Deon Meyer (42 page)

 

“Well. Very well. We’re close.”

 

 

“Tell me.”

 

 

“There was another murder this morning. The pastor of a tent church in Kraaifontein. They . . . we found money in his trailer. I think it could be the motive. And then it’s just a question of time.”

 

 

“I’m so pleased for you,” she said sincerely and tidied the file. Her words moved into another tempo. She looked straight ahead. Gently she said: “I want you to tell me about the disciplinary inquiry.”

 

 

* * *

He did not want to think about it.

 

 

It was four months after the death of Lara Joubert.

 

 

But he didn’t tell her that. Let her work it out on her own.

 

 

She had changed from personal to professional too quickly. He wasn’t ready. He had expected a slower landing and now he had to think back, open the doors and hear the voices, the blackness of his feelings then, the dark, a flawless black night, pitch-black, the incredible weight, the feverish dreams as thick as molasses, while seconds ago his heart had been as light as a feather, a bird in flight.

 

 

He closed his eyes.

 

 

He did not want to think about it.

 

 

Reluctantly he searched for the images in his mind.

 

 

Blackness.

 

 

He had been in bed. Winter.

 

 

The images. Slowly. Tiredly it flowed back, uneven and confused. It was late at night, in his bed, he remembered, slowly recalled even the taste in his mouth, the weight of the blankets, the dream world, visiting his wife in the realm of the dead, her laugh, her sounds,
uhm, uhm, uhm, uhm,
a telephone ringing Captain Joubert to Parow cold and wet northwest wind.

 

 

A house with cement walls and a garden gate and a path between flowerbeds and a small fountain in the center of the lawn; the blue lights turning in the street; the neighbors in their dressing gowns against the cold, curious, staring; the uniform who told him the man was inside, he had shot his wife and he wouldn’t come out; the neighbors had heard the sound of the shots and went and knocked and then he shot at them and shouted at them and said that tonight he was going to blast them all to hell and gone; a neighbor’s cheek was bleeding from the glass slivers of the front room’s window.

 

 

He went to stand in front of the door; the sergeant of Murder and Robbery had shouted, No Captain, not in front of the door; the book says stand against the wall; but Joubert’s book was covered in soot. I’m unarmed, I’m coming in, and I put my service pistol down on the slate stoop and I opened the door and walked in; no, Captain, jesus god, he’s fucking crazy.

 

 

He had closed the door behind him, the wind audible in the house.

 

 

“Are you mad?” The big .375 Magnum pointing at him, the man in the passage virtually insane, terror-stricken. “I’m going to kill the lot of you.”

 

 

He remained where he was and looked at the man; his eyes were unblinking, he waited for the lead to penetrate his brain and let the curtain fall. “You’re mad, go away.” The man’s mouth spat saliva, his eyes were those of an animal, the big revolver shook. He didn’t move, simply stood there, gazed, uninvolved.

 

 

“Where is she?” His own voice emotionless.

 

 

“In the kitchen. The whore. She’s dead, the whore. I killed her. Tonight I’m going to kill you all.” The weapon was aimed straight at him again; the man’s breathing was ragged, his chest heaved, his body shook.

 

 

“Why?”

 

 

A sound— a sob and a cry and disgust, intermingled; the weapon dropped a few millimeters; the man’s eyes closed, opened.

 

 

“Kill . . .”

 

 

The wind and showers of rain against the windows, on the corrugated iron roof; light scurrying across the walls, the shadows of windblown shrubs. The man’s body tipped up to the wall, the revolver still held high, his shoulder against the wall; then the sound, another one, long drawn, a wailing; the man sank down to the floor; his legs were bent, his eyes unseeing; a bundle, crouching, sitting, arm on one knee; the grip on the firearm loose, a sound like the wind, as comfortless as his own soul.

 

 

Breathing slowed.

 

 

“What could I do?”

 

 

Weeping. “What could I do? She didn’t want me anymore. What could I do?”

 

 

Shoulders shaking, spasms.

 

 

“She’s mine.” Like a child. A high whimpering voice.

 

 

A silence that stretched and stretched.

 

 

“She said to him: ‘You know I’m yours.’ I stood here— she didn’t know— I stood here and I heard her saying, ‘All yours.’ ” The last words were a cry again; the voice jumped an octave, uncomprehending.

 

 

“ ‘You know. Like last night,’ she said. And I hit her and she ran. To the bathroom at first . . .”

 

 

He looked up, pleading. “I don’t even know who he was.” He got no reaction.

 

 

“What am I going to do?”

 

 

In the passage: he standing, the man half-lying, half-sitting against the wall; the revolver hung against his leg; someone outside called Captain, Captain, silence again, only the wind and the rain and the sobs, now soft and even, the man’s eyes on the firearm.

 

 

An awareness of a possibility, of a way out, a comfort; consider, count the cost, the future.

 

 

A slow decision.

 

 

“Will you go out?”

 

 

Yes, because he knew the yearning, the decision, he knew the darkness; turned round, toward the door; opened it, cries outside, Captain, jesus you’re okay, what’s the fucker doing; the sound of the shot inside; he didn’t move, simply stood there, his head bowed until they realized and ran past him, through the door.

 

 

“The sentence was suspended.”

 

 

He looked squarely at Hanna Nortier. She had wanted to ask. She had wanted to know. She wanted to sail the soul of Mat Joubert like an unknown sea, map the contours of the Coast of the Dead, describe the landmarks, name them. Ask me, Doc, ask me. I’ll tell you how close to it I was that night, back at home, to blowing my brains all over the living room carpet with a service pistol. I could see and feel the release of my friend in Parow, touch it, with my service pistol in my hand, my thumb on the safety catch, on my way to Lara.

 

 

Willy Theal had hammered on the door. Mat, dear boy, dear boy. The thin arm around his shoulders. They stood on the front veranda, his head against Theal’s chest, the pistol pointing to the ground, the moment past, the intensity lost.

 

 

Ask me, Doc.

 

 

Hanna Nortier evaded his gaze, wrote in the fucking file, which he wanted to grab and read, aloud, let’s see what the clever Doc thinks . . .

 

 

“And the petition?” She spoke softly again, like the previous times, her gaiety gone, dissipated by the black cloud that was Mat Joubert, the world’s only intelligent black cloud, who cast shadows wherever it went, who blotted out the sun, quenched laughter.

 

 

“They thought the punishment wasn’t severe enough. Van der Vyver, the sergeant at the house in Parow. He said I’d endanger lives again. He told the others. He was right. They went to Theal. My commanding officer. But Theal said I’d be okay, they were in too much of a hurry. Then they drew up a petition, took it as far as the assistant district commissioner, who had known my father and stopped the whole thing and said loyalty kept the force together. My father. Gave me from the grave what he couldn’t give me in life. It’s ironic, isn’t it, Hanna?”

 

 

He used her name for the first time, without respect. She could’ve dropped it today. She could’ve discussed other things today, this and that, because he was getting his act together. I’m busy getting my act together, Hanna, and now you’re fucking with my head. Doc, I’ll be fine, I promise you, tomorrow evening my head will be just fine . . .

 

 

She blew her nose and only then did he see the wetness in her eyes and he half rose from his deep chair.

 

 

“Life is ironical,” she said, her voice under control. “That’s enough for today.”

 

 

Then he knew that he had touched her and wondered how, and he wondered what it meant.

 

 

* * *

Janek Milos opened the door and Benny Griessel knew he had his man.

 

 

“It’s your nose,” Griessel said.

 

 

Milos turned and ran into the house. Griessel swore and sprang after him, hoping that he would catch him quickly, because after a hundred meters, or less, he wouldn’t have a hope.

 

 

Milos shut doors as far as he went, but the back door was locked and in his feverish haste he couldn’t get the key to turn. Griessel struck the man’s back with his shoulder, forcing him against the door. The wood splintered, breath woofed out of the man’s mouth. Griessel was on him, his knee against the man’s back, forcing him to the ground. He jerked his arm back and twisted it toward his neck. Handcuffs on the right hand. Click. Found the other hand. Click.

 

 

“Hello, sweetheart,” said Griessel and kissed Janek Milos on the back of his bald head.

 

 

* * *

“If you don’t sue the
Argus,
I will,” said Margaret Wallace’s mother over the telephone, her voice shrill with agitation.

 

 

“Why, Mom?”

 

 

“I don’t want to tell you. It’s horrible the way they lie.”

 

 

“What is it, Mother?”

 

 

“It’ll upset you.”

 

 

“Mother, please.”

 

 

“They say . . . Heavens, my dear, it’s a pack of lies. It’s just that I’m so . . . so . . .”

 

 

“Mother!” A desperate order.

 

 

“They say Jimmy was with another woman. The day he died.”

 

 

* * *

“You must be fucking joking,” said the Brigadier, who was pacing to and fro in the parade room. “The minister is shitting his pants and you tell me the thing still doesn’t make sense. You tell me there’s forty thousand rand in the priest’s trailer and it’s just fine because he banks on a Saturday. You think the church is the answer and relatives have never heard of it.” He stopped and glared at de Wit and Joubert. “You must be fucking joking.”

 

 

They stared at the floor.

 

 

“Have you any idea of the pressure? The General is too scared to answer his telephone and I had to flee my office because the press are camped out in the street. And the bastards are everywhere. Here, at the gate, a uniform virtually had to save me from the vultures and you tell me the thing doesn’t make sense.” He started pacing again, his arms swinging. His face was scarlet, the veins in his neck swollen. “The minister says we’re the laughingstock overseas. We simple Boers are so stupid they have to send us a clairvoyant. Whose idea was that? You have a list of names the motherfucker wants to kill and they’re still dying like flies. And now you look so grateful that the names on the list are coming to an end.”

 

 

He took a kick at a chair. It fell over backwards, hit the wall, sprang back, clattered over the floor, and lay there.

 

 

“Doesn’t anyone have anything to say?”

 

 

“Brigadier,” said de Wit, his smile sickly and askew.

 

 

“Don’t you Brigadier me. Never in my forty years in the force have I come across such a sorry bunch of asshole dumb policemen. You couldn’t catch a dead locust in a jam jar, if you ask me. What else do you want the motherfucker to do? Walk in here and mount his goddamn Mauser against the wall and say Catch me, please? By this time all the policemen in the province are here to help. What else must we do? Get Gauteng’s as well? What about the army? Let’s call them in as well, tanks and bombers and the fucking navy. Let’s not play games here. Let’s make real cunts of ourselves. Let’s phone the Chinese. They’ve got clairvoyants for Africa. And the Japanese. And we get Hollywood to come and film you because only their cameras are still missing.”

 

 

Another chair tumbled, clattered.

 

 

“Jesus Christ.”

 

 

They stared at the floor. De Wit, Joubert, Petersen, O’Grady, Snyman, and Vos.

 

 

The Brigadier’s hands made signs but he seemed incapable of further speech.

 

 

The door opened. Heads turned. Griessel came in.

 

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said proudly, “meet Sweetheart,” and taking the man by his shirt, pulled him into the room.

 

 

 

39.

J
anuary 17, 19:17. Interrogation of suspect, SAP two slash one slash nine five slash fourteen, Murder and Robbery, Bellville South. Investigating officer: Detective Sergeant Benjamin Griessel. Observers: Colonel Bart de Wit, Captain Mat Joubert, Captain Gerry . . . uh . . .”

 

 

“Gerbrand.”

 

 

“Captain Gerbrand Vos. First question to suspect. Full name.”

 

 

“Janek Wachlaff Milos.”

 

 

“Nationality?”

 

 

“Eskimo. You can hear that. I speak fluent Eskimoose.”

 

 

“Nationality?”

 

 

“South African.”

 

 

“Identity number?”

 

 

“Five nine zero five five one two seven zero zero one.”

 

 

“Address.”

 

 

“Seventeen Iris Avenue, Pinelands.”

 

 

“You are aware of your right to have a legal representative present. If you don’t have a legal representative, or cannot afford one, the State will appoint such a legal representative. At any time during the proceedings you may ask the State to appoint an alternative legal representative, upon which the case before a magistrate of the district court or a higher court . . .”