The First Rule Of Survival (19 page)

‘Jesus.’

‘This stinks, Don.’ De Vries is still again, his hands bracing his desk.

‘Do we bring in Ledham?’

De Vries turns to Don February, exasperated.

‘No. Robert Ledham did not appear in the original inquiry. I know I haven’t seen this before –
I know it
.’

He stands straight, points at Don. ‘Find out who has had access to the file in the last few days. Ask his secretary, ask du Toit if necessary. Tell him it’s from me, because this . . . I don’t understand.’ He gathers his jacket and starts to move.

‘Where will you be?’ Don asks him.

‘Talking with my Inspector.’

De Vries uses the snail’s pace on the Eastern Boulevard – or Nelson Mandela Boulevard as it has been grandly renamed – to call Dean Russell. First his cellphone, then his home. His wife tells him that Dean will be home soon; he has been playing golf. De Vries checks that he has their new address, wonders how his old colleague will look. He has not seen him for four years.

The house in Rondebosch is a double-storeyed Victorian on a large corner plot. De Vries walks past the swimming pool, through a playground of over-sized toys, follows Lizzie Russell to the stoep, wide and airy, overlooking their tree-filled garden. She gestures to one of the wicker sofas.

‘We haven’t seen you for ages,’ she says as she puts down a can of Windhoek lager in front of him. ‘Have you seen anything of Dean?’

‘No,’ Vaughn tells her. ‘Too much work, too much pressure. You know how it is.’

‘Leaving the SAPS was the best move Dean ever made. For himself. For all of us.’

De Vries gazes at the garden. ‘Looks like it.’

She smiles out of the corner of her mouth. ‘You still with them?’

‘Just about.’ He snaps open the ring-pull on the can, takes a sip, nods towards the garden. ‘This is nice. When did you move here?’

‘Two summers ago. It’s close to the kids’ schools; they have a garden to play in. Before, we could never have afforded anything like this.’

Vaughn murmurs, ‘No.’

They hear a car drawing up, the gates to the short driveway opening, then the garage door rising, an engine idling, revving finally and dying. Dean Russell appears through the garden, almost jogging, cheerful. He sees de Vries, stops and frowns, walks forward and smiles uncertainly.

‘Vaughn?’ He looks up at his wife, who says: ‘Your cell was off.’

Dean Russell pats his trouser pocket, leans forward to kiss her. He turns to Vaughn, offers his hand.

‘Social call?’

‘No. I need your brain for a few moments.’

Russell points at de Vries’ can. ‘Another?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll get myself one and join you.’

He turns to his wife, smiles reassuringly, leads her back indoors. Vaughn hears hushed voices, and then Russell returns, sits at the other end of the sofa from him, swivels to face his old boss.

‘What do you want,Vaughn?’

‘Not pleased to see me?’

‘Not if this is SAPS business, no. You could have contacted my office tomorrow.’

‘This is a personal favour.’

‘Okay . . .’

De Vries leans back in his chair, focuses on Dean Russell.

‘You look well. Security suiting you?’

‘You know it is.’

‘Girls okay?’

‘They’re eleven and thirteen, and they’re women already. What is it,Vaughn?’

‘Mine are good too,’ de Vries continues blankly. ‘In Jo’burg now, studying, but doing good.’

‘So, everyone’s good, man. Just tell me why you’re here.’

De Vries puts down the can, sits up. ‘Think back to Steven, Bobby and Toby.’

‘Oh Jesus, I read about it. Those two boys . . . it’s for real?’

‘Oh ja. Very real and just like last time. Nothing concrete, nothing that links. But I need you to think back for me, Dean. I need you really focused. How many times did you reread the dockets?’

‘This is six, seven years ago. I don’t know. I got away from all that, put it out of my mind. Had to.’

‘Well, I need you to think about it now. For me. Think of the suspects we questioned, those on the paedophile list. Was there a Robert Ledham?’

‘How should I know?’

‘We lived that case every single fucking day for months.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Think about it for me. Robert Ledham. Is that a name you recognize?’ He watches Russell thinking. ‘Kohle Potgieter might have written an addenda notice on him.’

Russell shakes his head. ‘No. I haven’t heard that name before. I can’t tell you that it didn’t come up, but I don’t remember it. Why?’

‘Long story. You sure you’ve really thought, Dean? We’ve talked to him just now because he was in the vicinity of the dump-site for the two boys, but now a new page has appeared in the original murder book and the authorized copy. A page with his mug-shots from an earlier arrest, a note suggesting he might have been in Claremont on the date Bobby Eames was taken: ninth March, 2007.’

‘That all? Why didn’t we follow it up? We would have tied it up, for sure.’

‘That’s what I think.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know. Either we missed this guy – God knows we had enough to work on – or maybe someone thought we’d spoken to him and didn’t follow it through. But I don’t remember that name and neither do you, so this is shit, and I have to work out what kind.’

‘Is he a possible suspect?’ Russell asks.

De Vries is in a trance.

‘Vaughn?’

‘No. That’s the point. He’s turned up now after we spoke to him. But if he was involved originally and we let him go, it’s going to look bad, and I have Internal Investigations looking at me, scrutinizing everything we did, and they want to get me, Dean.’

‘We would never have let a lead go like that.’

‘I know.’

‘Is someone messing with the docket?’

‘It’s possible. If they have, they’ve done a good job. The paper looks old; the copy feels right. I’m beginning to doubt myself.’

‘For what it’s worth, boss, I don’t doubt you. Didn’t then; don’t now.’ Russell lets himself relax into the wicker armchair, takes a draught of lager. ‘This is why I left. Every day you deal with the scum of the earth. Not a fucking decent guy amongst them, and then your own colleagues, someone on the team, higher up, lower down, they come and stiff you.’

‘Maybe you made the right decision, after all.’

‘You ever doubted it, man? I lead trained men. They’re mixed, and some of them are as thick as shit, but on the whole they’re okay. I go to meetings, I organize and instruct. But, you know, things happen, work gets done, clients are happy – Jesus, I even get thank-you letters. There’s even some respect. I don’t have to work the front line, no stress. My migraines are gone. I have a happy wife, happy kids. All I worry about is paying the mortgage each month, and wondering if I’m going to get laid ever again.’

De Vries raises his beer can. ‘Welcome to a long and happy marriage.’

Russell laughs, but he is still serious. ‘In truth, I couldn’t take it. I had to leave to survive.’

De Vries gets up. ‘I’ll leave you to your braai.’

Russell stands, shakes Vaughn’s hand, meets his eye.

De Vries says, slowly: ‘Robert Ledham?’

Russell pauses, but Vaughn knows it is only for show.

‘Nothing. It means nothing.’ He puts his hand on Vaughn’s shoulder. ‘If we didn’t follow it up and run it down, it wasn’t there.’

De Vries, almost completely certain now, says: ‘No.’

Don February reads: ‘Robert Ledham was arrested on twenty-third July 2005. Pinelands division were called to a playground where Ledham was taking photographs in the kiddies’ park. Two mothers called them in, suspicious of a middle-aged man with a bag of sweets in his lap, photographing their children. According to the report, he became abusive when officers tried to move him on. They arrested him. He was questioned and then released; no charge.’

‘Despite his conviction?’

‘For whatever reason, they did not find his conviction in Pretoria.’

‘Why didn’t we know this before, when Ledham’s name first came up?’

‘It is the same story as usual: one piece of information is lost, then the whole chain of data becomes contaminated. Even the divisional computers do not talk to each other. There was not a charge. They did not know about Pretoria. It probably was not even entered.’

Don February is sitting up in his chair, facing de Vries across his desk.

De Vries mutters: ‘Fucking circus.’

Don looks back at the print-out on his lap.

‘He was required to check in with police in PE when he moved there a couple of months later. That is where he lived until 2009, when he came back to Cape Town, to Muizenberg, where he still lives.’

‘The entry is only a question: was Robert Ledham in Claremont the day Bobby Eames was taken? And, even if he was, did he take him? Why would he, eight hundred ks from home? And he’s into little girls, isn’t that right?’

‘It does not say here, but that is what he told us.’

De Vries scowls. ‘This is bullshit, Don. Someone is messing with us. Who had that authorized copy?’

‘I spoke to the Director himself. He said that Colonel Wertner requested it yesterday.’

‘Wertner?’

‘Kept it until twelve noon today, then had it delivered back to the Director’s office.’

‘Anyone can get into my office,’ de Vries muses. ‘Wertner probably has a key to every fucking office in the building.’

‘Why would Colonel Wertner try to mislead the inquiry? Why would he take that risk?’

‘Wertner has his own agenda.’ De Vries starts tidying the files on his desk, locking certain ones into a filing cabinet behind him, slamming each door.

‘What now?’

‘We ignore it. You’re going to have to trust me, Don. If I screwed up back then, I’d tell you, and I know that I didn’t. Whatever the reason for this shit, whoever is responsible, it is designed to delay us – and that is not going to happen.’ He looks at his Warrant Officer. ‘You satisfied with that?’

Don hesitates only for a second. ‘Ja. If I change my mind, I’ll tell you first.’

‘All right.’ Vaughn stands up, starts to count items off on his fingers. ‘Tomorrow, we go to Rooiels to interview the Widow Steinhauer. I want two local cops there with us. Call Ralph Hopkins – he’s the family’s lawyer too – tell him we’ll be there at ten a.m. Next, find out where the psychologist is, the guy who profiled our abductor. His name was Dyk. Tell him what we want to talk to him about and set up a time in the afternoon, say three p.m.’

Don nods.

‘Did you find out about the brother?’ De Vries asks.

‘I have someone on it. He left South Africa five weeks ago, flying to Buenos Aires,Argentina. We called his office in Johannesburg, but there is just a recorded message saying it is closed for two months from five weeks back. I requested that local officers visit it to find a contact number, but I have not heard back.’

De Vries pats his Warrant Officer’s shoulder. ‘Good, Don. That’s good.’

David Wertner has worked with the now General Simphiwe Thulani for eighteen years. Where Thulani has gone, Wertner has followed: loyal, dependable, predictable. He is under no illusion as to why Thulani has kept him so close. An honourable black man keeps a grifting coloured man at his side for one reason only: it is his dream ticket. Thulani will ride it all the way to the top. He has his Zulu supporters and Wertner will keep the embittered, disenfranchised coloured men and women officers quiet with veiled promises of happier times to come. And David Wertner knows that if Thulani can rise under Mandela and Mbeki, it is certain that under a Zulu like Zuma, he will move further and faster.

When Thulani got the nod for his promotion this time,Wertner knew he had to move then – to diverge from his leader’s path. The deal was simple: his continued patronage, but his own department. A new Internal Investigation Bureau, structured to his strengths, with promises to realign the old guard so that men like Henrik du Toit and Vaughn de Vries would never rise again. Let them believe that there is no glass ceiling and then entomb them. And Thulani, so pleased to be ahead, at last, of Henrik du Toit, agreed. Now, Wertner has control. He could even break Thulani if he pleased. This independence gives him such confidence.

‘Who watches the watcher?’ He often meditates on this theme, rubbing his wide buzz-cut scalp, smiling to himself that the new South Africa is not entirely new.

Don February drives de Vries along the same twisting coastal road that leads to Betty’s Bay. They draw up in the preceding cove, down at the edge of the beach where, in a sprawling Tuscan villa, Tony Hansall waits with his mourning daughter and his confused granddaughters. He meets the officers as they get out of their car, leads them inside to the kitchen through the side entrance, and offers them coffee. They take their mugs, but Hansall stands between them and the internal door.

‘My daughter, Mary . . . she is still coming to terms with what has happened.’ He bows his head, breathes deeply. ‘I haven’t shown her the newspapers.’ He stands over them. ‘You have to understand. Marc wasn’t a clever man – he wasn’t particularly talented. I have been lucky, so the family have money. But he was a good husband, a good father. What they are writing in the press – it isn’t true. I would have known. Mary would have known, and she would have come to me.’

De Vries says gently, ‘Nothing is proven. That is why we needed to speak to your son-in-law. Now, regrettably, we must speak to his wife. I give you my word that we will do our best to be sympathetic. But we must discover the truth. I hope you understand, sir.’

‘What made him do that?’

That
, de Vries thinks. Take his own life.

‘I don’t know. He may have been involved and feared for his family – what such revelations might do to them. Perhaps he couldn’t face it.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Hansall replies grimly. ‘I don’t understand where you, or the press, could get these ideas.’ He opens his mouth, searching, but nothing comes out of it except the sound of the waves on the shore over his shoulder. He snaps to.

‘I accept that it is your duty.’ He stands aside from the doorway, puts his hand on the handle. ‘Mary is in the sitting room through there, with the lawyer.’