The First Rule Of Survival (14 page)

‘I know what you’re thinking,Vaughn,’ he says. ‘Don’t think I don’t feel it too.’

‘I know the evidence is circumstantial. I know it’s not enough for court, but it’s too much to do nothing.’

‘I agree,’ du Toit tells him. ‘But you have to be mindful of the position we’re in. Once we arrest Steinhauer, the spotlight will be on us. If we don’t have enough leverage, we could lose him, and get badly hurt in the process.’

‘Your finger is on the political pulse, as ever.’

Don February steps back, away from loose shrapnel.

‘You want a successful prosecution,’ du Toit says. ‘Don’t think you’ll sweat it out of him. Not with that bastard, Ralph Hopkins, you won’t.’ He draws Vaughn to one side, their backs to Don. Quietly, whispered hoarsely. ‘For Christ’s sake, Vaughn. We’ve waited seven years to find this bastard. If Steinhauer took those children, I want him – no escape.’

He turns Vaughn back around; glances at Don.

‘You can rejoin us,Warrant.’ He pats de Vries’ back. ‘Colonel de Vries and I have known each other for a long time. It’s the difference in our approaches that has made us such a successful team.’

De Vries rolls his eyes.

‘This is what I suggest,’ du Toit continues. ‘Very discreet, twenty-four-hour surveillance of Marc Steinhauer. Full research into the man’s background and character. We press behind-the-scenes first, then, if we draw a blank, we make the decision whether or not to go in. On my order. Understood?’

De Vries nods.

Du Toit looks to Don. ‘Any observations,Warrant? You are part of this.’

‘One question, sir. For Steve.’

Ulton looks up, trots across his lab.

‘The two eyebrow hairs retrieved from inside the wrapping. Have you cross-checked them for a match with Steinhauer’s DNA?’

Ulton, suddenly realizing.

‘No. I’ve spent all the time on the car.’ He looks at de Vries and du Toit. ‘I’ll do it now.’

‘Good question,Warrant,’ du Toit says, turning to follow Ulton out of the lab. ‘Keep me informed, and get that surveillance under way.’

‘Yeah,’ de Vries mimics. ‘Good question.’

Don laughs.

‘What else,’Vaughn asks him, ‘do you think?’

‘That I am not paid enough to think.’

Vaughn steps into the elevator. ‘Very good, Warrant Officer.’

He jabs a button to their floor, suddenly more optimistic.

*   *   *

An hour later, two surveillance teams dispatched, de Vries is reading Don’s report on Marc Steinhauer. His cellphone rings.

‘You want it now, on the phone?’

‘Depends what you have.’

‘Marc Erik Steinhauer . . . I’ll leave out what you can get yourself . . . Has a private income from shares, previously his father’s, some investments which he has established since getting married. Possibly the wife or wife’s family’s money. Mary Steinhauer was left three properties when her uncle died twelve years ago. Together, they’re well off. Fineberg Estate is losing money. Can’t find anything Marc Steinhauer ever did that brought in an income. He’s just been a dilettante. Wife’s a religious type; donated over half a million Rand to her church – mainstream Anglican. High church, smells and bells . . . You getting this?’

De Vries is scrawling notes. ‘Yes.’

‘Marc Steinhauer withdraws fifteen hundred Rand most weeks from the same ATM, in Somerset West Mall. Pays for everything else with credit cards. Bills always paid on time. Perfect credit scores.’

‘Fuck, Johnnie,’ de Vries guffaws. ‘Is there no such thing as privacy?’

‘Nope. You want more?’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘Diagnosed with epilepsy at the age of twenty, was treated over a period of five years; now appears cured. There’s a Stellenbosch newspaper item twenty something years back about “Marc Steinhauer, second-year student at UCT”, trashing his room, and lashing out at fellow students. Police Medical Officer reported that Steinhauer was an epileptic, who had failed to follow prescribed medication. Released without charge. Suffers from depression. He’s been on Seroxat – an anti-depressant – 30mg daily, for the last four years.’

‘Where do you get this stuff?’

‘Do you want to know?’

‘Probably not. There’s no trail?’

‘Only to me. Can’t do it again.’

‘That’s good. Thanks.’

‘Anything happening?’

‘Best not say.’

De Vries thinks he hears John Marantz start to reply, but he turns off his phone. He writes up the information, sweeps out of his office through the squad room to the Collator, has it added to the investigative files.

When he returns to his office, Don is there at the doorway, with Steve Ulton. Don sees him approach, starts walking towards him. De Vries senses a change of pace, senses acceleration.

Don says, ‘We have got a match.’

De Vries to Ulton. ‘Are you sure?’

‘One hundred per cent. But listen: only one eyebrow hair. The other is not a match.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means your whole case rests on one tiny hair, a follicle of DNA.’

De Vries, controlling himself: ‘Just tell me. Does it fly? Is it solid?’

Ulton. ‘Yes.’

De Vries: ‘Found on the inside of the polythene wrapping?’

‘Yes. Doc Kleinman noted that it was retrieved from “inside the polythene wrapping, having been pressed up against the torso of Steven Lawson”.’

De Vries chops the air with parallel palms. ‘Right. Let’s be completely clear. There is no way this – hair – could be present on that wrapping unless either the wrapping or the victim came into contact with Marc Steinhauer?’

Ulton nods at De Vries, acknowledging the clarity of the question, knowing that this is all that matters.

‘I’m not a lawyer. I guess you could argue that it could have reached the victim via a third party.’

Don says: ‘The man who buys the cheese, gets one of Steinhauer’s eyebrows on his clothes, in his hair, transfers it to Steven Lawson . . .’

‘For fuck’s sake!’

‘We’re only playing devil’s advocate, Vaughn,’ Ulton retorts. ‘It could be argued that it is not, without reasonable doubt, conclusive proof of contact between Steinhauer and the victim. The chances against are astronomical but, if I was testifying, I would have to concede that it is possible, just possible, that the hair was delivered by a third party.’

De Vries is shaking, the blood vessels in his temples engorged.

‘Jesus Christ. Why is nothing concrete? Nothing!’ De Vries looks up, sweat on his forehead. ‘Thanks, Steve. We’re just so close. It’s fucking unbearable.’

Ulton nods at him, leaves the office.

Silence.

Then Don says, ‘Du Toit?’

Vaughn gurns, nods, reaches forward to his desk phone. ‘Brigadier du Toit? It’s de Vries . . .’

From the corridor outside; his shoes squeaking, even on carpet.

‘I’m here, Colonel.’

Don indicates the chair opposite de Vries. Vaughn stands.

‘You’ve heard the news? We have a match.’

‘I knew before you did, Vaughn – as you well know. Your reaction?’

‘An urge to arrest Marc Steinhauer tonight. Question him at the end of a long day. I believe that we have a strong forensic case against him. He admits to travelling widely. He could easily visit wherever he held those boys. He was at the farm-stall dump-site. Circumstantial evidence is compelling. I think we have enough to pressure him under interrogation.’

Du Toit disagrees. ‘Motive? He’s a married man, two young daughters, successful business . . .’

‘It’s an unsuccessful business.’

‘You know that?’

Vaughn clenches his eyes shut momentarily, his head angled away from du Toit. He turns back and nods. ‘He was an epileptic with a temper. Took drugs to control it. Now suffers from depression. On prescription medication. Who knows what goes on in a man’s mind?’

Du Toit frowns. ‘How did you discover that information?’

‘It’s valuable information, from a reliable source.’

‘My God, Vaughn. What the hell are you doing? You know you can’t use that. You mention that outside this room and the whole case could collapse. And David Wertner will be down on you. He’ll cut you to shreds. Don’t you know he and Julius Mngomezulu are scrutinizing every move we make?’

De Vries baulks, but replies, ‘It’s background information. It helps us to judge what we have.’

‘And you know General Thulani will also be watching from on high.’

‘Why should we always work with our hands tied?’

Don sees du Toit about to retort, but instead he restrains himself.

‘All right,’ he says instead. ‘I assume that Steinhauer is under surveillance now?’

Don, from behind him, says, ‘Yes, sir.’

Du Toit speaks, looking at de Vries. ‘Check on the current status, Warrant Officer. Go now and come back immediately.’

Don goes.

Du Toit, leaning forward, his hands entreating: ‘For God’s sake, man. Be careful. We’re at what could be the pivotal moment in the case, and the deciding moment in both our careers.’

‘I have only one interest, sir. One single goal.’

‘To fulfil it,Vaughn, you have to make the case in court. It’s no good to us knowing the truth, and Steinhauer walking away on a technicality. You think the guys in Pretoria are going to give a damn about that?’

‘I don’t care about the bosses.’

Du Toit thumps the desk.

‘Well, I do, I do! And so should you. You want to leave the SAPS in the hands of people like Julius Mngomezulu and David Wertner? We’re hanging in here. We’ve made a stand and kept open the chance of one department free of corruption, one entity which might, just might, get the job done. However much we both want this resolved, there is always the bigger picture.’

‘The bigger picture,’ de Vries scoffs.

‘You’re the policeman, Vaughn; I’m the politician. We have to have both.’

‘I want to find Bobby Eames.’

‘So do I. So do we all. Now, play it smart. Understood?’

‘Understood.’

They pause to breathe.

‘Steinhauer is under surveillance,’ du Toit continues. ‘Get some sleep. Spend time thinking. When you’re ready tomorrow, we’ll bring him back in. See where we get with him this time.’

‘All right,’ de Vries says gracelessly.

Du Toit stands; de Vries doesn’t move. Don February knocks on the door, is called in.

‘Officers are in position. Have made visual contact with Mrs Steinhauer, two daughters, and a maid. No visual of Marc Steinhauer yet.’

De Vries says: ‘Shit.’

‘I’ll be in my office,’ du Toit says. ‘Tread carefully.’

When du Toit is gone,Vaughn comes around his desk to Don.

‘Get the contact details from Steinhauer’s interview. We owe him a call about his car. Call the house, ask for him. If he’s not there, find out where he is. Casually. If he is there, tell him we’ll deliver his car at noon tomorrow.’

Don turns to leave.

‘Don. If it’s the wife, listen to her carefully. I want to know if she knows.’

*   *   *

‘He is in Betty’s Bay. A beach-house. Their holiday home.’ Don, back in de Vries’ office. ‘She is driving up tomorrow with her daughters, but the maid will receive their car.’

De Vries frowns. ‘How did he get there then? We have one car, the wife presumably has the other?’

‘I do not know. Perhaps there is a third . . . I will check licences.’

De Vries nods. ‘Good. Verify the Betty’s Bay address. It could be in her name; her family owned a lot of property. Then, switch the guys to there. Liaise with Betty’s Bay – senior duty officer only. Utmost discretion, no fuss. No one in Betty’s Bay can know we’re there. Make sure they report immediately they see any sign he’s leaving. And follow him.’

‘Will do. And you?’

‘Following orders: going home. I’ll call you when I get there, check everyone’s in place. Get some sleep, and I’ll meet you here at six a.m. And, Don – tonight, go home to sleep.’

De Vries lies awake, windows and curtains open to gather the breeze. He’s feverish. He hears his family talking in the house, yet knows they are 1,500 kilometres away. He hears wind in tall trees, yet the night is still; sees Bobby Eames in a tree-house, the little cut-out window barred. He sees Marc Steinhauer, with his pageboy haircut, huge cupped hands, his fingers around three young boys . . .

At 4 a.m., De Vries wakes, finds his bed wet with sweat, his limbs clammy. He stumbles to the bathroom, urinates, strips and towels himself down, climbs back into bed, rolling to his wife’s side, cold and empty, but dry.

As dawn breaks, he finds himself in a jailyard scrum, jostled and beaten. Every man around him is crooked or crazy, greedy for violence, Machiavellian, deluded. Every man is ugly inside and out, and their stench is overwhelming him. He looks up at the overpoweringly dark monolith; in a tiny window at the top, he sees the faces of the top brass, the judges, the press, the public. They watch him falter in the seething mass. They do nothing.

By 6 a.m., de Vries knows that Steinhauer hasn’t left his beach-house; knows that both du Toit and Don February have beaten him into headquarters. With his little sleep, intense dreams, he feels worse than he did before. As he drives into town, wired and dishevelled, the traffic snarls up at an accident on the Nelson Mandela Boulevard, leaving him to watch the sun come up over the harbour, seep between city skyscrapers, its soft rays already heating the thick air trapped beneath the glittering copper smog over town. To his left, the Mountain looms tall and dark, watching over the city.

‘We’re unanimous?’

Du Toit in his office, sealed in; four men in his sofa corner, coffee, biscuits: de Vries, Don February and Norman Classon, attorney-at-law.

De Vries says: ‘The overriding factor must be Bobby Eames. Norman has told us that we have plenty to make the arrest, hold him. That gives us three days to get him talking, find out where he kept them.’

‘But, I reiterate,’ Classon pronounces nasally, ‘that in my opinion, you will not sustain a prosecution based on the evidence you have. The bulk of your forensic evidence is circumstantial. That eyebrow is, in effect, uncorroborated. A decent attorney will blow that away, since we know that this Fineberg cheese was present at the crime scene. The hair is in the cheese. The cheese could have got there innocently. You have to find supporting links to the bodies. In effect, find the crime scene.’