‘I don’t know. If he didn’t abduct those children – and you assure me that he didn’t leave your estate on those days – then we know that there are others, possibly many others, involved.’
‘That’s horrifying.’
De Vries nods. Then he asks, ‘Did you know that your husband could shoot?’
‘I would have said no, but then I thought about what Marc had told me when we were first married: how his father had ensured that his sons did not go into the Army. Instead, he took them into the countryside and taught them how to hunt; how to survive. I think Marc hated it. The only reason he allowed me to keep goats and hens was because we never had to slaughter them.’
‘Did you ever meet his father?’
‘No. Marc told me he had died before we met. Both his parents. I think his mother died when Marc was only quite young. That is why Nicholas has such an influence over him.’
De Vries hesitates, confused. Asks: ‘Did he ever talk about Michael?’
‘Michael who?’
‘His brother, Michael.’
‘No.’ Her expression changes slowly as she realizes what this question means. She asks warily, ‘His brother?’
‘You were not aware that Marc had two brothers?’
‘No.’
‘This is what I understand from your sister-in-law, Caroline Montague.’
Mary Steinhauer tilts her head. She seems afraid to ask.
‘What happened to Michael?’
‘We understand he fell during a mountain hike with Nicholas. He was killed.’
She opens her mouth; closes it again. Struggles to comprehend.
‘Who else was with them?’
‘Only his brother, Nicholas.’
Her expression is one of shock. De Vries says, ‘I’m afraid it sounds as if there are more secrets. We confirmed that your father-in-law, Hubert Steinhauer, died in December 2006, not eight years ago. We think it is possible that this was a trigger for what followed.’
He looks up at her, sees her cheeks drain of colour. She slumps back in the chair, empty.
‘I’m sorry,’ de Vries repeats.
‘The problem,’ Steve Ulton tells Don, ‘is that our computers don’t work like they do on TV. There’s none of that flashing through a database, the screen freezing with a match. It kind of crawls through what we have. And the beeping! Have you ever heard a real-life computer make those noises?
Don interrupts him, quietly, firmly. ‘Please tell me that you have Dyk’s fingerprints at the site?’
‘We have repeating partials, not recent. Collectively, they add up to a match. So far, only in the anteroom.’
‘But we have him there, at the bunker?’
‘Yes.’
‘Indisputable in court?’
‘I thought you said Dyk was dying?’
‘I ask you what I know de Vries – Colonel de Vries – will ask. Is it indisputable in court?’
Ulton looks up. ‘Yes.’
Don thanks him, then walks out of the darkened lab and over to the elevators. Back in the squad room, he checks what his officers have discovered about connections between Nicholas Steinhauer and Johannes Dyk. De Vries calls him to his office and sits him down.
‘Well done. I called Ulton and heard he’d spoken with you. Have we managed to connect him with Steinhauer?’
‘Yes and no. They worked in the same hospital in the late 1990s. It was about then that Dyk started acting as a consultant to the SAPS and, professionally at least, we have not managed to find any other links.’
‘How old do you think he is?’
‘I know,’ Don says. ‘He was born in 1935. So he is seventy-nine.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I know things.’ Don smiles and de Vries laughs. ‘Why?’
‘Is there any chance Dyk knew Hubert Steinhauer, the father?’
‘I do not know that. I can ask them to check, but it is getting late.’
De Vries sits forward. ‘We need everything we can get before tomorrow.’
‘All right. Where am I with this interview?’
‘Next to me, Don. Next to me.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘This is our case. Anyway, these guys at the top, they wouldn’t touch him right now. Did you see this article he wrote in the Argus?’ He holds up a half-page spread on Steinhauer. ‘He says he knows nothing – how shocking it is professionally, how it will . . . What does it say?’ He scrabbles for the paper, flips it around and tries to find the passage. ‘Yes – here:“It will force me to look back at my family history and draw some hard conclusions.” This guy is full of bullshit, Don, because I know he knows.’
‘How do we prove it?’
‘We catch him in the lie.’
‘If we can.’
‘I met with Classon and our esteemed Director, and you can guess what they said. Watch what we say, what might get back to the media; treat the suspect like delicate glass, for fuck’s sake. We have to get him off-balance and we have to keep pressing. We’ll talk more in the morning, but I want you on Hopkins. Every time he interrupts, I want you to get him to back down. I want to focus on Steinhauer. You think you can manage that?’
‘I am not experienced on the law, but I will try.’
‘Good.’
Don stands up. ‘I will look now for any connection to Hubert Steinhauer. I have to be home by six thirty. I told you.’
De Vries nods, smiles. ‘Go when you have to, Don. Keep the wife happy. In the long run, it’s for the best.’
As he lies awake in the early hours, De Vries thinks about his wife. He does not imagine her naked, nor bearing his children, not even all together on family holidays. In half-sleep, he sees her approach him with her microphone, a huge microphone, camera crew in tow.
‘I want,’ she tells him, ‘to speak to you about your failure.’
Don February says, ‘He is still down there, sir. Looks like he is conducting a press conference. There is at least one television crew and about thirty reporters.’
Director du Toit looks again at his watch. He already knows that it is 10.30 a.m.
‘He is,’ he says to de Vries, ‘acting like a man above the whole business.’
‘Exactly,’ de Vries says. ‘What did he do at the time of the abductions? Got himself in a position to pronounce on them – above suspicion. This is exactly where he’s positioning himself now.’
‘Is Sergeant Thambo still waiting to bring them up?’
‘He is, sir,’ Don tells him.
De Vries thinks: a big, tall, black African officer – very telegenic.
‘Since this is supposedly a voluntary interview, I suggest we wait,’ du Toit says.
De Vries leans against the wall between the two elevator doors.
‘I have all day . . .’
* * *
‘We may have a copy of your recordings?’ Hopkins asks.
‘It is a private meeting, sir,’ Don replies. ‘It would not be advisable to relay details to the public.’
‘I think we’ll decide on that.’
‘It may be background material for my book,’ Steinhauer muses.
De Vries turns to him, stares at him, says nothing.
‘Shall we begin?’ Hopkins says.
‘We have been waiting to begin for over an hour,’ de Vries says calmly. ‘Is your client ready to answer some questions now?’
Hopkins looks at Steinhauer, who shakes his head and looks bemused. ‘It seems so, Colonel.’
Vaughn nods, leans down to a briefcase and produces several thick files, places them on the table in front of him, but leaves them closed. Steinhauer watches him curiously.
‘A book?’ de Vries says, meeting Steinhauer’s gaze for the first time.
‘Yes,’ Steinhauer says, smiling, nonchalant.
‘A novel?’
‘An investigation into the human psyche. Why should a man, seemingly happily married, with a supportive family, become involved in kidnap
ping and murder?’
‘And you’ll reveal everything?’
‘What I uncover; what I deduce, yes.’
‘Well, I’ll certainly want to read that.’
‘You’ll be in it.’
‘I’m sure I will,’ de Vries says. ‘What about you, Dr Steinhauer? How will you feature?’
Ralph Hopkins says: ‘Is this getting us anywhere?’
‘This is an informal interview,’ Don tells him. ‘And your client first mentioned his book.’
‘I do not appear. I know it would suit your agenda that I feature front and centre, but sadly for you, I play no part. However, clearly I have questions to answer myself. How I could have failed to detect this trait in my brother? As a professional, I should have seen warning signs.’
‘What would they have been?’
Steinhauer tilts his head. ‘I think perhaps the cause of my brother’s depression. Of course, we scarcely discussed it, since this was a matter for Marc and his therapist – not that he was keen on psychoanalysis. He probably ignored me and did not even employ one. I think, for him, he believed that it was a chemical imbalance.’
‘What kind of depression did your brother suffer from?’
‘It would be termed chronic depression. He was not bipolar, but his depressive episodes were, I believe, quite serious.’
‘Had he attempted to commit suicide before?’
‘He had not, I am sure, before been driven to the point of contemplating it.’
‘What do you suppose drove him there this time?’
Steinhauer smirks.
‘You, of course. Harassing him until he felt there was no escape.’
De Vries glances at Hopkins, lowers his voice.
‘That is not the case, as your lawyer should have told you.’
‘Well,’ Steinhauer says, ‘I will form my own judgement on that.’ He sits back and folds his arms. Even reclining, he is taller than de Vries. He looks down at him, eyes seemingly half closed.
‘You were not involved in your brother’s treatment?’
‘Naturally not.’
‘Why, naturally?’
‘Because it is not appropriate for a member of the same family to be involved in such a way. It is unlikely that Marc would have felt able to confide in me.’
‘That is a shame.’
‘It is usual.’
‘And you never discussed it, even privately, on occasion?’
‘As I told you: I rarely saw him. We did not socialize per se.’
‘You never spoke about it when you saw him at your aunt’s house in Riebeek West?’
‘We were there to visit her.’
‘And you visited your brother’s olive farm, I suppose?’
‘I went to see it, yes. I have no interest in such things, but Marc seemed pleased with it. I was happy that he had arranged the project himself.’
‘He told you that, did he?’
Steinhauer frowns. ‘Did he not?’
‘That’s not my question, sir,’ de Vries says very calm, very even. ‘I asked you whether he particularly told you that it was his project?’
Steinhauer blinks. ‘Well, I assume so. I know that he bought the land and worked on the buildings.’
‘You knew that he bought the land? Did he tell you that?’
Steinhauer sits up, looks at de Vries.
‘I was aware of that so, yes – he must have told me. Perhaps he mentioned it at my aunt’s, that he had bought some land nearby.’
‘But you don’t recall him doing that?’
Steinhauer flicks his right wrist, loosening his metal watch-strap so that it falls beneath his cuff. ‘I do not recall Marc telling me that specifically, no. It would not be a particularly memorable comment.’
‘Did you know the area in which your brother bought the land?’
‘No.’
‘But you visited it?’
‘I told you, yes.’
‘You didn’t help him to pick it?’
‘No. I had nothing to do with Marc’s business.’
‘You didn’t assist him whatsoever in the purchase of that farmland?’
‘No.’
‘That’s interesting,’ de Vries says, pulling out a pen, opening the top file. He flicks through a few pages until he comes to the deeds of the Fineberg olive farm. Then, in silence, he writes a note in the margin. He rereads what he has written, and then replaces the pen in his pocket, closes the file and restacks it. In his peripheral vision, he is aware that Steinhauer is watching him.
Steinhauer asks casually: ‘Have you heard otherwise?’
De Vries says, ‘I am noting inconsistencies and contradictions between statements made.’
‘I see.’
‘Did you ever visit your father at the Valkenberg Mental Hospital?’
Steinhauer shifts a little: ‘My father had retired from there before I began practising. I never had reason to visit him at work.’
‘Have you visited it since, perhaps to read over case-notes?’
Steinhauer narrows his eyes. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘I don’t know,’ de Vries says. ‘I just need to confirm or deny with you certain information, and statements made.’
‘What statements?’ Hopkins says.
Don February says, ‘Your client is not under arrest, sir. When he is, all relevant information will be released to you.’
Hopkins and Steinhauer both recoil minutely, and de Vries marvels at the effect of one tiny word in a sentence – ‘when’ as opposed to ‘if’ – and how well, in his precise, slightly stilted manner, Don has delivered it, all innocence.
‘When my client is arrested?’ Hopkins repeats.
‘At such a time that he may be arrested, sir. At this time, this is merely a voluntary, informal interview.’
‘I may have visited the Valkenberg Hospital,’ Steinhauer announces. ‘But I would not be looking at another doctor’s notes. I never practised there.’
‘So you did visit that hospital?’
‘In my professional capacity, I may have visited it.’
‘But you do not remember?’
‘I have said that I probably, at some point, have visited it.’
‘Perhaps you were seeking reports on a disciplinary proceeding?’ de Vries says.
Now Steinhauer’s smirk reappears. He says, ‘I see.’ He folds his arms. ‘No, Colonel, I have never seen any report into the unfounded allegations about my father’s patient relationships.’
‘They are unfounded?’
‘Of course.’
‘Of course simply because he was your father, or because you had actual, factual knowledge?’
‘My father was highly regarded and universally respected.’
De Vries shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
Steinhauer looks at Hopkins, but says nothing.
‘How did you know that there was an investigation?’ de Vries presses.
‘I think that it was mentioned at the time.’
‘By whom?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Your father?’
‘Perhaps. But there are always such risks where pioneering research is carried out. To gain ground one must risk much.’
‘But you knew that there was an investigation? You weren’t interested to find out the result of such an investigation?’
‘I was still at medical school. I had other matters on my mind.’
‘You were not concerned that, true or not, such a report might reflect on your own career?’
Steinhauer says: ‘Was such a report even written?’
‘You’ve checked?’
‘No.’
‘So, how do you know that there is no report?’
‘Is there one?’
‘Doctor,’ de Vries says slowly, ‘if you were my shrink, would you let me answer every question you posed with a question?’
‘I don’t understand the meaning of your questions.’
‘The meaning
,’ de Vries says, ‘is perfectly clear. Your answers are deliberately obtuse. Why are you doing that?’
‘It is not intentional.’
‘I think people in your profession would call it diversionary, perhaps even – what’s that word you like? Transference – is that it?’
‘If you persist,’ Steinhauer replies, leaning forward, speaking directly to him at last, ‘in asking me obscure questions relating to the minutiae of a conversation long ago, or whether I have ever in my life visited certain sites, my answers are unlikely to be very revealing. Who remembers that kind of thing?’
‘You’re doing it again.’
‘Colonel . . .’ Again, Hopkins tries to interrupt.
‘You see,’ de Vries persists, his hands on the table between them, his face moving closer to Steinhauer’s, ‘the more you try to elude my questions, the more suspicious I become.’ They stare at each other for a while until, eventually, Steinhauer sits back, breaks his gaze from de Vries. He looks to Hopkins.
‘I am being obtuse?’
Hopkins shakes his head.
‘Let’s try again,’ de Vries says. ‘Have you checked if there was a report into your father’s behaviour at the Valkenberg Mental Hospital?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve not checked if your father was officially found guilty of abusing children in his care? I’m surprised that a man in the media spotlight would not want to know what the press might be able find.’
‘Of course he was not guilty of any such thing! I knew my father. He was a complete professional. He would never have mistreated a patient in his care.’
‘Did he mistreat you or your brothers when you were growing up?’
Steinhauer displays a look of boredom, perhaps even mild annoyance, but he answers in the same tone.
‘My father was a very loving man. He had to deal with many tragedies in his lifetime: the premature death of his wife, my mother, and his second son. He was a strict father, but I could not have wished for a better childhood. It was very happy.’
‘Your sister does not think so.’
The First Rule of Survival Page 24
