The Soldier who Said No

by Chris Marnewick

  Emma’s slim, almost boyish figure intrigued him. She had excited him from the time he had first laid eyes on her. He had been a bobby in London, walking the beat and had watched her looking after a class of pre-schoolers in the children’s playground in Hyde Park. He had overheard one of the parents saying that they would be back the next Thursday and he had made sure that he would be at the playground every Thursday when the schoolbus arrived. It was a month before Emma had first made eye contact. He had never had the courage to ask her if it had been love at first sight for her too.

  But for his troubled past, De Villiers couldn’t have been happier. His cancer had been an unexpected setback.

  A cellphone rang nearby and brought De Villiers back to the present. He felt in his pocket, but it was empty. Then he remembered that he had left his phone on his desk more than a week earlier. He wondered what Henderson and Kupenga were doing and smiled.

  ‘What’s the joke?’ Emma asked.

  ‘I was wondering what Henderson and Kupenga were doing.’

  ‘Probably sitting in their car watching our house,’ Emma ventured. ‘Our very own security, courtesy of the taxpayer.’

  They burst out laughing.

  Laughing, coughing and any sudden movements would have to be avoided, De Villiers realised, for the time being anyway.

  Dinner started innocently enough. The staff outnumbered the guests and the applause for the jazz pianist was muted. There was a set menu, a three-course meal, for him and Emma and small portions of main fare for Zoë.

  But a large artwork against the far wall had unsettled De Villiers from the first moment. Liquid Love, the waiter had said was its title, but it reminded De Villiers of a volcanic eruption. There was a central core of light red rising to the top of the frame, and rough dark red rocks falling down the sides. ‘You can see a kneeling woman in the centre,’ the waiter had said, but when De Villiers tried to find the figure, a painting in ochre and browns on a rock face in the Kalahari sprang to mind. Liquid Love was a work of camouflage and disguise and blood and De Villiers felt the bitterness rise in his throat as another image forced its way into his mind – bloodstains on the seats of a car. Zoë said something, but De Villiers was half a world away.

  ‘Pierre?’

  There was a question in Emma’s eyes. She had her hand on his wrist. De Villiers looked down and saw that his hand was shaking. His knuckles were white. He looked at Emma and Zoë. What is going to become of them? He made an excuse and headed for the rest room. Behind him, he heard Zoë ask, ‘Mum, what’s wrong with Dad?’

  De Villiers washed his hands and stood in front of the mirror for some time. When he returned to the table, he tried not to look at Liquid Love again, but was constantly aware of it.

  De Villiers had no appetite for the third course, cheese and crackers. He watched listlessly as Emma polished off a vanilla-bean and coffee pannacotta. You must marry a woman who has a healthy appetite, an overweight aunt had once advised him, because, she said, they are good in bed.

  He went to bed early, beating Zoë into dreamland by a comfortable margin.

  Outside it was not yet dark, but then again, the sun sets late in the middle of the short New Zealand summer.

  Sister Appollus’s exercises were easier than De Villiers had anticipated, and he went for a half-hour walk shortly after breakfast the next morning.

  The weather was perfect. There was not a cloud in the sky. He felt strong enough to follow the course of the stream towards the Mangatawhiri Forest. He walked slowly, minding his footing. He could feel the strain of his skin against the stitches.

  The path was narrow in places and wound steadily uphill. He heard the calls of pheasants and the cooing of grey Cape turtle doves. There was a time when he had to hunt those in order to survive, setting traps or shooting them with arrows made of bicycle spokes when he dared not betray his presence with a gunshot. The doves were foreigners here, as he was, but there were no predators hunting them here. He watched as a large grey ring-necked dove scoured a hollow in the sand and settled in it, its wings extended for a sunbath.

  At a fence De Villiers decided to turn around, but first he needed to drink. The water was clear and cold and he splashed his face and neck. De Villiers cupped his hands and drank. He could taste the forest in the water. There was a strong hint of pine, and he felt rejuvenated when he started walking again. He thought of arrows and a place and time when water was scarce and he had been obliged to rely on his companion to find enough for the two of them to survive.

  On his return to the chalet, he found that Emma and Zoë had gone to the swimming pool. De Villiers took a nap on the veranda, shirt unbuttoned, smeared with sunblock. When Emma and Zoë returned from the pool, they went to the stream and enjoyed a picnic under a willow. De Villiers rested with his head in Emma’s lap while Zoë played in the shallows.

  By late afternoon De Villiers felt confident enough to walk to the archery range to shoot a few arrows. Not trusting his abdominal muscles, and bent on avoiding straining for any physical activity, he selected one of the lightest bows, a ladies’ model, one with a light draw weight.

  The day passed quickly.

  At dinner Emma allowed him half a glass of Chardonnay.

  De Villiers was pleased, but even the limited activities of the day had exhausted him.

  ‘What’s this Honeymoon Delight thing?’ he asked Emma, but he fell asleep before she could answer.

  Hotel du Vin

  Sunday 30 December 2007 14

  De Villiers rose at first light again to follow the fitness course around the hotel and vineyards. The start was near the hotel on the lawn. The track angled towards the river and he came across the first apparatus, a pole for stretches and squats. He flexed his abdominal muscles, winced and passed. A few yards further was the stop for step-ups. He did a few of those. His leg muscles held. Near their chalet, De Villiers walked past an apparatus for sit-ups. It would be some time before he would tackle those, he thought. And so he went, past the Pinot Noir to the chin-ups – pass again – to the press-ups – another pass – until he reached the finish near the helipad. The exercise board at the finish advised stretches for warming down. Never mind warming down, I’ve not even been allowed to warm up, he thought.

  During the pre-selection stage, when he had applied to join the Special Forces Brigade, De Villiers had been required to do many situps and chin-ups and other exercises to demonstrate his strength and fitness. He had been made to do timed runs in the heat of the day with a hundred-kilogram backpack on his shoulders, and he had been kept engaged in physical activities for eighteen to twenty hours each day. He had done the required forty continuous push-ups, the sixty-seven sit-ups in two minutes, the fireman lift, the three-kilometre run in full gear in eighteen minutes, the rope climbs and other strength and endurance tests. He had found it easy. The instructors had tried to break him physically and wear him out emotionally, but he had defied all their efforts.

  De Villiers sat down against the wall, his face cupped in his hands.

  In Auckland Detective Inspector Henderson and Detective Sergeant Kupenga were no longer watching the house. They had been doing overtime work during the weekend. When they had realised that Emma de Villiers wasn’t going to return to the house in Macleans Road, they had returned to Brightside Hospital. There they were glad to find that Sister Appollus was no longer on duty, but the two Samoan security men were still at their post, lounging around the reception area.

  ‘Hello, Bro,’ Leauanae said. He stood with crossed legs, his elbow leaning on the reception desk.

  ‘Fuck off,’ Kupenga said. ‘Get out of the way.’

  Leauanae smiled and stood aside.

  ‘He’s not here,’ Te ’O said with a smirk. ‘You’ve missed him.’

  Henderson rang the bell for attention. ‘I’ll send for you when I need help.’

  ‘May I help you?’ The nurse spoke behind him.

  Henderson looked her up and down. She looked like a Sout
h Aucklander and he decided to be courteous.

  Henderson flashed his warrant card. ‘We’re here to interview one of the patients, Pierre de Villiers.’

  ‘He was discharged yesterday, Sir.’ The nurse was respectful and polite.

  ‘I’d like to see the register,’ Henderson said, taking a chance.

  ‘We don’t have a register, Sir. This is a hospital, not a hotel or police station.’

  Te ’O and Leauanae burst out laughing.

  The nurse was embarrassed and admonished the security officers with a stern look. She had not intended to belittle or offend. ‘The doctor signed his discharge,’ she hastened to add. ‘We have it on the patient’s file.’

  ‘I’d like to see it,’ Henderson said.

  The nurse ignored the faces Te ’O and Leauanae were making behind Henderson’s back. ‘I can’t do that, Sir, it is confidential. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Bugger that,’ Kupenga said, ‘we are the police.’

  The nurse held firm but averted her eyes. ‘I have orders, and I don’t want to lose my job.’

  Henderson inclined his head to indicate to Kupenga to follow him. Once outside the hospital, he dialled De Villiers on his cellphone. Kupenga stood by his side. The cellphone on De Villiers’s desk at Auckland Police Region One Headquarters was dead, but after fifteen rings, the message service kicked in.

  This is Detective Constable Pierre de Villiers. I regret that I cannot take your call as I have been suspended from the police. Please phone Detective Inspector Henderson for further information or assistance. His number is—

  Henderson snapped his phone shut. He didn’t need to be told his own phone number.

  ‘They must have gone away,’ Kupenga suggested.

  ‘I would say that’s pretty obvious,’ Henderson said. He was grumpy. The weather was going to be good and he was going to have to work all weekend.

  ‘But if they are paying with a credit card, we can trace them, even if they use it to pay for petrol.’

  An hour later they were on their way to the Hotel & Spa du Vin. The traffic had eased considerably since earlier in the week. The sixty-five kilometre journey took them less than forty-five minutes, and they achieved that without exceeding the speed limit by more than ten kilometres an hour.

  Henderson and Kupenga spotted Emma de Villiers on the main lawn playing croquet with her daughter. Henderson caught her eye and nodded a greeting. The head waiter led them to a table on the veranda. Henderson watched as Emma played a stroke.

  ‘By the glass or a bottle?’ the wine steward asked.

  ‘Bring us a bottle of the best you have,’ Henderson said, and when the wine steward had left, he added, ‘and His Royal Highness the Commissioner can pay the bill.’

  Emma de Villiers arrived at their table at the same time as the wine. She sat down uninvited and they watched in silence as the wine steward did his ritual with the opening of the wine.

  ‘I wonder why they have these rose bushes at the beginning of every row of vines,’ Kupenga said, ignoring her.

  ‘Should I bring another glass, Sir?’ the wine steward asked.

  ‘No, thanks,’ Emma de Villiers said. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’

  The detectives continued to ignore her.

  The wine steward broke the uneasy silence. ‘I have long ears, Sir, and I can answer your question. There are two reasons for the roses. The first is that the roses suffer from the same pests as the grapes and the vintners can see quickly if there’s a pest in their vines because the roses are affected first.’

  ‘Oh,’ Henderson said. ‘It’s a bit like the coal miner’s canary.’

  ‘Exactly,’ the wine steward confirmed. ‘But the second reason is historical, and I’ve been told this by a very old man who swears it’s true. He says that in the days when they still used horses to work between the rows of vines, the horses always nibbled on the vines. They then planted the roses. Apparently the roses interfered with the horses’ sense of smell and they left the vines alone.’

  ‘Sounds improbable enough to be true,’ Henderson said as he swirled the wine in the glass and held it to the light.

  The wine steward left and Emma spoke. ‘What do you want from him?’

  Henderson tried to play her like a fish on the line and took a sip of his wine. ‘Very good, very good,’ he said. He raised the glass and pretended to study the wine.

  ‘I’m leaving this table in exactly two minutes,’ Emma de Villiers said, looking at her watch. She stood up and waited for Henderson’s response.

  ‘We need to speak to your partner, your husband, about an investigation,’ Henderson began.

  ‘But he’s been suspended,’ she interrupted.

  ‘That may be so,’ Henderson countered, ‘but something has come up and we need to speak to him urgently.’

  She looked down at the table, hands on her hips. ‘He’s at the archery range. You can ask him yourself, but we’re not going back to Auckland until tomorrow after breakfast.’ She turned and walked back to the croquet course without looking back.

  Kupenga beckoned to the wine steward to come closer. ‘Could you tell us where the archery range is, please?’

  The steward pointed over their heads to the other side of the hotel. ‘You drove right past it when you came in.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Kupenga said, with a small nod of the head.

  They left half the bottle of wine and walked to their car. The archery range was on the far bank of the Mangatawhiri, the Trees in the Mist at the End of the Stream, the sign said. There was a small covered shelter and a tee facing four large targets. All bar one were encased in waterproof covers.

  De Villiers was on his own, shooting arrows from about twentyfive metres. The arrows struck the yellow ring on the target one after the other. They counted six in a row. Henderson contemplated what he was witnessing. De Villiers appeared to be more at ease and more accurate with a bow and arrow than the Armed Offenders Squad with their pistols. Henderson felt uneasy but wasn’t sure why.

  The two policemen watched in silence as De Villiers walked up to the target and retrieved the arrows. He recognised them only when he turned back towards the tee. He stopped in his tracks. They alighted from the police car and strode purposefully towards the archery shelter.

  De Villiers met them halfway. ‘What do you want?’ he echoed Emma’s words.

  ‘We need to talk to you. We’ve told you that before,’ Henderson said.

  The three men, who until two weeks earlier had been on cordial terms, stood at arm’s length. The target behind De Villiers was about a metre in diameter, Henderson noted, with rings of white, black, red and yellow and a black centre the size of a tennis ball as the bull’seye. The yellow was the diameter of a dinner plate, and De Villiers’s arrows had all been in the yellow. Henderson imagined a man standing in front of the target, hit in the chest, every time.

  ‘I’ve been suspended, as you know,’ De Villiers said.

  ‘I’m serious. We need to talk,’ Henderson said. ‘We need a few minutes, no more.’

  ‘What’s it about?’ De Villiers asked.

  ‘It involves an arrow.’ Henderson pointed at the arrows in De Villiers’s hand.

  ‘What does it have to do with me?’ De Villiers asked.

  Henderson chose his words carefully. ‘It’s an unusual arrow. We think it’s from the Tokelauan Islands, but the Commissioner has a bee in his bonnet about it. He says he saw an arrow like that in a place called Kimberley in 1976 when he was on an All Blacks supporters’ tour.’

  ‘So what?’ De Villiers said, playing for time. He had received a fair chunk of his Special Forces training at an army base near Kimberley, including training in the manufacture of small weapons such as bows and arrows and the setting of traps for birds and small mammals. Survival skills, the course had been called. If you failed you were sent to the regular infantry. If you passed, they sent you on missions where you had to rely on those survival skills to find water and food. And where
you had to kill people.

  ‘The Commissioner wants you to look at it,’ Henderson said. ‘He knows you’re from South Africa and he thinks you will be able to confirm his view.’

  ‘Well, show me and we can get this over with.’

  ‘We don’t have it here. It’s locked away in the Exhibits Room. You’ll have to come with us.’

  De Villiers turned his back on them and stepped up on the tee. He lined up his first arrow and it struck the yellow. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’

  ‘It’s an order, damn it!’ Henderson said.

  De Villiers looked at his colleagues over his shoulder. They looked a little forlorn. Not used to resistance or violence, they didn’t know how to handle the situation. They watched in silence as De Villiers released a second arrow.

  Henderson proposed a compromise. ‘Could you at least come to the station on Tuesday and look at it?’

  De Villiers aimed at the target. ‘Bring it to my house, or send someone, someone other than Kupenga.’

  Henderson exploded. ‘No, damn it! You will come to the station. And that’s an order.’

  De Villiers shot the arrow into the yellow, on the edge of the bull’seye. He spoke over his shoulder as he toyed with the next arrow. ‘No, I’m under doctor’s orders to keep travel to a minimum. And your orders don’t carry any weight while I’m on suspension. Nine o’clock at my house and I’ll answer any questions you have about the arrow. But in exchange, you must leave my family out of this.’

  ‘You realise that your refusal adds another charge of misconduct, don’t you?’

  De Villiers shrugged his shoulders. ‘I didn’t start this. Kupenga did.’

  ‘Nine o’clock then, and you’d better be ready to cooperate with us,’ Henderson said after a while. He turned and started making his way to the car.