The First Rule of Survival

by Paul Mendelson

  De Vries says nothing.

  ‘Did I do the right thing, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ de Vries says absentmindedly. ‘You did.’

  At 7 p.m., de Vries sits with Don February in his office. The squad room is quiet, and Vaughn drinks whisky out of a plastic beaker.

  ‘You need to get home after this, Don. You’ve been working hard.’

  ‘We all have.’

  ‘But you especially. Thambo was a good choice. He seems okay . . . How long will it take me to reach Steinhauer’s sister tomorrow?’

  ‘Her name is Caroline Montague. She lives outside Shelton village, just beyond Nieuwoudtville. I think it will take you three and a half hours, maybe four. That is why I told her eleven a.m.’

  ‘What does she sound like?’

  ‘Nervous, I think. She kept asking what it was about. I did not tell her.’

  ‘She’ll find out soon enough,’ de Vries says, lighting a cigarette by the open window, blowing the smoke out into the breezy evening. ‘What else?’

  ‘We are still working on any other Steinhauer relations. The family only moved to South Africa in 1976. The records are not complete, of course.’ Don looks down at his trusty pad. ‘There is no sign of Marc Steinhauer’s cellphone. He could have had it on him when he jumped into the water. If it fell out, it is gone. We will check tomorrow with the network, but we have had problems with them before.’

  ‘What kind of problems?’

  ‘They lose records sometimes; claim they do not exist.’

  ‘What a fucking country. Does nothing work?’

  ‘I found a psychologist from Vincent Pallotti Hospital. Leader in the field. I explained about Steinhauer, and she says that she has read somewhere about the Steinhauer name, but going back years. It could be the father.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you trust her?’

  ‘She has worked with the SAPS before, sir.’ Don tries to remain patient. ‘But only since 2009, so she cannot be connected to before. I stressed our time constraints. She promised to report as fully as possible in forty-eight hours. We can contact her if we need any questions answered before then.’

  ‘And she’s heard of a Steinhauer senior?’

  ‘She said she had read about a man called Steinhauer during research. She could not remember where.’

  ‘Something is moving now, Don. I don’t like that we’re no closer to Bobby Eames. I was thinking earlier, if this is a group, someone could be wherever they kept them, shutting it all down, killing Bobby Eames – if he’s not dead already.’

  ‘Perhaps the sister knows something about family properties?’

  ‘Maybe. What about Nicholas Steinhauer?’

  ‘Still nothing. Two officers in Pretoria traced a number for his secretary and spoke to her. He is in South America for two months. He is giving a lecture and promoting a book. She said she had not heard from him, and would not expect to. He is due back in three weeks.’

  ‘I wonder whether he’ll be on that plane?’

  * * *

  De Vries sleeps well for the first time in weeks. He wakes early; relishes the extra time it affords him. The South-Easter has dropped, clouds roll in slowly off the mountains, making the morning air cool and refreshing. He eats breakfast at the table in his big kitchen, enjoying the solitude, the peace. He feels quietly charged: breakthroughs after seven years of drought. He dismisses his calculation of the distance to the end, focuses on what must be done to take each step. Before this case, he has always reached the end.

  He piles days of dirty crockery into the dishwasher, finds the tablets, sets the machine going. He collects his dirty clothes, stuffs them in a black plastic rubbish sack and throws it into the boot of his car. He checks the tank for petrol, spreads open a map on the passenger seat. He then drives to the parade of shops at the bottom of his road, cracks a smile at the elderly woman who takes his washing. Then he heads towards the tangle of roads which lead to the freeway, and out into the countryside.

  After an hour, he stops at a garage, buys a pepper-steak pie and a can of cold Coke, and stands under a tree by a little dam next to the forecourt. In the surrounding trees, weaver birds dart in and out of their dangling basket-nests. He wonders whether they are feeding their chicks; wonders if, once they fledge, they give their offspring another thought. He calls Don February.

  ‘Get onto the Land Registry for the Riebeek Valley. Find out what land was for sale, what was bought in the last, say, ten years. Find out if the Steinhauer family, or the wife’s family, bought other land.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And one more thing: any underground, or isolated structures which could be used as a hideaway. It’s a long shot, but try everything. We’re down to the wire.’ He snaps the cellphone shut, throws the foil pie tray in the refuse bin and gets back into his car, brushing the pastry crumbs off his suit trousers before swinging his legs inside. He checks the map, then his rearview mirror, sees his lips caked with pastry crumbs, wipes them off with the back of his arm, puts the car into reverse and sets off once more.

  Once he has climbed to the top of the plateau, he turns off the freeway. Before him, the land opens up into a huge expanse of low rolling hills, sprawling fields animated by the shadows of the drifting clouds, massive, some white and bright, others dark and threatening. Like cities on the horizon, the hills loom up ahead of him, maybe 200 kilometres away. So much space, de Vries thinks; so much beauty. So much room for everybody in South Africa. He thinks of the squatter camps along the N2 freeway, one rusty corrugated-tin shack on top of the next; the heat, the wet, the cold, the noise . . . the crime.

  Finally, he approaches Nieuwoudtville, the nearest country town to Caroline Montague’s address. He idles at a four-way stop at its centre and checks his route. Ten kilometres out of town, he turns down a narrow dirt track, rutted and meandering, skirting fields, until eventually he reaches a wooden gate. It is hotter here; he notices the cool of his air-conditioning as he re-enters the car after opening the gate. He starts slowly down the uneven track, taking care not to graze the underside of his car on the raised grassy centre. Finally, within a horseshoe of tall, distorted eucalyptus trees, he sees the homestead which he hopes is his destination.

  John Marantz uses his cellphone to call a local number which links and encrypts a call to a hidden London number.

  A voice says: ‘Please wait.’

  Marantz continues walking up Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens. At the top of the steep site, he comes to the Protea Gardens, which few visitors ever reach. He sits on a favourite bench down a narrow path lined with low flowering trees. In the branches, there are Sunbirds and White-eyes, hovering and chirping, dancing from bough to bough, the incessant hum of insect industry.

  ‘I didn’t expect a call so soon.’

  ‘It’s not what you think.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I want to help a friend,’ Marantz says. ‘A policeman, pertaining to a long inquiry here.’

  ‘What will you need?’

  ‘Nothing sensitive.’

  ‘Will it expose us?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll email you a contact – to be used sparingly. But if you continue like this, I might be tempted to think that you are, in some form, operating again. That would not be appropriate.’

  ‘It wouldn’t.’

  Marantz hears a long, hollow silence.

  ‘You’re sure you won’t come home?’

  Marantz says: ‘I’m not sure of anything.’

  Caroline Montague stands in her doorway, timid in her greeting, suspicious of this man in his city car.

  ‘Let’s walk,’ she says.

  ‘Fine.’

  She looks down at de Vries’ shoes. ‘Are you wearing those?’

  Vaughn glances at his black leather shoes, already caked in dust, the bottom of his suit trousers orange.

  ‘I have boots in my car.’

  De Vries struggles into a pair of
denim jeans in the driver’s seat, lays his jacket on the back seat of his car, and puts on his boots. He keeps these items in his boot for crime scenes out of doors. Now he is pleased he has brought his own car.

  ‘This is official,’ he explains. ‘It’s not a day out for me.’

  ‘We can make it an official walk in the country then.’

  Caroline Montague smiles at him, swings a small backpack over her shoulders and begins to lead him away from the house, out across the fields, towards a rocky outcrop in the distance. De Vries reflects that her backpack had been packed and ready; he wonders whether she has planned this walk, had never intended to invite him inside her house. He looks around, breathing deeply, sees sheep standing in line, seeking shade, each one with its head under the other’s tail. He wonders what the one at the front does.

  ‘They take it in turns,’ Caroline Montague says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The sheep. The one in front will walk down the line and tuck in at the back. They take it in turns: all very democratic.’

  De Vries laughs; she has read his thoughts.

  ‘You live here alone?’

  ‘No. I have a husband. He is a writer. He’s in Jo’burg just now, talking to publishers.’

  ‘Do you know why I’m here?’

  ‘Because history is catching up on me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘After your officer called yesterday, I drove to the village. The café there has the Internet. I saw the press reports.’

  ‘Had no one informed you about your brother?’

  She pauses. ‘I really meant about the boys being found dead. I looked you up, and that was the first article – how it harked back seven years. I did see about Marc, and it was a shock, but . . . I’m sorry for his family.’

  ‘Not for you?’

  ‘That’s what I mean about history.’ She picks up speed momentarily, crosses a stile and begins to walk across a field of grasses.

  Vaughn catches her up again. She waits for him.

  ‘What do you know of my family’s history?’ she asks. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what to call you.’

  ‘My name is Vaughn, Vaughn de Vries. And we don’t know anything, I’m afraid.’

  She offers her hand, and Vaughn shakes it.

  ‘Then I will tell you.’ She looks at him stumbling on the grassy mounds in the field. ‘Are you all right,Vaughn?’

  De Vries looks up at her. She is trying not to smile. He thinks that she is rather beautiful; troubled perhaps, but elegant and physically fit. Her hair is dark blond, tied in a simple ponytail. She wears heavy, well-worn boots, slim jeans and a thick wide-check shirt. He discerns no make-up; just carved wooden beads around her neck. He feels infatuated, like a child.

  ‘You can tell I’m an urban animal?’

  ‘A day in the country will do you good. I have something to drink in here,’ she twists her thumb over her shoulder, ‘and some food; just sandwiches and biscuits. We can have them at the gorge. It’s about two kilometres over there.’ She points into the distance. Vaughn wonders how far two kilometres is; how far it will feel on foot. He is thankful that he has not smoked an entire pack this morning.

  ‘That’s nice, thank you.’

  She starts to stroll forward, checking that he is following.

  ‘My father was called Hubert Steinhauer. As you can probably tell from the name, he was German, and Jewish. His family left Germany in 1938 and, I think because there was a family connection, they travelled to Kenya, where they made a home. My father became a doctor, and he met my mother, not Jewish, not anything; just a middle-class English girl, brought up on the outskirts of Happy Valley, and all that decadence. She bore him four children.’

  ‘Four?’

  ‘My brother Michael died when he was a teenager. And now Marc is dead, there is only Nicholas and me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thank you, but it’s not necessary. I think you will understand.’

  ‘I’m sorry that I interrupted you.’

  ‘No, you must. I am only telling you this because I think it’s what you want to know.’ She leaps a wide dry ditch, holds out her hand for de Vries. Vaughn takes it, and struggles over.

  ‘I was the youngest of the four, and I don’t remember much about growing up in Kenya. I was six when we moved to the Cape. My father bought a huge house in Constantia, with lots of land. This is before they sub-divided every plot to hell and built those horrible gated communities. It was a big old estate house, under ancient English oak trees, and the garden seemed to go on for ever. We had a roof tiled in slate, and that was very rare, very luxurious in those days. Stables with ponies, and stable boys to do all the hard work. It should have been an idyllic childhood.’

  ‘Why wasn’t it?’

  ‘My mother was very unhappy. I don’t think I knew it then, but in retrospect, it was obvious. He never took her out; they never seemed to entertain friends. She played bridge once a week, the same four women for years and years, but other than that I think she hardly met anyone. We children never socialized with other people at our home, or theirs. We would go to school, and the driver would be waiting at the gates to drive us straight home. My father worked in various hospitals and clinics in Cape Town, and I suppose the work was very demanding, but he was always in a filthy mood, always angry with my brothers. Most evenings, my mother and I would be in the parlour and we would hear him bawling at them. They became afraid of him. Sometimes, Michael would take Marc and they would hide in the garden. Nick was sent to find them, and then there would be even more trouble.’

  ‘Why was he so angry?’

  ‘I never really found out. Perhaps he was less angry and more just a very strict father, at least with the boys. I think he had a reputation for perfectionism at work. I know that he wasn’t very popular. I remember waiting in the car once when we were picking him up, and hearing two young doctors complaining about him, calling him a bully and a sadist. I had to look up the word in the dictionary, and I was shocked.’

  She takes a deep breath, angles her face to the sun.

  ‘I suppose he was a Victorian father. He would take the boys out onto the mountain and walk them until they were dropping. They would come back complaining of aches and pains; their arms and legs would be scratched and bruised. But he never took me, even though I would have liked to go. And he was rarely angry with me.’

  She stops, and de Vries trots up next to her, puts his hands on his knees and breathes deeply.

  ‘You are very unfit,’ she tells him. ‘Do you want water?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  She unhooks the rucksack, pulls out a plastic bottle, unscrews the cap and passes it to him. He gulps down about a quarter of it, hands it back to her, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She takes one quick swig, and reseals the cap.

  ‘It’s hotter than I expected,’ de Vries says.

  ‘Are you happy to go on? We are halfway there now.’

  ‘Yes,’ de Vries tells her, clearing his throat of phlegm. ‘No problem.’

  They set off again, and she continues speaking.

  ‘One day in the school holidays, when all the boys were teenagers, he took them to the Orange River. You can traverse a long section, canoeing and wading, camping on the banks. It was an eight-day trip. None of my brothers wanted to go; they pleaded with my mother to talk to their father. But he took them anyway. When they returned, they were black and blue: bitten all over their bodies, bruised and scratched. They couldn’t stand up straight, they couldn’t sit down. I tried to ask them about it, but they wouldn’t speak to me. I think they were in shock. They didn’t want to talk to my mother either. I knew something was very wrong, but I was only about eleven or twelve: I didn’t know what it could be.’

  ‘But later?’

  ‘I think my father was a very cruel man. He turned Nicholas – he is the oldest – into his lieutenant. He would bully Ma
rc and Michael. He went through all the motions of being a good father, but he seemed to hate his sons.’

  ‘But he never threatened you?’

  ‘Never. But I think he drove my mother to an early grave. She went into hospital – we thought for exhaustion and depression more than anything else – and she never came home. The doctors said she just faded away before them. I think maybe she wanted to die.’

  ‘What happened to your brother?’

  She turns to him. ‘It was in the winter. I think I was about fourteen or fifteen, so Nicholas would have been in his early twenties. I think Michael was just nineteen. I know that they had been arguing for days; Michael looked drained by it. The two of them went for a hike across the mountains, up onto Silvermine. It’s pretty bleak up there – like a rocky moonscape. What trees there are, are crippled, blown on their sides, but still struggling to survive. It’s rough hiking at the best of times, but in midwinter it must have been treacherous. I can’t imagine that Michael would have wanted to go but, for whatever reason, he did.’

  Caroline Montague looks far into the distance. ‘I must have been at school when they left, but by the time I returned, it had happened. Nick was back at home, in tears, screaming at Marc, trying to find his father. They had been climbing one of the tors at the apex and Michael had fallen. Nick had scrambled down after him, but he said that Michael’s body was crumpled in a heap, that his neck was broken. He was sure that he was dead. By the time my father returned home, it was dark, and it wasn’t until dawn the next morning that they went back up with a search-party. They said Michael must have died straight away, but we’ll never know. He may have been out there all night, alone, terribly injured.’

  She walks on in silence, de Vries almost trotting to keep up, panting. She stops a little further on, realizing that she has lost him again. When he makes up the ground, she continues.

  ‘After that, there was a disturbing atmosphere at home, quite different from the way it should have been. Marc and I were grieving for Michael, but it did not seem that the other two were. My father spent more and more time with Nicholas, comforting him, supporting him, telling us angrily that it wasn’t his fault. Then, one day, there was a fire in the garage. It was a wooden building with a thatched roof and it went up so quickly and burnt to the ground. I remember that Nicholas and my father blamed Marc, but he told me he had done nothing. They seemed to ostracize him after that. Marc then left for university, and didn’t come home during the holidays. I learnt to enjoy my own company, and started taking extra courses, going on school trips – anything to avoid being at home.’