Trackers (59 page)

Loss.

Since Tanya Flint had told her story
this morning, it had lurked inside him, this awareness. And his conversation
with Johnny hadn't helped.
I'm not 'Sup' any more, Johnny.
It had been a
long time coming, now said out loud for the first time. Not in the Service any
more.

Thirty-one years of being a
policeman, part of the family, the brotherhood, the exclusive club, and now
the bond was broken. He was outside. The 'private sector', like Johnny said.

But when he was inside, the last two,
three years, another kind of loss had slowly overcome him - a disillusionment,
a disappointment, a powerlessness, a realisation of potential leaking away,
possibilities lost. He, who had been so positive to begin with, who believed
the police service could get better, could adapt to the new challenges, new
realities. He had supported the ideal wholeheartedly and enthusiastically, the
ideal of a SAPS that reflected the population demographic, which deployed
affirmative action to cancel out old injustices, which transformed to a proud,
effective, modern instrument of government. Only to see how it was slowly
poisoned by politics and good intentions and haste and stupidity. And, in the
end, by greed and corruption. And when he spoke up, when he warned and advised
and pleaded, they marginalised him, pushed him out of the pack, made it clear
that they no longer had any use for him.

A lifetime's work. For nothing.

No, no, he mustn't think like that.
If he said it to Margaret, she would give him that loving smile of hers again
and say: 'My melancholy policeman,' because this was a tendency of his. He had
to think positively, make a new start, be grateful for this opportunity, this
chance to draw on his experience, to be able still to serve. Jack Fischer said
it was an international trend, a worldwide wave: the rise of the private
law-enforcer. 'And we have to ride that wave, Mat, according to Thomas L.
Freeman.'

Fanus Delport corrected Jack: 'Thomas
L. Friedman.' But Mat still didn't know who he meant.

This feeling inside him, maybe it was
because he was an investigator again, no longer the manager, the pen-pusher
he'd become over the last few years. And if you worked at this level, as
detective, then you had to deal with loss. At best just the loss of property,
or dignity. At worst, The Great Loss.

I just want certainty,
Tanya Flint
had said.

He could see it in her, in her eyes
and her shoulders, her hands and her way of talking, that battle between hope
and
knowing,
with knowing gaining the upper hand.

Neville Philander said she was
driven. He could see that too: the strong lines of her face, the determined set
to her mouth. A woman who wanted to run her own business, who was prepared to
make sacrifices, to suffer.
We knew it would be tough.

And just how tough had it been? In
his photo, Danie Flint looked like a man without a care in the world, a man who
wanted to laugh and enjoy life. Who wanted to hang out with his mates in the
Sports Pub.
Cheerful
, Tanya had called him. Had the money
worries got too much for him?

Leave the Audi there, take your
wallet and phone, just walk away. To an easier life.

One possibility. Among many. Too soon
to speculate, he told himself.

Mildred, the middle-aged coloured
receptionist, held a sheaf of documents out to him. 'This is our PC manual,
the technician is busy installing your laptop, sir.' She was serious, focused.

'Thank you. You don't need to say
"sir" to me.'

The corners of her mouth lifted, the
semblance of a smile, humourless. 'And here are your business cards.'

A package wrapped in brown paper. On
it was taped a card with
Jack Fischer & Associates
in elegant
silver lettering. Below, in black,
M.A. T Joubert, Senior Consultant:
Forensic Investigation.
With his office and cellphone numbers,
and a new email address.

'Thank you.'

He walked to his office. The
technician was sitting at his desk, moving the mouse around on the pad, looking
intently at the screen. To his surprise she was a young woman, in grey
overalls, short blonde hair, glasses. She looked up, suddenly shy. Grey eyes
behind the lenses. 'Sorry,' she said quietly, 'I'm just finishing up.'

'Take your time,' he said and
introduced himself.

'I'm Bella van Breda,' she said, her
hand soft in his. There was a logo on her top pocket, and the words
The Nerd
Herd.
'I'm just importing the address database into Outlook, MS
Project is already loaded. Are you familiar with the program?'

'No.'

'You've got Project 2007, so it's
very straightforward, you just use
the Project Guide and the JF template.
It's all in the manual,' she waved at the documents in his hands.

'Thanks a lot,' he said, but his tone
betrayed him.

'Do you know much about computers?'
she asked, sympathy in her voice.

He nodded uncertainly. 'I worked with
the police's BI system.'

'BI is a proprietary application,
it's usually a lot more complicated than something like MS Project. If you
have trouble with the manual, just call us, the number is in the database. Oh,
and your user ID, your password, and your email address are at the front of the
manual.'

She stood up, looked at him,
hesitated for a moment as though she wanted to ask him something, then picked
up her equipment case.

'Can you just show me how to find a
telephone number in the database?'

'Of course. Come sit down.'

She stood beside him, took control of
the mouse. 'You just open Outlook, here ... Now you select Contacts, and here
in the navigation pane you see your contact groups. Personal Contacts is what
you'll input yourself, JF Contacts is on the database. Who are you looking
for?'

'Dave Fiedler.'

'You just click on the "F"
and then you scroll down ... There he is. You can also change the view,
Business Cards or Address Cards ... like so.'

It was all too fast for him, too much
to absorb, but he said, 'Yes, I see, thank you very much ...'

'Pleasure.' She picked up the case
again, walked towards the door, then stopped. 'Do you know Benny Griessel?' she
asked, and for some inexplicable reason, flushed to a deep red.

'Yes,' he said, surprised at the
mention of his ex-colleague and old friend.

'He ... We live in the same apartment
building,' she said, suddenly flustered. 'Bye,' as she walked quickly out of
the door.

'Say hello to Benny for me,' he
called after her, a bit bemused. Then he looked at the laptop screen, clicked
on Dave Fiedler's address details, pulled the phone closer, and dialed.

Only when he heard the ring tone did he smile to himself.
Captain Benny Griessel, rehabilitating alcoholic, newly divorced, and a blushing
blonde. What would the story be behind
that?

Dave Fiedler spoke Afrikaans and called Joubert '
Boetie'.
'Discount,
Boetie
?' he asked,
with astonishment.

'Jack says you
owe us.'

'No,
Boetie,
I only owe
the Receiver of Revenue, my price is my price. Ask Jack Fischer if he gives
discount.'

'What does it
cost?'

'A thousand five hundred for an IMEI
profile, 600 for a trace.'

'So that's 2,100 in total?'

'If there is only one number in the
profile. It's 600 for each number.' Joubert made notes. 'How long will it
take?'

'I can run the
trace for you today. A guy in Bloemfontein does the profile for us, I'm not
geared for that. Takes about a day and a half.'

'I'll have to
talk to my client first.'

'That's fine,
Boetie
, you know
where to find me.'

His
appointment with Tanya Flint was only for three o'clock. That gave him time to
look at the program manual, but first he wanted a cup of tea to have with his
sandwiches.

He stood up
and walked to the kitchen. As he pushed the door open, Mildred's stern voice
sounded from reception: 'Mr Joubert!'

He stopped
abruptly in his tracks.

'Would you
like something to drink, sir?'

'Tea, yes, but
I'll just make some myself.'

'No, sir, I'll have it brought to
you,' in a tone that brooked no dissent. He went across to her. 'Thank you. And
please don't call me "sir".'

He got no response.

In his office
he picked up the manual and started to read. A black woman brought his tea on a
tray, and hurried away again. He took his sandwiches from the briefcase, poured
the tea, thought about how he would hav
e been c
hatting with the
detectives in the tearoom of the

Provincial Task Team, enduring
teasing comments about his 'gourmet sarmies'.

He followed the instructions in the
manual. Fanus Delport, the financial controller, had already opened a project
file for Tanya Flint. It had a number, JF/Flint/02/10 and the first debit (.
Admin
expenses: R600).
Joubert did a quick calculation. His two hours, plus
the possible expense of R2,100 for the cellphone profile and trace brought the
total to nearly R4,000. And he had barely begun. Add the three or four more
hours that he would work on it today and it came to over 6,000.

He felt that anxiety again. At this
rate her money would run out long before he solved the case.

He would have to get moving.

To start with he drove to Virgin
Active in Table View, stopped in the parking lot. He got out, walked around his
Honda and leaned against the bonnet, arms folded. The parking area stretched
out in front of him, half full now, with the gym behind it. To the right was
the public library. Here and there people were walking to their cars. A car
guard in a luminous green vest wandered between the vehicles.

Danie Flint left the ABC depot in
Woodstock at about five o'clock on 25 November. Considering the traffic at that
time of the afternoon, he would have arrived here by six o'clock at best, still
in broad daylight - the sun only set at around eight o'clock in late November.
Flint had parked his Audi somewhere in the parking lot. According to Tanya he
hadn't gone to exercise. His sports bag was still on the back seat. Had he left
it there deliberately, just taken his keys, cellphone and wallet, got out and
walked away? Climbed into another car? Was he robbed before he could pick up
his bag? Because the Audi wasn't locked. Had he got out, been attacked, someone
grabbing cellphone, wallet and keys and running away?

Then where was Danie Flint's body?

It made no sense.

So close to the police station.

Why would he leave his car here if he
wanted to disappear?

The only other alternative was
kidnapping, but why here, so close to the long arm of the law?

Had he been involved in a fight?
Pulled the keys out of the ignition, picked up his wallet and cellphone. Got out,
banged his car door against someone else's car ... Or saw something, an
argument. What if some aggressive, steroid-driven muscle man had beaten him up,
seriously injuring him. Then Muscle Man panics, stows the body quickly in the
boot of his car.

At six o'clock in the afternoon,
bright sunshine, people coming and going?

No. Surely
someone would have seen it.

The gym bag on the seat was the thing
that bothered him. It meant something. If Danie Flint wanted to disappear, if
he did so on purpose, he would have had a use for the bag.