by Deon Meyer
‘Yes! I have the logs.’
‘What happened, Vaughn Stroebel? Did Ernst not want to pay for his dagga? So you strangled him?’
‘No! I swear . . .’
‘Or were you so high that you didn’t know what you were doing?’
He fought against the helplessness, the fear and tears. ‘Please,’ he said, shaking his head vehemently.
‘Please what? Did you do it?’
He felt the tears come, he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold them back.
Then he heard another voice, right behind the detective whose name was also Vaughn.
‘I want to talk to you.’ It was Stroebel’s colleague, the sinewy Rick Grobler. He was the oldest of the programmers, and the quietest and most secretive – the guy who never mixed or squabbled with them.
‘We’ll get to you just now,’ said the detective.
‘I want to know if I’m going to need a lawyer,’ said Rick Grobler.
‘Why?’
‘Because I threatened Ernst, in an email.’
‘What about?’
‘Money.’
‘What money?’
‘Money that he borrowed.’
‘What amount are we talking about?’
‘I don’t think we should talk here . . .’
Vaughn Stroebel saw the detective’s attention shift to Rick Grobler. He swallowed back the tears and had an incredibly strong urge to get up and throw his arms around Grobler.
Lieutenant Vusumuzi Ndabeni stood beside the body of Ernst Richter, which now lay naked on the stainless steel autopsy table.
In his right hand he held the sealed plastic bag containing the clothes that Professor Phil Pagel, the senior state pathologist, had put in it. Vusi didn’t look at the body. He didn’t like any of this. He kept his gaze on the always elegant and well-spoken Pagel, who pulled the bright light hanging above the table down closer to the body.
‘So he went missing on the 26 November, Vusi?’ asked Pagel as he bent to inspect Richter’s neck close up.
‘Yes, Professor.’
Pagel was silent for a moment while he made his calculations.
‘That’s twenty-two days ago.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Lot of sand on the body. Could you tell me about the crime scene, Vusi?’
Ndabeni explained that he hadn’t been there himself, but according to the briefing this morning – and the documents that Vaughn Cupido shared with them – it seemed that the body had been buried in the sand, rolled up in plastic. And then the big storm exposed it yesterday morning.
‘I see,’ said Pagel and reached over to pick up a few instruments. He forced the corpse’s mouth open with them, took a torch and lit up the dark hollow inside.
‘Want to hear something interesting, Vusi?’
‘Yes, Prof.’
‘In 2008, the Dutch authorities found a body in the western part of the Netherlands,’ said Pagel, without looking up from his work, ‘that had been buried under about a hundred-and-forty centimetres of sea sand. When the pathologists examined the deceased, they saw pretty limited decomposition and estimated the PMI – that’s the initial Post Mortem Interval – to be about two weeks. But when the body was identified, they were told that the man had been missing for three months.’
Now Pagel looked up at Ndabeni. ‘I think we might have a similar case here, my dear Watson.’
Vusi just grinned, and nodded.
‘The late Mr Ernst Richter has been missing for more than three weeks, but a cursory examination of the decomposition indicates a much shorter period since death, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Bit of a conundrum, Vusi, bit of a conundrum. But fear not, for I stand before you fully armed with the weapons of Dutch scientific research. Would you like me to elaborate?’
33
Francois du Toit began to talk about his mother for the first time, and Advocate Susan Peires noticed how his tone of voice and expression softened – so much more compassion.
And the more he spoke about her, the more Peires began to wonder whether he was indeed the one responsible for Ernst Richter’s death.
Firstly there was the fact that twenty-seven-year-old wine farmer Francois du Toit was a relatively recently married man, and had himself just become a father. He spoke positively about his wife. Not the kind of person who would necessarily get involved in the murky world of Richter’s alibi service.
Secondly, the long run-up, the in-depth history that he insisted on sharing with her. And thirdly, the picture that he attempted to create of his father with so much effort and detail. As though it served as mitigating circumstances. See what a hard time my father had.
He spoke of his father in the past tense. A few times he had said he wished he could have discussed this or that with his father. She assumed Guillaume had already passed away, but now she realised it had never been explicitly said. Perhaps they were just estranged. Was he not perhaps trying to build a defence for his father?
Every morning Peires read the Cape Times and Die Burger in her office. Over the past week she had followed the hysterical reporting of the murder investigation, the juicy revelations of all the moths attracted to the red-hot, all-consuming flame of Richter. She had listened to her friends’ and colleagues’ speculations, even participated in discussions about the case. The role of technology in the destruction of values; the country and the media once again focused on all the wrong places – like the crime stats and the effectiveness of the SAPD – while it was really about the moral state of South African society.
What did it say about the country if a business like Alibi could prosper? The general view of her circle: the nation saw ever more clearly the writing on the political wall, and everyone scurried like rats to enjoy the last hedonistic pleasures before The Good Ship South Africa was scuppered and sank completely. She wasn’t entirely in agreement with this view.
The public consensus about the case was that Ernst Richter had got what he deserved. Nobody had actually vocalised this ipsissima verba, but it was fairly clearly implied in the newspaper letters pages and radio phone-in programmes. The old story of ‘if you play with fire . . .’. She shook her head at it all, with a degree of wonder that humanity could judge others so easily. Although she knew where it came from: as advocate she had thought it through many times before – this obsession with murder, with crime and justice, was not just a fear of death or damage, it was an impulse to maintain order. Above all, people were creatures that wanted to be part of the herd at any price. So much time, so much money, so much energy was devoted to nurturing the herd, maintaining it and fitting in with it, that the herd had to be orderly. All that investment could not be made in vain.
Murder was the greatest disturbance of that order. Consequently it produced fear. Any act of murder was anxiously analysed for signs, inclinations, tendencies, so that the herd could avoid it in future. The Oscar Pistorius affair was the perfect example; the endless column inches, the hours of analysis on TV and radio, the digital articles and blog discussions, and the books when the case was concluded, all so that the herd could try to understand why a Golden Boy, an icon of the struggles of the herd, could do the unmentionable.
With Richter, the general approach was to demonstrate that he was never part of the herd in the first place. An outsider, outcast, tainted, scum. Not one of the ducks on our dam. Not one of us.
Susan Peires had to keep herself from falling into this trap. But even so, she could not see Francois du Toit as a patron of Ernst Richter’s services. And he spoke so much of his father’s rotten stars, and now, there was this much gentler approach when he spoke of his mother . . .
‘My mother . . .’ he began, and took a deep breath, stroking his right cheek with his fingertips, as if comforting himself. ‘Helena. She was a Cronjé, a descendant of an original Huguenot fam
ily. They came to the country as Cronier, in 1688, if I remember correctly. She is the youngest daughter of Oupa Pierre and Ouma Elizabeth. They own Chevalier, between Paarl and Franschhoek, the wine estate . . . My Oupa Pierre . . . people said that was the closest you could get to Afrikaner aristocracy.’
Du Toit looked towards the window. He paused, brought his hands slowly together, right palm stroking the fingers of his left hand. Susan Peires took note of the action, unsure of what the gesture meant.
‘But things are not always as they seem,’ the young wine farmer said. ‘I find it so terribly interesting, the faces we choose to show to the world.’
34
Benny Griessel felt light.
He walked at the rear of the group of four, on the way to Desiree Coetzee’s office: the programmer Rick Grobler in front, then Cupido, Liebenberg and himself.
It was the booze, thought Griessel. The lunchtime dop had lifted the yoke off his shoulders, yes, also the knowledge that he could get more again tonight. But the biggest reason was that he didn’t have to contend with the thirst, that he no longer had to fight that endless, draining, depressing battle. That was what made him feel so good right now.
That was what made him feel engaged, present, once more, so that he knew the coming interrogation would be a distraction, comic relief in this slow-dragging day, which had produced nothing of any use so far. At the foot of the stairs he and Vaughn and Mooiwillem had exchanged a look, eyes saying: this is a haas, a civilian, that we can have some fun with. An ou who believes he has done something important enough to be a part of the investigation.
They saw it often, this mixture of sympathy and self-importance that caused people to project and insinuate themselves into an investigation. Most often it was a frustration to the investigators, but sometimes it was fun.
In the office Grobler sat down and leaned back comfortably, his tall gangly body filling the guest chair. He was athletic for his mid-thirties and the arms that protruded from the light yellow T-shirt showed a network of bulging blue veins. His hands and his Adam’s apple were surprisingly big. But there was something nerdy about the bowed back, the slumped shoulders.
Mooiwillem Liebenberg leaned against the glass wall, Cupido chose Coetzee’s high work chair, Griessel closed the door behind him and took his place in the other guest chair.
‘Okay,’ said Cupido. ‘Full name and surname?’
‘Ricardo Grobler. Rick.’
‘So you threatened Richter in an email.’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you write in the email?’
‘He had a week to repay the money or I was going to beat him up.’
‘And then, what did he say to that?’
‘He didn’t say anything. It was the day he disappeared.’
‘You threatened him on that very day?’
‘Jip.’
‘So that’s why you are so worried.’
‘I’m not worried. I didn’t do anything to him. I just wanted to save you the trouble, for when you find the email.’
‘You’re a lekker cool customer, nè,’ said Cupido.
‘I’m an innocent customer. Tell me if I’m going to need a lawyer.’
‘Because you’ve already got one?’
‘No, but I know where to get one.’
‘Why would you need a lawyer?’
Patiently, as if he had to explain to children, ‘Because when you see the email, you will wonder about it. It gives me a motive.’
‘You’re very well informed about crime detection. Motive, nogal,’ said Cupido.
‘I read a lot of crime fiction.’
‘And you think that’s related to reality?’
Rick Grobler merely shrugged.
‘Why would Ernst Richter borrow money from you? That dude was loaded.’
Again the shrug of the bony shoulders. ‘Apparently not as loaded as everyone thought.’
‘How much did he borrow?’ Griessel asked.
‘A hundred and fifty thousand.’
‘Jissis,’ said Cupido. Then, suspiciously: ‘You’re not messing with us?’
‘No. That was what he borrowed.’
‘When?’
‘End of October. He said it was for a week, maximum, then he would pay me back.’
‘What did he want the money for?’ asked Mooiwillem Liebenberg.
‘He said he just wanted to boost the books a bit. That was his word, boost. He said the VC partners were giving him grief . . .’
‘What are VC partners?’
‘The venture capital companies who have shares in Alibi. Ernst was extremely chummy-chummy. He said I was the only guy who would understand start-ups, and how the VC partners could be vultures. He said he would pay it back straight away, as soon as they had finished inspecting the books, and he would cover the bank fees, I didn’t have to worry. And then he didn’t do it. I went to see him in his office, nine days later, and I said I want my money. Then he said, sure, he would arrange it immediately; he’d just had his hands full. Three days later, still nothing. I went to see him again. Then he said he had signed off on the payment, it would go through in a day or two. When I went to talk to him three days after that, he avoided me. When I came to his office, he pretended to be on the phone. So I sent him emails. A few times, but he just ignored them. Until the twenty-sixth, when I sent the threatening letter.’
‘Do you have proof that you lent the money to him?’
Grobler shifted in the seat so he could push his hand into the back pocket of his jeans. He took out some folded papers, selected one and handed it to Cupido.
‘Of course. Here is the IOU that he signed. And it’s all in my bank statements: the transfer . . .’
Cupido looked at it briefly, nodded and asked: ‘You’re a programmer?’
Grobler gripped the remaining folded paper in his large hand. ‘Kind of. I am the head of data security.’
‘So where do you get the one fifty K to just loan out like that?’
‘In my free time I’m a freelance cyber-intrusions expert. I hunt zero-day vulnerabilities.’
‘You hunt what?’
Standing next to the dissection table in the state mortuary in Salt River, Professor Phil Pagel told Detective Lieutenant Vusi Ndabeni that the Dutch pathologists were fascinated by the fact that the body they were examining had apparently been dead much longer than the degree of decomposition indicated.
‘So they came up with an interesting experiment. They ordered almost two hundred fresh pigs’ legs from an abattoir. They buried them in sand – sea sand, woodlands sand, dry and wet. Ten pigs’ legs were used as a control, to decompose without burial. The results were very interesting. I’ll spare you the details, but here’s the conclusion: A body buried in wet sand decomposes much more slowly than previously anticipated. Now remember, the Dutch body in question showed about two weeks of decomposition, but the man had been missing for almost three months. After the pig leg experiment, they found he could easily have been dead for the full three months.’
‘Wow,’ said Ndabeni.
‘Wow, indeed,’ said Pagel. ‘The study showed that even when a body is buried in dry sand, decomposition is significantly delayed. Now, to give you a more specific PMI, I’ll have to go study the meteorological data for the past three weeks, and we will have to get Forensics to analyse the temperature and composition of the sand in which Richter was found. And even then it would be an estimate, kind of give or take a day or three. But I’m willing to bet my opera season tickets on the fact that Blouberg has had rain between 26 November and 17 December. Our man Richter here could well have been dead for three weeks.’
The programmer Rick Grobler explained to the detectives in layman’s terms, expansively and at length, that accidental faults creep in with every application or operating system that is developed for
computers – from Windows to web readers, email programs to Java and Flash. And when these programs are installed on millions of computers, some of the errors serve as hidden backdoors that cyber hackers can use to gain access to a computer and hijack its data.
‘That’s what you call a vulnerability.’
‘Okay,’ said Vaughn Cupido.
‘A zero-day vulnerability is when you are the very first guy to discover that vulnerability. On day zero, when you report it.’
‘Okay.’
‘There is a very good market for reporting zero-day vulnerabilities; many people want them. Apparently the Chinese spies pay the most, America’s NSA want them, the software companies buy them so they can plug the gaps, and then there are your hackers, and the guys who want to steal your money.’
‘Who do you sell to?’ asked Willem Liebenberg.
‘To the good guys. There are a whole bunch of companies who buy them. I am a freelancer. If I find something, I offer it to all of them.’
‘Who are the ‘‘good guys’’?’
‘They are companies who take the vulnerabilities back to the software developers, so they can fix the bugs. For a price, of course. Or they sell them to the antivirus companies . . .’
‘What do you get for a zero-day?’ asked Cupido.
‘It depends . . .’
‘Ballpark.’
‘Anything from ten thousand to a hundred thousand.’
‘Lekker,’ said Vaughn Cupido.
‘Dollars,’ said Rick Grobler.
‘Fok,’ said Benny Griessel.
‘How many have you found?’ asked Willem Liebenberg.
‘It’s not as though they just lie around waiting for you to pick them up. It’s months and months of work. And if you offer a zero-day, you have to point it out and exploit it too. As proof that someone could exploit the vulnerability.’
‘How many?’
‘About two or three a year.’
‘So what is your income, on average?’
‘That’s private information.’
‘In a murder investigation, in which you are a prime suspect; nothing is private,’ said Cupido.
