Deon Meyer (4 page)

 

 

“But I’ll leave that for another occasion. Don’t you want to get one of those large old bank bags and fill it with notes— fifties and higher? I’ve got this large old gun here under my jacket . . .”

 

 

He opened his jacket slightly. Susan saw the grip of a weapon.

 

 

“. . . and I don’t want to use it. But you look like a pretty and sensible girl. If you help me quickly, I’ll be gone before anything nasty can happen.” His voice remained calm, the tone conversational.

 

 

Susan looked for the smile that would show he was joking. It didn’t arrive.

 

 

“You’re serious.”

 

 

“Indeed, sweetheart.”

 

 

“Good God.”

 

 

“No, sweetheart, nice large notes.”

 

 

Susan’s hands started shaking. She remembered her training.
The alarm bell is on the floor. Press it.
Her legs were jelly. Mechanically her hands took out the canvas bag. She opened the money drawer, started transferring the notes.
Press it.

 

 

“Your perfume is delicious. What’s it called?” he asked in his beautiful voice.

 

 

“Royal Secret,” she said and blushed, despite the circumstances. She had no more fifties. She gave him the bag.
Press it.

 

 

“You’re a star. Thank you. Tell your husband to look after you. Someone might steal you.” He gave a broad smile, took the bag, and walked out. When he went through the glass door Susan Ploos van Amstel pressed the button with her toe.

 

 

* * *

“It could be a wig, but we’ll get an Identikit together,” Mat said to the three reporters. He was investigating the Premier robbery because his manpower was deployed in the Upper Cape, where a bag person had set a friend alight in a haze of methylated spirits; in Brackenfell, the scene of a shotgun robbery in a fish shop; and in Mitchells Plain, where a thirteen-year-old girl had been raped by fourteen gang members.

 

 

“Only seven thousand rand. Has to be an amateur,” said the reporter from the
Cape Argus
and sucked her ballpoint pen. Joubert said nothing. Better that way when handling the media. He looked through the glass door of the manager’s office, where Susan Ploos van Amstel was telling her story to even more clients.

 

 

“The Sweetheart Robber. Could become a nice story. Think he’ll try again, Captain?” the man from
Die Burger
asked. Joubert shrugged.

 

 

Then there were no more questions. The reporters excused themselves. Joubert said good-bye and sat down again. The Identikit people were on their way.

 

 

* * *

He drove the service vehicle, a white Sierra, because he was on standby. On the way home he stopped at the secondhand-book shop in Koeberg Road. Billy Wolfaardt stood in the doorway.

 

 

“Hi, Captain. How’s the murder business?”

 

 

“Still the same, Billy.”

 

 

“Two Ben Bovas have come in. But I think you’ve got them.”

 

 

Joubert walked to the science fiction section.

 

 

“And a new William Gibson.”

 

 

Joubert ran his finger down the spines of the books. Billy Wolfaardt turned and walked to the cash register at the door. He knew the captain wasn’t a great talker.

 

 

Joubert looked at the Bovas, put them back on the shelf, took the Gibson, paid for it. He said good-bye and drove off. On the way home he bought Kentucky chicken.

 

 

An envelope had been pushed under his door. He carried it to the kitchen with the paperback and the chicken.

 

 

The envelope had a drawing of flowers in pale pastel colors. He put down the rest of the stuff, took a knife out of a drawer, and slit open the envelope. It contained a single sheet of paper with the same floral pattern, folded in half. It had a sweet smell, familiar. A perfume. He opened it. The handwriting was feminine and impressive, looped. He read:

 

 

The hot embrace

 

Of my deep desire

 

Ignites the flame

 

Of your hottest fire

 

 

Taste me, touch me, take me

 

Impale me like a butterfly

 

My lovely love, oh can’t you see

 

To love me is to make me die.

 

 

It was unsigned. The perfume was the signature. He recognized it.

 

 

Joubert sat down at the kitchen table. Why was she fucking with him? He didn’t need another night like the last two.

 

 

He read it again. The unsubtle verses created visions in his head— Yvonne Stoffberg, her young body naked, underneath him, sweat gleaming on the full, round breasts . . .

 

 

He threw the poem and the envelope in the wastebasket and, muttering, walked to his room. Not another night like that. He wouldn’t be able to cope. He threw his tie onto the bed, went to fetch the paperback, and took it to the living room.

 

 

He had difficulty in concentrating. After seven jerky pages he fetched the verses out of the wastebasket and read them again, annoyed with his lack of discipline.

 

 

Should he telephone her? Just to say thank you.

 

 

No.

 

 

Her pa might answer, and he didn’t want to start anything.

 

 

Just to say thank you.

 

 

He’d thought the urge had died. The same time two days ago he still believed the urge was dead.

 

 

The phone rang. Joubert started, got up and walked to the bedroom.

 

 

“Joubert.”

 

 

“Radio control, Captain. Shooting incident at the Holiday Inn in Newlands. Deceased is a white man.”

 

 

“I’m on my way.”

 

 

 

5.

T
he other colleague who hadn’t given up on Mat Joubert was Detective Sergeant Benny Griessel. Because, despite all his cynicism, Griessel drank like a fish. And completely understood Joubert’s withdrawal. He believed that something had to give in the life of a Murder and Robbery detective, where death was your constant companion, the source of your bread and butter.

 

 

For a little more than a year, Griessel had watched Joubert sinking deeper and deeper into the quicksand of depression and self-pity— and not necessarily being able to pull out of it. And said to himself: Rather that than the bottle. Because Benny Griessel knew the bottle. It allowed you to forget the shadow of death. But it sent your wife and two kids fleeing headlong, away from the abusive, battering drunk who made their lives hell on a Saturday night. And later, many other evenings of the week as well.

 

 

No, Mat Joubert had a better deal going.

 

 

Griessel was the first to reach the scene. He was of medium height with a Slav face, a broken nose, and black hair worn rather long. He wore a creased blue suit.

 

 

Joubert pushed his way through the crowd of curious onlookers, bent under the yellow plastic band with which the uniformed men had cordoned off the scene, and walked to Griessel, who was standing over to one side talking to a young blond man. The uniforms had thrown a blanket over the body. It lay shapelessly in the shadow of a steel-blue BMW.

 

 

“Captain,” Griessel greeted him. “Mr. Merryck here found the body and called the station. From hotel reception.” Joubert smelled the liquor on Griessel’s breath. He looked at Merryck, saw the gold-framed glasses, the sparse mustache. A fleck of vomit still clung to his chin. The body couldn’t be a pretty sight.

 

 

“Mr. Merryck is a hotel guest. He parked over there and was on his way to the entrance when he saw the body.”

 

 

“It was quite awful. Sickening,” said Merryck. “But one has to do one’s duty.”

 

 

Griessel patted him on the shoulder. “You can go now. If we need you, we know where to find you,” he said in his faultless English. He and Joubert walked to the body. “Photographer is on his way. I’ve asked for the pathologist, forensic, and the fingerprint guys. And most of the others on standby. He’s white,” said Griessel and pulled away the blanket.

 

 

Between two staring eyes lay the blood-filled lake of a bullet wound, gaping, mocking, in flawless symmetry.

 

 

“But take a look at this,” said Griessel and pulled the blanket down further. Joubert saw another wound, a bloody blackish-red hole in the chest, in the center of a stylish suit, shirt, and tie.

 

 

“Jesus,” Mat Joubert said and knew why Merryck had vomited.

 

 

“Large caliber.”

 

 

“Yip,” said Griessel. “A cannon.”

 

 

“Check his pockets,” said Joubert.

 

 

“Wasn’t robbery,” they said virtually in unison when they saw the gold Rolex on the arm. And they both knew that this complicated the case infinitely.

 

 

Joubert’s hand moved quickly over the lifeless eyes, smoothing down the eyelids. He saw the defenselessness of the dead, the way in which all bodies lay, unmistakable, vulnerable, the hands and arms finally folded never again to defend that showcase of life, the face. He forced himself to keep his mind on his work.

 

 

Voices behind them, saying hi. More detectives from the backup team. Joubert rose. They were coming to look at the body. Griessel chased them away when they blocked out the pale light of the streetlamps.

 

 

“Start there. Walk the whole area. Every centimeter.”

 

 

The usual moan started, but they obeyed, knew how important the first search was. Griessel carefully went through the deceased’s pockets. Then he got up with a checkbook holder and car keys in his hand. He threw the keys to Adjutant Basie Louw.

 

 

“They’re for a BMW. Try this one.”

 

 

Griessel opened the gray leather checkbook holder. “We have a name,” he said. “J. J. Wallace. And an address. Ninety-six Oxford Street, Constantia.”

 

 

“The key fits,” said Louw and took it out carefully, so as not to leave his fingerprints in the car.

 

 

“A rich bugger,” said Griessel. “We’ll hit the headlines again.”

 

 

It was a young detective constable, Gerrit Snyman, who found the cartridge case halfway under a nearby car. “Captain,” he called, still inexperienced enough to get excited immediately. Joubert and Griessel walked toward him. Snyman lit the empty cartridge case with his flashlight. Joubert picked it up, held it against the light. Griessel came closer, read the numbers on the back.

 

 

“Seven point six three.”

 

 

“Impossible. It’s short. Pistol case.”

 

 

“There. You read it. Seven point six . . . three. It seems. Might be badly printed.”

 

 

“Probably six two.”

 

 

Benny Griessel looked at Joubert. “Must be. And that means only one thing.”

 

 

“Tokarev.” Joubert sighed.

 

 

“APLA.” Benny sighed. “Fuckin’ politics.”

 

 

Joubert walked toward his service vehicle. “I’m going to radio the Colonel.”

 

 

“De Wit? All he’ll do is to puke his fuckin’ heart out.” Benny’s grin shone silver in the streetlight.

 

 

For the moment Joubert had forgotten that Willy Theal would never visit a murder scene again. He felt gloom rising like damp.

 

 

* * *

The house at 96 Oxford Street was a large single story set in huge grounds. The garden was a controlled lushness, impressive even in the semidarkness.

 

 

Somewhere deep in the house the doorbell sounded, briefly overriding the sound of a television program. The seconds ticked past. Inside, their carefree time was decreasing, Joubert thought. The angels of death were at the front door. The tiding, like a parasite, was going to suck life, joy, and peace out of their lives.

 

 

A woman opened the door, irritated, a frown of small wrinkles. Long, thick auburn hair hung over one shoulder, covered part of the yellow-patterned apron, and guided their gaze away from her eyes.

 

 

Her voice was melodious and annoyed. “Can I help you?”

 

 

“Mrs. Wallace?” he asked. Then he saw the eyes. So did Griessel. A mismatched pair, the one pale blue and bright, the other in shades of brown, somewhere between light and dark. Joubert tried not to stare.

 

 

“Yes,” she said and knew it wasn’t a sales ploy. Fear moved like a shadow over her face.

 

 

“It’s James, isn’t it.”

 

 

A boy of about ten appeared behind her. “What is it, Mom?”

 

 

She looked round, worried. “Jeremy, please go to your room.” Her voice was soft but urgent. The boy turned away. She looked back at the detectives.

 

 

“We’re from the police,” Joubert said.

 

 

“You’d better come in,” she said, opening the door wide and taking off her apron.

 

 

Mrs. Margaret Wallace wept with the total abandon of helpless grief, hands in her lap, shoulders slightly bowed. Tears stuck to the yellow wool of her summer sweater and glistened in the bright light of her living room’s candelabra.

 

 

Joubert and Griessel stared at the carpet.

 

 

Joubert focused on the ball and claw of the coffee table’s leg. He wanted to be in his chair in his own home, the paperback on his lap and a beer in his hand.

 

 

The boy came down the passage. Behind him was a girl somewhere between eight and ten.

 

 

“Mom?” His voice was small and scared.