Trackers (62 page)

He sat with her in the kitchen while
she made supper and told her about his day.

'Is she pretty?' was the first thing
she asked, unashamedly jealous, always had been, thanks to the heartbreak of
her first marriage.

'No,' he said. 'But she's brave. And
a Nissan.'

He had to explain that.

'And what am I?'

'My Mercedes.' That made her laugh.

'And how was the office?'

He shrugged his big shoulders. 'It's
very different. Jack is ... serious about money. But I suppose he has to be.
And it's all very formal.'

'You'll get used to it.'

'I will. What about your buyers? How
did it go?'

'They want to think about it.'

He exercised for forty minutes on the
rowing machine on the back verandah beside the swimming pool, showered and
poured them each a glass of red wine for dinner - pasta with Cajun chicken
pieces, feta and sun-dried tomatoes. She told him about her visit to her
daughter Michele, her plans to spend most of tomorrow in Constantia.

He took Tanya Flint's files and sat
next to Margaret in the television room while she watched
Antiques
Roadshow
and
Master Chef Goes Large
on the BBC
Lifestyle channel. She put her hand on his leg. He worked through the financial
and cellphone records.

Later she turned off the television
and asked: 'Anything?'

He put the papers down on the couch
beside him. 'No ... I don't know. There is some sort of a pattern here, but
nothing that will tell us what happened to him ... The trouble is, there is
nothing typical in his disappearance. The vast majority of adult men who
disappear between work and home, do so as a result of robbery. His car is
hijacked, he is forced to reveal his PIN number, they take his bank card, steal
what they can, let him go, or kill him. His body is found, the car a day or two
later, somewhere ... But this one. He had a credit card in his wallet, but
there are no transactions after his disappearance. The gym bag, just left
there. And the car, neatly parked ...'

'Mmm,' she said.

'The other possibility is that he
wanted to disappear. But then there is always a trail. Either calls to another
woman, preparations made,

money spent. Unless he is very
clever, and I don't think Danie ... And why would he just leave his bag? And
his car, his biggest asset...'

'What sort of pattern did you find?'

'They ... It's not a big thing. You
have to look closely, but ... He drives an Audi that cost a quarter of a
million, she drives a little Citi Golf. And the bank statements ... If you
ignore the usual stuff, the water and lights, the groceries, clothes, CDs ... I
get the impression that she spoiled him. Or tried to keep him happy ...'

He sat deep in thought and then
realised Margaret was watching him with a gentle smile and her unmatched eyes
shining.

'What?' he asked.

'I can actually hear the gears
humming,' she said, and squeezed his leg gently. 'I love it when you go into
detective mode.'

'Those are not gears humming, those
are gears seizing.'

'Nonsense. You'll figure it out. You
always do.'

'The gears are rusty.'

Her hand slid up higher on his leg.
'Is that all that's rusty?' She rolled the 'r'. It sounded sexy.

He put his arm around his wife's
shoulders. 'Mrs Joubert, I could arrest you for indecency.'

'But you're a Private Eye ...'

'Oh, no, I am a licensed Senior
Consultant: Forensic Investigations. With a business card.'

'Oh, my goodness ... And if I resist
arrest?'

'Then I will have to get physical,'
and he pulled her closer.

'Take out your big trungeon?' she
whispered.

'Truncheon,' he corrected her.

'It's not how you spell it, it's how
you use it...'

'Madam,' he said sternly, 'you leave
me no choice ...'

'I know,' she said in a whisper and
leaned softly against him, her mouth ready.

Then he kissed her.

At half past eleven that night, with
her body lying soft and warm against his, breathing deep, the gears in his head
did indeed slowly begin to turn.

It wasn't in the parking lot of
Virgin Active. Whatever happened to

Danie Flint happened somewhere else.
And then they parked his car there.

Which meant they knew his routine.
They knew him.

Which meant he would have to check
the Audi for fingerprints.

Which meant he would have to dig out his murder kit. He'd
clean forgotten, in the heat of his arrest of Mrs Margaret Joubert.

The meeting wasn't what he expected.

'Sir, remember, it's Morning Parade,'
Mildred said when Joubert came in. He expected a recreation of the tradition of
the old Murder and Robbery Squad, when that word meant a brainstorming session,
detectives sharing their dossiers with the commanding officer and colleagues,
looking for guidance, constructive criticism, and new ideas.

Now he sat around the table with the
firm's five other investigators, while senior financial controller Fanus
Delport ran the agenda, and Jack listened attentively. Each investigator
reported in turn about the number of hours he had 'booked' the previous week,
and gave projections of potential earnings in the coming week.

Joubert knew three of them as former
colleagues. Willem Erlank worked with him a year ago on the Provincial Task
Team. The other two, Fromer and Jonck, came from the Northwest and Gauteng respectively,
but they were unmistakably former Members of the Service, middle-aged, big,
weather-beaten, slightly overweight. He would have been like that too, if it
weren't for Margaret's care.

They were well prepared, each made
broad detailed projections, with deep voices and solemn faces.

He made some hurried sums while the
others spoke, added up his hours, decided to leave out his time studying the
documents last night, so he could save Tanya Flint some money. She had done
that work herself, after all. Then he considered his options for the next few
days, made a rough estimate, wondering to himself how it was possible to say
how many hours you were going to need to solve a case.

'Matt, how do things stand with the
Flint dossier?' Delport asked him finally.

'Five hours yesterday,' he said.
'Plus the IMEI profile, which we expect this afternoon, then we will decide
whether to plot the cell numbers.'

'I see you haven't logged your
kilometres on the system yet.'

He had forgotten travelling expenses.
'I will do it this morning,' he said, embarrassed.

'No problem, we all had to learn the
ropes. How many hours do you think there are in this case?'

Joubert referred to his notes. 'It's
hard to say ... Maybe another thirty-six.'

Delport and Fischer nodded happily.

'I want to test her husband's car for
fingerprints,' Joubert said. 'Do we have a contact for identification, if I
find something?'

'Excellent, excellent,' said Jack
Fischer. 'But we use a private guy to lift the prints. He was with Forensics'
lab, but now he works freelance, offers the whole package. He has a pipeline to
the SAPS, will get the result within twenty-four hours. Nortier ...'

'Cordier,' Fanus Delport corrected
him. 'He's on the database.'

He could have done it himself,
Joubert thought, he might have asked Bennie Griessel if he could put the prints
in the system, it would have saved money. 'Jack, Tanya Flint only has 30,000
...'

Fischer rubbed a hand across his
moustache and smiled. 'His first case,' he said, and the others laughed good-naturedly.

'Mat, that's what they all say. It's
a
game.
If she needs more, she will find
it... Right, gentlemen, I have a Mr Benn ...'

'Bell,' Delport set him straight
again.

'That's him. Bell, Nigerians took him
for one point four million with a four-one-nine scam. Who feels like boosting
his bonus a bit?'

As he recorded his kilometres on the
computer system, he thought how it wasn't a game to Tanya Flint. He'd seen her
financial position. This extreme focus on money made him uncomfortable. He
would have to sit down with Jack and tell him how he felt. But first he must
attend to his responsibilities.

He phoned Tanya. She sounded tired.
'I talked to Mr Eckhardt, he said you can go through Danie's office any time,
they'll do everything they can to help, we have full access. You must just
arrange it with Neville.'

Joubert thanked her, then told her of
his plan to test the Audi for fingerprints.

'How much will it cost?'

'I'll find out and get back to you.'

'Do you think it's necessary?
Shouldn't we wait for the cellphone's plot?'

'That might be a good idea.'

After he had rung off, he phoned
Jannie Cordier, the forensic technician, explaining who he was and what he
wanted.

'I'm full today, but I can fit you in
this evening.' A high, excitable voice.

'What will it cost?' Joubert asked.

'Do you want the car done inside and
out?'

'Please.'

'One five, plus 600 for every set of
prints you want identified.'

'I'll let you know.'

Then he made an appointment for 12.00
with Neville Philander at the Atlantic Bus Company depot, reached for the list
of phone numbers that Tanya Flint had compiled, and began phoning her husband's
friends. He asked the same questions, over and over: did Danie behave strangely
in the weeks before he disappeared? Did he mention any problems, in his work,
his marriage? Did he have enemies? Was he involved in any arguments or fights?
Did he have any reason to disappear? And the answers, offered enthusiastically
and helpfully, were consistent. Danie was 'a lovely person'. Danie was happy,
cheerful, always the same. Loyal, everyone's friend. Danie was a 'party
animal', 'the life of the party', he lived for his wife and his work and to
party, party, party.

When he had dealt with the last call,
he leaned back in his chair and pondered the phenomenon of the sanctification
of the victim. It was a common syndrome, driven by the guilt of surviving, and
the universal never-speak-ill-of-the-dead piety that so bedevilled a
policeman's work, as it papered over all the cracks. And there always were
cracks.

At eleven he phoned Mrs Gusti Flint,
Danie's mother, to ask whether he could talk to her. 'You are very welcome,'
she said. 'I'm here all day,' and she gave him an address in Panorama.

In Neville Philander's office, with a
telephone ringing and the air conditioner going full blast, Mat Joubert asked
if he could see the records of all the bus drivers that Danie Flint had fired
between 1 September and 25 November.

'Jirre,'
said
Philander, standing beside his desk.

'Sorry to bother you,' said Joubert.

'Neville,' shouted the woman's voice
down the corridor.

'Just a minute,' Philander shouted
back, looking at his phone as though it were a snake. He said to Joubert: 'Do
me a favour: personnel records are at head office, if I start
sukkeling
to get it
now, my day will be buggered. Don't you wanna go have a look, while you've got
Mr Eckhard's blessing?'

'Of course. Where is the head
office?'

'Neville!'

'Santasha, please! It's in Epping
Industria, Hewett Street, thanks man. Come on, I'll show you where Danie's
cubicle was.'