Dead at Daybreak

∨ Dead at Daybreak ∧

27

CAPE TOWN – A private investigation into the cold-blooded murder of a Tygerberg businessman nine months ago has made a breakthrough that can open a whole network of criminal activities – but also raises new questions about the efficiency of the SAPS.

A large amount of American dollars, forged identity documents, and a criminal trail that leads as far back as the eighties are some of the most important revelations made by a former detective of the Murder and Robbery Unit in Cape Town, investigating the death of the late “Johannes Jacobus Smit” of Moreletta Street in Durbanville.

The names of those involved, which include the murderer, will shortly be handed to the authorities.

Mr. Smit (on the right) was tortured in his house last year and “executed” with a single shot from an M16 attack rifle after which the specially designed built-in safe in the house was ransacked. The contents of the safe weren’t known then, but strong suspicion exists today that it contained, in part, foreign currency.

The private investigation was launched by the deceased’s business partner, Ms. Wilna van As, and her attorney, Ms. Hope Beneke. Ms. van As and the deceased lived together.

“It has come to light that the deceased lived under a false name for the past fifteen years and was in possession of a professionally forged identity document,” said Ms. Beneke.

“We have a strong suspicion about the origin of the dollars and are following up new clues. There is enough reason to believe that Smit’s murder can be connected with a crime that occurred some fifteen years ago. A final breakthrough is expected within days.”

Anyone who has additional information regarding the murder of Smit or the events that preceded it can call a special toll-free number: 0800-3535-3555. Ms. Beneke gave an assurance that all information would be regarded as highly confidential and that anonymity would be strictly preserved.

Mr. Z. van Heerden, a former captain in the SAPS, was hesitant to make any comment about the way the police handled the original dossier, which yielded nothing.

“We had more time and sources available to us in our attempt to unravel the case. The police work under enormous pressure and one cannot compare the two investigations,” said Van Heerden.

He refused to comment on questions such as why a photograph of the deceased hadn’t been handed to the media after the murder, why his identity document wasn’t subjected to forensic tests, and why evidence pertaining to the large amount of American dollars hadn’t been pursued.

The SAPS Murder and Robbery Unit wasn’t available for comment at the time of going to press.

“I still don’t like the political angle,” said Van Heerden.

“It gives the story credibility,” said Groenewald, the crime reporter. The night editor, sitting behind his desk, nodded in agreement. “And your back is covered.”

“You didn’t even phone them for comment.”

“They’ll issue a statement tomorrow in any case. Which puts flesh on the bare bones of the story – and gets you more publicity.”

“And it’ll appear in Beeld as well?” Hope asked, her voice soft.

“They don’t have space on page one. The Gauteng premier is in hot water again. But it’ll be on five or seven. Volksblad will let us know, but it looks like page one. Fu – ahh…very little happens in the Free State.”

“I want to thank you for your help,” Hope said to the night editor. “It could assist in righting a grave injustice.”

“Don’t thank me, thank Kara-An. She was very persuasive.” He smiled across the room at Kara-An, who sat on a small couch against the wall, her legs drawn up.

She smiled back. “I help where I can,” she said. “Especially when it can improve a woman’s lot.”

♦

They went down in the lift in silence, Van Heerden and Hope. He was aware of the change in her. After he had been to Kara-An’s home, he had telephoned Hope from the newspaper’s offices in the NasPers Center, told her they were waiting for her, he and Kara-An and Groenewald, that the story would run on the following day, and she said she was coming, without any enthusiasm. He and the crime reporter had worked on the copy, four, five, six versions, before they went to the night editor. Hope had negotiated with Telkom for the toll-free number, but she was different, withdrawn, her body language negative, and she didn’t look at Kara-An.

There was tension in the room.

In the entrance to the tower block they hesitated. It was raining, dark gusts of water sweeping across the street outside.

“What’s wrong, Hope?”

She looked uncomprehendingly at him.

“What’s with you?”

“I still think we should offer a reward.”

They had spoken about it earlier. He had resisted the idea. A reward drew even more crazies who wanted to accuse their husbands and wives, mothers-in-law, and stepfathers.

“Oh,” he said.

He knew she was lying.

♦

She didn’t want to go running. She fell down on the couch, listened to the rain against the window, felt the chill in the room.

What’s with you?

He had sold his soul to Kara-An.

Did she want his soul?

No. But she was getting into his head, discovering the real person behind all the aggression and the useless fighting and the swearing. And now he was back behind all the barriers and she just couldn’t see herself starting again.

She got up. She must run. Things would start happening the next day and she didn’t know when there would be another opportunity to exercise.

She didn’t feel like it.

♦

In the glass measuring jug, he mixed the balsamic vinegar, the olive oil, the lemon juice, the finely chopped garlic (as always, he loved the aroma) and chilies, cumin, coriander, and a bay leaf. He ground black pepper into it.

Pavarotti, as Rigoletto, was singing:

Softly, your tears are useless,

Now you are certain that he lied.

Softly and let it be my task

To take revenge.

Soon. And deadly.

I’ll kill him.

He was hungry. And felt like food. He could taste the dish in his mouth, visualize the thick brown gravy. He had bought fresh bread to dip into the sauce when the chicken livers had been eaten.

He rinsed the livers, carefully cut out the membranes.

Hope. And Kara-An.

He put the livers in the marinade, took an onion out of the refrigerator, peeled and chopped it. The tears ran.

In Good Housekeeping he had read that if onions were kept in the refrigerator they wouldn’t affect the eyes when peeled. It didn’t always work.

Hope and Kara-An. The Laurel and Hardy of the female world.

Kara-An, the perverse.

It didn’t turn him on.

It was a first for him. A woman who wanted to be hurt.

Her intensity. Her beauty. The gods’ sense of humor. Give her everything. A body, Lord, that body, he had felt her, not too soft, not too firm, the breasts against his chest, her hips grinding into him.

Saucepan on the stove, melt butter in it.

A face in which each line was in perfect harmony with the other – a false front, like the buildings in Wild West movies, a beautiful optical illusion because behind the skin and tissue and muscles and the thick head of hair, under the bone of the skull, lay the gray matter, the synapses with their faulty wiring.

What had happened? How had Kara-An the child changed into a woman for whom physical pain, a scene in which two men knocked each other about, brought her to a high, ecstatic plateau?

Money. Plus beauty and prominent parents. And intelligence. That would do it. Would make life easy, would quickly change the simple pleasures into the boring, would make the appetite for stimulation ever stronger. Eventually wanting the forbidden, the strange, the deviant.

But it didn’t turn him on.

Onions in the butter, lower the flame so that they sautéed slowly.

And Hope? Good, faithful Hope, the bearer of the flame of justice.

Rigoletto:

Heavenly Father! She was caught

In the execution of my revenge.

Dearest angel! Look at me.

Listen to me!

The flame no longer burned so brightly. And it bothered him.

Fuck alone knew why.

He turned off the gas.

The chicken livers had to marinate. Then he would brown them with the onion, add the tomato paste, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, and the marinade, eventually the tot of brandy.

And eat.

When last had he been so hungry? Had such an appetite?

He would take his mother a bowlful.

Peace offering.

He walked to an armchair, sat down, closed his eyes.

Let the little livers absorb the flavors.

He listened to the music.

He would eat in a while.

Tomorrow things would start happening.

He gave a deep sigh.