Dead at Daybreak

∨ Dead at Daybreak ∧

41

Mavis Petersen, the receptionist at Murder and Robbery, said that Mat Joubert was out. “He’s on leave for personal reasons because he’s getting married on Saturday,” she said in a confidential tone. “To Mrs. Margaret Wallace, an English lady. Oh, we’re so pleased for his sake. We’re not made to be alone.”

“Then I’ll have to see Nougat, Mavis,” said Van Heerden.

“That one will never get a wife,” she laughed. “The inspector is in court. He has to give evidence.” She leafed through the book in front of her. “B court.”

“Thank you, Mavis.”

“And when is the captain getting married?”

He merely shook his head as he walked away. “Good-bye, Mavis.”

“We’re not made to be alone,” he heard her calling as he went out the door.

First his mother, and now Mavis.

His mother, arranging things so that he and Hope would share a house this evening.

He drove to the city on the N1, the traffic heavy, even before peak hours. He wondered for how long the Cape roads would be adequate, checked the rearview mirror for a white truck, realized it was going to be very difficult to establish whether he was being followed, put his hand under the blanket on the passenger seat, felt the Heckler & Koch.

He hadn’t shot too badly. Tiny Mpayipheli had said in his almost accentless English, “It’ll do,” enough holes in the paper target, but it was Hope who stole the limelight. She had held the SW99 pistol in both hands, feet planted apart, the curve of earmuffs over the short hair, and pumped ten rounds at ten meters into the target, somewhat spread grouping but all the shots within the outer circle with monotonous regularity, then smiled apologetically at him, Van Heerden.

“And where did you learn to shoot?” Billy September asked her in his melodious voice.

“I did a course last year. A woman should be able to protect herself.”

“Amen,” said Billy September.

Mpayipheli took the nine millimeter from her, reloaded, put up a new target against the Port Jackson tree, and aimed from fifteen meters.

“He wants to show off a bit.”

The pistol was dwarfed in the huge hand. Ten shots. One hole in the center of the target. Then he turned to them, took off the earmuffs, and said, “Orlando said to make sure you know you’re getting the best.”

When they got back to the house, his mother had started the “Where is everyone going to sleep?” bit.

“Who is going to look after Wilna and Hope?” she’d asked.

“Schlebusch only threatened you, Ma.”

“And if he sees he can’t achieve anything here, who do you think will be next on his list?” Joan had looked at Wilna van As and Hope Beneke and said: “The two of you must sleep here as well. Until this thing is over.”

“My house is safe,” Hope had said with no conviction.

“Nonsense, you’re all alone.”

“She’s a very good shot,” was Mpayipheli’s contribution.

“I won’t hear of it. There’s room enough here for Carolina and Wilna and the two of you. Hope can sleep at Zet’s house. There’s room.”

He had opened his mouth to say something, to object – he didn’t trust his mother’s motives – but she didn’t give him a chance. “There’s a madman out there and you can’t afford to take chances,” his mother had said in her effective, organizing mode, unstoppable, adamant.

“I must go,” he’d said. “There’s work to do.”

For five years the only women in his life had been a few divorcées, bewildered, broken partners in bed, picked up in Table View pubs for a night of physical relief – when he was sober enough, when he could scrape together enough energy and courage to complete the ritual. What was his average? Once a year? Perhaps twice when his body screamed at him and the hormones took over in automatic gear. And now there was a different one in his house every night.

Good material for a situation comedy. He and Hope and Kara-An. The Three Stooges.

It wasn’t Hope. It was just…his house was his sanctuary.

He looked for parking at the magistrate’s court. There was none. He had to park on the Parade and walk, through the clothing district. He hadn’t been there for a long time, had forgotten the hodgepodge, the colors and smells, the busy sidewalks.

Hope in his house. Discomfort in his stomach. It wasn’t going to work.

♦

O’Grady stood outside the courtroom, in the passage, talking to other detectives, a closed circle, a close brotherhood. He stood on one side and waited, no longer part of it, until Nougat saw him.

“What do you want?” Still unforgiving.

“To share information, Nougat.” But he had to suppress his reaction to the fat man’s tone of voice.

O’Grady’s little eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What do you have?”

He took the envelope out of his jacket pocket. “This is the guy.”

“Schlebusch?”

O’Grady took the photo carefully, by its edge, looked at it.

“Mean mother.”

“Yes.”

Suddenly saw the light. “You’re going to the newspapers again.”

“Yes. And I wanted to warn you.”

O’Grady shook his head. “Should have done that on Sunday.” He looked at the photo again. “This dates from 1976?”

“Yes.”

“There is something you can do, Van Heerden, that would work nicely. And the newspapers will love it.”

“What?”

Nougat took a cell phone out of the big folds of his jacket. “Let me make a call,” he said. “And what I like most about it is that it will drive Military Intelligence nuts.”

He dialed a number, put the cell phone against his ear.

“Mat Joubert tried to call you. He had some information. I don’t know what it was, but there was no answer on that hotline of yours.” Then someone replied on the other end of the cellular network. “Hi, may I speak to Russell Marshall, please.”

♦

He found the place easily – on Roeland Street, a modern two-story office complex opposite the State Archives on Drury Lane. He recognized the logo of a brain with a fuse stuck in it that O’Grady had described. He asked for Russell Marshall at reception and a few seconds later the apparition appeared, a tall, thin man, aged eighteen or nineteen, barefoot, hair down to the shoulders, a straggly growth on the chin, and more earrings per square centimeter than a collection of Goths.

“Are you the private detective?”

“Van Heerden,” extending his hand.

“Russell. Where’s the photo?” Keen, enthusiastic.

He took out the envelope, slid out the photo, handed it over.

“Mmmmm…”

“Can you do something?”

“We can do anything. Come through.”

He followed the man to a large area where ten or fifteen people were working on computers, all young, all…different.

“This is the studio.”

“What do you do here?”

“Oh, news media, Internet, Web. CD-ROM. You know.”

He didn’t know. “No.”

“Aren’t you on the Internet?”

“I don’t even have M-Net. But my mother has.”

Marshall smiled. “Ah,” he said. “A dinosaur. We don’t get many here.” He put the photo on the glass surface of a piece of equipment. “First we’re going to scan the photo. Sit down. Shift all that stuff to the floor so that you can see the screen.”

Marshall sat behind the keyboard of the computer. “This is the Apple Power Mac G4 with the new Velocity Engine,” he said with a tone of awe, and looked at Van Heerden for a reaction. There was none. “You don’t even have a computer.”

“No.”

Marshall tossed his hair over his shoulder in despair.

“Do you know anything about cars?”

“A little.”

“If computers were cars, this would be a cross between a Ferrari and a Rolls.”

“Oh.”

“Know anything about aircraft?”

“A little.”

“If computers were fighter planes, this would be a cross between a stealth bomber and an F-16.”

“I think I understand.”

“State of the art.”

He nodded.

“Cutting edge, my mate, cutting edge, mother of all – ”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

The photograph appeared on the screen of the Rolls/ Ferrari/ B-2/ F-16/ G4.

“Fine. Just get the levels right, get Adobe Photoshop going with every plug-in ever designed by man…”

“Cutting edge,” said Van Heerden.

“State of the art.” Marshall smiled. “You learn fast. The photo is a bit old. Repair the color balance, like this. Nougat said you want to make the guy a little older.”

“More or less forty to forty-five. And long hair. Long and blond, down to his shoulders.”

“Fatter? Thinner?”

“About the same. Not fatter but…bigger.”

“Fuller?”

“Fuller. Sturdier.”

“Fine. First the age. Here, around the eyes…” He moved a mouse with unbelievable dexterity, chose the applicable area on the screen, clicked here, clicked there. “We’ll give him a couple of wrinkles, just get the right color mix. He’s very pale…” Small lines drawn like rays of the sun at the edge of the eyes. “And here, around the mouth.” More movements with mouse and cursor. “And then the face, a little jowlier around the chin. It could take a little time. The skin color and the shadows have to be right. No, that’s wrong. Let’s try…that’s better, just a little, ah, how about that? What do you think – wait, let me zoom in, it’s too far. What does he look like now?”

Bushy Schlebusch, older, sturdier, not quite a bull’s-eye, more of an impression. He looked for a face that would match the voice: You have a mother, policeman. Do you hear me? You have a mother.

“I think the face is too fat.”

“Okay. Let’s try this.”

“Hi.” He heard the voice behind him, turned. Small, slender, brown-haired girl.

A multitude of earrings.

“We’re busy, Charmaine,” Marshall said.

She ignored him. “I’m Charmaine.”

“Van Heerden.”

“Your jacket. It’s so…so retro. Don’t you want to sell it?”

He looked at his jacket. “Retro?”

“Y-e-e-e-s.” With feeling.

“Charmaine!”

“If you ever want to sell it…” She turned away, unwillingly, walked to a desk.

“What does it look like?”

Schlebusch’s face filled the whole screen, the lip still curled in derision, the eyes, older, still…

“It’s better.”

“Who is this dude?”

“A murderer.”

“Oh, cool,” said Marshall. “Now for the hair. It’s going to take a little longer.”

♦

“Jeez,” said the night editor of Die Burger when he looked at the photographs. “You should’ve told us earlier. The front page is full. So is page three.”

“Can’t we move the Chris Barnard story?” the crime reporter asked.

“Lord, no. His new girlfriend is a scoop and the posters are carrying the story.”

“And the Price Line pic?”

“The chief will kill me.”

“If we have a Price Line kicker on the front page and move the photo inside?”

The night editor scratched his beard. “Hell…” He looked at Van Heerden. “Can’t we put it on hold for Friday’s edition?”

“I…” He couldn’t afford to lose another day. “Maybe it’s time for me to tell you about the will.”

“What will?” they asked in an inquisitive chorus.

♦

He only got away after nine. It was cold outside the NasPers building but windless, cloudless, quiet, the city calm on a Tuesday evening, and he hesitated before starting the truck, not keen on going home, not keen on doing what he had to do.

But he would have to. Switched on the ignition, drove through the city toward the mountain, the traffic lights unsynchronized at that time of night, every red light an avenue of escape until he stopped in front of the large house and saw lights burning. He got out, locked the pickup, walked up the drive, climbed the steps, heard the rock music. Did she have guests? Pressed the bell, didn’t hear it ring. Waited.

He saw a shadow behind the spy hole before the door opened. Young man, tight pants, white shirt unbuttoned to the navel, sweat on the pale torso, pupils too small. “Hey,” too loudly.

“I’m looking for Kara-An.”

“Come in.” Tight jeans turned, dancing, leaving the door as it was. Van Heerden closed it, followed him, the music louder and louder, and found them in the living room, lines of cocaine on the glass of the coffee table. Kara-An dancing, wearing only a T-shirt, two more young women, jeans, and two more men, all of them dancing. He stood in the doorway – a woman danced past, leather trousers, pretty, and a man, overweight, laughed at him until Kara-An saw him. She didn’t stop dancing. “Help yourself,” she said, waving toward the coffee table.

For a moment he stood there, indecisively, then turned, walked back to the front door, down the steps to his mother’s faded pickup, got in, switched on the ignition, and looked back at the big veranda across the street for a moment. Kara-An stood in the doorway, etched against the light, her hand lifted in farewell. He drove away.

He wanted to tell her that they were not the same.

And perhaps to ask her where her pain came from.

He shook his head at himself.

He heard the Violin Concerto no. 1 before he even opened the front door.

Hope sat in his chair with a mug of coffee, in her dressing gown and slippers, the couch made up as a bed, the light from the kitchen casting a soft glow over her.

“Hi,” she said. “Forgive me, but I’ve made myself at home.”

“That’s fine. But I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“You’re too tall for the couch. And I’m intruding.”

“You’re not.”

“Of course I’m intruding. Your house, your privacy, your routine…”

He put the Heckler & Koch on the kitchen table, switched on the kettle, saw the flowers. She had picked an enormous bunch of flowers from his mother’s garden and put them in a vase on his kitchen counter.

“No problem.”

“I still think it wasn’t necessary, but your mother…”

“She can be too much.”

While he made coffee, he told her about the photograph, its aging by Russell Marshall, his struggle with Die Burger – until the story about the will became the decisive factor.

“Someone is going to recognize Schlebusch. We’re going to find him.”

“If he doesn’t find us first.”

“We’re ready for him.”

They drank their coffee.

“Hope,” he said, “if I said your dressing gown is retro, what does it mean?”

♦

She lay on the couch in the dark, warm under the blankets, comfortable. She listened to the sounds of Van Heerden in the bathroom, involuntarily wondering what his body looked like under the shower. Her own body was restless, a thief in the night, a response, a tingling that suffused her.

She smiled at herself. Everything was still in working order.

She lay listening to him until the last light went out.