Joubert was proud of his choice of words.
You dont understand, Captain. Her condition is . . . Shes on a knife edge. My only responsibility is toward her.
He played his trump card. Doctor, I can go to court and apply for an interdict.
Captain, the court will hear me, too.
Check. They stood facing each other in the passage of the private hospital. The doctor was short and slender, with dark circles under his eyes.
Ill have to ask her if shes willing to see you.
Id really appreciate that.
Joubert waited while the doctor opened the door and disappeared. He put his hands in his trouser pockets, took them out again. He was unhappy. He didnt have time. He turned, walked on the thick carpet. He walked back and forth.
The doctor came back. She says she owes you.
Thank you, doctor.
Five minutes, Captain. And be very gentle with her.
He opened the door for Joubert. Antoinette Nienaber looked dreadful. The lines next to her mouth were deeply etched. Her eyes were sunken, her face the ghostly copy of a skull. She lay with her head deep in the pillows, the upper part of her body slightly raised. There was a drip attached to her arm, the tube snaking up to the plastic bag. She wore powder-blue nightclothes. Her blond hair lay lifelessly on the pillow.
He walked to the bed.
Im sorry . . . he said uncomfortably.
So am I. Her voice was remote. He saw traces of a narcotic in the unfocused eyes that stared at him.
I have only a few questions. You must tell me when youre tired.
She nodded her assent.
Do you know if your husband knew Ferdy Ferreira or Drew Wilson?
It took her a while before she shook her head. No.
Carina Oberholzer?
No.
Jacques Coetzee?
No.
Hester Clarke?
No. A thread of a voice.
Did your husband usually carry his firearm in his attaché case?
Her eyes closed. The moments ticked past. In the passage there were footsteps.
Had she heard him?
The eyes opened. No, she said and a drop formed under her eye, ran down the pale cheek, fell onto the blue collar of her nightgown, lay there for a second before being absorbed into the material.
He was caught up in conflicting emotions. The urgency in him made him want to ask her whether her husband had been faithful, but he knew he couldnt, not now. What about a euphemism? Had they been happily married? He saw her looking at him, the eyes waiting, a deer facing a shotgun.
Thank you, Mrs. Nienaber, he said. I hope you . . . I wish you well.
Thank you.
Her lips formed the words but there was no sound. She turned her head away, toward the window.
* * *
Joubert was back in the office, telephone against his ear.
Julio da Costa said that Carina Oberholzer may have mentioned names like Jacques Coetzee or Hester Clarke but he wouldnt have remembered. She talked a great deal, Captain. All the time. And laughed. She was a very lively girl. She liked fun and parties and people. Her job was only something to make money and to pass the day. She was a night person. Thats how we met. She came in here one Friday night, after midnight, she and a crowd of friends.
And then?
Hell, Captain, you know the way it goes. One cant work all the time. And you know what its like with a wife at home.
Joubert said nothing. Because he no longer knew.
Its not illegal, Da Costa said defensively. And in any case, it wasnt her first time.
How do you know?
A man always knows, Captain. If youd had her, you would also have known what I mean. Hot stuff.
Did she ever discuss it?
All she ever said was that she didnt want life to pass her by. She wanted to enjoy every minute.
Joubert ended the conversation.
Carina Oberholzer from Keimoes. Who laughed and talked and lived her short life to the full. The willing girl from the farm, the sly of a Portuguese Catholic and who knew who else. Had no one known her well enough to know what she knew?
He got the number of her parents, dialed the long code and the number, waited. It rang for a long time. A womans voice answered, a servant.
The people arent here now. Theyve gone to fetch their son in Johannesburg.
He took the Tupperware container out of his drawer and opened it: 60 grams of fat-free cottage cheese; four rice cakes; tomato, avocado, and lettuce with a small portion of fat-free dressing. He was going to die of hunger. At least the Winston was waiting, the high point of his day, his greatest pleasure.
Someone came running down the passage.
Theyve traced someone, he realized.
It was Louw. He shot Jacques Coetzee, Captain. Less than an hour ago. And someone saw him.
* * *
The two schoolboys were in sixth grade and they were very keen to see the body, but the police wouldnt hear of it. The boys had to keep out of the way, stand between the guy ropes that kept the walls of the tent upright, watching one police vehicle after the other arrive. But it was much better than the double biology class they were missing.
One of the first detectives to arrive there came up to them with another man, a big one.
These are the boys, Captain.
Thank you, the big one said. He put out a huge hand. Mat Joubert, he said.
Im Jeremy, sir.
Neville, said the other one.
He shook their hands.
Youll have to tell me everything.
Werent you on TV the other night, sir?
He shrugged. May have been.
Then this is the Mauser thing, sir?
We think so.
Sheesh, sir, but that guy is blowing them away, hey. Great admiration.
Were going to catch him.
We only saw his car, sir, Jeremy said. We heard the shots. We were behind the tractor barn when we heard the shots, but a train passed and we werent sure. Then we walked over to have a look. Then we saw the car.
What make?
Thats a bit of a problem, sir.
Youre the one who doesnt know one car from another, Neville said.
I know cars. You should have your eyes tested.
Hey, Neville replied but without aggression, as if their arguments were a normal ritual.
It was a Fiat Uno, sir, a white one. I think it was a Fire but Im not sure. It wasnt a turbo because the turbos have fancy stripes and a louver.
It was a CitiGolf, sir. White. I know a Golfs backside because my brother drives one. Hes also in the police, sir. In Natal. They shoot Zulus.
Hey, said Jeremy. Theyll lock you up.
Youre sure it was an Uno.
Yes, sir.
And youre sure it was a Golf.
Yes, sir.
Registration number?
We were too late. We only saw his tail as he drove away.
Joubert measured the distance between the school grounds and the boundary fence and the road the vehicle had taken. You didnt see what he looks like?
No, sir.
Well, men, thank you very much. And if either of you makes a different decision about the make, youll let me know. Im with Murder and Robbery.
Of course, sir.
He was about to walk to the trailer when Jeremy spoke again.
Sir.
Yes?
May we really not see the body?
He suppressed a smile and shook his head. Its not a pretty sight.
Lots of blood, sir?
Buckets.
And the bullet holes, sir?
As big as hubcaps, he lied shamelessly.
Sheesh, Jeremy said.
Jeez, said Neville. That Mauser is a cannon. And they walked away deeply impressed, with information worth a fortune in their world.
37.
I
t was one of the additional teams who found the body. We mustve missed him by minutes, Captain. The blood hadnt even clotted. The body lay in the trailer, driven back by the first shot, which had ripped into Coetzees skull just above the left ear. The other shot was through the heart, as in all the previous cases except MacDonalds.
If only he had looked at the attaché case the previous day. But how could he have known? He walked to the Sierra, radioed OGrady. They must try to recall the teams who were looking for Jacques Coetzee. The whole effort must focus on Hester Clarke now. He must try to save at least one life.
Theres an address on the telephone account, Captain, Louw called from the trailer. Durbanville.
At least, Joubert thought, the connection had been proven. They now knew that Nienabers list meant something. And there was only one name left.
He called Louw and they drove to Durbanville to a dilapidated house in the center of the town. The grass was long and untidy, the flowerbeds overgrown with weeds.
I hope he was a better pastor than a gardener, said Louw. He had brought a bunch of keys that had hung in the trailer doors lock and tried until one fitted the front doors.
They walked in. There was no furniture in the sitting room, only a telephone, which stood on the floor. In the kitchen there were dirty plates in the sink. An old refrigerator rattled in the corner. The empty hallway was uncarpeted. So was the first bedroom. The second held a single bed, a bedside table with no drawers. On the floor there was a pile of books. Joubert picked up one.
Praise His Name.
The second one was also religious. All the others as well.
On the bed table there was an opened envelope. He picked it up and took out the contents.
SMUTS, KEMP, AND SMALL, ATTORNEYS AND NOTARIES
Dear Mr. Coetzee:
According to our client, Mrs. Ingrid Johanna Coetzee, you are still in arrears with regard to the alimony set out in the divorce decree . . .
Griessel was hot on the trail of George Michael Stewart.
He found no one at the mans flat in Oranjezicht, but the caretaker there said the suspect worked part-time as a waiter at Christies, the restaurant on Long Street.
He couldnt find a parking space, eventually parked in a loading zone on Wale Street and walked around the corner. The restaurant was virtually full for lunch, with yuppies very much in evidence. He was received at the door by a tall, refined man with a tense smile who quickly led him to a table at the back, near the kitchen door, and pushed a menu into his hand.
Griessel sat down and felt people looking at him. He didnt fit in here. He looked self-consciously at the dishes on the menu and saw that he wouldnt be able to afford much. He decided on the pumpkin soup and looked up again. There were only two men serving, both white the refined one who had taken him to his table and another one, of average height and build. Both were dressed in the same outfit, a pair of black trousers, white shirt, and black bow tie. Both had short dark hair and were clean-shaven. Each had a nose that looked somewhat like the bank robbers.
Mr. Average made a beeline for him, notepad and pen in his hand.
May I tell you about our specials, sir? he asked mechanically, without really seeing Griessel.
Whats your name?
Michael Stewart, said the man and looked with closer attention at his client.
I would like to have the pumpkin soup, please.
Yes. He wrote it down. And then?
Thats all, thank you, Mr. Stewart.
Youre welcome. The man hurried away, into the kitchen.
He speaks English, Griessel thought. The robber speaks Afrikaans. A smokescreen?
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his hands under his chin. He looked at the people around him. Men, mostly, a woman here and there. They were close to the Supreme Court and Parliament, he thought. Important people, these, with BMWs and Jettas and cell phones. At the table next to him a man swallowed a beer with great enjoyment, the glass tilted, the Adams apple moving up and down, up and down, until the last foam slid out of the glass and he put it down on the table and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
