Deon Meyer (33 page)

 

 

“Benny can handle stress, Captain. It’s death he can’t handle,” Joubert said quietly.

 

 

They walked in silence to the white Sierra. Joubert unlocked the passenger door for de Wit, walked round and got in. The car was unbearably hot inside. They turned down windows. Then Joubert switched on the engine and they drove off to the N1.

 

 

Bart de Wit stared at the road through the front window. His finger rubbed the mole nervously, over and over again. He didn’t speak. Joubert sighed and concentrated on his driving.

 

 

They had already passed the N7 exit when de Wit looked at Joubert. “We’re no longer in control of this thing, Captain. Neither you nor I. The whole case has developed a life of its own. All that remains is to pray. Because, Captain, the truth of the matter is that my head is at stake. There are many eyes in the force who are watching me. Old Two Nose, they say. Old Two Nose won’t make it. He was given the post because of his buddies in the ANC. He didn’t deserve it. All I really wanted, Captain, was to prove them wrong.”

 

 

Then de Wit was silent until they turned into Kasselsvlei Road.

 

 

“You can give Benny Griessel the opportunity, Captain.”

 

 

“Thank you, Colonel.”

 

 

“Who knows. Maybe someone will gain something from this mess.”

 

 

* * *

Joubert closed the special ops room in Hout Bay and shifted the investigation to the head office, back to Murder and Robbery. He sent people to Gail Ferreira and to Alexander MacDonald’s employers for photographs of the victims. He had the SAPS photographers make copies. Then he called in his team to the parade room. “Thank you very much for the trouble you took with the arms dealers and the gunsmiths,” he started his address. “Unfortunately we found nothing that we could follow up. But there’s still hope.” They looked at him expectantly.

 

 

“There is a possibility that the victims knew one another.” A few men drew in an audible breath.

 

 

“You’ll be divided into teams of two. Each team will get a set of photographs of all the victims. Leon Petersen and I will visit the relatives, you’ll take the neighbors, colleagues, and acquaintances. Start with the names on the notice board, but you’re responsible for extending the list. Anyone who lived near a victim. Contacts at work. Drinking pals. Anyone. We want to know if they knew one another.”

 

 

He ran his eyes over them. They were listening attentively, already caught up in the excitement. Tonight they’d tell their families, “I’m working on the Mauser case.”

 

 

“There’s something else, more difficult,” Joubert continued. “There might be a homosexual connection.”

 

 

A few muted whistles and the odd remark.

 

 

“This doesn’t mean that you immediately ask each and every one whether so-and-so was queer.”

 

 

They laughed. Joubert lifted his hand until silence fell again. He spoke urgently.

 

 

“If the press finds out there’ll be chaos. I urge the senior member of every team to act responsibly. Ask your questions carefully. Very carefully. There’s no direct evidence. But we have to investigate it. You’re aware of the way in which the newspapers are carrying on. The name of the force is at stake. But don’t forget the relatives of the victims. It’s hard for them. Don’t make it harder with tactlessness and loose talk. Are there any questions?”

 

 

“Is it true that Oliver Nienaber is a suspect?” someone called from the back. Joubert shook his head. The rumor was spreading.

 

 

“No longer,” he said with finality. That rumor had to be squashed. “Any more questions?”

 

 

“Case of beer for the team who cracks it?”

 

 

“Ten cases,” said Joubert and received a standing ovation.

 

 

* * *

He and Petersen found nothing from the relatives, no matter how long or how seriously the people stared at the photographs of the other victims. They had all shown the same reaction. A negative shake of the head and the inevitable: “I’m sorry but . . .”

 

 

He dropped Petersen at Murder and Robbery that afternoon and drove to the sanatorium. The nurse directed him to a recreation room on the third floor. When he walked into the room he saw Benny Griessel sitting at a table with five other people— three men and two women. They were playing cards.

 

 

“Raise you forty,” said Griessel and tossed two twenty-cent pieces into the kitty in the center of the table.

 

 

“Gawd,” said a woman with greasy hair and a long cigarette between her fingers. “You must have a flush.”

 

 

“Pay if you want to find out,” Benny said mysteriously.

 

 

Joubert went to stand behind him. No one took any notice of the new arrival.

 

 

“Raise you ten,” said a human skeleton with watery blue eyes and shot in fifty cents.

 

 

“I fold,” said an elderly woman next to him. She put her cards down. A pair of queens.

 

 

“So do I,” said a man with a network of thin red and blue ink stretching from his shoulder to his wrist— an elegant dragon, breathing fire.

 

 

“Raise you another forty,” said Griessel.

 

 

“Too rich for my blood,” said the human skeleton. “It’s your game.”

 

 

Griessel got up, leaned over the table, and raked in the money.

 

 

“Show us what you had,” the woman with the cigarette said.

 

 

“I needn’t,” said Griessel.

 

 

“Be a sport,” said the dragon.

 

 

“I bluffed,” said Griessel while he pushed the money over the edge of the table with a cupped hand, to let it fall tinkling into his wallet. Then he put the wallet down and turned over the five cards.

 

 

“Not even a pair,” the elderly woman complained.

 

 

“You’re too clever to be an alky,” said the skeleton.

 

 

“He’s only a stupid cop,” said Joubert. “And he starts working tonight.”

 

 

* * *

Griessel thanked him from the recreation room to the deserted hallway but Joubert remained stern. For fifteen minutes he laid down the law until the sergeant held up his hands. “I’ve heard it all before. From my wife, my brother, Willy Theal. And it didn’t help, Mat. I’ve got to be okay in here,” and he slapped a palm on his chest. “I’ve done a lot of thinking over the past few days. And I know I’ll manage for a week or two. Then I’ll go the same road unless I do something. I need that head doctor of yours. If my head is in shape, I can leave the liquor. And I want to leave it. But she must help me.”

 

 

“That’s a great idea, Benny.” Then he brought Griessel up to date on both investigations— the Mauser murders and the Sweetheart robber— while Griessel packed his stuff into a large paper bag. They walked down the passages together. To reception.

 

 

“And now you must take over the bank robber, Benny. Tonight. You must talk to the people. It’s your team.”

 

 

Griessel said nothing until they came to the entrance hall. “Are you leaving, Griessel?” the nurse behind the desk asked.

 

 

“Yes, Sister.”

 

 

“Are you scared, Griessel?”

 

 

“Yes, Sister,” he said and signed the release form.

 

 

“That’s good, Griessel. It keeps one dry. Keep him out of here, big boy.”

 

 

“Yes, Sister,” he echoed Griessel meekly. Then they walked down the steps together, to the car.

 

 

* * *

The great hunger struck again just after four, in his office, where he was busy checking the lists and tabulations on the investigation, looking for more possibilities. His hunger was a sudden realization that broke his concentration like thunder— contracting, noisy guts, a trembling hand, a curious light-headedness, and the certain knowledge that he wanted to eat now, seated at a table armed with a knife and fork and attacking a plate of food boldly and committedly: a thick, juicy steak; a steaming potato baked in foil, with sour cream; cauliflower with a rich cheese sauce; green beans with tomato and onion; a gem squash in which butter gently melted while he shook salt and pepper over the lot.

 

 

He saw the food so clearly, the impulse to get into his car right away and drive to a restaurant was so strong, that he had reached the door when he had to stop himself physically by banging his hand against the frame.

 

 

Big boy,
the nurse had called him.

 

 

Fat fart,
the district manager of Premier Bank had said.

 

 

He sat down at his desk and lit a Special Mild. His stomach rumbled again, a long drawn-out sound with multiple crescendos.

 

 

He looked for the dietitian’s number, found it in his notebook, and dialed. She answered before the end of the first ring. He identified himself. “My diet isn’t working.”

 

 

She bombarded him with questions until she was satisfied. “No, Captain, your diet will work if you stick to it. You can’t keep to your program in the morning and evening only. The midday meals . . .”

 

 

“I work during my lunch hour.”

 

 

“Make your lunch in the evening, Captain. And take it to work.”

 

 

He said nothing, shaking his head at the unfairness of it all.

 

 

“Dieting is hard work, Captain. It’s not easy.”

 

 

“That’s true,” said Joubert and gave a deep sigh.

 

 

There was a long silence during which only the static on the telephone line was audible. Eventually the dietitian said: “You can crook once a week. But then you must crook cleverly.”

 

 

“Crook cleverly,” Joubert said hopefully.

 

 

“All I can suggest is that you stop by to pick up
A New Generation.
”

 

 

“A what?”

 

 

“
Cookbook for a New Generation.
From the Heart Foundation. With that you can crook cleverly. Once a week.”

 

 

“Cookbook for a New Generation,”
he said later and felt like a fool. Hunger made his guts rumble again.

 

 

 

32.

W
e all know
what fat looks like on the human body,
it said on page eleven of the cookbook. “Ain’t that the fucking truth,” said Joubert and shifted uncomfortably on the chair in his kitchen. The book lay on the table in front of him, next to the ingredients for the recipe the dietitian had recommended.

 

 

“What do you feel like?” she’d asked after she had given him the book.

 

 

“Steak.”

 

 

“You’re stubborn.”

 

 

“I’m hungry,” he’d said with finality.

 

 

“Try the beef fillet with mushrooms. Page 113. But read the whole introduction first so that you understand your calories and unsaturated fats. And eat a small portion. There’s no point in cooking it in a healthy way and then eating the whole dish on your own.”

 

 

He had stopped at Pick ’n Pay and with the book open at page 113 he’d walked the aisles until he had all the ingredients he needed.

 

 

What you might not know,
he read on,
is that over and above the fat you can see around your waist, or on your thighs and breast, people who are overweight also build up interior fat. Fat usually forms around the interior organs, especially in the lower body and around the intestines, kidneys, and heart.

 

 

In his mind’s eye he saw his organs, each one wrapped in its own yellowish-white fat, and he shuddered.

 

 

THE FOLDED SKIN TEST, one of the headings read.
An easy and quick way to measure your fat is to pinch a fairly large piece of stomach skin between your thumb and forefinger. If it’s thicker than 2.5 cm then you’re fat— and you can be sure that the fat is spread right through your body.

 

 

He put the book down on the table, leaned back, pulled his shirt out of his trousers and grabbed a pinch of stomach skin. He gave it a measuring eye.

 

 

Shit. Could it be true?

 

 

He got up and went to look for his new measuring tape. He found it in the study, where the books were packed on the skew shelves. He walked back to the kitchen, sat down, pinched the skin of his stomach with his left hand, and measured with the right.

 

 

More than four centimeters. And he was giving it a bit of leeway.

 

 

Crossly he closed the cookbook with a slam.

 

 

Crook cleverly.

 

 

He couldn’t afford to crook cleverly. Not with four centimeters of stomach skin. Not with organs encrusted with thick layers of fat.

 

 

He sighed, put the cookbook aside, and picked up his diet sheet:
120 grams grilled fish; 250 ml mashed potato; tomato and onion salad. 1 unit fat.

 

 

One unit of fat. He looked for the key at the end of the program. He could choose between small amounts of margarine, salad dressing, mayonnaise, peanut butter, avocado, small olives, thin cream, or a strip of bacon. He chose the salad dressing and started his preparations.

 

 

* * *

“The report on Eleanor Davids’s Escort is here, Captain,” said Snyman and handed the sheet of paper to Joubert.

 

 

“It’s negative,” he said without glancing at it.

 

 

“Yes, Captain.”

 

 

He sighed. “Thanks, Gerrit.”

 

 

He turned. It was time to go and watch
The Return of Benny Griessel.