The phone rang. He jogged down the passage, swallowing a piece of cauliflower as he went.
Joubert.
This is Hanna Nortier. This time the weariness in her voice was unmistakable and he wanted to fetch her and tell her everything was going to be fine. I dont know whether its a good idea, she said and he was suddenly sorry that he had asked her.
He didnt know what to say.
Youre a patient.
How could he have forgotten that? How could he have placed her in such a position? He wished for an honorable way out for her . . .
But I need to get out, she said, as if she was talking to herself. May I give you an answer tomorrow?
Yes.
Thank you, Mat, she said and put the phone down.
He walked back to the kitchen.
* * *
The reporter was as clever as a cageful of monkeys. She waited until they had started on their fifth beer in the ladies bar of the Cape Sun. I hear the Wallace guy slept around. Not a question, a statement, her English accent now marked when she spoke Afrikaans because although she could take her drink, it wasnt easy to keep up with the policeman.
You journalists always know everything, Louw said with honest admiration.
That wasnt what she wanted to hear. I only know a little.
Its true, though. He was ever ready. Up to the very last. He was with a blonde in the hotel and when he walked out they blasted him.
But he was married.
That didnt stop him with the blonde. Louw suddenly realized to whom he was speaking. You wont . . . you wont quote me, will you?
My lips are sealed. And she smiled at him.
Tonight my lucks in, Louw thought. She was from Johannesburg. Worked in computers. And then Wallace screwed her, over lunch, as it were. Van der Merwe. Ive her name here somewhere. He took out his notebook and paged, swallowed some beer, paged on. Elizabeth van der Merwe. But she wasnt a suspect. I could see that immediately.
He emptied his glass. Another one?
Why not? She slipped into English again. The night is but a pup. And gave Basie Louw a meaningful look.
36.
N
ienaber knew MacDonald and Wallace. Wallace knew Ferreira. And Oberholzer. And Wilson, who didnt want to fit in.
The previous evening, after his gloom about Hanna Nortier, he had considered the information from all angles. Now, in the swimming pool, the pieces of the puzzle still wouldnt come together.
He knew the feeling: the awareness that everything meant something but there just wasnt enough to unravel a premise, to put enough information together so that he could formulate a firm theory. It was frustrating because he didnt know where else to look. The answer might well be there already, right in front of him. It sometimes needed a fresh perspective, a new approach.
He had tried everything the previous night.
Mass mail distributor. Jeweler. Out-of-work carpenter. Fisherman. Hairdresser.
Forty years old, thirtysomething, fifty, forty, forty.
Success, so-so, failure, so-so, success.
Roving prick. Gay. Blue movie addict. Rapist. And he didnt know whether Nienaber had been faithful to his wife.
Oberholzer? Had she been involved? Really? Shed had a relationship with a married man. Had she earlier had a relationship with Nienaber? He made notes in his head while his arms pulled him through the water. Phone the hospital. Perhaps he could speak to Mrs. Nienaber this morning. Speak to Oberholzers boss. Where had she worked before? Phone that hairy Walter Schutte at Wallace Quickmail again. Had he heard the name Carina Oberholzer?
What would Dr. Hanna Nortier want to discuss this afternoon?
Dear Lord, he mustnt bawl again.
He had to steer her away from Lara Joubert. He couldnt discuss it today and take her to the opera tomorrow.
She could open him up. He knew it. She could peel him like an orange and reach the juice. She was too clever for him.
Perhaps he shouldnt go. Perhaps he should phone and say the Mauser affair was getting too hot and he couldnt make it. Hed be there on the following Thursday as usual and were they still going to the opera?
He pulled himself effortlessly out of the water, unaware of his even breathing and the great distance he had swum while struggling with solutions. He dressed, drove to Kasselsvlei, avoiding newspaper posters that screamed ITS BOER WAR III, SAYS UK PSYCHIC. And
Die Burger
s SALON BARONS LIFE CUT SHORT.
He saw them but his thoughts were too busy to take any notice.
Anne Boshoff said the murderer was out of control. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. When would he strike again?
Late afternoon. Late night. Early morning. Early morning. Early morning.
The after-hours murderer. What do you do during the day, you bastard? Or couldnt you forecast the movement of your victims during office hours?
He drove his usual route, as he did every morning, without thinking about it, unaware of the big breakthrough that was waiting in the attaché case.
Sarge van Deventer says he put the Captains case in the safe, said Mavis Petersen when he walked in.
He thanked her, asked her to fetch it, signed for it, and took it with him to his office. He put it down on the table, took out his Winstons, put them next to the case, went to the tearoom and fetched himself a large mug of (bitter) black coffee. Then he came back, sank down in his chair, lit a Winston, and drew in a deep lungful of smoke.
Lovely.
He swallowed the strong instant coffee, drew on the cigarette again . . .
GENUINE BUFFALO HIDE was written on the leather case.
He opened it. The pistol lay there, the safety catch on. He took out his notebook, wrote:
Antoinette Nienaber? Always carried the pistol? Knew Oberholzer? Ferreira? Wilson? Faithful?????
He put down the pen and the notebook, picked up the pistol and sniffed the barrel. Hadnt been fired in a long time, nor cleaned. Why carry the pistol, Oliver? He put the pistol aside, picked up the cigarette, drew on it again.
A black diary, reinforced with gold on the four corners of the covers. Diary and notebook. He paged to the date of the first murder. Nothing of importance. He paged on. January 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Appointments with people unknown to him.
Ollies birthday.
One of the sons. January 9, 10, 11.
Then Joubert saw the list.
Mac McDonald.
Incorrectly spelled.
Carina Oberholzer. Jacques Coetzee.
Space.
Hester Clarke.
Mat Joubert forgot about the Winston between his fingers. He read the list again. He got up and walked to the door.
Nougat! he yelled down the passage, an urgent bellow. Snyman! Basie! There was a new note in his voice. He shouted again, even more loudly.
* * *
Hes sick, Matthew. Hes out of control.
Anne Boshoffs words were his driving force now. He was going to stop the bastard. He would see to it that Jacques Coetzee and Hester Clarke didnt become dossiers as well. He was a drowning man who had been tossed a lifebelt, a nomad in the desert who saw the oasis reflected in a mirage. He was a combat general the war had begun in earnest.
The parade room was a hive of activity. Joubert sat against the wall. Next to him, OGrady. They distributed the list of names. The reinforcements that arrived from other police stations joined the queue. Two to a team. The order was to find the right Coetzee and the right Clarke. The only lead was the set of names and photos of the Mauser victims. And Carina Oberholzer.
There are fifty-four Coetzees in the fucking directory, OGrady had complained when they held a meeting in Jouberts room and he had looked up from the directory.
There are hundreds of Clarkes with an
e,
Snyman had said.
He made a spelling mistake with MacDonald, Joubert had said. Well have to tackle the Clarks without an
e
as well.
Another hundred, Snyman had said despairingly.
It doesnt matter, was Jouberts reply. This thing ends today. With finality in his voice.
De Wit had come in. Joubert had informed him of the latest state of the investigation and asked for reinforcements. De Wit, unashamedly excited, had trotted off to his office to telephone the Brigadier and the General.
Louw was late, with the smell of old liquor on his breath and a satisfied expression in his eyes. Joubert had given him the task of questioning the deceaseds relatives about the new names. Then they went to the parade room to put the men available from Murder and Robbery on the trail of the J. Coetzees and H. Clarkes. But Joubert knew initials were meaningless. Jacques might well be a second name, the initial appearing after that of the first in the directory. But they had to start somewhere.
Ask them to look at the photos. Read out the names to them. Watch them, because they may lie, was the instruction given to each team. Nienaber had lied about MacDonald and Wallace, and now he was dead. Why had Nienaber lied? Why the pistol? Had he always carried the pistol?
Feverishly Snyman made copies of the list of names, goaded by the Captains tone of voice.
And now the detectives poured in from Paarl and Fish Hoek, from Table View and Stellenbosch some annoyed because they were busy with other important cases, some grateful for the change and the opportunity of working on the sensational Mauser murders.
Phone the hospital. Ask them if we can speak to Nienabers wife yet, Joubert told Gerrit Snyman, delivering the last pile of photostats.
Snyman scurried. Joubert and OGrady dealt out more work.
The doctor says shes conscious but she cant see anyone, said Snyman when he came back.
Well see, said Joubert. Take this. Im going to the hospital.
* * *
In Kraaifontein, on the open piece of ground between the Olckers High School and the railway line, there was a huge tent. At the entrance to the tent a banner had been erected.
TABERNACLE OF THE REDEEMER SERVICES:
THU. 19:00. SUN. 09:00, 11:00, 19:00.
Next to the big tent, there was a 1979 Sprite Alpine trailer with a small tent pitched in front of it. On the trailers couch, which could extend into a double bed, sat Pastor Paul Jacques Coetzee. He was busy preparing for the evenings service.
Pastor Coetzee was unaware of the fact that more than eighty detectives in the Cape Peninsula were looking for him, because he didnt own a television set and didnt read the newspapers. Instruments of the devil, he had called the media in many of his rousing sermons.
He was engrossed in his work, heard all the phrases that he would fling from the pine pulpit, heard the refrain of the Message that would reecho from the loudspeakers.
From the heart come wicked thoughts, murder, adultery, corruption, theft, false witness, scandalmongering.
* * *
Sergeant, I have the information you were looking for, said the secretary of Premier Banks district manager.
Griessel sat in his office, pen at the ready.
Im all ears, he said.
Of the fourteen names you gave us, there are five who have accounts with Premier. Carstens, Geldenhuys, Milos, Rademann, and Stewart.
Yo? he said when hed finished writing.
Carstens and Rademann are women. Of the three men remaining, two are problem clients.
Yes?
Milos and Stewart. Milos has overdraft facilities of forty-five thousand rand, with sixteen incidents of repayment arrears in the past twenty-four months.
Griessel whistled.
His checking account was frozen and he has no other account with us. Legal proceedings have already been instituted against him to try to recover the outstanding amount. Stewarts car was repossessed two months ago after he had, for six consecutive months, failed to pay the monthly payment of nine hundred eighty rand. His checkbook and credit card have also been frozen. He still has a savings account with us. The balance is five hundred forty-three rand and eighty cents.
Griessel wrote it all down.
Sergeant, said the woman with the sweet voice.
Yes?
My chief asked me to remind you again that the information is absolutely confidential.
Absolutely, said Griessel and grinned.
* * *
I understand your position, doctor, but you must understand mine. Out there is a man with a Mauser who, according to the criminologists, is out of control. And in here lies a woman who can help to prevent more bloodshed.
