by Deon Meyer
‘The circus is here already,’ said Cupido. ‘Send in the clowns.’
The detectives parked in front of the Pane e Vino restaurant diagonally opposite, took out their identification cards and walked towards the media. The questions were fired at them immediately. Are you from the Hawks? Do you have a suspect? Was it someone at Alibi? And the inevitable Does everyone have an alibi? followed by laughter and the clicking of camera shutters.
They walked heads down, ignoring it all, and showed their cards to Security. Only once they reached the front door could they see the bronze plaque: Alibi.co.za. Head Office.
Inside it was all big open spaces, a blend of the old and new facades, expanses of gleaming glass and splashes of bright colour from exuberant abstract art on huge snow-white canvasses.
And it was eerily quiet, only the muffled hubbub from outside to be heard. They could see small groups of employees – mostly young – talking in muted and defeated huddles. Some were in tears.
The reception desk was a long textured table of Oregon pine. The woman behind it looked as though she ought to be in school. Her face was drawn. Cupido flashed his identity card, and asked to speak to Desiree Coetzee. She whispered into the telephone, asked them to wait just a moment, and pointed at two elegant leather couches. Cupido thanked her. They sat down, aware that more and more of the staff were staring at them.
‘Funny dress code,’ said Vaughn, because it was just T-shirts, jeans, even some in shorts, everywhere you looked. ‘Major Mbali’s worst nightmare.’
‘You should feel right at home,’ said Griessel.
‘She hasn’t said a word yet about my clothes. And then she made me JOC leader. I swear she’s got a scheme. I don’t know what it is yet, but I’m telling you now, it’s not going to work.’
The coloured woman who came down a flight of wooden stairs was beautiful. She was wearing knee length shorts, a white T-shirt and sandals, her legs long and slim. Pitch black hair hung down to her shoulders. But it was her eyes that captivated Cupido – shades and flecks of gold and copper, like those of a lioness.
‘I’m Desiree Coetzee,’ she said and held out her hand to Griessel first.
Why did it always work like that, Cupido wondered? Always assume the whitey cop is in charge. He had to make an effort to hide his surprise over Desiree Coetzee. He had expected a white woman – some sort of middle-aged managerial spinster type. Coetzee was not a very common surname for coloureds. And now, this bronzed beauty . . .
He waited his turn and shook her hand, noticing the flawless texture of her skin. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. I am the Hawks Joint Operations Command leader on this case,’ he explained. ‘I tried to phone you last night; I didn’t want you to read about this thing in the newspapers.’
‘I got your message this morning, but there hasn’t been enough time . . .’
‘I understand, Miss Coetzee. Can we talk somewhere?’
Desiree looked at the media scrum outside and sighed. ‘Come to my office.’
Cupido had to force himself not to look at her legs as they followed her up the stairs. How had such a classy chick ended up in a company like this? Thank God he had decided to babysit Benna this morning, and not brought ‘Mooiwillem’ Liebenberg along. Those were Vaughn Cupido’s thoughts, just before nine o’clock on Thursday, 18 December.
19
Advocate Susan Peires had seen this behaviour before. It was usually the white-collar criminals who displayed it: those with education and property and status. Family men, who stood to lose everything after the crime, committed in a single moment – or an inexplicable stretch – of weakness or greed, jealousy or rage.
It was these men who, in detention, or here in her office, repeated the phrase ‘you must understand’ over and over, who told the long, drawn-out stories, taking wide detours, madly searching for understanding and insight into their indiscretion, already practising the rationalisation, justification and excuses for the moment when a spouse, child or family member would confront them with the big question: How could you?
It was not a good sign. This never-ending history was almost without exception the refuge of the guilty. But at least it meant that he was probably telling her the truth.
So she just listened attentively, keeping an eye on her body language, her face full of understanding.
20
Benny Griessel could feel the phone vibrating in his pocket.
He knew it was Doc Barkhuizen, who had been calling from early that morning, every half-hour or so. That was why he had set the phone to silent: he wasn’t ready to talk to Doc. Maybe later this afternoon, when he had a drink or two inside him.
They were in Desiree’s office. All the furniture was semi-restored Oregon pine to give an earthy texture to the otherwise modern surroundings. She invited them to sit and asked if they would like something to drink. They asked for coffee. Coetzee ordered it with a quiet voice over the phone.
‘I know it’s a very difficult time, Miss Coetzee,’ said Cupido. ‘But we have a lot of work to do.’
‘How long will it go on like this?’ she asked, waving a hand in the direction of the front door.
‘With the media?’ asked Cupido.
She nodded. ‘Our PR agency issued a statement. I don’t know what else we can do.’
‘We will ask our liaison officer to call you. He knows all the tricks.’
‘Thank you.’
Cupido made a note in his book. ‘Miss Coetzee, I know the Stellenbosch detectives were here. We read the interview notes. But we’re starting from the beginning again, because the missing person is now a murder case, and we are looking at this a little differently. We’ll have to take Richter’s PC, we’ll have to bring our tech outjies in, we’ll have to talk to all the employees. How many people are here?’
‘We don’t have Ernst’s laptop. The police took it.’
‘The Stellenbosch detectives?’
‘Yes.’
He made another note. ‘Okay. How many people work here?’
She had to think for a second. ‘Sixty-seven in total. That includes the support people, the nightshift too.’
‘Okay, let’s take it from the top. Can you tell us how everything works?’
Forty-one-year-old Captain ‘Mooiwillem’ Liebenberg was known to his colleagues as the George Clooney of the Hawks — hence his nickname, meaning ‘Pretty Willem’. The similarities with the famous actor were not so much in appearance – although Liebenberg also had a premature sprinkling of grey at his temples and in his immaculately trimmed stubble. It was more the charm and the knee-buckling reaction of women, the quiet self-confidence that it cultivated in him, and the fact that every six months he had a new, attractive girlfriend on his arm.
He knew he had been sent to Bernadette Richter, mother of the victim, for a reason. The belief was that he could elicit more information, more easily, when he questioned a woman. What Vaughn called his ‘bedside manner’: old world courtesy, a benevolent, bass voice, a sympathetic smile and, of course, the famous charm.
When he knocked on the door, her house in Schoongezicht, Durbanville was full of women in their sixties. They ushered him in, offered him tea and tart, they clucked over him and made him wait in the sitting room for Mrs Richter, and then they left him alone with her, although he could still hear their hushed, respectful voices from the kitchen while he conducted the interview.
Her son’s death was taking its toll on Bernadette Richter. She had dark circles under her bloodshot eyes, her entire being seemed shrunken. A number of times she repeated that there had still been hope after his disappearance, but now there was none. Then she wept bitterly.
Willem Liebenberg stood up, and sat down beside her on the couch. He held her hand, gave her his snow-white handkerchief, his voice gentle and full of genuine empathy.
He drew the information out of her gradua
lly. It was a story of regret. She blamed herself for not speaking out when she felt uneasy about Ernst’s company. It didn’t align with her principles. Those were not the morals and values she had taught him. Work, yes. Hard work. But not on something like that. She should have protested. She should have stopped him. Now it was too late. But he was so . . . so terribly enthusiastic. And now the scum had killed him.
What scum?
She waved the hand that desperately clutched the handkerchief, in the general direction of Stellenbosch, and she shook her head and said, that lot – that job – that whole business, and the people who use the services.
Was there anyone specific that she suspected?
No.
Did she believe it was the people who worked there?
No, no, he didn’t understand. She had absolutely no idea who it was, but she knew it had something to do with the business, because if you involved yourself in that sort of thing . . . And she let the sentence hang there, full of vague insinuations. And then she reproached herself again. Why hadn’t she said something? Why didn’t he have a father in the vital years? Why would the Lord bring all of this on her, take away her husband, and now her son, and the newspapers had already phoned a hundred times this morning, and what could she say, what could she say?
Mooiwillem Liebenberg let her calm down, and then he started at the beginning again.
She talked about the good times, when Ernst was doing ‘the web design thing’. She said the words as if it were a noble career. She said that was who Ernst really was: the child who loved to draw beautiful things, ever since he was little. Who could sit for hours drawing or copying paintings from a book. She pointed at the bookshelf against the wall, she bought those art books for him, they used to sit on this couch and page through them together, and Ernst was like a sponge. And so terrifically talented; he made perfect replicas, totally perfect copies.
So in love with beautiful things – aesthetics – ever since he was little.
And clever. That was the problem: he was more intelligent than she or her late husband, more intelligent than his peers. And along with brains comes that need for stimulus. When he was still at school, she could provide stimulation with the books, extra classes. But he grew bored with the web design business. He had achieved everything that he could, they were making a lot of money, but then Ernst got bored, and sold his share, and spent a year travelling and then he came back with the Alibi story, and she should have spoken out, back then, but it was too late now. Much too late.
He asked her about her son’s private life.
She admitted she didn’t know much. Ernst had never brought a ‘girlfriend’ home in recent years. Every second or third Sunday he came to lunch; bobotie and pumpkin fritters, or apricot chicken. Those were his favourites, who would she cook them for now?
There had been a steady girlfriend, three years back, when he was still in the web design business. Nicola Gey van Pittius. Lovely child, a physiotherapist; they were mad about each other. Nicola started getting very serious. But Ernst was not ready to settle down yet. It was because he never had a carefree youth; at university he worked, then came the business and he worked even harder. When he sold his share, when he went travelling, he broke up with Nicola. She was here, in this sitting room. She came to ask Bernadette Richter, what should she do now? Give him time, give him space, Bernadette had said.
They never got together again.
She knew he took girls out, over the past year. But he’d never brought one of them to Sunday lunch.
Benny Griessel had to force himself to concentrate.
It was the slow poison of the hangover, the anticipation of the next glass of Jack, the upsetting early morning conversation with Alexa, and the coming confrontation with Doc Barkhuizen that threatened to occupy his mind.
But if he wanted to drink, he would have to show everyone that he could still function as a policeman. More than that, he would show them that he was at his very best; alcohol was his salvation, his shield against the perils of his job. So he resisted the invaders and listened as attentively as he could manage. And gradually he realised that he hadn’t been imagining things in the car. Cupido was different – had been ever since this morning.
Was Vaughn angry because he’d been drinking? That would be strange; everyone knew he was an alcoholic. Or was Cupido cross because he hadn’t been more grateful and apologetic about last night? That was possible; his colleague could sometimes be oversensitive. The problem was that he couldn’t remember doing anything wrong. Granted, it was a hazy memory, but he wasn’t the one who’d lashed out first.
And drinking is not against the law. He was not on duty. His private life had nothing to do with the Hawks.
Or was it the responsibility of being JOC leader that was making Vaughn so serious?
And when Cupido addressed the operations manager for the sixth time as Miss Coetzee, another truth began to dawn on Griessel: Vaughn was also different with her. He handled her with a certain . . . tact that Benny was not familiar with. Usually when they interviewed coloured people, Cupido would quickly try to win their trust and create a bond with forms of address like sister or my bru’. He would speak in Cape Flats Afrikaans; he would be much more informal and casual.
But not now.
Cupido was intimidated by Coetzee’s beauty, he thought. That would be a first.
Mooiwillem Liebenberg understood the art of subtlety.
He wanted to ask Bernadette Richter if she knew her son smoked dagga, but he knew one didn’t do that directly. Not with a mother from Durbanville who had just lost her only son.
So he asked her if Ernst used any medication.
Medication? She seemed confused about the reason for the question.
He told her he wanted to determine if the villains – he knew that was the right word to use, with her – might have sedated or drugged Ernst, that they had to test his blood for this. Medication could affect blood tests.
She understood. No, she said, Ernst had been very healthy.
Could she think of anything else that could affect the blood tests?
No. Nothing.
As Willem Liebenberg had expected.
Desiree Coetzee explained to Griessel and Cupido that Alibi.co.za consisted of five departments: Administration managed the overall finances of the company and the registration and payments of clients. IT managed the computer and network systems. Graphic Design was responsible for the appearance of the website, banner adverts, and the creation of alibi items like plane tickets and hotel bills. Client Services was the department with the most employees. They answered the telephone and emails, twenty-four hours a day. Marketing did the publicity, and liaised with the contracted public relations agency.
Each department had a head, and together they served on the executive management, and reported to Coetzee.
‘So, if they report to you, what did Ernst Richter do?’ asked Cupido.
‘He was the managing director.’
‘But what did he manage?’
‘Everything. But as he always said, his job was to see the big picture. He didn’t want to get involved in the day-to-day matters, because you sit in meetings all day and then you lose your vision.’
‘So you were actually the main manager?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did his day look like?’
‘It was never the same.’
‘But more or less.’
‘It’s difficult, he . . . On Tuesdays he would attend the executive management meeting, because we look at the figures every Tuesday. How many new registrations, how many cancellations, how many special requests, how much graphic work, what the books look like . . .’
‘What is a special request?’
‘If a client requests a custom SMS, a telephone call or an email as an alibi.’
‘And graphic w
ork?’
‘Those are the special alibi items that the clients pay extra for. Airline tickets, conference invites by email, hotel invoices, anything that Graphic Design has to create.’
‘And they have to cough up a lot of money for those things?’
‘It’s not that expensive. It depends on the requirement. Most of the stuff is around a thousand.’
‘But that’s all counterfeit, Miss Coetzee. Fake documents. Is that within the law?’
She shrugged. ‘That’s what our lawyers say. It’s the same if you . . . Let’s say you’re a romantic and you Photoshop a certificate for your girlfriend that says she has won the Nobel Prize for . . . for beauty. If the graphics are just for private use, it’s completely legal.’
‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ said Vaughn Cupido.
21
Francois du Toit told Advocate Susan Peires about the day in 1969 when his father Guillaume announced that he was going to study Viticulture.
It caused a minor explosion.
Oupa Jean was forty-three years old. Only in name and in the eyes of the world was he still a wine farmer, with all the status that came with owning Klein Zegen. At home, he was an outcast, his only role on the farm now being to sign the cheques. In town, his minor celebrity past was largely forgotten. Middle age and years of living it up had taken the shine off his attractiveness, but he could still walk around in Stellenbosch as the The Big Land Baron, the man with a KWV quota.
Guillaume’s studies were a threat to him. Jean knew in his heart that the farm had the potential for greater things. He sometimes heard his son talk about a special estate wine, and about other cultivars, about their own vats and ageing. He had his doubts, but if his son came back to farm and made a great success of it, it would unmask him, reveal him as just an empty shell.
So at first he refused to finance Guillaume’s viticulture degree. He told his wife Hettie and his son that he would not hand over the farm, not until he keeled over. Guillaume would only inherit, literally, over his dead body. So he should go and get himself a job in the meantime, because Jean was not planning to die any time soon. And in any case, you didn’t need a university education to know how to farm.
