Devil's Peak (41 page)

* * *

He called the numbers on César Sangrenegra’s received calls list on the speakerphone in Joubert’s office. With the first three he got voice mailboxes in Spanish. The fourth rang and rang and rang. Eventually it switched over to a cell phone messaging service.
“Hello, this is Bushy. When I’ve caught the crooks, I will phone you back.”

* * *

“I won’t go to hell for Carlos,” said Christine. “Because I saw the look in his eyes when he saw Sonia. And I know God will forgive me for being a sex worker. And I know he will understand that I had to draw the blood. And take the money.” She looked at the minister. He didn’t want to assent to that.
“But He punished everyone for Carla Griessel.” She opened the second newspaper clipping. The headline read: MASSIVE COP CORRUPTION SCANDAL.
“Carlos’s brother and his bodyguards. The Artemis man. All dead. And these policemen are going to jail,” she said, and tapped the two photos with the report. “But what about me?”

* * *

“I didn’t even know them,” said Bushy Bezuidenhout.
“But you gave them the information,” said Joubert.
“For money, you piece of shit,” said Griessel.
Joubert put his big hand soothingly on the inspector’s arm.
Bezuidenhout wiped the perspiration from his forehead and shook his head. “I’m not going down alone for this.”
“Give us the others, Bushy. You know, if you cooperate . . .”
“Jissis, Sup.”
“Give me five minutes alone with this cunt,” said Griessel.
“Jissis, Benny, I didn’t know what they were going to do. I didn’t know. Do you think I would—?”
Griessel shouted him down. “Who, Bushy? Tell me who!”
“Beukes, fuck it. Beukes with his bloody cap brought me this shitload of money in a fucking brown envelope . . .”
Matt Joubert’s voice was sharp in the room. “Benny, no. Sit. I will not let you go.”

* * *

Fourteen kilometers beyond Keimoes he saw the sign and turned right to Kanoneiland. They crossed the river that flowed peaceful and brown under the bridge, and between green vineyards heavy with giant bunches of grapes.
“Amazing,” said Carla, and he knew what she meant. This fertility here, the surprise of it. But he was also aware that she was observing, that she was less turned in on herself, and it gave him hope again.
They drove up the long avenue of pines to the guesthouse and Carla said, “Look,” and pointed a finger at his side of the road. Between the trees he could see the horses: big Arabians, three bays and a magnificent gray.

* * *

When Christine van Rooyen walked down the street in Reddersburg, the sun came up over the Free State horizon, a giant balloon breaking loose from the hills and sweeping over the grassland.
She turned off the main street, down an unpaved street, past houses that were still dark and silent.
She looked intently at one of them. The babysitter said a writer lived here, a man hiding away from the world.
It was a good place for it.

* * *

The secretary at the high school shook her head and said she had only worked here for three years. But he could ask Mr. Losper. Mr. Losper had been at the school for years. He taught Biology. But it was holidays now; Mr. Losper would be at home. She gave him precise directions and he drove there and knocked on the door.
Losper was somewhere in his fifties, a man with smoker’s wrinkles and rough voice who invited him in, since it was cooler in the dining room. Would he like a beer? He said no thanks, he was fine.
When they were seated at the dining-room table and he asked his question, the man shut his eyes for a moment, as if sending up a quick prayer to heaven, and then he said, “Christine van Rooyen.” Solemnly, he put his arms on the table and folded his hands together.
“Christine van Rooyen,” he repeated, as if the repetition of the name would open up his memory.
Then he told Griessel the story, regularly inserting admissions of guilt and rationalization. Of Martie van Rooyen who lost her soldier husband in Angola. Martie van Rooyen, the blonde woman with the big bosom and the small blonde daughter. A woman the community gossiped about even when her husband was still alive. Rumors of visits when Rooies was away on training courses, or on the Border.
And after Rooies’s death there was very soon a replacement. And another. And another. She lured them home from the ladies’ bar at the River Hotel with red lipstick and a low neckline. While the child wandered around the yard with a stuffed dog in her arms, an object that later became so filthy it was scandalous.
The gossipmongers said the substitute for Rooies used to hit Martie. And sometimes played around with more than just the mother. But in Upington, many watch but few act. Social Welfare tried to step in, but the mother sent them packing and Christine van Rooyen grew up like that. Sad and wild. Earned a reputation of her own. Loose. Easy. There was talk when the girl was a teenager. About an old friend of her father’s who . . . you know. And an Afrikaans teacher. There were goings-on at the school. The child was difficult. Smoking and drinking with the rough crowd, the school had always had one, it was a funny town, this, with the Army and all.
Losper had heard the story that when Christine had finished school she walked out of the house with a suitcase while her mother was in bed with a substitute. Went to Bloemfontein, apparently, but he didn’t know what became of her.
“And the mother?”
She had also left, he had heard. With a man in a pickup. Cape Town. Or the West Coast: there were so many stories.

* * *

She walked past. Three houses down she turned in at a garden gate that creaked on opening. It needed oiling.
The garden was overgrown with weeds. She took the box and put it down on the verandah. It was light now.
In the minister’s study she had pulled it towards her one last time and taken out the cash. Four hundred thousand rand in one-hundred-rand notes.
“This is a tenth,” she said.
“You can’t buy the Lord’s forgiveness,” he had answered wearily, but couldn’t keep his eyes off the money.
“I don’t want to buy anything. I just want to give. It’s for the Church.”
She had waited for his response and then he walked her to the door and she could smell the odor of his body behind her, the smell of a man after a long day.
She came back off the verandah and stooped to pull out a weed. The roots came free of the reddish soil and she thought it looked fertile here.
She went over to the steps. She reached for the sign to the right of them, the one that said
Te Koop/For Sale.
She pulled. It had been hammered in deep and had been there a long time. She had to wiggle it back and forth before it slowly began to shift and eventually came out.
She carried it up, put it down on the verandah. Then she took her keys out and quietly unlocked the door. On the new couch the large black babysitter was reclining. She was fast asleep.
Christine went down the passage to the master bedroom. Sonia lay there in a fetal position, her whole body curled around the toy dog. She lay down gently beside her daughter. Later, when they had finished breakfast, she would ask Sonia if she would like to exchange the stuffed animal for a real one.

* * *

Griessel thought about Senior Superintendent Beukes as he drove back to the guesthouse. Three weeks ago, they confronted him.
They would not allow him to be present at the interrogation—Joubert had put his foot down. He had to sit with the disillusioned American, Lombardi. Tried to explain to him that not
all
the police in Africa were corrupt. But afterwards Joubert came to tell him. Beukes would admit nothing. Right till the end when they got his bank statements through a court order and spread them out in front of him. And Beukes had said, “Why don’t you try and find the whore? She’s the one who stole money. And lied about her daughter.”
He didn’t know whether it was true or not. But now, after Losper’s story, he hoped it was. Because he recalled the words of the forensic psychologist.
Women are different. When there is damage at a young age, they don’t do to others. They do to themselves.
He only hoped she used the money well. For herself and her daughter.
His cell phone rang while he was driving up the avenue of pine trees. He pulled over.
“Griessel.”
“This is Inspector Johnson Mtetwa. I am phoning from Alice. I wonder if you could help me?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“It’s about the death of Thobela Mpayipheli . . .”
“Yes?”
“The trouble is, I had some people here. The missionary priest from the Knott Memorial between us and Peddie.”
“Yes?”
“He told me the strangest thing, Inspector Griessel. He said he saw Mpayipheli, yesterday morning.”
“How strange.”
“He said he saw a man walking, from the Kat River hills to near the manse. He went out to see who it might be. When he came close, the man turned away. But he could swear it was Mpayipheli, because he knew him. In the old days. You see, Mpayipheli’s father was also a missionary.”
“I see.”
“I went out with the people from Cathcart station to Mpayipheli’s farm. They have to deal with things there. And now they tell me there is a motorbike missing. A . . . Hang on. . . . A BMW R eleven-fifty GS.”
“Oh?”
“But the people in the Cape say you were a witness to his death.”
“You must request the file, Inspector. They did search the river for his body . . .”
“Strange,” said Mtetwa, “that someone would steal only the motorbike.”
“That’s life,” said Griessel. “Strange.”
“That’s true. Thank you, Inspector. And good luck there in the Cape.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank
you.
”
Benny Griessel put the cell phone back in his breast pocket. He put his hand out to the ignition key but, before starting the car, he saw something that made him wait.
Between the trees, there in the horse paddock, Carla stood by a large gray. She was leaning against the magnificent beast, her face in the horse’s mane, her hand gently stroking the long muzzle.
He got out of the car and went over to the fence rail. He had eyes only for her, and a tenderness that might just overwhelm him.
His child.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

More than any of my previous books,
Devil’s Peak
is to a great extent the product of the astounding goodwill, unselfishness, readiness to share knowledge—and unconditional support of a large number of people.
I wish to thank them:
Even now I don’t know her real name, but as a sex worker she went by the name of “Vanessa.” In two long morning interviews she talked intelligently, openly and honestly about her work and life. When I had finished the book, I tried to contact her to thank her. The message on her cell phone said “I am no longer in the business . . .” May all her dreams be realized.
The three other nameless sex workers who made time to talk to me in coffee shops and tell me their stories.
The personnel of Sex Worker Education and Advocacy Taskforce (SWEAT) in Cape Town, and specifically the director, Ms. Jayne Arnott.
Ms. Ilse Pauw, a clinical psychologist, who shared hours of her knowledge of and insight into sex workers.
Captain Elmarie Myburgh of the South African Police Service’s Psychological Investigation Unit in Pretoria. Her incredible insight, experience and knowledge of the psychology of people in general and specifically crime and criminals, her enthusiasm for the project and many hours of patience left me deeply in her debt. She is any author’s research dream and a wonderful ambassador for her unit and the SAPS.
Inspector Riaan Pool, SAPS Liaison Officer in Cape Town.
Superintendent Mike Barkhuizen of the SAPS Serious and Violent Crimes Unit in Cape Town.
Gerhard Groenewald of Klipbokkop, for his knowledge of tires.
Dr. Julie Wells of Rhodes University History Department, for the background of the Xhosa stabbing assegai.
All the wonderful curio-shop people of Cape Town city center who provided information on assegais so freely, even when they knew I did not wish to buy.
Professor Marlene van Niekerk of the Department Afrikaans and Nederlands of the University of Stellenbosch, for her compassion, understanding, patience, great knowledge, intellect and creativity. She is a national treasure, in every sense of the word.
All the members (the veterans and the young ones!) of the US MA class in Creative Writing. That dinner is coming . . .
My editor, Dr. Etienne Bloemhof, for his eagle eye, his enthusiasm, support and depth of knowledge.
My agent Isobel Dixon, to whom I owe so much—and all her colleagues at Blake Friedmann, especially David Eddy and Julian Friedmann.
My wife, Anita, who gets up and has coffee with me before dawn and never stops supporting and believing and reading and loving. And the children who wait so patiently for the writing door to open.
The ATKV, for the financial support that made so much of the research possible.

* * *

One of the great joys of researching a manuscript is finding and reading relevant books—and hunting down relevant information on the Internet. I am grateful for the following:
Smokescreen
by Robert Sabbag, Canongate, London, 2
00
2.
Killing Pablo
by Mark Bowden, Atlantic Books, London, 2
002
.
With Criminal Intent,
Rob Marsh, Ampersand Press, Cape Town, 1999.
Frontiers
by Noel Mostert, Pimlico, London, 1992.
www.alcoholicsanonymous.org.au
www.alcoholics-anonymous.org.uk
www.fda.gov
www.digitalnaturopath.com
www.heckler-koch.de
www.dieburger.com
www.iol.com
Translated by K. L. Seegers, October 2005

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Deon Meyer is an internationally renowed crime writer who also works as a journalist and brand consultant. He is the author of
Heart of the Hunter, Dead at Daybreak,
and
Dead Before Dying.
He lives in Cape Town, South Africa.