Deon Meyer (45 page)

“CCC?” Grasping.

 

 

“Cape Commercial College. They offered business courses. I don’t know whether they’re still in existence. Carrie said they were too stingy, so she left.”

 

 

Cape Commercial College. He tasted the name, wanted to slot it in somewhere, somewhere it wanted to fit, but he couldn’t identify the space.

 

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

 

 

“Good-bye.” Stiff, as the whole conversation had been. They were inimical toward him, the disbeliever who wanted to change their perspective of accident and tragedy.

 

 

Cape Commercial College.

 

 

His thoughts darted in all directions looking for a connection. He said the name again, aloud, rolled his shoulders a few times to loosen the stiffness. His thoughts were a jumble, he lit a cigarette, sank back into his chair, tried to organize his thoughts. Start from the beginning. Think through Wallace, Wilson, Ferreira, MacDonald, Nienaber, Coetzee. He found nothing. He was making a mistake. He was tired. There was nothing, it was his imagination.

 

 

A bright moment of insight— it was there. Desperately he took out his notebook, paged through it. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

 

 

He got up, stretched, killed the Winston, and walked down the quiet passage, still too early for the others. He wanted to go to the tearoom for something hot and sweet— and remembered, in the passage. He halted, breath held, too frightened to hope, too scared to think. There had been certificates against the wall of James J. Wallace’s office but— idiot— he hadn’t looked at them properly. He turned and hurried to his office and before he could pick up the telephone he remembered what Gail Ferreira had said about her husband, Ferdy: “He always said he had to work for himself. But he was useless. He went on a course once to learn to start his own business but nothing . . .”

 

 

His heart knocked against his chest wall, almost daunted.

 

 

In Nienaber’s study, against the wall: CAPE COMMERCIAL COLLEGE BUSINESS SCHOOL—
This is to certify that O. S. Nienaber completed the course in Small Business Management.

 

 

He put out his hand for the telephone. It rang.

 

 

“Joubert,” he said, but he was barely listening. His thoughts were a maelstrom.

 

 

“This is Margaret Wallace.”

 

 

He was astonished by the coincidence. “Why did you call?” he asked excitedly, tactlessly.

 

 

“To say I’m dreadfully sorry.” Her voice still bore the night’s scars.

 

 

“I’ve found something,” he said because he didn’t want to discuss that now. “Your husband. Did he do a course? A business course, at Cape Commercial College?”

 

 

She was quiet for three heartbeats. “It was a long time ago,” she said and he heard how tired she was. “Six or seven years. Eight?”

 

 

“But he did.”

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

“I need a date. And an address and names. Anything.”

 

 

“Why? I mean, it was so long ago.”

 

 

“I think it’s the connection. I think it might lead to what we’re after.”

 

 

For the first time she was aware of his urgency, the vitality in his voice. “I’ll have a look. I’ll call you.”

 

 

“Thank you,” he said but she had already hung up.

 

 

He looked up the number in the directory.
Cape Commercial College, 195 Protea Rd. Woodstock. Box 214962, Cape Town.
He dialed. It rang for a long time. He checked the time. Twenty past seven. Too early, he would have to wait. He phoned Gail Ferreira, but there was no reply, either. She must be between her home and work. Why was his timing always so terrible?

 

 

No one to send to Wilson’s house and MacDonald’s boat, no people anywhere to answer telephones. He knew he had it, still didn’t know what it meant, but he was right— there was a connection. He was right, ladies and gentlemen, Mat Joubert wasn’t stupid, only storm damage, a little storm damage— okay, okay, a great deal of storm damage, but it could be repaired. The gray matter was still in working order, ladies and gentlemen, and he was going to end this thing today and tonight he was taking Hanna Nortier to
The Barber
and, ladies and gentlemen, the repair work would begin in all seriousness. Because he was free— the wound was bleeding but it was free of pus.

 

 

He wanted coffee and a Wimpy breakfast with eggs and bacon and sausage and fried tomatoes and toast with butter and coffee, and a Winston— life wasn’t so bad— and then he would return to his diet and he would get very thin and fit and become a nonsmoker. He got up, the tiredness thrown off his shoulders like a useless garment. When he went to fetch coffee, he was in the passage when he heard his telephone ringing and ran back.

 

 

“It was in 1989,” said Margaret Wallace. “Three months in 1989— August, September, and October. I remember now. He took evening classes and then the whole group went away, at the end, for a few days. There’s a certificate on the wall, and I found a curriculum and a prospectus. They’re on Protea Road, in Woodstock. The man who signed the letters of confirmation was Slabbert, W. O. Slabbert, the registrar. It was seven or eight years ago, Captain . . . What on earth could it mean?”

 

 

“I’ll let you know before the day is over.”

 

 

* * *

Petersen was the first to reach the office. Joubert sent him to Hout Bay to MacDonald’s boat. Then O’Grady arrived and also got an immediate order. Snyman was late. “I recall something like that in Drew Wilson’s wardrobe, Captain, a certificate, among the other stuff, at the back, behind the photo albums, but I didn’t think it was important.”

 

 

“I wouldn’t have, either,” Joubert said. “Fetch it for me.” De Wit was pacing to and fro in Joubert’s office, finger nervously next to the nose. Vos was drinking tea, then said calmly: “Now you’re going to nail him, partner.”

 

 

The telephone rang. O’Grady calling from Nienaber’s house. “Certificate’s date is 1989, Captain. This is it.”

 

 

They waited, talked, speculated. Half past eight. He phoned Gail Ferreira’s work number. “Yes, it was in 1989, Captain. Late in the year. Late in Ferdy’s life. He was useless by then.”

 

 

“Seven years,” said de Wit. “It’s a long time.”

 

 

“Indeed,” said Joubert.

 

 

Telephone again. “This is Basie Louw, Captain.” His voice was weak, like an old man’s.

 

 

“What’s the matter, Basie?”

 

 

“Jeez, Captain, I had to go out in a boat to find them.”

 

 

“And?”

 

 

“Seasick, Captain. I get horribly seasick.”

 

 

“Is Mrs. Coetzee with you, Basie?”

 

 

“Yes, Captain, but she says she doesn’t know the others. She’s never heard of . . .”

 

 

“Basie, ask her if Coetzee did a course in small business management in 1989 at the Cape Commercial College.”

 

 

“A course in what, Captain?”

 

 

“Just ask her whether he was at the Cape Commercial College in 1989.” He said the name slowly, pronouncing each word clearly and distinctly. He heard Louw putting his hand over the mouthpiece, and waited.

 

 

Louw replied, surprised: “He did, Captain. He—” Joubert heard the woman interrupting Louw but couldn’t make out what she was saying. He heard Louw saying impatiently, “Yes, yes, yes.” Then Louw spoke into the receiver again. “She said it was that Christmas that he became so involved with the church, Captain. Christmas of ’89. She says that’s when all the trouble started.”

 

 

“He said nothing about the course? About the people who were with him?”

 

 

Again an indistinct conversation with the woman. “No, Captain, he didn’t say anything.”

 

 

“Thanks, Basie.”

 

 

“Is that all, Captain?”

 

 

“That’s all, Basie. You can . . .”

 

 

“The college, Captain . . . is it a new thing?”

 

 

“It seems they were all there, Basie.”

 

 

“Fuck my duck.”

 

 

“You can come back, Basie. Take the boat.”

 

 

“Captain?”

 

 

“Joke, Basie.”

 

 

“Hu, hu.” Louw laughed without humor.

 

 

Leon Petersen came back from Hout Bay. “There’s nothing. Not a certificate, nothing.”

 

 

“His men?”

 

 

“They say they don’t remember anything like that.”

 

 

“It doesn’t matter. MacDonald is already involved, through Nienaber.”

 

 

“What now?”

 

 

“Now we’re going to the Cape Commercial College.”

 

 

 

41.

W
. O. Slabbert, the registrar, principal, and only shareholder of the Cape Commercial College, was a bullfrog of a man with multiple double chins, a wide, flat nose, a broad, open forehead, and big, fleshy ears. He had a crew cut. He looked pleased with the deputation from Murder and Robbery who came into his office in single file— Joubert leading, then O’Grady and de Wit, with Petersen bringing up the rear.

 

 

“Call me W. O. You probably want to take a course,” he said, pen in hand, after they had introduced themselves and found a seat. He sniffed and his nose made a little curve just above the left corner of his mouth.

 

 

“No,” Joubert said.

 

 

“You don’t want to take a course?” Sniff. Again the strange movement of the one nostril.

 

 

“We’re investigating a series of murders that were committed in the Peninsula in the past fortnight, Mr. Slabbert.”

 

 

“Oh.” Disappointment.

 

 

“We’ve been informed that Miss Carina Oberholzer worked for you.”

 

 

“Yes?” Tentative.

 

 

“Tell us about her.”

 

 

“Is she dead?”

 

 

“She is.”

 

 

“Carina dead,” he said as if he couldn’t believe it and sniffed again. Joubert wished the man would blow his nose.

 

 

“How long did she work for you?”

 

 

“Four, five years. Who . . . How did she die?”

 

 

“What kind of work did she do here, Mr. Slabbert?”

 

 

“She was in administration. Received the applications and the registrations, sent out the lectures, saw to it that the lecturers received their subject matter. We don’t have lecturers here— they’re part-time, do other work as well.”

 

 

“And that’s all she did, the administration?”

 

 

“She was only the third or the fourth person I’d appointed. You can imagine, we were very small. Carina grew with the place— bit of this, bit of that, admin, secretarial, answering the phone, doing a little typing.”

 

 

“And then she resigned?”

 

 

“Yes, she left to join some petrol concern.”

 

 

“Why?”

 

 

“With Carina it was always money. She was a pretty little thing and a good worker but she was always talking about money. I said: ‘You must be patient, Carrie.’ But she always said that life costs money. She was such a pretty little thing, always laughing and talking. And I had to take her off the switchboard because of the endless personal calls.” Sniff.

 

 

“She was working for you in 1989?”

 

 

“Yes, I . . . Yes, she was, from ’87. Shame, her parents farm in the Northwest. I met them once or twice . . . They must be taking it badly.”

 

 

“Does the name James J. Wallace mean anything to you?”

 

 

“No, I can’t say . . .”

 

 

“Drew Wilson?”

 

 

“I can’t . . .”

 

 

“Ferdy Ferreira?”

 

 

“Aren’t these the Mauser . . . ?”

 

 

“Alexander MacDonald?”

 

 

“If it’s the Mauser people, why didn’t I read anything about little Carina?”

 

 

“Do the names mean anything to you, Mr. Slabbert?”

 

 

“Yes, I’ve heard of them. That hair salon chap as well— what’s his name?”

 

 

“Nienaber.”

 

 

“That’s him, and the one yesterday, the reverend . . .”

 

 

“Pastor.”

 

 

“Yes, the pastor. But . . . was there another one today? Little Carina?”

 

 

“No, not today. How do you know about the Mauser, Mr. Slabbert?”

 

 

Sniff, curve. “One could hardly avoid it. The newspapers are full of it.”

 

 

“You only heard the names in the media?”

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

“Do you know a Hester Clarke, Mr. Slabbert?”

 

 

“Yes, I know Hester Clarke. Don’t tell me she . . .”

 

 

“Hester Clarke from Fish Hoek? The Christmas card designer?”

 

 

“No, I don’t know whether she designed Christmas cards.”

 

 

“Fifty-year-old spinster?”

 

 

“No, not our Hester— she was a small little thing, young. Young girl.”

 

 

“She was?”

 

 

“Yes, we don’t know what became of her. Had simply disappeared when we looked for her again. Changed her telephone number or something. Never heard from her again.”

 

 

“What was your connection with her?”

 

 

“She gave our self-actualization courses. Cute girl, just out of university. We advertised and she came to see me almost immediately. Clever girl, full of bright ideas . . .”