The Satanic Mechanic (26 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

‘Those bastards,' said Jessie, as we got into my blue bakkie. ‘Taking advantage of a lonely woman.'

‘They'll probably get away with it too,' I said, shaking my head. ‘I can't see her laying charges.'

‘Poor thing. A woman like Georgie would feel such guilt . . . Were you brought up with all that religious stuff about pleasure being a sin?'

I started the car. ‘If the satanists didn't shoot Tata,' I said, ‘then who did?'

‘You knew him,' said Jessie. ‘What motives might there be?'

We drove over the shadows of some big karee trees as we headed towards the Route 62 Café.

‘He told us things, but I don't want to break the trust of the group . . .' I said.

‘Tannie M, he's dead now. And when it comes to murder, there's no place for secrets.'

I swallowed, thinking of my own secrets. ‘Ja, you're right . . . Tata felt responsible for the death of another man. He gave the man's name to the police when he was tortured in the 1980s. Maybe the family or comrades of this man took their revenge.'

‘All these years later?'

‘They didn't know about it then, but maybe they found out recently.'

‘Maybe Dirk told them,' said Jessie.

‘You've got it in for Dirk.'

‘He's an arsehole.'

‘The thing is, I was thinking . . . with all that smoke around the fire. Tata Radebe might have been shot by mistake.'

‘The murderer intended to shoot someone else?'

‘Maybe.'

‘Who'd want to shoot any of the others?' she asked.

‘Well, we'd need to look at each person. Fatima has a whole history in Somalia. Her family was killed in the civil war. Her boyfriend was a pirate. Her uncle didn't like the boyfriend. Also she watched someone being killed in Cape Town and ran away from violence there.'

‘She's a shopkeeper here, isn't she?'

‘Yes. I think so.'

‘I've seen a Somalian shop at the entrance to the township. There is still a lot of xenophobia.'

‘Even in Ladismith?'

‘Everywhere. I'll ask around, see what I can find out . . . My uncle owns a spaza shop. He might know something.'

‘And then there is Lemoni,' I said. ‘She was robbed at gunpoint in her house in Jo'burg. She shot someone. One of the escaping robbers.'

‘You think the criminals tried to take revenge?'

We arrived at the Route 62 Café, and I parked next to Jessie's red scooter.

‘Who else might have been the murderer's intended victim?' she asked.

‘Well, there's Ricus, of course. Who knows all the reasons people may have for killing him?'

Jessie smiled. ‘Ja, your Detective Kannemeyer might be jealous of him.'

‘Ag, don't be ridiculous,' I said.

‘Ricus might have got up to a lot of nonsense when he was up north, in Hotazel. And maybe his ex-girlfriend organised someone else to shoot him. It might explain why she went to so much trouble to get an alibi from poor Georgie.'

‘And then there is Ousies,' I said. ‘I like her, but she doesn't speak much; there is something secretive about her. And now she's run off . . .'

‘She may be afraid. Someone might be after her,' said Jessie. ‘There's also Johannes. He's hiding something.'

‘Ja, but he wasn't standing in the circle with Tata; he was a bit away, by his red Mini panel van.'

‘And then there is you, of course.'

‘Why would anyone want to kill me?'

‘Well, there was that murderer last year. He wouldn't be dead if it wasn't for you.'

‘Maybe his ex-wife? Or someone who loved him?'

‘You know who did have quite a crush on him . . . Marietjie, the teller at the Spar.'

‘Jinne. I remember that now,' I said.

‘It seems unlikely she'd come for revenge now, months later. But we have to look for any motives.'

‘Now that I come to think of it, she has been quite cool with me. We used to be friendly.'

‘Jislaaik, Tannie M. There is a snakepit of motives for killing any one of you.'

Her mention of snakes made me think of a man with angry eyes. I remembered where I had first met him.

‘The black mamba,' I said. ‘He was driving a black Golf on the night of the murder. I met him at the Ostrich Supper Club in Oudtshoorn. His name is Nick.'

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Jessie went off on her scooter, and I headed home. The late-afternoon sun gave my bakkie a tall shadow that moved across the veld. My dust-brown hens came running up the garden path towards me, and when I got to the stoep I threw them a handful of mielies before I went inside.

I was about to call Henk but decided to phone Ricus first.

‘It's Maria van Harten.'

‘Maria! How are you?' he said in that rich deep voice.

‘Fine, fine.'

‘I was going to call you. We are postponing our group meetings for a little while. But if you need to talk or come and see me, please call me. Any time.'

‘That man who was driving the black Golf last night, his name is Nick, isn't it? Was he coming to see you?'

‘Yes. Nick Olivier. He used to be in therapy with me.'

‘In Oudtshoorn.'

‘You know him?'

‘I met him with Annemarie one time.'

‘Ah, Annemarie . . . Ja, Olivier wanted to meet with me. We were about to have a group meeting, and I said he was welcome to join us, even though he doesn't have PTSD. Nick has other problems. But he wanted me alone.'

‘Was he upset about that?' I asked.

‘I told him we could meet another time.'

‘I drove past him on the way out. He looked angry.'

‘He is a troubled soul.'

‘He looked angry when I first met him.'

‘He has been through a lot.'

‘Is he a very . . . disturbed man?'

‘We are all disturbed in some way, that is what makes us human. But yes, he has more than his fair share of troubles.'

‘Might he be . . . dangerous?'

‘To himself, definitely. To others . . . possibly. Are you thinking that he might have had something to do with the murder?'

‘I know it sounds crazy, but maybe he wants to get rid of the other members of the group so he can have you to himself . . .' I twisted the phone cord around my finger. ‘Or maybe he was trying to shoot you, but in the smoke, he missed.'

‘The police are after Ousies and my ex-girlfriend . . .'

‘I think she has an alibi.'

‘Hmm. Satanists enjoy lying.'

‘Is Ousies still missing?' I asked.

‘They haven't found her.'

‘Thank you, Ricus.'

‘Any time, Maria. Any time.'

I got myself a cup of coffee and a muesli rusk and sat down to call Henk.

Luckily he was in his office. I told him the truth (but not the whole truth) about Georgie; the idea that it could be any one of us that the murderer wanted to kill; and the story about Nick Olivier, the black mamba man.

Detective Lieutenant Kannemeyer was polite and proper, as if I was a member of the public. ‘Thank you for the information,' he said.

‘Um, I was thinking of making a cottage pie tonight, with sweet potato mash. And I have a pear and ginger cake. In fact, that's what got Georgie talking. I made her a vegan one.'

‘I am working late tonight.'

‘Okay.'

‘Keep your doors and windows locked. Excuse me, there's another call I must take. Goodbye.'

‘Bye, Henk,' I said, to an empty phone line.

* * *

I wasn't in the mood to make cottage pie any more. And there was all that cake that needed eating. I settled the hens into the chicken hok, then I sat and drank coffee and ate cake on the stoep, and watched the birds settling in to the gwarrie tree, and the sky bleed from blue to orange to red.

Henk hadn't exactly been rude to me, but the way he was polite made him seem very far away. I understood that he was upset about the murder. It got me thinking how upset he'd be if he ever learnt about what I had done to Fanie. He might go so far away that he'd never come back.

As it got darker, what Henk said about the doors and windows did not seem like such a bad idea. What if mamba man decided to knock off all the people in our group so he could have Ricus to himself? Did he know where I lived? In small towns, it's easy to find out.

I locked up the house, got into my nighty and was ready to go to bed early. The phone rang, and I jumped.

‘Hope it's not too late, Tannie M?' said Jessie.

‘I'm still up.'

‘I didn't want to wait till tomorrow.'

‘You've found out something.'

‘The Somalians are not popular,' she said.

‘Fatima seems so nice.'

‘Well, their clients have no complaints. They do a good business. Too good. That's the problem. Some of the other shop owners are unhappy.'

‘That's unfair.'

‘Yes. But it's not as simple as xenophobia. Some of the Somalian shops are selling basic food items at cost price.'

‘Maybe they buy in bulk somewhere?'

‘I've spent all afternoon researching it; it's just not possible to make a profit at the prices they are charging.'

‘So how do they keep in business?'

‘It's quite a story. The one thing in their shops that is at the standard price is cigarettes. I've spent the last few hours tracking down some leads. Tonight I found someone willing to talk off the record. His story seems solid.'

‘Ja?'

‘Some shop owners buy their cigarettes direct from Zimbabwe. They are not declared and no import taxes are paid. Cigarette taxes are huge. Which means they get them at really reduced prices. So they attract people to their shops with low prices on food and stuff and make all their profit on cigarettes.'

‘Jirre. It's smuggling. That must be illegal.'

‘Ja, but it's hard to prove. It's happening all over the country, but no one will testify. It's how some of the refugees are surviving when everything else turns against them.'

I thought of the knife Fatima kept in her hair.

‘It must be a dangerous business,' I said.

‘Not as dangerous as some of the other stuff these poor people have been through.'

‘You don't think it's bad what they are doing?'

‘There are lots of different kinds of bad, and I don't think this is the worst. But I do think there could be a motive for murder there. Other shop owners. Or maybe something went bad in the smuggling ring . . .'

‘I spoke to Ricus about Nick, the mamba guy.'

I told her what Ricus had said, and also about my conversation with Henk.

‘He says I should lock my doors and windows,' I said.

‘You're alone there tonight?'

‘He's working late.'

‘Shall I come and sleep there, Tannie M?'

‘Ag, no. I'm fine.'

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

I struggled to fall asleep. It was a cool night, but with my windows closed it felt stuffy. Sometimes I'd hear the sound of an engine and think it might be a car, a black Golf maybe, heading down my dirt road, but then the sound would fade and I'd realise it was just a truck on Route 62. When I did finally fall asleep, I was woken by my chickens making a helluva noise. I opened the window a tiny bit and shouted ‘Voetsek,' in case it was a jackal or a rooikat bothering them.

I felt nervous to go outside and check on them. An animal would run away from me, but what if there was a person?

Ag, this is nonsense, I thought. One of the wonderful things about the Klein Karoo is you can sleep at night, knowing you are safe in your bed. Nick Olivier was probably asleep in his own bed in Oudtshoorn and didn't even know my name. I turned on the lights and made myself a cup of hot milk with cinnamon and honey, and drank it at my kitchen table in the company of a small slice of cake.

I went back to bed and ended up sleeping a bit late that Sunday morning. The sun was bright, and the phone was ringing. I didn't move very fast, so I was not surprised the phone had stopped ringing by the time I got there. I put on my dressing gown and went to check on my chickens. They were fine. There were paw prints in the sand around their hok, but no sign of shoes. I let them out, and they fussed and flapped. The phone rang again, but there was no hope I'd get there in time, so I just left it.

‘Kik kik kik,' I called to my hens, and they followed me to the stoep where I threw them two handfuls of crushed mielies. They raced to
gobble up the food, and then they wandered about the lawn, scratching in the grass. It made me feel peaceful to watch them.

I opened my kitchen windows and went to have a quick shower. While I was in the shower, I thought I heard a car heading my way. I turned off the water and listened, but it was quiet. I wished I'd locked the front door. But the Karoo is not the kind of place you remember to lock doors. I turned the shower back on, and then I thought I heard something slamming, feet on the gravel. Ag, you are just being jumpy, I told myself. But I quickly finished washing and reached for a towel.

Then I heard what were definitely footsteps. Inside my house.

There was a little bolt on the inside of the bathroom door, and the footsteps were coming closer. My heart was hammering like a woodpecker. I dropped the towel, and with wet fingers I struggled to push the bolt closed. I wanted to do it silently, so he didn't hear me, but my fingers were shaking and it made a clicking sound as it went into place.

The feet stopped just outside the door.

I could hear my heart in my ears.

‘Maria?' said a voice.

‘Henk?'

I picked up the towel and wrapped it around me, but did not open the door.

‘Are you all right?' he asked.

‘I'm fine. I just got a fright. I'm coming now.'

His footsteps went down the corridor back to the kitchen. I popped across to my bedroom and put on underwear and my brown cotton dress, and went barefoot to the kitchen where Henk was making coffee. He wore beige trousers and a cream long-sleeved shirt. His moustache was unwaxed, and he looked a little tired.

‘I called twice,' he said.

‘Sorry, I was in bed and then outside.'

‘I knocked and knocked.'

‘I didn't hear you; I was in the shower.'

‘The door was unlocked.'

‘I just went to feed the chickens . . .'

‘I was worried about you. Olivier got away, we lost him; he was heading towards Ladismith.' He handed me my coffee.

‘You are shaking,' said Henk.

‘I got a fright when I heard footsteps in the house.'

‘You should lock your doors.'

‘Ja.'

‘Nick Olivier has an ostrich farm in Oudtshoorn.'

‘Ja?'

‘He is one of seven children brought up by a single dad. Mother died giving birth to him.'

‘He told you this?'

‘No. We did a background check. His father died a few months ago. Heart attack. He was struggling to keep the ostrich business going. Apparently Nick didn't handle the death so well.'

‘You spoke to him? To Nick?'

‘Yes.'

Henk took a small sip of his coffee. It was hot. I offered him the tin of rusks, and he dipped one in and chewed on it and looked at me.

‘I'm glad you are okay,' he said.

‘Ja,' I said.

‘We went to his place. He stays in a small wooden house at the bottom of the farm. His car was there. That Golf. He has no alibi for the night of the murder. Says he drove around a bit, came home late. Admits to being angry with Ricus for not having time for him.' He finished his rusk and reached for another. ‘Haven't had supper or breakfast.'

‘Can I make you some eggs?'

‘This is fine.'

‘Did you find anything at his house? A gun?'

‘No gun. Yet. He opened the door holding a brick; there was blood on his hand. On his kitchen table were a whole lot of crushed toy cars. He had been smashing them.' Henk looked towards the window. A robin was calling outside. ‘He showed us this small room full of old stuff. Books and photographs. Old footstools made of ostrich leather, ostrich feathers and eggs. Photographs of ladies in horse buggies
with ostrich-feather hats. Medals. He's proud of all this old stuff. “Memorabilia of the Glory Days”, he calls it.'

‘He's a collector,' I said.

‘He's not right in the head, I tell you. Next to his bed is a row of dried-out paws of dead animals. Rabbits, mongooses, rooikat. Jinne. And a photograph of Ricus, and of his father. And an old black-and-white photo of his mother.'

I helped myself to a rusk.

‘The worst of it comes when we look behind his house. There is a whole cemetery of little crosses. Names and dates on each one. There are places where the soil is freshly dug, and we tell him we need to look there in case a weapon is buried.'

Henk shook his head. ‘He starts crying when we dig them up, saying their funeral was only a few days ago, they must rest in peace.'

‘Ag, shame.'

‘Shame for the animals. Small wild animals. Their heads or bodies crushed, like they have been smashed with a brick.'

‘Jinne.'

‘Looks like he kills them and then has a little burial and funeral for each one. The guy's crazy.'

‘Did you arrest him?'

‘We found no evidence linking him to the murder. Just Ricus's photo, but he says Ricus was his counsellor and like a father to him.'

‘But the smashed animal bodies? What did he say about them?'

‘He wouldn't talk about it. Killing animals isn't murder – but we'll put Nature Conservation on to him.'

‘So what did you do?'

‘We don't have grounds for an arrest. Yet. He was going to call a lawyer and come in for questioning this morning. We left someone to keep an eye on him. This morning Olivier jumps in his car, and our guy follows him, holding back a little. He heads towards Ladismith along Route 62, and they are going through the Huisrivier Pass when Olivier just disappears. He was not that far ahead, but suddenly he's gone. He must have a turbo engine or something, because the cop car can't catch him.'

‘Or he's hidden in some bushes somehow.'

‘Maybe. They are covering the route again to see what they might've missed. But we thought he was racing to Ladismith. Which is why I got so worried when you didn't answer your phone and then didn't come to the door.'

‘Why would he come after me?'

‘He's crazy. Like you said – he wanted Ricus to himself. One of seven kids and a single dad. He doesn't want to share Daddy's attention.'

‘Jislaaik. Sad story.'

‘Bad story. And now Olivier has disappeared. I wonder if he might pitch up at Ricus's. My guys are there, finishing off at the crime scene, so Ricus won't be able to hide Olivier like he's hiding Geraldine . . . It's time I collected Kosie too.'

Henk's cell phone rang, and he stood up and pulled it from his belt.

‘Kannemeyer.' He walked towards the window. ‘Ja . . . Nee. Really? Wragtig? Fok . . . Sjoe. Ja. Okay . . . So is the Oudtshoorn team on the way? And their guys will tell the family? Okay . . . Hell. Maybe it is for the best . . . Later.'

As he spoke, I closed up the rusk tin, washed the coffee cups and wiped the crumbs off the table. Henk didn't often swear, and it got me worried.

He hung up and looked at me. The edges of his moustache were wilted. Outside, the bokmakierie was singing a song of joy, but I could tell Henk's news wasn't happy, even if it was ‘maybe for the best'.

‘They found Olivier's Golf; he drove off a cliff. It's a burnt wreck at the bottom of the valley.'

‘Oh. Jirre.'

I sighed and felt a wave of something running through me and out of my bare feet. Relief maybe. Henk gave me a peck on the cheek. He smelt like the bark of a tree after the rain.

‘I'm going to see Ricus,' he said.

I breathed in, and another wave of something came up through my feet and into my heart.

‘I am coming with you,' I said.