See No Evil

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘That can’t be right, can it?’

  ‘Actually, no. According to my analyst there are tens if not hundreds of millions that must have come from somewhere outside Beckwith Communications, and Gill never made that much from his metal-trading business. I think Jeff was lying to me. Which shouldn’t surprise me, I never really trusted him at school.’

  ‘All very interesting. Thanks again, Tarek.’

  ‘Any time, my friend.’

  Cornelius’s eyes had never shifted from Calder. ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘I believe you,’ said Calder, putting away his phone. He then told Cornelius about Tarek’s suspicions of Gill.

  ‘Of course!’ said Cornelius. ‘How stupid of me.’ He drummed the table with his fingers, his brain firing. ‘After I said no, the Laagerbond looked for someone else to back. And they found a right-wing bigot who would do anything for money and power. It makes sense. I’ve noticed that his papers have an anti-ANC bias whenever they report on South Africa. I thought it was personal: he was so angry with me for beating him on the Herald deal that he took it out on my country. But that never made much sense. Laagerbond backing does. Plus he now owns a couple of major titles in this country.’

  Calder watched the older man. ‘What about Martha?’

  ‘I didn’t kill her.’

  Calder sipped his coffee, considering Cornelius’s response.

  ‘I want to help you,’ Cornelius continued. ‘This isn’t just about Martha. When it was I could try to put everything behind me, forget about it. But this is about Todd and your sister and Caroline and Kim and you.’ Cornelius leaned forward, brushing a salt cellar out of the way. ‘For the last eighteen years I have been in denial. I didn’t want Martha’s death dragged up and picked over, nor did I want my connections with the Laagerbond dogging me for the rest of my career, even though they didn’t come to anything. So when Martha’s mother asked me questions about the Laagerbond and urged me to go to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, I ignored her. Just like I ignored Todd later. I never considered whether the Laagerbond had anything to do with Martha’s death, I did my best not to consider her death at all. The police said it was a random guerrilla killing and that fit with my view of what was happening in South Africa at the time. It was buried and I wanted it to stay buried. It was only when Todd spoke to me yesterday that I realized I had to face the truth.’ Cornelius stared hard at Calder. ‘I want to help.’

  ‘OK.’ Calder took a deep breath. ‘There are a couple of things you need to know, if you don’t know them already. I warn you, they will make unpleasant listening.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Did you know Beatrice Pienaar was a spy?’

  ‘George Field claimed that, but it was paranoia,’ Cornelius said. ‘He could never prove it.’

  ‘He can now,’ Calder said. ‘It came out during the Truth and Reconciliation Commission hearings. She was a lieutenant in the security police.’

  ‘No!’ said Cornelius. ‘No one ever told me.’

  ‘Did you ask?’

  ‘No,’ Cornelius admitted.

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘I don’t know. After Martha died we became … less close. She quit Zyl News.’

  ‘The second thing is …’ Calder hesitated. He wasn’t sure that Cornelius deserved to hear the next bit.

  ‘What?’ Cornelius said.

  Calder ploughed on. As Cornelius himself had said, this was about much more than him. Calder needed to find the truth. ‘Did you know your wife had a lover?’

  ‘No!’ Cornelius looked truly shocked. ‘Oh, God.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘And I was just worried about what she thought about Beatrice. This was at the end, wasn’t it? Just before she died.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who was it? Not George Field? Or Havenga? He was a randy old bastard but I can’t imagine him and Martha. I can’t imagine anyone and Martha.’

  ‘Benton Davis.’

  ‘What!’ Calder kept quiet as he let the idea sink in. Cornelius’s shoulders slumped. ‘I suppose it was because of Beatrice.’

  ‘I think she did suspect something.’

  ‘You know the stupid thing is, Beatrice and I didn’t even sleep together,’ Cornelius said. ‘Oh, I was besotted with her all right. And she did have a big influence on my attitude then, I was so confused about everything. But I never slept with her. I had never been unfaithful to Martha and some part of me wanted to try to preserve that, even though things were going so badly between us. Damn!’ He slammed his hand on the table so the coffee cups clattered. ‘Damn!’

  ‘That’s why Martha went to Kupugani. To meet Benton. He spent a couple of days in Johannesburg and sneaked up there to meet her. The authorities covered it up. That’s why Martha mentioned Benton in the letter to her mother that Todd found. And that’s also why Benton lied to me.’

  ‘Benton Davis, the two-faced, slimy bastard! All those years we worked together, all that arse-kissing he went in for, and all that time he knew he’d screwed my wife.’ He shook his head. ‘I guess it was my fault.’ The anger subsided a notch. ‘OK. So who did kill her, then? You’ve found out so much about my family so far, but can you answer that question?’

  ‘No,’ Calder said. ‘It could be the Laagerbond. I had a nasty experience with Andries Visser which suggests that they are capable of violence. Or it could have been the police. Or, well …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, it’s just a suspicion.’

  ‘Edwin?’

  Calder shrugged. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I do know he tried to blackmail someone into stopping me asking awkward questions.’

  ‘Blackmail who? You?’

  ‘It’s not me. In fact I’d rather not say who it is, or what he’s got on them. Although if Edwin has his way, you’ll find out soon enough.’

  Cornelius frowned. ‘Don’t tell me.’ His face was grim. ‘I’m not altogether surprised. I’ve always suspected him of blackmailing Lord Scotton somehow when we took over the Herald; the way Scotton sold out to me instead of Gill never made any sense.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve put far too much trust in Edwin over the years.’

  ‘One thing’s for sure,’ Calder said. ‘Benton knows a lot more about all this than he has told me.’

  ‘You’re dead right, the bastard.’ Cornelius’s fingers drummed the table. ‘Let’s find out what he does know.’ He pulled out his own mobile phone and pressed some buttons. ‘Benton? … Sorry to interrupt your weekend … That’s right, I’m in Johannesburg. Look, I really need you down here as soon as possible … I can’t talk about it over the phone. It’s delicate … No, just you … I’m staying at the Intercontinental in Sandton … Good, we’ll have breakfast together tomorrow morning.’

  Cornelius put his phone down and grinned. ‘I love the way when you tell an investment banker to jump all they want to know is how high.’

  ‘That’s bloody marvellous! Good on yer.’ The Yorkshire accent echoed around the room from half a world away. ‘There’s one decision you won’t regret.’ A heavy chuckle boomed down the line. ‘I know some people as will hate the idea of The Times being owned by a lad from Sheffield. Someone who had to make his own brass.’

  ‘I’m sure they will, Evelyn,’ Visser said, leaning forward towards the speaker phone. He decided not to point out that Gill had received most of his funds from the Laagerbond. Visser was in Dirk du Toit’s office at the headquarters of the United Farmers Bank near Church Square in the centre of Pretoria. There were few people working in the bank on a Saturday; it was an ideal time for du Toit to focus on Laagerbond business.

  Du Toit was smiling. They had just told Sir Evelyn Gill that the Laagerbond agreed to go up to a price of nine hundred and twenty million for The Times. It was a high price, but it was worth it. And as Gill never tired of telling them, they had made a handsome profit on all the publications they had backed him to buy so far. ‘If you call Hans in Zurich, everything should be in order,’
he said.

  ‘And get The Times on to the AIDS campaign right away,’ Visser added. ‘We’re becoming increasingly worried about our president. If he carries on the way he’s going, this country will be a one-party state run for the benefit of the blacks.’

  ‘Government by the Kaffirs for the Kaffirs.’ Gill’s laughter boomed around the room. Visser caught du Toit’s eye and winced. But by now he knew it was just a show of Yorkshire bluntness. Evelyn Gill was a very effective manipulator of his editors: forceful at some times, subtle at others. ‘Don’t worry,’ Gill went on. ‘Half the world knows your president’s barking mad because he thinks there’s no link between HIV and AIDS. Once we’ve got hold of The Times, we’ll point it out to the other half.’

  ‘I know we can rely on you, Evelyn.’

  ‘Bloody right you can. Oh, by the way. I got a call from a lad who used to work for me as my finance director. Jeff Tidwell, you remember him. I had to get rid of the bugger in the end, he was a lazy sod. But he did tell me that someone at Bloomfield Weiss had been on the phone asking where we got our funding from.’

  Visser sat up straight. ‘What did he say?’

  Gill chuckled. ‘Don’t worry. Jeff’s a bit dozy, but he’s not that dozy. He knows not to let me down. He told the merchant wanker it were all me own cash. Now, I must get on to Zurich.’

  Du Toit leaned forward and switched off the phone. ‘I don’t like the sound of that, do you?’

  ‘No,’ said Visser. He closed his eyes. Once the van Zyls got hold of the link between the Laagerbond and Gill, it was all over. The bid for The Times would crumble. It wouldn’t take long before Operation Drommedaris would come to light and then the whole Laagerbond would unravel. Under his watch as chairman.

  He regretted now not shooting Calder when he had had the chance. Although he had ordered the execution of a number of people in his time, he had never actually killed anyone himself. Despite what he had said, the local police would have taken an interest and it would have been awkward to sort that out. He could see that he had scared the hell out of Calder, scared him enough to make him leave the country, but the man was still causing trouble.

  Freddie Steenkamp had been right all along.

  He glanced at du Toit. ‘Do you mind?’ he said, picking up the phone. He dialled Freddie’s number and explained what was going on.

  ‘We’ve got to act,’ the former head of military intelligence said.

  Visser sighed. ‘You’re right. We know Alex Calder is back in London. Send Moolman over there to deal with him.’

  ‘And Cornelius van Zyl?’ Steenkamp asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Visser.

  ‘What about the woman?’

  Visser glanced at du Toit, who could hear only Visser’s side of the conversation. ‘Is that necessary?’

  ‘We know how much trouble she can cause. We should have dealt with her years ago, I’ve always said that.’

  ‘I know you have, Freddie. All right.’

  ‘I’ll get Kobus on to the woman right away. Then he can go to London and finish the job.’

  ‘Good. But no fuck-ups this time.’

  ‘It’s not me who fucked up,’ said Freddie Steenkamp.

  Visser put down the phone. He saw du Toit staring at him.

  Visser broke out in the explosion of coughs he had been restraining as he was speaking to Steenkamp.

  ‘That’s not just a cold, is it?’ du Toit said.

  Visser shook his head. ‘Cancer. The lung.’

  Du Toit winced. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘At least I will have seen the Laagerbond buy The Times,’ Visser said. He knew now he was a dying man. He wanted du Toit to know it too.

  ‘You’ve done a lot for the Bond, Andries.’

  Du Toit’s concern was touching. Despite the slicked-back red hair and the fancy office Dirk du Toit still had an air of youth, energy and innocence. He was a big, strong, honest man with an open, honest face. The kind of man who went to kerk every Sunday, who read to his children every night, who helped out his neighbours when they were in difficulty. The kind of man who had built the Afrikaner nation. The kind of man Visser had always wanted to be.

  ‘When I go, I don’t know who will take over from me. I’d like it to be a younger man. Even if Freddie Steenkamp does succeed me, I would be happy knowing that you had a senior role in the Bond.’

  Du Toit smiled gravely. ‘It would be an honour.’

  ‘There’s something you should be aware of,’ said Visser. ‘Something that until now has been handled by myself, Daniel Havenga and Freddie.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You remember when Martha van Zyl was murdered back in 1988?’ Visser said.

  ‘Yes. That wasn’t us, though, was it?’

  Visser tried to smile, but coughed instead. ‘No. As you know, I’m against the use of violence except when it’s necessary. But you also know that occasionally Freddie Steenkamp is right, it is necessary.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ du Toit said. ‘Although was it really necessary to kill Cornelius van Zyl’s brother?’

  ‘From what Impala told us, it had a major effect on van Zyl’s psychology. Together with his name on the phoney SACP hit list we planted. Impala was confident that he would have gone along with Drommedaris if it hadn’t been for the death of his wife.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Visser could see du Toit looked unhappy. But if he were to enter the inner sanctum of power of the Laagerbond, he would have to know everything. ‘Well, after nearly twenty years her son has stirred up a lot of people running around trying to find out what happened. I’ve scared one of these people back to London, but if we are to retain control of the situation we are going to have to use violence again. There is no other way. Kobus Moolman is seeing to it as we speak.’

  ‘Who are the targets?’

  ‘Cornelius van Zyl. A man called Alex Calder. And –’ Visser’s chest rasped again. He knew du Toit would not like the answer, which was why it was important he be informed early, rather than find out later. ‘And Zan van Zyl.’

  26

  Benton couldn’t sleep. For a man of his height it was difficult, even in the first-class cabin. He had no compunctions about charging Zyl News for the upgrade, even though most Bloomfield Weiss trips these days were business class. But he was apprehensive about going to South Africa again.

  He hadn’t been since that awful time so long ago when Martha van Zyl had been brutally murdered in front of him and he had been lucky to escape with his life. He still had nightmares about that. They had morphed over the years, until they settled into a disturbing slow-motion scene where, naked, Martha stretched out her arms towards him and he slowly raised a heavy gun and shot her several times. As she died, she mouthed, ‘Stay with me, Benton.’ Now he did not want to go to sleep. He did not want to conjure up that dream.

  The police custody had been a nightmare of its own. Although it should have been evident that he had only just escaped being shot himself, the cops had arrested him. They left him alone for an hour or so, and then they asked him whether he had murdered Martha. They seemed strangely pleased when he refused to admit to anything. With unmistakable relish they began to persuade him to confess. They stripped him naked and one of them beat him with a weighted hosepipe. It hurt like hell. The pain was so bad that he passed out. When he came to they had manacled his hands and suspended him from a beam along the ceiling of the cell. His muscles, still sore from the beating, burned with pain as they bore his weight. His left arm felt broken. Still he refused to speak, apart from cursing his captors and demanding to see someone from the US embassy. It was his anger that made him hold out. He was angry that they were treating him like an animal because he was black and he was angry that they were doing nothing to find the people who really had shot Martha.

  They left him there for a couple of hours in his own private hell. There was the physical pain and there was the memory, still very fresh, of watching Martha die. Then a new man came into the cell.
He looked tougher and even meaner than the others. Benton had had enough. He was ready to confess to just about anything and everything. Then the man smiled. He ordered Benton to be lowered from the beam and his clothes were returned to him. Dressed, Benton sat opposite the man at a bare table.

  ‘Your name is Benton Davis?’ he said, leafing through his blue United States passport. Benton noticed that his wallet and his other possessions were in a clear plastic bag.

  Benton nodded.

  ‘And you’re an investment banker?’

  Benton nodded again.

  ‘How does that work?’ the policeman said, looking up with a thin smile. ‘I didn’t know apes could add up.’

  Benton sat there, impassive. He could put up with insults all day as long as they didn’t hit him any more with that hosepipe.

  ‘You can go now,’ the man said, tossing the passport and the plastic bag to him. ‘We know you weren’t responsible for Martha van Zyl’s death. We apologize for any inconvenience we may have caused.’

  ‘The way you have treated me is outrageous –’

  ‘Let me stop you there, Mr Davis,’ said the man, leaning forward. ‘My name is Moolman. Colonel Moolman. The men who interrogated you here are amateurs. I’m a professional.’ Moolman smiled again. He had a thick neck, a pillar of muscle. Benton kept quiet.

  ‘We will never see each other again, provided you remember one thing. You were never here in this police station. You were never even at Kupugani. We’ll take you to Johannesburg and throw you in the street. You can tell everyone you were attacked and robbed.’ Moolman chuckled. ‘If we dump you in the right place, you may even be attacked and robbed for real.’ He leaned forward, his hard grey eyes looking directly into Benton’s. ‘Do you understand?’

  Benton didn’t answer.

  ‘You see if you do mention any of this to anyone, I will find you and kill you. And believe me it will be a more painful death than you could possibly imagine. And don’t think that just because you live outside South Africa you will be safe. Our enemies come to unfortunate ends all over the world. Remember Olof Palme, the prime minister of Sweden, who was shot two years ago in Stockholm? If we can get him, we can get you.’