Deon Meyer (29 page)

A Rose for Janey, Seven Soldiers,
and
A Woman in Love.
And today, as so many magazine and newspaper articles repeated over and over again, she was still happily married to the hairdresser king, owner of a chain of salons, the head of Hair Today, Oliver Nienaber.

 

 

She was still beautiful enough to take their breath away. She gave them a friendly smile. “Good evening. May I help you?”

 

 

Joubert coughed. “Mrs. Nienaber, I’m Captain Joubert and this is Lieutenant Petersen. We’re from the police’s Murder and Robbery squad and would like to speak to Mr. Nienaber.”

 

 

Her smile widened. “Of course. Please come in. He’s playing snooker with the boys.” She walked ahead, and Joubert thought that she must be close to forty but that there was nothing wrong with her body.

 

 

She stood in the doorway of a large room. “Oliver, someone to see you.”

 

 

They heard his voice. “At this time of the evening?”

 

 

His wife didn’t reply.

 

 

“You carry on. Play for me, Toby. We can still win.”

 

 

“Okay, Pa.”

 

 

Oliver Nienaber came through the door. The well-known face could be seen virtually every day in full-page advertisements in the newspapers with the equally well-known words: NOBODY CUTS YOUR HAIR BETTER OR CHEAPER. I PROMISE. And his flamboyant signature and the big logo of Hair Today. And, usually, at the bottom: NOW OPEN AT . . . George. Or Laingsburg. Or Oudtshoorn. Or Kimberley.

 

 

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said jovially. “I’m sorry, but I don’t cut hair in the evening.”

 

 

“They’re from the police, darling,” said Antoinette Nienaber softly. She introduced them. “Take them to the study and I’ll organize something to drink. Tea? Coffee?”

 

 

They all wanted coffee. Nienaber led them to his study.

 

 

He didn’t sit behind the desk. The room was big enough to have a corner for a couch and armchairs. “Please sit down. I don’t have a visit from the police every day.”

 

 

Joubert saw the framed certificates and photos and newspaper advertisements against the wall.

 

 

“The same advertisements for the past six years. And they’re still working,” Nienaber said as he followed Joubert’s eyes.

 

 

“How many salons do you have now?” Joubert asked.

 

 

“The sixty-second opened its doors in Cradock last week. And now we’re going to Gauteng. If I can find a good local manager. How about it? Don’t you feel like it?” Nienaber spoke to Joubert, ignored Petersen completely. He was relaxed and comfortable but Joubert knew it meant nothing.

 

 

“Mr. Nienaber . . .”

 

 

“How can I help you?”

 

 

“We’re from Murder and Robbery . . .”

 

 

“Goodness, it sounds serious.”

 

 

“Does the name Alexander MacDonald mean anything to you?”

 

 

“MacDonald? MacDonald? You know, I meet so many people . . .”

 

 

“Mr. MacDonald is the owner of MacDonald Fisheries, a small concern in Hout Bay with two fishing trawlers. Big man. Red hair,” Petersen said.

 

 

“What’s his name? Alexander? Why does it sound vaguely familiar?” Nienaber stared at the ceiling and rubbed his ear.

 

 

“You didn’t visit anyone with that name today?”

 

 

“Not that I can recall.”

 

 

“You are the owner of a new dark red BMW with the license plate CY 77?”

 

 

“That’s right.” No sign of worry.

 

 

“You used the vehicle today?”

 

 

“I use it every day.”

 

 

“To your knowledge the vehicle wasn’t used by anyone else today?”

 

 

“No . . . Could you tell me . . . Has my car been stolen?”

 

 

“When last did you see your car, Mr. Nienaber?” Joubert asked.

 

 

“This afternoon, when I came home.”

 

 

“And at what time did you leave this morning?”

 

 

“Six o’clock. I think it was around six. I always like to be in the office early.” His face began to show concern. “Would you like to tell me what this is about, please?”

 

 

“You weren’t—”

 

 

“Knock, knock,” Antoinette Nienaber said at the door, a tray with coffee mugs in her hands. Nienaber sprang up. “Thank you, love,” he said.

 

 

“Pleasure,” she smiled, as relaxed as before. “Is everything okay, darling?”

 

 

“Just fine.”

 

 

“Do help yourselves to biscuits,” she said and walked out. Nienaber held the tray for the detectives in silence. Then he sat down. “You have to tell me what this is about.”

 

 

“You weren’t in Hout Bay between six and half past six this morning?”

 

 

“No, I’ve told you . . .”

 

 

“Think carefully, Mr. Nienaber,” Petersen said.

 

 

“Heavens, Sergeant, I know where I was.”

 

 

“Lieutenant.”

 

 

“Sorry. Lieutenant,” Nienaber said, and there was a lot of irritation in his voice.

 

 

He doesn’t like Petersen asking the questions, Joubert thought. Rich, racist bastard.

 

 

“Do you know about the Mauser murders that have been committed in the Cape recently, Mr. Nienaber?”

 

 

He shrugged his shoulders. “Yes. I mean . . . I read the newspapers. There was something on television.”

 

 

“Do you possess a Mauser Broomhandle, Mr. Nienaber?”

 

 

“No. You can’t possibly imagine . . . What’s going on here?”

 

 

“Can you explain why your car, a dark red five series BMW with the registration CY 77 was seen this morning in front of the house of Alexander MacDonald, the latest victim of the Mauser murderer?”

 

 

Nienaber sat up straight, almost rose. “How would I . . . No. You’re cops. You’ve heard of false number plates. I told you I was in the office just after six this morning.”

 

 

“Can anyone verify that?”

 

 

“That I was there? No, that’s why I go in so early. So that I can be alone and get work done.”

 

 

“So you were at work at six o’clock?”

 

 

“Yes.” Relief. These people were going to believe him.

 

 

“And it’s not near Hout Bay?”

 

 

“That’s correct.”

 

 

“Then you have nothing to be concerned about, Mr. Nienaber,” Joubert said and saw the man opposite him relax in his chair.

 

 

“That’s right,” said Nienaber.

 

 

“But we would like to ask you a favor.”

 

 

“Yes?” Suspicious.

 

 

Joubert gave the truth a slight twist. “It would help us a great deal if we could clear up the matter beyond any doubt. We believe you weren’t near Hout Bay today. But we have an eyewitness who says that he saw your BMW and a man who looked very familiar. Won’t you please accompany us to Murder and Robbery? We have what we call an identification room. We get a group of people together who have the same build and coloring as you have. And the eyewitness must identify the person whom he thinks he saw. As you’re innocent . . .”

 

 

Oliver Nienaber had turned pale.

 

 

He sat staring at them for a long time.

 

 

“I think I must phone my attorney.”

 

 

 

28.

O
liver Nienaber lied to his wife before he accompanied the detectives to the Murder and Robbery building on Kasselsvlei Road. He told her the police needed his help with a case. “Nothing to be worried about.”

 

 

They waited in silence for Nienaber’s attorney to arrive, the three of them at a table on which cigarette burns were the only evidence of previous conversations.

 

 

The attorney came rushing in, a very short man in his forties, with a very large head, thick lips, and virtually no jaw. He protested in the habitual manner of practitioners of his profession about the treatment his client was receiving, but Nienaber shut him up. “I’m here of my own free will, Phil.”

 

 

The attorney sat down, unclipped the clasps of his expensive attaché case, took out a writing pad, removed a pen from his coat, and looked up at Joubert.

 

 

“You may carry on,” the attorney said, as if it now carried his official approval.

 

 

Joubert said nothing, merely raised his eyebrows.

 

 

“I was at Alexander MacDonald’s house this morning, Phil. The guy who was shot by the Mauser murderer.”

 

 

“Sheesh,” the attorney said and pursed his fleshy lips.

 

 

Nienaber looked at Joubert. “He phoned me. Last week. On Tuesday or Wednesday. I can’t remember. He wanted to know whether I didn’t want to open a salon in Hout Bay. He had money to invest. He wanted to buy a building on the main road, something like that. But he was looking for tenants first . . .”

 

 

“MacDonald?” Petersen asked.

 

 

“Yes,” said Nienaber. “I didn’t really . . .”

 

 

“Alexander MacDonald? The fisherman? Big redhead?” There was an edge to Petersen’s voice.

 

 

“Well . . . I didn’t know what he looked like . . .”

 

 

“The man was in debt to the tune of a hundred thousand rand and he phones you out of the blue to ask whether you want to open a salon in a building he doesn’t even possess?”

 

 

“If you’ll give me a chance to finish my story, Lieutenant,” said Nienaber, the “Lieutenant” heavily loaded with sarcasm.

 

 

“We’re listening,” said Joubert.

 

 

“I told the man I didn’t do business like that. I mean, I’d never even heard of him. And in any case I didn’t want to establish a salon in Hout Bay. So I said no. But he phoned again the following day. Same voice. English, with an accent. You know, like that guy from Wales who does the Four Nations rugby commentary . . .”

 

 

“Five,” the attorney said.

 

 

“Huh?” said Nienaber.

 

 

“Five Nations.”

 

 

“No,” said Nienaber. He held up his fingers, counted. “England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland.”

 

 

“Sheesh, Oliver, you work too hard. Add France to that lot.”

 

 

“But France . . .”

 

 

“Alexander MacDonald,” said Joubert and leaned forward, his shoulders broad across the table, his head lowered as if he was going to rush them, his voice a growl like a large dog’s.

 

 

“I’m sorry. Then he phoned again. The next day. Same story. Didn’t I want to open a salon if he bought the building.”

 

 

“Which building?” Joubert asked.

 

 

“I don’t know which building.”

 

 

“He must’ve mentioned the name of the building.”

 

 

“He did. Marine Plaza, something like that. I can’t remember. I didn’t even write it down. I don’t do business like that.”

 

 

“And then?”

 

 

“Then I said no again. Then I heard nothing more from him. Until last night. Then he phoned me at home. Same old story, the building and the salon. Then I said to him: ‘Listen, mister, I’m not interested in your building, not tonight nor any other time.’ Then he said: ‘I’m going to crush your balls. Dutchman.’ Just like that. And other stuff. ‘I’m going to cut off your . . . your . . . penis and stuff it in your ear.’ Just like that . . .”

 

 

“Wait a minute, just wait a minute,” Petersen said, angrily. “Here we’ve got a sailor, a man who had been locked up for assault and malicious damage to property, who speaks about ‘penis?’ ”

 

 

“Listen, Lieutenant, I can’t remember precisely which words . . .”

 

 

“Gentlemen,” the attorney said placatingly. “Gentlemen, you can’t expect my client to remember the
ipsissima verba
of a telephone conversation that happened twenty-four hours ago while you interrogate him like a criminal here. He’s under pressure. He’s a human being. Please.”

 

 

“He’s a liar,” said Petersen, got up and turned his back on Nienaber.

 

 

“Very well. He used filthy language. Is it necessary for me to repeat the filth?”

 

 

Nienaber’s voice formed a halo.

 

 

“Do your best,” said Joubert and leaned back, suspecting that Petersen wanted to play the tough-cop role.

 

 

“In any case, he made a great many filthy remarks and I put down the phone. Then, half an hour later, he phoned again. Said he was sorry he’d carried on in that way. Wouldn’t I just have a look. It was a fantastic building. And he would charge me an extremely cheap rental. He was very convincing. Then I thought it would be easier to get rid of him in the cheapest possible way. Have a look at the building. I mean, it was cheaper than changing my telephone number. But then I told him I didn’t have the time. And he said what about early in the morning. Before work. Then I said it was okay, what about tomorrow morning, because I wanted to be shot of the whole thing. I simply wanted to get rid of the man. Then we decided on six in the morning. At his home. And we could use my car. He said his car stank too much. Of fish. So I drove there this morning. But I was late because I couldn’t find the address at first. And when I got there he was lying in the doorway and he’d been shot right in the . . . the . . .”

 

 

“Penis,” said Petersen and turned back to Nienaber.

 

 

“That’s right. In the penis.”