Hyena Dawn (20 page)

Deon thought back to the things he had found in the secret safe of the luxurious Westcliff home - things that betrayed a depth of evil that he both despised and was fascinated by. He had come upon this evil in the residence of a certain Mr Bernard Aschaar, head of the Goldcorp Group, South Africa’s largest mining company.

He wondered what the robbers had really been after. He wished he had had more time to search the safe, to discover what it was that had been worth dying for. And what was General Muller’s involvement? Why had he been so anxious to get Deon out of that bedroom? Had he deliberately removed some of the silver to make it look more like real burglary?

Deon kicked an empty can along the gutter and for no reason he could exactly understand, began to cry. Memories of his father’s death, long suppressed, came flooding back to him. He remembered that appallingly hot midsummer’s day a few weeks before the Christmas of 1956 - the day the fateful letter had come, the letter that had decided him on his present career . . .

With his very excellent academic record, Deon was surprised at first that he should have been turned down for a legal scholarship. He had accepted that it was probably because of his poor background and the school he had been to - but then his father had picked up the letter. Carel de Wet had been quiet for a while. Then he had laughed. It was a sarcastic, bitter laugh. He looked his son straight in the eye.

‘
Think of this as a favour, my boy. Now you know your place in life.’

Then he had disappeared into the little room that he called his study.

Deon could remember standing there, quite still, with the letter in his hand. He could remember deciding that there was not another person on earth whom he despised as much as his father - a man who had been exposed as a cheat and a liar. He could remember vowing that those things would never be said about himself. Then he had walked out of the house to visit one of the members of his band, and they’d spent the rest of the afternoon rehearsing a new song.

He had returned home in the late afternoon. He’d been surprised to see a policeman waiting for him with his brother. Their father had shot himself just after lunch. Very professionally done, he’d put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. On discovering the body, Mrs de Wet had had a stroke. One burial, two coffins.

As a result of his father’s suicide, Deon had made the decision to join the police force. If he couldn’t read law, then he’d enforce it. The little money he got from the sale of the house, he used to send Pieter to boarding school. . .

Now, when he walked down this street, the memories were as vivid as ever. The police force had saved him, and for that he was very grateful. He had taken a challenging post on the Angolan border with the South African Police, and the fighting and the action had helped him forget the cruel events in Fordsburg. Since then, everything had gone well for him. His promotion within the force had been rapid, he had an attractive wife and two very healthy children.

For Pieter things had gone less well. He had refused to knuckle down and work, and in the end had run away from boarding school. Deon knew that it was useless to try and keep his brother on the straight and narrow, so he gave up any further attempts to impose an education on him, and had to watch him go his own way.

Now, as he walked the dismal streets, the first sunlight began to appear in the sky. This place was his security. Most of the time he liked to kid himself that Fordsburg was a thing of the past. And then, in moments such as this, he needed to come back. He knew he could be thrown back into it and survive. That was his strength against people with money and influence, people like General Muller and Mr Bernard Aschaar. What bothered Major Deon de Wet was his reponsibility to his own family. Would they stand by him, if things got difficult? At least they would never be able to look on him the way he had looked on his own father.

He got back to his car and slipped behind the steering wheel, catching sight of his face, torn and disturbed, in the rear-view mirror. The car started easily and he pulled away from the kerb.

His mind began carefully to put together the report of a simple case of house-breaking that had resulted in three deaths, and the mysterious disappearance of silver
after
the robbery. A report that somehow included his almost certain knowledge that General Muller had deliberately steered attention away from the real motives for the break-in.

He knew he was beginning his own silent battle against the real culprits.

Major Deon de Wet’s full file on the robbery of Mr Bernard Aschaar’s house in Westcliff was not to be found at police headquarters, nor was it in his desk at home. If his wife had been asked if she knew of the existence of such a file, she would have reliably reported that she didn’t. It was hidden in a metal box buried at the bottom of the de Wet garden. In the box lay also the documents and the film Deon had found in the safe.

Deon knew that he had latched onto something very important. Muller’s behaviour in the house still bothered him. He had always had a basic mistrust of Muller, and now this case had reinforced his suspicions. Bernard Aschaar was a wealthy and powerful businessman - it was not unthinkable that he was paying Muller off.

Deep down, though Deon would have refused to admit it, there was another reason for his interest in the contents of the safe. The mining company Aschaar ran, Goldcorp, was still owned by Max Golden, who had had something to do with his father’s fall from grace. Deon remembered his father’s insistence that Golden was corrupt; his policeman’s mind had filed the information away, keeping it permanently on hold.

Unfortunately, because he worked in the murder and robbery section of the force, Deon did not automatically have access to the information he needed to pursue his enquiries - and to ask his colleagues too many questions would be to give the game away. So Deon began by investigating the supposed theft of the Georgian silver he had seen at the house. He knew it hadn’t been stolen, but the thieves were dead and no one would believe his story. If Muller said the silver had gone, then it had gone. Where to, was another question.

He got in touch with a useful contact, an expert in antique silver. The man was not only able to tell him where the service had been bought, but he also knew about the unusual hallmarks Deon had seen on it. He had then made a call to a friend of his who sold antiques to Aschaar. This man relayed the information that a toad-like individual in a badly fitting suit had delivered a metal case to him for safe-keeping for Mr Aschaar that same day. Deon had no doubt that the silver was locked inside it.

The office was enormous, and spartan. Through the two high windows the last rays of sunshine poured in like spotlights on a stage. Deon de Wet could see dust swirling in the pools of sunlight, and beyond, a figure seated at an ancient desk.

The man was writing, and did not bother to look up as he came into the room. Deon walked up to the table and saluted. Still the Minister continued to write, and Deon wondered if he was actually aware that there was anyone else in the room.

‘
You may sit down, Major de Wet.’

Still he carried on writing, a precise script that never faltered, the head bent over the clean white paper, the thin blond-grey hair barely covering the pale, freckled scalp. This man had fought his way up to one of the most powerful positions of government and demanded respect from everyone who worked for him. Major de Wet had felt courageous at many times of his life, but at this precise moment he was feeling distinctly uneasy.

The Minister put his pen down, leaned back and placed his hands behind his head. The cold, grey eyes stared.

‘
Major de Wet. I don’t think that there is another man in South Africa’s police force with a record comparable to your own. As you no doubt realise, we struggle to get recruits of high calibre. You are a very intelligent young man and, without doubt, remarkably good at your job.

‘
Your family past is of no interest to this force as long as it does not interfere with your work. One cannot be held responsible for the actions of one’s parents or one’s brother. You married an Afrikaner, your children go to a good Afrikaans school. All these things bode well for your future, Major de Wet.’

Deon trembled as he waited for the crunch line.

‘
I am pleased to announce your appointment as major-general with effect from today.’

Deon felt himself swaying on his feet. This was the last thing he had expected; he had not believed he would get another big promotion for at least five years. But he refused to admit a smile; he could tell there was something more the Minister had to say, and that it would refer to his own sphere of influence within the police force.

‘
Please sit down, Major-General de Wet.’

Deon took a chair. Obviously his new rank allowed a little more informality with the Minister.

‘
Congratulations are also in order for your handling of the burglary at Mr Bernard Aschaar’s house last Saturday. General Muller tells me you caught the robbers red-handed.’ The Minister paused, and stared directly at De Wet. ‘The robbery, it turns out, is of interest to the Bureau of State Security and it has been handed over for their investigation. I would appreciate it if you would assist them with the details of the affair. Naturally, your own investigations on this matter will cease forthwith.’

The smile was icy. The word ‘forthwith’ had been enunciated with particular emphasis. Deon had the distinct impression that he was being bought. This appointment could only have been as a result of General Muller’s direct commendation.

He got to his feet. ‘Thank you, sir. I hope I will be able to do justice to the position you have given me.’

The following weekend, Teresa de Wet decided to visit her mother with the children. Deon stayed at home, pleading work. On Saturday afternoon, checking that none of the neighbours was around, he walked nonchalantly down to the bottom of the garden. He looked just like any other middle-class South African husband who had decided on the spur of the moment to do a little weekend gardening.

The spade cut easily through the ground and soon he had unearthed the metal box. It came out smoothly from its resting place, and he carried it to the room at the back of the garage. He locked the door behind him and prised open the lid.

Suddenly there was a rap on the door; then another. Deon froze, unsure of what to do. In an instant he had pulled himself together, leapt up onto the workbench and hidden the box on the wooden rafters that supported the roof. Jumping to the floor, he pushed a set of garden shears into the industrial vice set into the corner of his work bench. Another rap on the door. He opened it quickly.

‘
God, Deon, what the hell are you up to? Oiling your shears! You police guys take this secrecy business a bit too far. Have you got some petrol? My lawnmower’s run out and I can’t get any more this weekend because of the bloody restrictions.’

Deon felt the relief soaring through his body. It was his next- door neighbour, John Tillson, a Yorkshireman out in South Africa on contract for his company.

‘
No problem, John. I’ve got several jerry-cans in the front of the garage. Guess I’ve got used to doing things behind closed doors!’

They walked round to the front of the garage, and Deon handed John a jerry-can of petrol.

‘
Bloody hell, I don’t want to fill my car up, Deon. You could get arrested with that lot, you should know, the law states only a ten-litre can of petrol can be kept on the premises.’

‘
You see, even a policeman can be a crook at times. Actually I’ve got a licence to keep this lot here. It’s in case of emergencies, you can’t have the Flying Squad running out of petrol, you know.’

‘
Well, thanks, Deon, I’ll bring the can back full on Monday morning. Otherwise, no doubt, you’ll have me up for obstructing a police officer in the course of his duty!’

He waited for John to disappear and then walked back into the garage. It wasn’t like him to be so jumpy.

What he wanted to do was quite simple and would not excite any attention. He’d made sure the incinerator was packed with leaves and old grass, and the things he wanted to destroy could easily be placed within this rubbish and would burn to ashes, which he then planned to bury in the garden. No one knew he had the material, so no one would come looking for it.

Deon locked the garage door behind him again and took the box down from the rafters. The lid had jammed, and he had to force it open with a screwdriver. It came loose, at last - so violently that the contents of the file flew across the floor as it fell out. He picked up the pieces of paper first because he knew they would bum the easiest.

A photograph caught his eye. He tried not to look at it but it was no good. The woman was naked, lying face-down on a table, her legs dangling to the floor. Her hands were tied to the far corners of the table. A man stood above her holding a rubber whip - a sjambok - and another looked on smiling. There were heavy weals across her back and buttocks. The next photograph featured the same woman and man, but this time he was assaulting her. Deon knew these were not posed pornographic pictures, rather they were snapshots of an actual event that someone wanted recorded.

He felt something rise up deep within him, something the boys who had been at the dance had seen so many years before: a hatred of evil. He knew he would not be able to leave this thing alone.