The First Rule of Survival

by Paul Mendelson

  ‘Only by an idiot.’ De Vries holds his hands up in surrender, lowers his voice. ‘I need one thing from you, sir. I need to know whether Trevor Henderson attended the clinic in Tokai where Nicholas Steinhauer worked, and I need to know whether he was a patient of Steinhauer because, if he was, we may have no direct proof linking him, but we have so much circumstantial evidence that any judge must convict. We have Steinhauer junior, we have Johannes Dyk, and we have four further sets of fingerprints for which we can continue to seek a match, but the one man who is not going to walk away from this is that bastard Dr Steinhauer.’

  Du Toit looks at de Vries and smiles wanly.

  ‘It’s very clear to you, isn’t it?’ he says.

  ‘Yes, very.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t so simple. Trevor Henderson did attend Tokai First Practice. His commanding officer, Denis Mantabi, sent him there for depression.’

  ‘You knew this?’

  ‘Calm down,Vaughn. Mantabi was not privy to which analyst Henderson saw, and the clinic is not obliged to tell us. I believe that they will tell us but, honestly, it makes no difference.’

  ‘No difference!’

  ‘I’ve spoken with Classon. Even if we learn that Henderson was allocated to Steinhauer, it proves nothing.’

  ‘It proves Steinhauer lied to us; at the very least withheld crucial information.’

  ‘It doesn’t. For one simple reason: Steinhauer can claim that Henderson never discussed any of this with him and therefore it was irrelevant to the inquiry – then and now.’

  ‘But I know that Steinhauer was influential. How many more times do I have to say it? I know. Think about it: someone is controlling everything. It wasn’t Marc Steinhauer – he was a sheep, easily led and, according to everyone, incapable of leading or organizing. Trevor Henderson may have been living a lie, but he didn’t buy the olive farm. The farmer said he employed him because he had a background with horses and he was English like him, but that he was always depressed and wanted to live on his own, to be isolated. Neither man can speak the name Nicholas Steinhauer because they are afraid – so afraid of him, that they would rather commit suicide than name him and face him.’

  ‘That’s a view.’

  ‘I’ve been there each time.’

  ‘You may know, Vaughn – but you can’t prove it. Steinhauer will have destroyed any notes he might have taken, there is no physical evidence linking him to the Fineberg olive farm, and certainly none to any of the abductions.’

  ‘Listen to yourself. You’re making excuses for this man.’

  ‘No, Vaughn,’ du Toit says sharply. ‘You can accuse me of many things, but not that. You know well enough that to prove conspiracy is exceptionally difficult.’ He leans forward. ‘I am aware that you don’t want to hear this, but I am going to say it anyway. I believe every word of your report. I also believe that Nicholas Steinhauer is involved in this case, although I don’t pretend to know how. But – and listen to me,Vaughn – his prints are not at the farm. You cannot physically link him. That ends it in itself.’

  ‘It delays it.’

  ‘No. Because of the history of this case, because of what happened seven years ago and, frankly, what has been happening now, there will be plenty of people higher up the food chain who will be inclined to disbelieve what you have written here. Not only because of you, your record, but because of what it would mean to the SAPS – and this department – if there is seen to be unfinished business.’

  ‘So that’s it, is it?’

  ‘Perhaps, officially, that should be it. Perhaps we will discover matches to the remaining prints and DNA samples, and then we will have a live witness, prepared to testify about Nicholas Steinhauer’s involvement. Do you see what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes, I see what you’re saying.’

  ‘And are you prepared to follow my guidance?’ De Vries says nothing. ‘Vaughn?’

  ‘To let a guilty, manipulative monster like Steinhauer walk away?’

  ‘To close the case and wait for evidence that will convict him if he is the ringmaster.’

  ‘You already know my answer.’

  ‘For God’s sake,Vaughn. There has to be some compromise. You have, just sometimes, to agree to play it my way. To be expedient. For God’s sake!’

  ‘To be expedient – I don’t know what that means.’

  De Vries feels throbbing in his temples, feels that injustice is the hardest thing to bear. He has always believed that – and, quite simply, that is what makes him do what he does. The pressure builds inside him, even in the seconds of silence which pass, and he knows that he will not bear it.

  ‘Give me more time,’ de Vries says an hour later, back in du Toit’s office. He is calm and ordered. ‘I’ll write up the reports and, if I can’t find any further evidence, then I’ll do as you instruct and move on to the next case – on condition that this one is not closed, never closed. There are at least three more men to identify.’

  Du Toit looks up at de Vries, standing in front of his desk. Standing, du Toit is convinced, just to prove he can.

  ‘You have the time I have,Vaughn. Twenty-four hours. That’s it.’

  ‘It’s unreal.’ He shakes his head bitterly. ‘I need my team.’

  ‘You can have February and Thambo. Everyone else is busy. And leave Dr Dyk alone. Nothing he says can be used, and the man is days from death.’

  ‘Dyk has told us more than he intended anyway. He’s shut up shop, just like the rest of them.’

  ‘All right,Vaughn.’

  De Vries turns to leave the office, but he twists back to du Toit.

  ‘You can just switch off, can’t you? I watched you after the last time. It meant everything to you when you were in the middle of it, but once we called it off, you forgot about it, didn’t you, Henrik?’

  ‘Of course not. But you cannot function if you cannot focus.’

  ‘I never forgot them. Not one week went by without me wondering what had happened.’

  ‘You need to discipline your mind to distance yourself. My God, man. How can you live if you have the ghosts of every victim in your head?’

  ‘Why do you think I get up every morning? I have a bond with every victim I encounter. If I don’t know my victim, if I don’t understand them as if they were my friend in real life, how can I hope to unravel who killed them and why?’

  ‘That sounds untenably stressful.’

  ‘That’s why you accepted promotion to a desk and I refuse it, Henrik. You have a second life, don’t you? You have your wife. I bet you still go out to dinner parties together, drive out to the countryside to visit your children, polish your car. Don’t you?’

  ‘It is important to have a life outside work. I don’t see that as a matter deserving of your scorn.’

  ‘It’s not scorn.’

  ‘Envy, then.’

  ‘It’s not envy either. It’s a different life. I might have chosen that a long time ago, but I didn’t. I have my path and it makes my heart beat and makes me feel I still have a place. It’s just nothing like yours.’

  ‘How is Suzanne,Vaughn?’

  ‘Divorcing me, sir. Moving on and living her own life.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. We had over twenty decent years, and now why do I need a wife? My daughters will be married themselves soon. They need a friend, not a father, and they will always have that. This is what you’ve never understood about me, even after all these years. We started working together about the same time as Suzanne and me, and you still don’t see. Nothing charges me like my work: not sex, not the booze, nothing. I like them – I think you know that, and I’ll take my best shot at both – but nothing, nothing, has ever given me more satisfaction than finding justice for my victim.’

  ‘I’ve never suggested we were the same.’

  ‘We’re not.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate my strength or my tenacity,Vaughn.’

&
nbsp; ‘I never would, sir. Because I know your weakness. I always have. You have no passion.’

  ‘Twenty-four hours,’ de Vries tells Don as they walk into his office and close the door. ‘If we can’t find anything to tie in Steinhauer by then, it’s over.’

  ‘Until we identify the remaining prints from the bunker?’

  ‘If we ever identify them. I don’t hold out much hope. These men are off the radar. Anyway . . .’ He slumps in his chair, gestures for Don to sit. ‘What happened when you spoke to Joe Pienaar and his family?’

  ‘I went to his home with a female officer, a white woman, from Durbanville. He was very brave. His parents were with him, and I think he is in good hands. He does not remember anything after he was snatched – the doctor said that he had been concussed – until he woke up and found himself in prison.’

  ‘Does he remember Henderson saying anything?’

  ‘That is what I wanted to know. Not really. Apparently, he told him that he loved him; that he was his child. Joe Pienaar said that he tried to explain that the man was wrong, but he gave up because it seemed to make him angry.’

  ‘Sensible kid.’

  ‘Yes. A mature boy, I think. He asked what happened to you, and I told him that you were injured but alive.’

  ‘Did he ask about Henderson?’

  ‘No. His father told me that they had told their son that the man had been taken away by the police. That he would not be allowed in public ever again.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘No mention of Steinhauer. I asked him several times and, finally, I used the name myself. But there was no reaction.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think he is going to be all right. The Durbanville officer explained about counselling, for the child and also for the parents, but they said that they would see what happened in the coming weeks. They seemed a supportive family, and the boy has two older sisters.’

  ‘Good. Right now, I wouldn’t go near a shrink. Not if I needed help.’

  Don smiles momentarily, looks out of the office towards the squad room, and then back at de Vries.

  ‘There is one more thing you should know,’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I – I called in a favour from a guy I have worked with before from Vodacom. I gave him Ralph Hopkins’ cell number and asked him to give me the numbers which called him between six p.m. on the ninth and six a.m. the next day. Hopkins only received two calls that evening. One was from his own office, but the other . . . Perhaps I made a mistake, because now maybe we cannot use it as evidence.’ He swallows. ‘It was Julius Mngomezulu’s cellphone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He called Hopkins at ten forty-five that evening. The call lasted two minutes and . . .’ he glances down at his notepad, flicks two pages back ‘two minutes and thirty-six seconds.’

  ‘No other calls?’

  ‘No.’

  De Vries sits very still, his eyes unfocused to his right side. Then he says: ‘Hopkins told me that Marc Steinhauer called him on his cellphone, near midnight. So, Mngomezulu tipped him off about our surveillance, about the impending arrest?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘But why? I know Hopkins met with Thulani. I bumped into him in the corridor. Thulani said that he had negotiated permission for Steinhauer to return to Jo’burg.’ He stands up, paces around his desk. ‘I don’t know what this means, Don.’

  ‘Mngomezulu only acts for General Thulani?’

  ‘As far as I know. You’ve told no one else?’

  ‘Of course not. I did not know even to tell you.’

  De Vries laughs.

  ‘It’s just one more piece, Don. One more piece. But for the life of me, I can’t see how it fits.’

  Forensic team-leader Steve Ulton says: ‘Henderson’s cellphone called only one number. Untraceable. Its harder now to hide phones, but this one’s old.’ He glances at notes. ‘The recording setup couldn’t have been simpler. Straight out of the box. One piece of proprietary software for a recording device to a portable drive. Nothing else whatsoever. Two very small microphones in the cell area, highly sensitive, voice-activated. Whoever set it up wanted to hear what those boys said.’

  ‘What about the old-fashioned tape machines?’

  ‘If they were used at all, not for a long time. The reel-to-reels are technology from the fifties and sixties, probably left in the bunker as standard equipment. There were only two tape reels in the bunker and they were both fresh out of the box. Fresh as in empty.’

  De Vries frowns. ‘No prints?’

  ‘Nothing on the tape machines, but a suggestion that they had been wiped some time in the past; on the laptop casing, partial prints matching Marc Steinhauer. Some attempt to clean this surface also.’

  ‘So, who listened to the recordings?’

  ‘Whoever took the external hard drive.’

  De Vries holds up his hand. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘On the laptop found in the anteroom, there is a computer program for recording audio from the two microphones located in the cell-block. These microphones are voice-activated so that recording only takes place when people, presumably those three boys, are talking.’ He looks up at de Vries, who nods. ‘Within the program, there are options for where you want to send the recording: to the computer’s hard disc or, in this case, to a portable hard drive – that is, in effect, a very high-capacity storage system, a little box which can be disconnected, moved and then reconnected to the computer of whoever wants to listen to the recordings.’

  ‘That sounds complicated. How often would this storage hard drive need to be changed?’

  ‘It’s actually pretty simple, and it has the advantage that nothing is stored, or can be retrieved, from the laptop memory itself. That’s the clever bit. I thought there would be a copy buried somewhere on the hard drive, but the program bypasses it altogether. Depending on the amount of time in any twenty-four-hour period it was recording, it probably would have to be changed monthly, maybe longer than that. The capacity for these things is enormous if you are recording voice and no video. I guess someone unplugged one device and plugged in a new one. You could record indefinitely with two devices alternated and wiped.’

  ‘Who wants to listen to what they say?’ de Vries murmurs, staring past Ulton towards a corner in the ceiling of the lab.

  ‘What?’

  He snaps back. ‘Nothing. You have one of these hard drive things. We can listen to it?’

  ‘No external hard drive was found connected.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You said that was how the voices were recorded?’

  Ulton smiles crookedly. ‘Er, yes. Kind of. But we haven’t found the last device that was used.’

  ‘But the laptop was still operating? It was still on?’

  ‘Yes. I assumed that Marc Steinhauer – if he was the last man to visit the bunker – removed the drive but didn’t replace it with a new one. Maybe because the boys were all dead.’

  De Vries looks up. ‘That’s right. Why record empty cells? So, what did he do with it? Was this hard drive found in either of his properties?’

  ‘It’s not in the inventory. Having said that, it may have been seen. At the time, we didn’t know what we were looking for. If it was amongst other computer things . . .’

  ‘You’ll check with your team?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘And if not, send a guy out to both the properties again and let’s find it.’

  ‘Vaughn.’ De Vries meets his stare. ‘I’m not sure I can do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Word from above.’ Ulton points upwards with both index fingers. ‘Orders, no less: move on. There’s a backlog here and they told me to bag and tag everything else and start working through the inbox.’

  ‘From above?’

  ‘General Thulani’s office, I believe.’

  De Vries shakes his head, and Ulton continues, ‘I know how you feel,Vaughn, trust me. Three sets of fingerprints unidentified.�
��

  ‘Every reason to believe that each one is an abuser.’ De Vries sighs heavily. ‘Six different sets in total?’

  ‘Yes. Marc Steinhauer, Johannes Dyk and now Trevor Henderson.’

  ‘Why weren’t Henderson’s prints already in the system? Why didn’t they show up before?’

  ‘Nothing surprising in that,’ Ulton shrugs. ‘Files missing, incomplete data. Just the usual.’

  ‘So nothing we have is watertight?’ De Vries clenches his jaw. ‘Nothing can be relied on?’ He turns away. ‘Jesus.’

  Harry Kleinman is wearing long trousers, formal shirt and tie. He sits with de Vries in his office; Don February is seated on the low sofa in the corner, taking notes. His is the only light on; it is as bright as they can bear.

  ‘Bobby Eames was poisoned, using a poison based on amatoxin. He might have been saved if he had been taken to a hospital. Without treatment, his organs would have started to fail one by one and he would be gone within three or four days from the time it was ingested, probably simply through his food or drink. Coma, then death. Very frightening for the victim; very alarming for the two other boys, if they saw what was happening.’

  ‘I bet they did,’ de Vries says. ‘I bet it was intended for them.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Could it have been accidental?’

  Kleinman tries to refocus. ‘I can’t think how. The poison would have had to have been administered somehow.’

  ‘A deliberate poisoning then?’

  ‘Yes. And one chosen to prolong symptoms and then death over a period of days. I’m trying to tell you,Vaughn. There are easier ways of killing someone: painless ways. But this . . .’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘It’s impossible to be categoric. Bobby Eames’ body was frozen within a few hours of his death. This has allowed his body to remain in reasonable condition, but it obviously distorts all the usual measures by which we would assess a time of death. Working on his physical attributes, I am putting on record that I estimate that he was approximately twelve years old, which would make his death between three and four years ago.’

  ‘Why freeze the body?’

  ‘Why did these people do any of what they did? I don’t know. But I will tell you this. Whoever took that course of action showed care and, dare I say it, respect, for the body. There is a scarcely a mark on him, and he was wrapped very carefully in a new cotton sheet, like a shroud.’