Deon Meyer (6 page)

 

 

The lights changed to green and he couldn’t stop next to the newspaper seller. He drove to a café in Plattekloof, bought a newspaper, and looked for the report on the front page as he walked back to his car. He found it.

 

 

Cape Town— A murder gang of the Chinese Mafia may possibly be behind the brutal slaying of a wealthy Cape Town businessman who was shot with a Tokarev pistol at a Newlands hotel last night.

 

 

According to Col. Bart de Wit . . .

 

 

Joubert leaned against the car and looked up at Table Mountain. He sighed, not seeing how clearly the mountain was visible this morning or how the morning sun made a bright splash in the bay. Then he folded his newspaper, got into the car, and drove off.

 

 

* * *

“What’s beyond me is why he had a bit on the side with a horse-faced blonde when he had a film star at home,” Griessel said.

 

 

Joubert wasn’t listening. “Have you seen the paper?”

 

 

“No.”

 

 

Then de Wit came in, ramrod straight, self-satisfied. The detectives fell silent.

 

 

“Good morning, colleagues. Beautiful morning, isn’t it. Makes one grateful for the privilege of being alive. But there it is, we have to get on with the job. Before we discuss yesterday’s cases . . . I’ve now met all the officers personally and we had productive discussions. Today I’m starting with the noncommissioned officers. I want to get to know you all as soon as possible. Mavis has a list. All the adjutants must check the time of their appointments. Right, let’s discuss yesterday’s cases. Captain Mat Joubert called me for assistance with a murder in Newlands . . .”

 

 

He looked at Mat and gave him a friendly smile. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Captain. Can you give us a progress report?”

 

 

Joubert was somewhat taken aback. He’d asked de Wit to come to the scene because it was standard procedure with all murders that had a high publicity potential. Now the man was giving it a different interpretation.

 

 

“Uh . . . It’s pretty thin, Colonel. The deceased certainly had extramarital relationships. Today we’ll check whether there’s a jealous husband in the picture somewhere. Perhaps someone at his office . . .”

 

 

“You can drop that,” de Wit interrupted him. “As I told the press last night, this is the work of a Chinese drug ring . . . Good piece in
Die Burger
this morning. If you dig deeply enough into the deceased’s background you’ll find the connection. I think the investigation can only benefit if you involve the narcotics bureau as well, Captain. Drop that jealous husband theory of yours. Interestingly enough, last year at the Yard we had two similar murders . . .”

 

 

De Wit broke eye contact with Joubert. Joubert stopped listening. There was an uncomfortable feeling in his belly, as if an insect were scrabbling through his entrails.

 

 

Reluctantly he phoned the officer commanding SANAB— the South African Narcotics Bureau— after the morning assembly.

 

 

“What have you appointed there this time, Joubert?” the voice at the other end asked. “A clown? Cloete of public relations has just phoned me, asked whether de Wit had spoken to me. Cloete is mad as hell because your new boss chats to the newspapers himself. Cloete wants to know whether he can retire now and fish full-time. and what’s this crap about the Chinese mafia?”

 

 

“It’s based on the previous experience of my commanding officer, colonel. at this stage we have to investigate all possibilities.”

 

 

“Don’t give me that official smokescreen, Joubert. you’re just shielding de Wit.”

 

 

“Colonel, I would appreciate it very much if you and your staff would provide murder and robbery with any information which could cast more light on the possibility.”

 

 

“Ah, now i’ve got it. You’re under orders. Awright, you have my sympathy, Joubert. If we uncover a Chinese smuggling ring in the next two hundred years, you’ll be the first to know.”

 

 

* * *

The investigating officer had to be present during the postmortem. That was the rule, the tradition— no matter what the state of the remains.

 

 

Joubert had never enjoyed it, not even in the good old days. But he could erect barriers between himself and the unsettling process that repeated itself time after time on a marble slab in a white-tiled room in Salt River, where the dead lost the last remnants of dignity.

 

 

Not that Professor Pagel forced his scalpel and clamps and saws and forceps through skin and tissue and bone without respect. On the contrary, the state pathologist and his staff approached their work with the seriousness and professionalism that it deserved.

 

 

It was Lara’s death which had destroyed his barriers. Because he knew she had also lain there. Images recalled from past experience had helped to reconstruct the scene. Naked, on her back, clean and sterile, her lithe body exposed to the world, to no effect. The blood washed from her face, only the small star-shaped bullet wound visible between the hairline and the eyebrows. And a pathologist explaining to a detective that it was characteristic of a contact shot, the point-blank killing. Because the compressed gases in the gun’s barrel landed under the skin and suddenly expanded, like a balloon bursting, the Star of Death was awarded, so often seen in suicide cases . . . But not in Lara’s. Somebody else gave her the star.

 

 

Every time he walked down the cold, tiled passages of the mortuary in Salt River, his mind screened him the scene, a macabre replay he couldn’t switch off.

 

 

Pagel was waiting in the little office with Walter Schutte, managing director of Quickmail. Joubert introduced himself. Schutte was of medium height with a deep voice and hair that protruded from every possible opening— his shirt collar, the cuffs, his ears. They walked to the theater where James J. Wallace lay under a green sheet.

 

 

Pagel stripped off the covering.

 

 

“Jeez,” said Walter Schutte and turned his face away.

 

 

“Is this James J. Wallace?” Joubert asked.

 

 

“Yes,” said Schutte. He was pale and the line of shaven beard showed clearly on his skin. Joubert was astonished by the hairiness of the man. He took him by the shoulder and led him back to Pagel’s office, where Schutte signed a form.

 

 

“We’d like to ask you a few questions in your office later on.”

 

 

“What about?” Schutte’s self-confidence was slowly reasserting itself.

 

 

“Routine.”

 

 

“Of course,” Schutte said. “Anytime.”

 

 

When Joubert walked back, Pagel switched on the bright lights, thrust his short, strong fingers into the transparent plastic gloves, took off the cloth covering the late James J., drew the arm of the large mounted magnifying glass toward him, and picked up a small scalpel.

 

 

The pathologist began his systematic procedure. Joubert knew all the
mmm
sounds the man made, the unintelligible mutter when he found something important. But Pagel only shared his discoveries when he was quite certain about his conclusions. That’s why Joubert waited. That’s why he stared at the sterile washbasin against the wall, where a drop of water pinged against the metal container every fourteen seconds.

 

 

“Head shot could’ve caused death. Entry through the left frontal sinus, exit two centimeters above the fontanel. The exit wound is very big. Soft-nosed bullet? Could be . . . could be. Must have a look at the trajectory.”

 

 

He looked at Joubert. “Difficult to judge the caliber. Entry wound in the wrong place.” Joubert nodded as if he understood.

 

 

“Relatively close shot, the head shot. Two, three meters. The thorax shot probably equally close. Could also have caused death. Wound is typical. Additional signs less obvious. The clothes, of course. Heat absorbed. Powder particles. Smoke. Through the sternum. Bleeding absent.”

 

 

He looked up again. “Your man was already dead, Captain. After the first shot. Doesn’t matter which one it was. Dead before he hit the ground. The second one was unnecessary.”

 

 

Fuel for de Wit’s Mafia mania, Joubert thought. But he remained silent.

 

 

“Let’s go in,” Pagel said and picked up a larger scalpel.

 

 

* * *

Walter Schutte didn’t get up when Joubert and Griessel were escorted in by the secretary. “Sit down, gentlemen.” He swung a jovial arm at the modern leather and chrome chairs in front of the big desk with its sheet of glass. “Tea or coffee? I’m having something so please don’t hesitate.” The pale uncertainty in the mortuary had disappeared.

 

 

They both chose tea and sat down. The secretary closed the door behind her.

 

 

The morning wasn’t far advanced but Schutte’s beard already cast a shadow over his cheeks. His teeth flashed white when he gave a quick, bright smile. “Well, in what way can I assist you?” Then the smile disappeared like a light that had been switched off.

 

 

“We’d like to know more about James Wallace, Mr. Schutte. You must’ve known him well?” Joubert asked.

 

 

“I met James for the first time two years ago, when Promail appointed me here. He was a wonderful man.” Schutte’s voice was loaded with veneration.

 

 

“Is that what you called him? James?”

 

 

“Most of us called him Jimmy. But now it sounds so . . .” Schutte flashed a gesture and a smile.

 

 

“What were his relations with the people at work?”

 

 

“We all liked him. Oh, hang on, I see what you’re driving at. No, Captain, you won’t find his murderer here.” Schutte waved both hands in front of him as if warding off an evil spirit. “We’re like one big family, I always say. And James was a part of the family. A much loved part. No, Captain, look for your murderer somewhere else.”

 

 

“Do you know whether the deceased had any other business interests?”

 

 

“No . . . I don’t think so. Jim . . . James told me that all his money was invested in unit trusts because he didn’t want to worry about it. As far as I know he only had Quickmail, his cricket, and his family.”

 

 

“Has your firm done any business for Chinese firms?”

 

 

Schutte frowned. “No. What has that—”

 

 

Griessel interrupted him. “Have you seen this morning’s
Burger
?”

 

 

“No.” Schutte was off balance.

 

 

“The way in which Wallace was murdered, Mr. Schutte— it’s similar to the modus operandi of the Chinese drug dealers. Did he have any contact with people from Taiwan?”

 

 

“No.”

 

 

“The local Chinese community?”

 

 

“Not that I’m aware of.”

 

 

“Pharmaceutical companies?”

 

 

“There is one for whom we send marketing brochures to the medical profession, but Jimmy never worked with them.”

 

 

“Did he use drugs?”

 

 

“Never. It’s an absurd idea. Jimmy wasn’t the sort.”

 

 

“Mr. Wallace’s politics. Did he have strong political opinions?”

 

 

“Jimmy? No . . .”

 

 

“Did you do business with any political group?”

 

 

“Not at any time.”

 

 

“Do you know how he and his wife got along?”

 

 

Schutte sat even straighter in his tall chair. “You’ll find nothing there, either, Captain.” His voice was reproachful. “James and Margaret were the perfect couple. In love, successful, beautiful children . . . young Jeremy plays a fantastic game of cricket. No, Captain, you won’t find anything there.”

 

 

Joubert realized that the time had come to free Schutte of his excessive respect for and protection of the dead.

 

 

The secretary brought in a tea tray with three cups and put it on the desk. She poured and they thanked her. When everyone had stopped stirring, Joubert asked: “Do you know why the deceased went to the Holiday Inn in Newlands yesterday?”

 

 

Schutte moved his shoulders as if the question was obvious. “James often had a beer there with his cricketing friends.”

 

 

“Mr. Schutte, how did the deceased get along with the women working here?”

 

 

“Very well. He got along with everyone.”

 

 

In the good old days, when Mat Joubert still performed his day’s work with the zeal of the newly converted, he developed a technique for reluctant witnesses like Walter Schutte— the Bull, as his colleagues called it. He would lean his big body forward, square and broaden his shoulders, drop his head like a battering ram, lower his voice an octave, and fix his eagle’s eyes on the specific person. Then he would speak, pulling no punches, in a somewhat superior, threatening tone. It was melodramatic, overdone, and feigned. But it worked.

 

 

But as Tony O’Grady said one day, a year or two ago, Joubert had lost “the beat in his baton.” And with it the motivation to use the Bull.

 

 

Whether it was the flickering flame of sexual hunger ignited by Yvonne Stoffberg, or Colonel Bart de Wit’s challenge to the remnants of his ego, Joubert would never know. When he switched to the Bull it was probably not a reasoned act but more than likely pure reflex.

 

 

The physical side of shoulders, head, and eyes he managed, but initially he had problems with the voice and the choice of words. “Yesterday afternoon Jimmy Wallace spent the last hours of his life . . . on top of a blonde. I’m sure it wasn’t his first . . . escapade. And . . . I know someone in the office must know about his escapades because someone had to protect him when Mrs. Wallace looked for him. You now have a choice, Mr. Schutte. You can go on telling fairy tales about Jimmy Wallace and how exemplary and wonderful he was. Then I’ll have to bring in a team of detectives, which will keep each of the employees busy for hours. Or you can help us and we’ll leave as soon as possible.”