* * *
He wants to nail you, Mat. And youre taking it lying down?
Voss hand was on Jouberts shoulder. They were walking down the passage on their way to their offices.
Joubert said nothing because he thought it hadnt gone too badly. At least hed made a contribution, had had something to say. Usually he simply sat there . . .
Hes got no right to jerk you around like that.
Yes, Gerry.
Vos stopped in front of his office door. Youll have to take him on, Mat. You know that?
Joubert nodded.
Im with you, partner. All the way.
He mumbled his thanks and walked to his office. The ocher-colored SAP3 case files were piled up on his desk. He sat down. On top of the pile the two files slotted into one Wallaces and Wilsons. He pushed the pile to one side and opened the two dossiers. Each dossier had three sections. Section A was for applicable evidence that could be used in court. Both files were pretty thin. Pictures taken by the pathologist. The forensic report, the ballistic findings, pictures of the scene.
Section B held his notes about the questioning and other corresponding matters. There were his summaries of conversations with Margaret Wallace, Walter Schutte, Zeelie . . .
* * *
In section C he had made notes of everything hed done in each investigation. His actions, those involved, the times when they occurred everything written down in his untidy scrawl.
He took a new, clean SAP3, took out his notebook, unfolded the report of the uniformed constable who was first on the scene, and started giving substance to the Ferdy Ferreira file.
His thoughts drifted back to de Wits question.
But is it enough, Captain?
Was it? Would someone else be able to slot in the pieces of the bloody puzzle to form a picture? Would someone who didnt have a gray veil between himself and the world have asked better questions? Shown a sharper insight into human actions? Found a suspect in the narrow range?
He looked at the dossiers. The work wasnt bad. Without the former enthusiasm. But that was improving. Better than those dark, dark days of the disciplinary trial and the detectives who had refused to work with him. Better than . . .
He wanted to think about it. Examine the reasons.
The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver. Captain, its time for the fame game again, said Cloete of public relations.
Oh?
The TV guys want an interview. And you know how important they are to us.
20.
T
he bank robber walked into Premier Banks Milnerton branch at 3:32 P.M. There was a bounce in his step. He looked like Elvis Presley today. His black hair was combed back with a curl in the floppy lock, he had sideburns, and heavy eyebrows above the dark glasses. He was dressed with a certain flamboyance in a pair of white trousers, white shoes, a white shirt, and a white jacket.
But his cravat and the weapon under his jacket were black.
Hello, he said to Rosa Wasserman, a fat nineteen-year-old brunette with nervous problems.
Good afternoon, sir, said Rosa, Can I help you?
Today the bank robber was doing his thing to the beat of rock and roll that only he could hear in the concert hall of his head. But there were observable signs, like the right foot tapping away, the voice that imitated the deceased Kings.
Indeed, sweetheart. Fetch us one of those large bank bags and fill it with fifty-rand notes. Ive got a large old gun under my coat and I dont want to use it.
The edge of the white coat was lifted slightly. Rosa heard the word
sweetheart,
saw the black stock of the gun. She turned to stone, her mouth at half cock, accentuating her double chin.
Keep the foot off the alarm as well. Come on, sweetheart, lets boogie.
Rosas pulse rate had increased dramatically. So had the tempo of her breathing. The bank robber saw it.
What perfume do you use? It smells delicious.
This didnt work with Rosa Wasserman. He saw panic striking her the hands shook, the bosom heaved, the eyes grew wild, the nostrils distended, the double chin developed a life of its own.
Seems like I shouldve brought my Mauser, said Elvis, and with this one brief sentence changed his status permanently.
Rosa sometimes glanced at
Die Burger
in the morning before her father paged through it. She knew about the Mauser murders. Her fear of the man in front of her intensified. She put her hands over her ears as if she didnt want to hear the shot that would end her life.
She screamed with every ounce of power in her large body and pressed the alarm with determination.
When the lengthy scream stopped, the robber recovered. Sweetheart, youll pay for this, Elvis said and turned toward the door.
The alarm didnt ring in the bank itself, only on the computerized control panel of a security firm. Rosas yell had petrified everyone else in the bank. They stared at her, not at the man in white. The bank robber walked out the door. Rosa pointed to him and shrieked again. The other people in the bank followed her pointing finger, heads turning in surprise, but the robber had disappeared.
* * *
Joubert drove from Premier Bank in Milnerton to the sanatorium. He was annoyed. The newspaper reporters had asked endless questions. He knew they would go to town with this story. One look at the
Argus
poster was indication enough.
MAUSER
MURDERER
ON THE
RAMPAGE
Fortunately the attempted bank robbery was too late to hit todays newspapers. Television hadnt even heard about it. But tomorrow all hell would be let loose. Joubert had told the small group of reporters that it didnt necessarily indicate a connection between the bank robbery and the Mauser murders. The robber might have said it for effect. That wasnt what they wanted to hear.
But you cant exclude the possibility of a connection, Captain?
No.
They all scribbled in their notebooks.
Rosa Wasserman had changed from a pathetic bundle of fear into the woman of the hour. It was she who had blurted out the information to the reporters that the bank robber had spoken of his Mauser.
And he threatened me with death.
Benny Griessel wouldve loved it. This circus. Benny wouldve shared his usual ironic perspective on the media with him.
Joubert stopped in front of the redbrick building and walked in. At reception he told them he wanted to see Benny Griessel. The two nurses looked meaningfully at each other.
I dont think thats a good idea, sir.
He was annoyed by the decided tone of her voice. Why not?
He refused medication. She saw that the man opposite her didnt grasp what it meant. We dont think Adjutant Griessel wants to see anyone at present.
I dont think you have the right to make decisions for him, nurse, Joubert said aggressively.
The nurse stared at him through her pebble-lensed glasses as if she was weighing him up. Then she said softly: Come along, then.
They walked in a direction opposite to where Bennys room was, she leading, he on her heels, pleased at having overcome bureaucracy.
They walked along silent passages and then up steps.
He heard the sounds long before they reached the door.
Griessels voice, vaguely recognizable. Cries of pain. The bellowing of an animal filled with a deadly fear. A plea for help, for mercy.
Jouberts walk slowed. He wanted to stop. The nurse turned, took him by the sleeve of his jacket, and pulled him closer her method of punishment.
Come, she said. He didnt look at her. He walked toward the door, the sounds resonating in his head.
There were six hospital beds. Only on one, in the corner, a figure lay. Joubert stopped in his tracks. In the semidarkness Griessels black hair was visible above the white of the sheets. Heavy leather straps stretched across him from one side of the bed to the other. Benny Griessels body jerked under the buckles, spasmodically, like convulsions before death. The noises emanated from deep within his bowels, regular and jolting with each exhalation of breath.
The nurse stood next to him. She said nothing. She merely looked at Joubert.
Im sorry, he said quietly. I made a mistake.
Then he turned on his heel and walked quickly down the gray passage. The sounds of Benny Griessels tortured soul still sounded in his ears long after he had reached his car.
* * *
Margaret Wallace sat in the television room with her family. Her mother, her son, and her daughter were there. They were having their meal in front of the set because the silence and unease at the dinner table upset them all.
In the news tonight, the newscaster said, his face serious, and gave the headlines. Margaret didnt listen. The newscaster reported a new political crisis, a drought disaster in Northern Transvaal and then . . . A third victim of the Capes Mauser murderer but the police are still baffled.
Margaret looked up and saw the photo of Ferdy Ferreira. Then the newsreader supplied the rest of the events.
Didnt she know that face?
You want me to switch it off, Maggie? her mother asked.
Margaret shook her head. She looked at the screen while shots were being shown about politics and agriculture but searched her mind for a file that would supply a connection between man and place.
In what seems to be developing into a major serial killer scare, the Capes Mauser murderer struck for the third time this morning. The victim was fifty-four-year-old Mr. Ferdy Ferreira of Melkbosstrand. Police say the antique murder weapon, a hundred-year-old Mauser Broomhandle pistol, is the only connection between this murder and the deaths of businessman James Wallace and jewelry designer Drew Wilson, who both died from close-range gunshot wounds during the past ten days.
While the newsreader uttered the words, the visuals that the cameraman had shot in the dunes appeared the camera moving over the beach, ending in the patch of blood that had soaked into the sand.
Margaret looked away because it still reminded her . . .
Then she heard a voice she knew and looked up again. Captain Mat Jouberts face filled the screen. His hair was still too long and somewhat untidy. His shoulders sagged as if bowed down by an invisible weight. His tie was too thin. His English accent was acceptable.
The only connection seems to be the murder weapon. We have no reason to believe that the victims knew one another, the big policeman said. At the bottom of the screen the captain read CAPT M.A.T. JOUBERT-MURDER AND ROBBERY SQUAD.
The reporters face appeared. But Mr. Ferreira and his two dogs died of gunshot wounds made with a smaller caliber?
Yes, Mat Joubert replied. We believe the murderer carries a small-caliber firearm as backup, because the Mauser seems to have been fired first but it did not prove to be fatal.
Captain, do you think the Mauser murderer will strike again?
Its impossible to say, said Joubert and he looked uncomfortable.
Then the photo of Ferdy Ferreira appeared on the screen with two telephone numbers next to it. The newscaster said: Anyone with information that could assist the police in their investigation, can call . . .
Margaret stared at the picture of Ferdy Ferreira. She knew she had seen him. But where? How?
Should she phone the detective?
No, not until she remembered.
* * *
On the thirteenth floor of an apartment building in Sea Point a thirty-two-year-old woman sat in front of the television.
Her name was Carina Oberholzer. Since the visuals of the Mauser murderer she had seen nothing else that was showing on the screen. She rocked back and forth in the armchair, ceaselessly, a human metronome. Her lips murmured one word, over and over again: Lord, Lord, Lord, Lord . . .
Carina Oberholzer was reliving a piece of her past. The images she recalled would take her life before the night was over.
* * *
The forty-six-year-old man was watching the news bulletin with his beautiful wife. His name was Oliver Nienaber. His four sons, the eldest finishing up secondary school, the youngest in fourth grade, were somewhere in the large house, busy with their own affairs. Oliver Nienaber had spent the past three weeks in Pretoria. He too had been very busy. He hadnt read the newspapers. The news visuals of the Mauser murder were like a hammer blow to his chest. But he stayed calm so that his wife wouldnt notice.
He looked for solutions, weighed the implications, recalled incidents. Oliver Nienaber was intelligent. He could think fast even when fear gripped him like an evil spirit. That was why the man had made such a success of his calling.
