The First Rule Of Survival (18 page)

‘And what about Bobby Eames’ family?’ De Vries is loud. ‘This isn’t just a murder enquiry, this could be about finding that child and bringing him home.’

Du Toit opens his mouth, but stays mute.

‘This is what I’m talking about,’ de Vries says. ‘We’ve been respectful for far too long. We have to get this moving now.’

Du Toit nods his head; Vaughn can see his thigh vibrate, his ankle twitching, tapping out some nervous rhythm.

‘Twenty-four hours,’ de Vries says. ‘Out of respect.’ He does not say the last word with reverence. He turns to Don, tosses him his keys. ‘The case files are in my office, half on my desk, the remainder on the filing cabinet behind. Sit in there and read.’

Don gets up, leaves, shutting the office door quietly.

De Vries sits in silence, waiting for du Toit to speak.

‘I trust you, Vaughn,’ du Toit says finally, calmly, ‘and I’ll back you. But be mindful that everything we do will be put under the microscope.’ He sees de Vries about to say something. ‘And – be careful.’

Vaughn stands. ‘I will be “mindful”, sir.’

‘Good.’

‘But I won’t be careful.’

David Wertner works silently in a corner office. From time to time, he looks up and out to his adjoining squad room, where his officers sit at computer monitors, researching and reporting. Occasionally, he writes in a slim notebook to his left. He trusts none of his personal thoughts to the computers. He knows how information on computers can be found, can be studied, can even be altered or deleted. He does not even trust his superiors. Wertner likes the fact that his negotiated position grants him access to everyone’s thoughts and deeds – no matter how trivial they may seem – no matter how important and influential they believe themselves to be. He sits back in his executive chair for a few moments. These reflections of power relax him; he has control.

La Perla is a long-established Italian restaurant on the Sea Point riviera. The old money of the seafront suburb lunch and dine here, either in the high-ceilinged main dining room, hung with modern oils, or on the terrace under the gnarled branches of bottlebrush trees or the shady leaves of Carobs. The main road passes beneath, and then the promenade – and beyond, the Lido and the crashing Atlantic. It is the kind of restaurant that cultivates its regulars and greets them personally, with handshakes and hearty chatter.

Vaughn de Vries climbs the steps, is ignored by the staff, and walks briskly to a prime table at the front of the terrace in the shade. He sits down opposite Ralph Hopkins.

‘This could have been merely a ploy, Colonel,’ Hopkins greets him, ‘to get me somewhere out of the way for a police questioning.’ He chuckles, brays.

‘This is two professionals behaving as such, helping one another to conclude a very difficult matter.’

Hopkins leans back in his chair. ‘That sounds acceptable . . . if you’re paying?’

David Wertner stops, turns back two pages in the file he is reading. He slips off his rimless glasses and stares out towards the main floor of the office. He looks down again, scrutinizes the pages; flips to the photographs he is studying. He releases the pages, pushes the file to one side and brings another next to it; flips pages until he finds the paragraph he seeks. He follows the passage with his thick finger, looks from where he stops to the adjacent file. Smiling grimly, he begins to write in his notebook. His writing is faster, the letters and symbols smaller. He feels his palms sweating, puts his pen down onto his desk blotter, wipes his hands on a handkerchief, and takes up his pen again. The tip of his tongue appears between his teeth.

Don February stops reading, but he stops physically, too; freezes. He studies the page, sits back down in de Vries’ comfortable but delicate chair. He wonders what to do. As an individual, his loyalty lies with de Vries: the man is difficult, he is bigoted, but he is fair, has always treated him well. He could have been working nine to five in front of a radiation-oozing computer terminal in an office for David Wertner, but instead, he is here. De Vries intervened personally and took him in. As a policeman, as a husband, his loyalty is to the department, to the SAPS. He thinks some more, his heart beating out the seconds.

Ralph Hopkins eats fried calamari and a salad of prawns; de Vries orders a rare steak. This,Vaughn thinks, sums them up. He watches Hopkins peeling his prawns with his small pink fingers that look like prawn flesh themselves; feels mildly repulsed.

‘Isn’t it time,’ the lawyer says, ‘we cut to the chase? I mean, charming though your small talk is, Colonel, I am aware of the maxim about free lunches.’

De Vries lays down his fork.

‘It’s simple really,’ he says. ‘Your client is dead. We hope that you will cooperate with us in discovering the truth.’

Hopkins chews; looks up at de Vries.

‘The truth is very important.’

Vaughn starts loudly, checks himself.

‘If – and I know you think otherwise – if your client is guilty of these crimes, there is a chance that a young boy is still alive. That should be our priority now.’

Hopkins looks at him scornfully, looks at de Vries’ plate: meat eaten, a bloody pool surrounded by untouched vegetables.

‘My client’s confidence is unaffected, Colonel, and you should know that I represent Marc’s family also. I will be present when you interview Mary Steinhauer and, though I hope you will refrain from doing so, his two daughters.’

‘I am aware of client confidentiality.’

‘On that basis, ask your questions. You may not believe it, but my intention is not to disrupt your inquiry. We have all read about those children.’

De Vries reflects: no denial, no instant defence of his erstwhile client.

‘Why were you at Steinhauer’s holiday home yesterday morning?’ he asks.

‘I told you during our conversation that morning that Marc had called me late at night to tell me that he felt as if he was being watched. Your manner is revealing. When I asked you whether this was the case, you as good as told me that it was. That being so, I felt my place was with my client.’

‘So early?’

‘I wake early. What with the roadworks and the rush-hour traffic . . . you have to allow time.’

‘Did you speak to Mr Steinhauer as you were driving?’

‘I did not. I hoped that Marc would be sleeping. He was under pressure at work and your enquiries were disturbing, to say the least. Marc Steinhauer was a gentle man; he was emotionally exhausted and concerned for his family.’

‘So why go to Betty’s Bay? Why not stay with his family?’

‘I can’t answer that. I can’t speak for Marc.’

‘Were you concerned at his state of mind?’

‘I considered his state of mind only so far as I have described it to you. I was aware that he was under a great deal of pressure. If you are asking me whether I thought he was suicidal, then of course not.’

‘You accept now that his actions were entirely of his own doing?’

‘As I have stated: I believe that if I had been left alone with him, I could have brought him back into his house. We might be in a very different position now. The approach of numerous men, some of them armed, probably tilted the balance to panic.’

‘I don’t accept that.’

‘Then we will have to disagree.’

De Vries sits back, wondering what he can get from this man.

‘Will you go to the press?’ he asks.

‘No. Why would I do that?’

‘To manipulate them?’

Hopkins smiles, relaxed. ‘Are you a conspiracy theorist? Why would I want publicity for a client I believed was innocent?’

De Vries nods slowly, making a show of accepting the logic of the answer.

‘Did Marc Steinhauer describe what he saw in his house in Betty’s Bay, that led him to believe that he was being watched?’

Hopkins opens his mouth, misses a beat.

‘No – I don’t recall. He said that he saw police cars, more than usual for the neighbourhood.’ He picks up his fork, begins to turn over the leaves in his salad, hunting for avocado pear.

And you, thinks de Vries, your manner is also revealing.

‘Did you believe him?’

‘I didn’t disbelieve him.’

De Vries snorts. ‘That’s what you get paid for, isn’t it?’

Hopkins looks at him, his head cocked.

‘Never to answer a question directly.’

Indignant: ‘I did not disbelieve that you might have placed surveillance on my client; neither did I discount the possibility that Marc was paranoid. He feared that you would come for him without notifying me, and prevent me from representing him during questioning. Is that direct enough for you?’

‘Did you assure him that I would do no such thing?’

Hopkins laughs sourly, sips his Sauvignon Blanc. ‘Not in so many words.’

‘Marc Steinhauer dumped the bodies of two teenage boys in a skip behind a farm-stall. We have a witness who places him there, behind the kitchens, DNA evidence that confirms he handled at least one of the boy’s bodies.’

‘I’ve seen no such evidence.’

‘You will. If he dumped those boys, he knew who killed them, knew who abducted them and where they were kept. Did he tell you where they were kept?’

‘Of course not. It would not be unethical for me to say that Marc revealed nothing privately to me that he did not discuss with you in interview. He maintained his complete innocence. I believed him then and, until you show me evidence to the contrary, I believe him now.’

‘That is very professional of you.’

‘This has nothing to do with professionalism. Marc admitted to driving into MacNeil’s farm-stall. He was quite open about it. There is no evidence that he got out of his car – which he denies doing – and I have not been shown any evidence which links him, even remotely, to those two boys.’

The bill is laid at the centre of the table. Vaughn slides it towards himself, places a credit card in the small black folder, pushes it away.

‘If I find that you have withheld any information which could lead us to where those boys were kept – where one boy is still imprisoned – for seven years, I will pursue you forever.’

Hopkins finishes his wine, smiles back at de Vries.

‘Then I have nothing to worry about. Whoever took those boys, if one is still alive, I want to see the culprit caught and tried. Don’t doubt me on that.’ He places his napkin on the banquette. ‘When do you intend to interview Mary Steinhauer?’

‘When I’m ready.’

‘In Cape Town?’

‘Wherever I say. You will be informed.’

‘I hope you will not separate her from her family. I hope this brittle exterior of yours conceals a man with some . . . compassion.’

De Vries repeats: ‘You will be informed.’

Don meets de Vries in the SAPS building’s main foyer, blocks his way to the elevators, ushers him onto the street, tells him to follow. They walk in silence to Long Street, then up to a small Mexican café. There is no one on the street but for some forlorn tourists. Don talks to the dreadlocked man behind the tatty wooden counter, and then leads de Vries through a door covered by a painted face of Che Guevara, and upstairs to a small private room: four threadbare sofas, a burned wooden coffee table, the smell of old cigar smoke, stale beer. Don gestures for de Vries to sit down. Don sits down opposite him, opens his briefcase, pulls out a file. He finds the page he is seeking, flattens it out and swivels the file to face de Vries.

‘It’s bad news.’

De Vries looks down at the file: a page to which a copy of a photograph has been stapled. Underneath the picture is typed:
Claremont, 9 March 2007?
The picture is a mug-shot of Robert Ledham. The arrest date: 23 July 2005.

‘Where did this come from?’

Don bows his head. ‘The abductions docket. The original inquiry.’

De Vries shakes his head, frowns.

‘There’s no reference who submitted it, but it accompanies work reported by Constable Kohle Potgieter.’ Don peels back a sheet and shows de Vries the previous entries in the same typeface.

De Vries stops shaking his head. ‘It wasn’t there,’ he says. ‘I have read these files repeatedly. It isn’t even a contemporaneous entry: there is no page number.’

‘It was in the pile you hadn’t reached yet.’

‘I’ve read all of it. Do you understand? All of it. Many times.’

‘It looks like addenda material. Casual information, inserted as background. Easily missed.’

‘No, Don. I would have remembered Ledham. When you came to me with his name, I didn’t know it. I knew he had not been involved with the inquiry.’ De Vries is completely certain. Almost completely certain.

‘I’ve not reported this,’ Don tells him.

De Vries dismisses that information. ‘Du Toit has the authorized copy. I want to check that.’ He falls silent, unmoving. ‘You did the right thing, Don. Waiting to show me this first. It’s not right.’

Now Don is quiet. Neither move, yet both are focused.

De Vries is the first; he stands up. ‘This needs to be sorted out now.’

De Vries takes the authorized copy of the 2007 multiple abduction case from du Toit’s office, his secretary shunned. He carries it down to his own office. Don February stands inside by the door, closes it after him, remains where he is.

De Vries spreads the file, rifles through the pages, pulls out the exact same page; a photocopy. He stares at it, doubt flooding him, his brain drenched and disorientated. He looks at the paper, compares it to the surrounding pages; the pages have the same hue, lightly faded and fingered with grease. He swallows. It is inconceivable to him that he has failed to process this page, this addition. He cannot believe it, yet it is there, in front of him. He looks up at Don.

‘It – it’s not right, Don. I trust myself.’

‘So, what does that mean?’

‘If I don’t trust myself, I have nothing.’

Don stares at him, watching self-belief ebb. He says quietly, ‘Talk to Kohle Potgieter. Ask him if he remembers submitting this material.’

De Vries sighs, rubs his face. ‘I can’t. He’s dead.’

‘What?’

‘Shot four, five years back; interrupted an armed robbery in Kenilworth. Two officers murdered, one bastard killed, three more living at our expense somewhere, still with their lives.’