Deon Meyer (5 page)

 

 

Margaret Wallace straightened her shoulders, wiped the palm of her hand over her face. She got up with dignity. “Excuse me.” She took the children’s hands and led them down the passage. A door closed. The silence was deafening. A cry sounded. Then there was silence again.

 

 

They didn’t look at each other because that would be an admission.

 

 

Eventually she came back. Her shoulders were still gallantly erect, as though she could contain her emotions physically. But they knew.

 

 

“I must call my mother. She lives in Tokai. She can help with the kids. I’m sure you have many questions.” Her voice was neutral, like a sleepwalker’s.

 

 

Joubert wanted to tell her that they would come back later, that they would leave her with her pain. But he couldn’t.

 

 

She came back within minutes. “My mother is coming over. She’s strong. My dad . . . I’ve asked the maid to make us some tea. I take it you drink tea?”

 

 

“Thank you, but . . .” Joubert’s voice was slightly hoarse. He cleared his throat.

 

 

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll stay with the kids until she arrives.” She didn’t wait for an answer and walked down the semilit passage.

 

 

Joubert’s pocket radio beeped. He looked at the LCD message on his screen: RING ADJ LOUW. There was a phone number attached.

 

 

He’d sent Louw and three other detectives to the hotel because the rooms overlooked the parking area. This was after the pathologist had mumbled over the body. And before Bart de Wit had turned up and called a media conference about a murder on which they had no information. He and Benny had fled to Oxford Street just after it started.

 

 

“The man is a clown,” Benny had said on the way. “He won’t last.” Joubert wondered if the OC had called in the NCOs one by one as well. And if de Wit was aware of Griessel’s drinking problem.

 

 

“Basie wants me,” he said, breaking the depressing silence, and got up. He walked to the room from where Margaret Wallace had earlier made a call. He heard the maid clinking china in the kitchen.

 

 

It looked like a study. A desk with a computer and telephone stood in the center. Against the back wall was a bookcase with hardcover files, a few books on business practice, and a handful of
Readers’ Digest
condensed books in their overdone mock leather bindings. The wall next to the door was covered in photographs and certificates. There was also a large cartoon by a local cartoonist. It depicted James Wallace— thick black hair, luxuriant mustache, slightly bulging cheeks. The caricature wore a neat suit of clothes. One hand held a briefcase with the logo WALLACE QUICKMAIL. The other arm clutched a cricket bat; the hand held a flag with WP CRICKET on it.

 

 

Joubert dialed the number. It was the hotel’s. He asked to speak to Basie and waited a few moments.

 

 

“Captain?”

 

 

“Yo, Basie.”

 

 

“We’ve found someone, Captain. Female, blond. She says Wallace was with her in the room. But we didn’t question her further. We’re waiting for you.”

 

 

“Can you stay with her? Benny and I are going to be here for a while.”

 

 

“No problem, Captain.” Louw sounded keen. “Oh, and there was another spent cartridge. Under the body.”

 

 

When Joubert walked out of the study, he glanced at the cartoon against the wall again. And knew that the insignificance of life was just as sad as the finality of death.

 

 

* * *

“He started business on his own,” said Margaret Wallace. She sat on the edge of the big, comfortable chair, her hands in her lap, her voice even, without inflection, controlled.

 

 

“He was awarded the contract to deliver the municipal accounts. It was tough at first. He had to import an Addressograph and a computer from the United States, but in those days every letter had to be inserted into the envelopes by hand, then sealed. I helped him. We worked through the night. Often. He sold seventy percent of the shares to Promail International two years ago, but they stuck to the original name. He’s still on the board and acts as a consultant.”

 

 

Joubert noted that she was still speaking about her husband in the present tense. But he knew that would change on the following day, after the night.

 

 

“Was your husband involved in politics?”

 

 

“Politics?” Margaret Wallace said, wholly uncomprehending.

 

 

“Was Mr. Wallace a member of a political party?” Griessel asked.

 

 

“No, he . . .” Her voice cracked. They waited.

 

 

“He was . . . apolitical. He didn’t even vote. He says all politicians are the same. They only want power. They don’t really care about people.” The frown on her forehead deepened.

 

 

“Was he involved in the townships? Welfare work?”

 

 

“No.”

 

 

“His company?”

 

 

“No.”

 

 

Joubert tried another tack. “Were you aware of any tension at work recently?”

 

 

She shook her head slightly and the auburn hair moved. “No.”

 

 

The unmatched pair of eyes blinked. She was fighting for control, Joubert knew. He helped her: “We’re sure there must be a logical explanation for this terrible thing, Mrs. Wallace.”

 

 

“Who could’ve done such a thing? Haven’t we had enough death and destruction in this country already? James wasn’t perfect but . . .”

 

 

“It could’ve been an accident, Mrs. Wallace. Or a robbery. The motive for this sort of thing is usually money,” Griessel said.

 

 

Or sex, Joubert thought. But that would have to wait.

 

 

“Do you know if anyone owed your husband money? Any other business ventures, transactions . . .”

 

 

She shook her head again. “James was so responsible with money. He didn’t even gamble. We went to Sun City last year, with the people from Promail. He took along five thousand rand and said that when that was gone, he would stop. And he did. The house doesn’t have a mortgage, thank the good Lord . . .”

 

 

Griessel cleared his throat. “You were happily married.” A statement.

 

 

Margaret Wallace looked at Griessel and frowned. “Yes, I would like to think so. We had the usual little squabbles. James loves cricket. And sometimes he comes home a bit tipsy after a night out with the boys. And sometimes I’m too sensitive about it. I can be moody, I suppose. But our marriage works, in its strange way. The kids . . . our existence revolves around the kids these days.” She looked in the direction of the bedroom, where her mother had to be the comforter now.

 

 

The silence grew. Then Joubert spoke. He thought his voice sounded artificial and overly sympathetic. “Mrs. Wallace, according to law you have to identify your husband at the morgue . . .”

 

 

“I can’t do it.” Her voice was muffled, and the tears were about to fall.

 

 

“Is there someone else who could?”

 

 

“Someone at work will have to. Walter Schutte. The managing director.” She gave a telephone number, and Joubert wrote it down.

 

 

“I’ll give him a call.”

 

 

They got up. She did, too, but reluctantly, because she knew the night lay ahead.

 

 

“If there’s anything we can do . . .” Griessel said and he sounded sincere.

 

 

“We’ll be fine,” said Margaret Wallace and started crying bitterly again.

 

 

* * *

The blonde sat on one of the hotel’s bedroom chairs. Her name was Elizabeth Daphne van der Merwe.

 

 

Joubert sat in the other chair. Griessel, Louw, and O’Grady were perched on the edge of the big double bed, arms folded, like judges.

 

 

Her hair was straw-colored out of a bottle. Her face was long and thin, the eyes big and brown with long lashes, the nose small and delicate. Tears had drawn mascara tracks down her cheeks. But Lizzie van der Merwe had missed true beauty with a mouth that didn’t match. Her front teeth were a bit rabbity, the bottom lip was small, too near the weakness of her jaw. Her body was tall and slender with small, high breasts under the white blouse. She had angular hip bones and wore a black skirt that showed too much of her legs in cream-colored stockings ending in elegant high heels.

 

 

“Where did you meet the deceased?” Joubert’s voice was wholly without sympathy now, his choice of words deliberate.

 

 

“I met him this afternoon.” She hesitated, looked up. The detectives all stared at her, their faces impassive. The long lashes danced across her cheeks. But no one reacted.

 

 

“I work for Zeus Computers. In Johannesburg. I phoned last week. We have new products . . . James . . . er . . . Mr. Wallace . . . They referred me to him. He is their consultant on computers. And so I flew down this morning. I had an eleven o’clock appointment. Then he took me to lunch . . .” Her eyes moved from face to face, looking for one that showed sympathy.

 

 

They waited in silence. Her lashes danced again. The lower lip quivered and placed more emphasis on the two front teeth she tried to hide. Joubert felt sorry for her.

 

 

“And then?” he asked softly. She embraced his tone of voice and focused the big eyes on him.

 

 

“He . . . We had wine. A great deal of wine. And we talked. He said he was very unhappy in his marriage . . . His wife doesn’t understand him. There was something between us. He understood me so well. He’s a Ram. I’m Virgo.”

 

 

Joubert frowned.

 

 

“Star signs . . .”

 

 

The frown disappeared.

 

 

“Then we came here. I have a room here because I’m staying over. I have another appointment tomorrow. With someone from another firm. He left after six. I’m not sure of the time. And that’s the last time I saw him.”

 

 

The lashes fluttered again and the mascara tracks increased.

 

 

Basie Louw cleared his throat. “What happened here? In this room?”

 

 

She cried harder.

 

 

They waited.

 

 

She got up and went into the bathroom. They heard her blowing her nose. A tap ran. Silence. Then the nose being blown again. She came back and sat down. The mascara tracks had disappeared.

 

 

“You know what happened. Here . . .”

 

 

They looked at her expectantly.

 

 

“We made love.” She cried again. “He was so gentle with me . . .”

 

 

“Miss, do you know anyone in Cape Town?” Mat Joubert asked.

 

 

She took a tissue out of the sleeve of the white blouse and blew her nose again. “I have friends here. But I haven’t seen them for ages.”

 

 

“Is there anyone who’d be . . . unhappy if you slept with other men?”

 

 

Her head jerked up. “I don’t sleep with other men . . .”

 

 

The eyebrows of the three detectives on the bed rose with military precision.

 

 

“Don’t you understand? There was a vibe. We . . . we were . . . It was beautiful.”

 

 

Joubert asked again: “Miss, we want to know if you’re involved with anyone else who would mind that you and the deceased slept together.”

 

 

“Oh, you mean . . . No. No, never. I don’t even have a permanent relationship.”

 

 

“Do you belong to a political party or group, Miss van der Merwe?”

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

“Which one?”

 

 

“I’m a member of the Democratic Party. But what has . . .”

 

 

Griessel didn’t give her a chance. “Did you ever have any connection with the Pan African Congress?”

 

 

She shook her head.

 

 

“Or with the Azanian People’s Liberation Army?”

 

 

“APLA? No, I . . .”

 

 

“Do you know anybody who belongs to these groups?”

 

 

“No.”

 

 

“What did the deceased say when he left here? Did he have another appointment?” Griessel asked.

 

 

“He said he had to go home, to his children. He is . . . was a good man . . .” Her head drooped. “There was a vibe. So beautiful,” she said.

 

 

Mat Joubert sighed and got up.

 

 

 

6.

H
e dreamed about Yvonne Stoffberg. They were in the mountains. She ran ahead of him, her white bottom bobbing in the moonlight, her brown hair floating. She was laughing, skipping over river stones, past a rippling stream. He was also laughing, his hard-on rigid in the evening breeze. Then suddenly she screamed, a scream of terror and surprise. Her hands shot to her breasts, trying to hide them. Ahead of them on the mountain track stood Bart de Wit. Between his eyes there was a third eye, a staring, scarlet pit. But he could still speak: “Ask yourself, Captain. Are you a winner?” Over and over again like a cracked record in that high, nasal voice. He looked round, searching for Yvonne Stoffberg, but she had vanished. Suddenly, de Wit was gone, too. The dark invaded him. He felt himself dying. He closed his eyes. Long auburn hair drifted across his face. He was lying in the arms of Margaret Wallace. “You’ll be okay,” she said. He started crying.

 

 

* * *

At the traffic lights Joubert stared at
Die Burger
’s poster as he did every morning without seeing it. Then as the letters took on meaning, he was startled: CHINESE MAFIA BEHIND BRUTAL KILLING OF CRICKET FAN?