she would have come to me.’

  De Vries says gently, ‘Nothing is proven. That is why we needed to speak to your son-in-law. Now, regrettably, we must speak to his wife. I give you my word that we will do our best to be sympathetic. But we must discover the truth. I hope you understand, sir.’

  ‘What made him do that?’

  That, de Vries thinks. Take his own life.

  ‘I don’t know. He may have been involved and feared for his family – what such revelations might do to them. Perhaps he couldn’t face it.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Hansall replies grimly. ‘I don’t understand where you, or the press, could get these ideas.’ He opens his mouth, searching, but nothing comes out of it except the sound of the waves on the shore over his shoulder. He snaps to.

  ‘I accept that it is your duty.’ He stands aside from the doorway, puts his hand on the handle. ‘Mary is in the sitting room through there, with the lawyer.’

  Vaughn nods and turns, but Don asks, ‘Ralph Hopkins: is he your lawyer also, sir?’

  Hansall shakes his head. ‘No. I don’t care for the man.’ He looks at de Vries. ‘I will be with my grandchildren. Call out if you need me.’

  Mary Steinhauer and Ralph Hopkins rise as the two men walk the length of the sitting room to join them by the wide French windows which overlook the rocky beach and the waves coldly crashing onto it. Hopkins handles the introductions and gestures for them to sit. He sits on the edge of the sofa close to Mary; de Vries and Don on the soft, low sofa opposite them.

  ‘I want to start,’ Hopkins announces, ‘by thanking you both for coming here. This is a gesture that is appreciated at this time.’

  ‘And we,’ Vaughn responds, meeting Mary Steinhauer’s gaze properly for the first time, ‘commiserate with you, and apologize for disturbing you. As I hope Mr Hopkins has told you, we need to ask you some questions about your husband. I know that they will not be easy for you to answer, but I ask you to be candid with us, so that the truth in all these matters – whatever it is – can be discovered.’

  Everyone looks at Mary Steinhauer, perched primly on the edge of her sofa, back straight. She speaks in a brittle tone, impatient, without a trace of hesitation.

  ‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’

  Don physically recoils; de Vries sits back and looks at her.

  She is wearing a dark fitted suit, businesslike, her hair tied back from her face.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ she says. ‘I loved Marc. But when it is the middle of the night and you are all alone, and it is so black, so hopeless, that there is nowhere lower to fall, it allows you – allowed me – to think clearly. So I will tell you what I know, and you will go away, and one day, I hope you will tell me the truth, because not knowing . . . I can’t bear not knowing.’ She turns to Hopkins. ‘Let them ask anything. What does it matter now?’

  Hopkins smiles kindly at her, says: ‘I am here to support you, Mary, my dear.’

  Mary Steinhauer looks at Don.

  ‘You visited the winery, didn’t you? When you left, Marc would not look at me; would not talk to me. Then you came back,’ she turns to de Vries, ‘with him – and took Marc away. When Ralph brought him home, I had never seen him like that before, not in fifteen years. It was as if he could not focus his thoughts. He was burning up, couldn’t sit down, couldn’t think. I begged him to stay at the house, but he would not. He could not talk to me; could not even interact with our daughters. I knew then that he was in serious trouble, that he had done something which he could not face discussing even with me.’

  ‘Mary,’ Hopkins intervenes. ‘We do not know that.’

  ‘But I knew Marc,’ she tells him firmly. ‘We always spoke about every problem, every decision that presented itself to us. We worked through every dilemma. So, forgive me, but I know what his behaviour meant.’

  ‘I have to assume,’ de Vries says, ‘that Mr Hopkins has explained to you, or you have seen reports in the media, the reasons for us deciding to arrest your husband?’

  ‘I think the implication is quite clear: that he was involved in the deaths of those two boys. What evidence did you have to support that theory?’

  De Vries hesitates. The interview is so different from how he had imagined, how it had played out in his mind, as he sat alone but for the triangle of dark bottles, late into the early hours in his big empty house.

  ‘I don’t think that it is helpful to tell you only part of our investigation. I want to tell you the full story, once we have it.’

  Hopkins says, ‘The police were arresting Marc on suspicion of involvement, merely suspicion.’

  ‘Can you tell us,’ de Vries asks quietly, ‘did your husband make any comment to you, either after he was first visited by Warrant Officer February, or latterly, following his interview in Cape Town?’

  ‘He was upset that his cheese had been found near those dead boys. He said that he couldn’t understand it, how it was impossible. We sell more and more products now – they must get everywhere – so I thought it an overreaction, but Marc seemed to take it very badly.’

  ‘Did he make any further mention of it?’

  ‘No. But he looked unhappy all day long, very pale.’

  ‘And after his interview?’

  ‘As I said, he was distraught. Ralph told him, in front of me, that there was no evidence suggesting that he was involved, but that did not reassure him. He told me that he was going to Betty’s Bay to be alone, to think. I begged him to stay; to share his anguish with me, to be with his family, but he was resolute. We agreed we would join him the next day at lunchtime, once I had arranged everything at the winery.’

  De Vries continues smoothly, ‘Did you speak to him after that?’

  ‘Marc called me just after he passed this house, to tell me that he was almost home.’

  ‘But not from your home in Betty’s Bay?’

  ‘No. We don’t have a landline there, and the signal on the cell is intermittent because of the mountains. Often we get no signal at all.’

  ‘Did he make any other comment?’

  ‘No. He wished me goodnight; told me not to worry.’

  ‘And the next morning?’

  ‘No. That was the last time I spoke with Marc.’

  They pause for a moment, then De Vries says, ‘How often did your husband travel away from the winery and your hom
e?’

  ‘Most weeks. He took it in turns with his brother to visit their aunt in Riebeek West. We also own an olive farm, about thirty kilometres past Riebeek-Kasteel. He would combine both duties.’

  ‘Would he stay away overnight?’

  ‘Very rarely.’

  ‘And would he travel to the Betty’s Bay house on his own?’

  ‘On occasion. He would go there to read, or just to get the house ready for when I and the children arrived.’

  ‘Any other travel?’

  ‘No.’

  De Vries smiles reassuringly at her; she seems to look through him.

  ‘How close was Marc to his brother? Nicholas, isn’t it?’

  She looks at de Vries scornfully. ‘Don’t patronize me, Inspector.’

  Hopkins corrects her. ‘Colonel.’

  ‘Colonel, then. Ralph has already told me that you were the officer who ran the inquiry into those boys disappearing all those years ago. I know that my brother-in-law made much of the failure of the police, made himself quite the celebrity. It embarrassed Marc. What do you want me to say about Nicholas? That he is a conceited, arrogant man professionally, cold and unsupportive personally? He might have charmed the cameras, but it did not work on me. We never saw Nicholas socially: I met him only a handful of times, but I know Marc saw him at their aunt’s.’

  ‘Did you ever visit your husband’s aunt?’

  Mary Steinhauer is about to answer, but she checks herself.

  ‘I – once. I had insisted on seeing how the olive farm had progressed. We called in on her briefly. She was very deaf, very crippled. I never had cause to go to our land again; Marc told me that there was no need for me to visit her. Perhaps I should have done.’

  ‘Did your husband make any comment to you about his brother?’ de Vries asks.

  ‘He was afraid of Nicholas – afraid and, I think, in awe of him. He rarely said anything about him. I don’t believe theirs was a close family.’

  ‘Your husband just had one brother?’

  ‘No. There was a sister. She came to our wedding, but I haven’t seen her since, and Marc never spoke about her. She lives in the country, in the Karoo, I think. If Marc did see her, he didn’t tell me about it. But, as I said, his was not a close family. There were never any family occasions, not even Christmas.’

  De Vries leans forward, speaks quietly.

  ‘You mentioned that you remembered the initial incident, seven years ago now, when the three boys were abducted from Cape Town?’

  ‘The moment I read about the boys’ bodies being discovered, I remembered that time.’

  ‘Do you recall whether your husband was in Cape Town at the time of the abductions?’

  ‘I do.’ She answers quickly, precisely. ‘And he was not. He was at our farm on all those three days. He did not travel anywhere.’

  ‘You remember that clearly,’ de Vries says, ‘seven years back?’

  Again, scorn, irritation.

  ‘No, Colonel, I did not remember that. I keep a diary. I have done so since I was a child. Last night, while I was thinking about everything that has happened, I looked at the diary from 2007. I did remember that I wrote in it about those events, because we organized a prayer meeting for those children at my church, prayed for them every week, for many months. But there is no mention of Marc leaving, and I would have noted that. I would prefer not to show you my diary but, if you deem it necessary, I will fetch it for you.’

  De Vries says, ‘Why did you check your diary?’

  ‘I just told you that.’

  ‘But why? Why check at all?’

  She stares at him steadily. Very slowly she replies, ‘For the reasons you are thinking.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘That a wife knows when something is wrong. I had never doubted Marc before. But . . .’ She stops, her mouth open.

  ‘Mrs Steinhauer?’

  In the hush, they hear the waves breaking over rocks, one swell after another. De Vries counts the ebb over and over again, wonders how anyone could live with the incessancy. Mary Steinhauer is frozen.

  ‘Perhaps a break?’ Ralph Hopkins murmurs.

  De Vries holds up his hand; repeats her words.

  ‘You never doubted your husband, but . . . ?’

  She starts calmly. ‘I should have insisted he stayed with us. I should never have let him drive off alone.’

  ‘You couldn’t have known.’

  ‘I did know.’ She throws her head back, closes her eyes, the first sign of an emotional rather than a factual response. The first time, perhaps, that she has departed from what she had planned to say. ‘I did know. I knew when I asked him whether he had anything to do with those boys. I knew when he told me no. I knew when he looked at me and tried to make me believe. I knew when he told me on the telephone not to worry.’

  ‘You felt that your husband might take his own life?’

  Hush falls again.

  ‘I knew,’ she begins, ‘that you had discovered something in my husband’s life, so shameful, so awful, that he could not tell me.’ She grimaces, seems far away. Suddenly, she looks up at de Vries. ‘Do not question my daughters. Do not put them through that. Children do not need to see every facet of their parents. Mine saw love and care, and compassion, and happiness. Do not destroy everything I have worked for.’

  ‘I don’t need to talk to your daughters.’

  She exhales deeply, as if her breath had been held all this time.

  ‘Thank you.’

  De Vries looks to Don, still writing on a pad on his lap. Don bows his head respectfully at Mary Steinhauer.

  ‘You said your husband rarely stayed away from home overnight. Did he stay away last Sunday night?’

  She answers him very quietly. ‘He did. He told me that his aunt had asked him to stay. I suppose he was lying then, just as I now realize that he lied to me throughout our marriage.’ She echoes Don’s bowing, her whole body quivering. She does not look up.

  ‘We are nearly done.’ De Vries turns to Hopkins, then asks Mrs Steinhauer: ‘I need permission to visit and search your olive farm. Do you have any objections?’

  She swallows, drawing herself up. Tells him, ‘You have searched my homes already. What do I care if you search there? Ralph will give you the address, and directions.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I may be with my children now?’

  ‘Yes, of course, and thank you.’

  She stands and the men follow suit. She indicates Don.

  ‘Ralph, please take this officer into the hallway and provide him with the details of my olive farm.’

  Hopkins looks taken aback, eventually nods uncertainly, gestures to Don, and they walk away. She watches them leave, waits until the door to the sitting room is closed, the brass handle stops moving.

  ‘I have a terrible fear,’ she tells de Vries, ‘that I have been blind. I do not know why I think Marc was involved with those boys, but when I thought back over the years, tiny things came to me, and I realized that I had been nursing a feeling of unease all this time – a tiny doubt, deeply repressed.’

  De Vries thinks of his own inner questioning of his wife: her reports to him of her day; her returns home late at night; strange scents outside his expectation; her mood unmatched to her description of her acts.

  ‘We never really know anybody,’ he says.

  ‘I remember one more thing, Colonel. I couldn’t say it in front of everyone else. It came to me just before I was about to fall asleep late this morning. When I thought about it, I sat bolt upright. One day, many years ago, when we were alone together, he said to me: “Thank God we had girls”; that we have two beautiful young daughters. I hadn’t thought of those words in all this time and, suddenly, I knew they had meaning.’ She stands back from him, blinking, refocusing. ‘Perhaps you think I am a terrible wife. Perhaps you think that a wife should stand by her husband, come what may. I would, if he was here. I would have laid down my life for him, for my children.
But now . . . There is one boy unaccounted for, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes. Robert Eames.’

  ‘He is why I have said what I have said. Perhaps some good will come of it. But you must find him, bring him home to his family.’

  ‘That is what we want to do.’

  ‘Then do it.’

  De Vries nods, begins to turn away.

  Mary Steinhauer says: ‘When you know what Marc did, tell me first. I need to know, and I need to prepare my daughters. Do you promise me?’

  ‘I will tell you as soon as I can.’

  She holds out her hand, delicate but steady.

  ‘Don’t forget me, Colonel.’

  ‘I will not,’Vaughn says.

  ‘That was not what I expected,’ Don says when they rejoin the main road, heading back along the coastline towards Gordon’s Bay and then Cape Town. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did she want to say to you when she sent us out?’

  De Vries seems lost in thought, murmurs, ‘Marc Steinhauer told his wife that he thanked God they had had daughters. Meaning, I suppose, not sons.’

  They sit in silence as Don steers around the sharp bends and up onto the raised road, curling its way along the wild coast. It is a beautiful road, unnoticed by the occupants of this car.

  De Vries says, ‘You were very quiet.’

  ‘I was amazed, and I was writing, trying to understand her. So was Mr Hopkins. I think she silenced everyone.’

  ‘And what did you learn?’

  ‘I want to reread my notes, but the matter of the phones stood out. She said that he called her from Rooiels, because there was no landline at their house, and the cellphone reception was bad, sometimes non-existent.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Ralph Hopkins said that Steinhauer called him at midnight from his Betty’s Bay house. That does not sound right now, does it? Perhaps we should check Marc Steinhauer’s cellphone and see if that call was made?’

  De Vries nods thoughtfully. ‘Yes.’