Dead Before Dying

At eleven-fifteen they decided to wait for Basie Louw to return after he had traced Ingrid Johanna Coetzee.

Perhaps the new day would bring a new perspective.

Joubert drove home, tired in body and soul, hungry, thirsty. The events of the day ran through his head.

A car was parked at his gate.

He stopped in front of the garage, got out, and walked to the car. A BMW, he saw by the light of the streetlamp.

A movement on his veranda.

His hand reached for his service pistol, instinct took over. The Z88 was in his hand, adrenaline pumped, the tiredness was gone, the mind clear.

“You bastard.”

He recognized the voice.

Margaret Wallace walked purposefully toward him, taking no notice of the pistol. “You bastard.”

He walked to meet her. His mind was having trouble fitting her into the scheme of things. He saw she wasn'’t armed. Then she was on him, hitting his chest with both hands.

“You never told me.” She hit him again. He retreated, dumbfounded, the firearm in the way when he wanted to ward off her blows. Her hands were clenched, clumsy against his chest. “You never told me, you bastard.”

“What . . .” he said and tried to catch her hands, but they hammered on his chest. He saw her contorted face, the dignity gone, filled with hate and pain.

“I had a right to know. Who are you to keep it from me? Who are you?”

He managed to catch her right hand, then her left. “What are you talking about?”

“You know, you bastard.” She struggled to free herself, bit the hand holding hers. He dropped her hands with a cry of pain, tried to get away from her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The rest of the world does. The rest of the world knows. You tell the newspapers but you don’t tell me. What kind of a man are you?”

She hit him again. A blow caught him on the lip and he felt the warm blood running into his mouth.

“Please,” he said, a cry that stopped her. “Just tell me what you’re talking about.”

“You knew Jimmy was with another woman,” she said, and then she cried, her fists in front of her as if she wanted to defend herself. “You knew. You. You with your sad story of your wife. To think I felt sorry for you, you bastard. To think I felt pity for you. You don’t deserve it. What kind of a man are you?” Her fists dropped, hopelessly, exhausted. Her pain overwhelmed the words.

“I . . . I . . .”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I . . .”

“Why did you have to tell the newspapers?”

“I didn't tell the . . .”

“Don’t lie to me, you bastard.” She came at him again.

He yelled at her: “I didn't tell the newspapers. It was someone else, dammit. I didn't tell you because . . . because . . .” Jesus! Because he knew what it felt like and he had been sorry for her in her yellow pinafore and her grief. She didn't know what it was like— the messenger of Death, the bringer of the bad news . . .

“Because I didn't want to hurt you . . . more.”

“Hurt me? You didn't want to hurt me? And now? Now I’m

not

hurt, you stupid bastard? Do you know what it feels like? Do you know?” They were standing on the lawn, where the dew sparkled like diamonds in the streetlight. His house was dark, the street quiet. Her voice carried.

“Yes, I know,” he said softly.

“Rubbish,” she said with renewed anger.

“I know.” Softly, so softly.

“Rubbish, you bastard. You don’t know. You can’t know.”

It wasn'’t the long day, the exhaustion and his raw nerves after hope and the severe reprimand of the Brigadier and the murder and his painful session with Hanna Nortier. It was the yearning inside him to let it all out, twenty-six months’ worth of a witches’ brew that wanted to boil over, the pleading of his soul to be cleansed, to lance the abscess, filled with the pus that was straining against the septic skin. He made a cut with the scalpel with a light-headedness, an emotion between anger and panic, between relief and fear.

“I know!” he yelled. “I know.” He walked over to her, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. “I know, just as you do. More, much more. I know it all.” He leaned toward her, wanted to snarl at her, wanted to punish her. “I know it. I wanted to keep it from you. Did you say good-bye? When your husband left that morning. Did you say good-bye? I didn't. I never even said good-bye. She was simply gone. I woke up and she was gone. Simply gone.”

He heard his words echoing against the wall of his house, then heard only his breathing, too fast, in, out, gasping, and he saw ahead of him the abyss that he would have to cross now. He saw its deep darkness and he was frightened. God, he had to get across it like a high-wire artist, and there was no safety net. The fear began in a small way, somewhere in his belly, and then it increased, hugely. It drove him back. He closed his eyes. He knew his hands were shaking but he put out a tentative foot and felt for the wire that stretched ahead of him. He couldn't turn back now.

“She was just gone.” His voice was low but he knew she could hear the fear.

Breathe.

“Sometimes in the middle of the night I would reach out to touch her shoulder or her hip. It was always so warm.”

He sighed deeply.

“It was my . . . my . . . haven in the dark, to know that she was there. She could fall asleep so easily. I never knew. She worked for the drug squad. SANAB. I asked her what she did for them. Then she laughed and said she was undercover. But at what? She wasn'’t allowed to tell. Not even me. And then she slept like a child with a harmless secret. Maybe there was something I missed. If I’d paid more attention. If I’d only asked more questions, if I wasn'’t so busy scheming myself and hadn't been so deeply impressed with my own search.”

His derisory laugh was aimed at himself, a sob. It gave him the courage to take the next step even if the long, thin wire was swaying over the abyss.

“I thought that if I only played drug games for SANAB I would also be able to sleep. So superior. During the night, next to Lara, I tossed and turned and I was so superior.”

Margaret Wallace stretched out her hand to him, let it rest on his forearm. For a moment it was a lifebelt. Then he drew his arm away. He had to reach the other side on his own, that he knew. He suppressed the emotion, the self-pity, the weeping.

“I was so self-satisfied.” As if it explained why he didn't deserve her hand.

“It’s so strange,” he said, almost with amazement. “We only live inside our own heads. Like prisoners. Even if our eyes look outward, we live just here, inside this bony skull. We actually know nothing. We live with other people, every day, and we think we know because we can see. And we think they know, because they can see. But nobody knows. I was so satisfied, in my own head, with my own task, so important. So clean.”

He grimaced in the dark but he didn't realize it. His hands were still shaking, hanging next to his body, his eyes were still closed.

“That’s the problem, when you can’t get out of your own head. You think you’re so clean. Because Silva was so dirty. We think in terms of black and white. Silva was a killer, dirty and black as sin. And I was the clean, white light of justice. And they encouraged me. Get him. They made me even cleaner. Get Silva for the girls, the two women he had thrown away on a rubbish tip like so much human garbage. Get him for the cop of Murder and Robbery with the hole in the forehead. Get him for the drugs, for his invulnerability, for his dirty, black soul.”

Joubert looked back and saw that he had made progress on the thin wire.

He took a longer step.

“It’s against the law to plant microphones. We’re not allowed to. But if you’re clean, you have power. I rented the stuff in Voortrekker Road from the big private eye with the red face and I drove to Clifton and I waited, that morning, until it was safe. Such a beautiful morning, without wind or cloud, in Silva’s flat, which overlooked the sea. There was a telescope on the balcony. Everything was so white. And expensive. I was scared, I have to admit. I hurried. You make comparisons while you plant the small microphones. You think about where you live and you look at the stuff that money can buy. One at the telescope, one in the small bar, one near the bed, one in the telephone. And two hundred fifty rand of my own money for the supervisor of the building to put the receiver and the recorder in the cellar’s electricity box.”

He didn't look ahead because he knew instinctively that the wire was going to sway, the cable ahead of him become threadlike and impassable, and now he wanted to turn back. He walked faster, killed his fear with words.

“Lara didn't come home that night. I phoned SANAB. They said she was working. What kind of work? ‘You know we can’t tell you.’ It’s my wife. ‘She’s undercover, Joubert. You know how it works.’ Then I walked through the house and I smelled her, saw the magazines in the living room and in front of her bed. And I thought about my scheming, about the microphones and the recorder, and I wondered if the little tape was turning. I slept badly— it was a long night and a long morning. Then I drove to Clifton again and I walked down the stairs and in the cellar it was dark.”

He wanted to shout because the wire below him shook, swung. He wanted to fall. He saw the abyss, below him now— his arms swung and grabbed for balance, his whole body was shaking. He no longer knew whether he was speaking or whether someone could hear him. All he had to do was finish.

He had unlocked the electricity cupboard in the dark, put on the earphones, and wound the tape back. PLAY. He leaned his head against the metal edge of the cupboard and he heard the noises on the tape. His head wanted to create images of it— he was the white light of justice. Silva was black. He heard a door opening, closing.

So, what do you think?

Silva.

It’s lovely. What music do you have?

He jerked upright, his head banging against the ridge of the electricity cupboard. God, it was Lara. Was it?

What would you like to hear?

Rhythm.

Shuffling, rock music, earsplittingly loud, inaudible voices, music. Minutes, minutes, minutes passed. The tension in his shoulders and neck. What was happening up there? He couldn't hear. Lara laughing between two short cuts, carefree. Silva,

ooh baby,

Lara laughing, music. He fast-forwarded the tape, small bits at a time, the lyrics, the rhythm his guide, silence between cuts. Twenty, thirty minutes later on the tape: the music changed, slower, softer. He played the tape back, found the cutoff point of the rock music: sudden, deadly silence, a shuffle. Ice tinkling in a glass. Silva

uh,

slow music, louder, then softer, silence, creak, he knew it, bed, Silva’s bed, big bed, white,

great body, baby, you can dance but can you love,

ice in the glass, tink, tink,

don’t drink too much baby, I want those tits show me more show it all, baby.

Watch me.

His Lara, he saw his Lara, he knew his Lara, knew the huskiness of her voice, the slurring of her tongue. He wanted to stop her. Not for him, my Lara, not for him.

Jesus, baby, your body, hot bod get that out, baby, yes, yes, come here . . .

Lara laughing:

There’s lots of time.

Silva:

Now, baby, no, now, c’mon, baby.

Lara’s laugh. Silence. The bed, the bed sounds, sounds.

Ah, good, take it, yes, take it, jeez, good, now, uhm, jeez, baby, uhm, uhm, jeez, you’re alive, baby, uhm.

It was his, his, his noises, his Lara, his Lara. He wanted to tear off the earphones, run up the stairs, stop it. But this was last night, not now. The voices on the tape.

Uhm, uhm, uhm.

His cell, his icy cell.

Yes, move me, yes ride me, yes, baby, jeezus, uhm, jeezus, uhm, jeezus, yes, baby, I’m there, I’m there, oh, uhm, come, baby, come baby, uhm, uhm.

Faster and faster. His Lara, he knew his Lara, knew her, knew her, knew her. The music had stopped. Only the breathing remained— slower, slower, quiet, even, quiet. Sounds, the noise of the bed. Silence. A crackling noise.

. . . are you going?

Sleep.

Come back.

In a moment.

What are you doing?

An exclamation, worried.

Checking something out.

Silence.

Let’s have a look.

What are you doing . . . That’s mine.

Frightened. His Lara.

What have we here?

The bed creaked sharply.

That’s mine.

His Lara.

It was too easy, baby. I knew it was too easy.

Dully, the sound of Silva’s fist.

Thud!

Ah.

His Lara. A small sound.

Ah.

You bitch, you were going to shoot me, you think I’m stupid, bitch, who do you work for, you think I’m stupid? It was too easy, never trust an easy fuck, baby, you’re going to die.

You’re crazy, Silva, I always carry it with me, you know what the world is like, Silva, please.

Never trust an easy fuck, my mother taught me, you’re a plant, baby. You think I’m stupid, you came on too strong, you think if I drink I’m stupid, baby? Who sent you?

You’re mad, Silva, I don’t know why you, ah . . .

I’m going to fucking kill you, bitch, who sent you, not that it matters, I’m sending you back, look at me, baby, you’ve fucked your last fuck, look at me . . .

No, Silva, please . . .

. . . look at me . . .

. . . please, please . . .

The shot tore through him, tore through him, tore through his flesh and his blood and his soul and tumbled him down, his life, his life was falling, tumbling, he, down, with all the broken pieces, the remains, tape clicking, the yellow light dead, the tape turning,

shirrrrr,

back, to the beginning, his body jerked, jerked, jerked, and now he stood on the lawn and he shivered because the cold was so deep and Margaret Wallace was holding him, the tape that stopped and turned, the yellow light, a door opening, steps,

So, what do you think? It’s lovely. What music do you have?

Margaret Wallace who held him, more and more tightly to stop the spasms, shaking with him, the two of them drowning, weeping, among the shrubs in his garden.

40.

They found her at the river, at the same place as the others, and they went in and he pulled a gun and they shot him.” They were drinking his coffee— dark, strong, sweet coffee— and he looked at Margaret Wallace across the kitchen table.

“And you?” she asked.

“I don’t know, there’s a blank there. Somewhere. And then I was sitting on the beach and people were walking past and staring at me and I got up, went back to the private detective, and I threw his stuff at him and I hit him and I walked out and I kept on walking, down Voortrekker Road, and I walked home and then they came and they told me and I couldn't tell them that I knew. That was a bad part: I couldn't tell them . . . They stayed with me for the night.”

Coffee, cigarette.

“I didn't cry then. This is the first time.”

The truth of it came over him. “This is the first time I'’ve cried for her.”

So they sat in silence, in the late night, until the coffee was finished and she got up.

“The children . . .”

He nodded and saw her to her car. She looked at him but found no words. She switched on the engine and the lights, touched his hand once, and then drove down the road. He watched the rear lights disappearing and stood on the pavement, empty. The abscess had been lanced; the wound was bleeding, scarlet, clean. The blood ran in a stream, a flowing stream, through him, and he looked up at the stars, now burning brightly. He went into his house, switched off the lights, walked to his room in the dark, took off his shirt and tie, his shoes and socks and his trousers, and lay down on the bed and thought about Lara, all the doors in his head open. Lara, Lara, Lara. Until daylight glowed behind the curtains.

Then he got up, drew a deep, hot bath, got in, and waited for the cold to be driven out. He washed every inch and crevice of his big body with great seriousness, using a great deal of sudsy lather. Then he rinsed off and dried himself until his skin was red. He put on clean, freshly ironed clothes— white shirt, gray flannels, striped tie, navy blazer. He walked to the kitchen, took out brush and polish, shined his shoes, and put them on. He locked the front door, got into the car, and switched on the windshield wipers to remove the dew. He drove his usual route.

At Murder and Robbery Mavis greeted him as he walked past. He smiled vaguely, walked up the steps, down the passage to his office, sat down. Reality was unreal, slightly out of focus.

His fingers massaged his temples, rubbed his eyes.

Mauser.

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. The palms of his hands pressed against his eyes, his tired eyes. He looked for concentration, looked for focus. Basie Louw. When was he going to phone?

There was nothing more he could do. Only wait. No, he must do something. Had to do something.

Wallace, Wilson, Ferreira, MacDonald, Nienaber, Coetzee.

And Oberholzer.

Phone her parents about Coetzee, the church.

Slow, almost subconscious movements.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Oberholzer, it’s Joubert here from Murder and Robbery in the Cape.”

“Good morning.”

“I still have a few questions, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

“It’s about the Mauser murders.”

“Yes, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

“We recognized the names, the next day.”

He felt guilty. He should’ve told them.

“You must be phoning about the man yesterday. The minister.”

“Yes, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

“I looked through her letters. There’s nothing.”

“Nothing about his church?”

“No.”

Dead-end street. “Thank you, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

“It was an accident. The whole thing. We know it was an accident.”

“Yes, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

“Very well then.”

“Thank you,” he said, and then he remembered the other question that he’d tucked into his head somewhere and not asked yet. Leave it, maybe it was a dead end, too. He asked it in any case, dutifully, in passing.

“Just one more thing. Where did she work before Petrogas?”

“Sea, sea, sea.”

He didn't catch it.

“A college.”

“CCC?” Grasping.

“Cape Commercial College. They offered business courses. I don’t know whether they’re still in existence. Carrie said they were too stingy, so she left.”

Cape Commercial College. He tasted the name, wanted to slot it in somewhere, somewhere it wanted to fit, but he couldn't identify the space.

“Thank you, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

“Good-bye.” Stiff, as the whole conversation had been. They were inimical toward him, the disbeliever who wanted to change their perspective of accident and tragedy.

Cape Commercial College.

His thoughts darted in all directions looking for a connection. He said the name again, aloud, rolled his shoulders a few times to loosen the stiffness. His thoughts were a jumble, he lit a cigarette, sank back into his chair, tried to organize his thoughts. Start from the beginning. Think through Wallace, Wilson, Ferreira, MacDonald, Nienaber, Coetzee. He found nothing. He was making a mistake. He was tired. There was nothing, it was his imagination.

A bright moment of insight— it was there. Desperately he took out his notebook, paged through it. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

He got up, stretched, killed the Winston, and walked down the quiet passage, still too early for the others. He wanted to go to the tearoom for something hot and sweet— and remembered, in the passage. He halted, breath held, too frightened to hope, too scared to think. There had been certificates against the wall of James J. Wallace’s office but— idiot— he hadn't looked at them properly. He turned and hurried to his office and before he could pick up the telephone he remembered what Gail Ferreira had said about her husband, Ferdy: “He always said he had to work for himself. But he was useless. He went on a course once to learn to start his own business but nothing . . .”

His heart knocked against his chest wall, almost daunted.

In Nienaber’s study, against the wall: CAPE COMMERCIAL COLLEGE BUSINESS SCHOOL—

This is to certify that O. S. Nienaber completed the course in Small Business Management.

He put out his hand for the telephone. It rang.

“Joubert,” he said, but he was barely listening. His thoughts were a maelstrom.

“This is Margaret Wallace.”

He was astonished by the coincidence. “Why did you call?” he asked excitedly, tactlessly.

“To say I’m dreadfully sorry.” Her voice still bore the night’s scars.

“I'’ve found something,” he said because he didn't want to discuss that now. “Your husband. Did he do a course? A business course, at Cape Commercial College?”

She was quiet for three heartbeats. “It was a long time ago,” she said and he heard how tired she was. “Six or seven years. Eight?”

“But he did.”

“Yes.”

“I need a date. And an address and names. Anything.”

“Why? I mean, it was so long ago.”

“I think it’s the connection. I think it might lead to what we’re after.”

For the first time she was aware of his urgency, the vitality in his voice. “I’ll have a look. I’ll call you.”

“Thank you,” he said but she had already hung up.

He looked up the number in the directory.

Cape Commercial College, 195 Protea Rd. Woodstock. Box 214962, Cape Town.

He dialed. It rang for a long time. He checked the time. Twenty past seven. Too early, he would have to wait. He phoned Gail Ferreira, but there was no reply, either. She must be between her home and work. Why was his timing always so terrible?

No one to send to Wilson’s house and MacDonald’s boat, no people anywhere to answer telephones. He knew he had it, still didn't know what it meant, but he was right— there was a connection. He was right, ladies and gentlemen, Mat Joubert wasn'’t stupid, only storm damage, a little storm damage— okay, okay, a great deal of storm damage, but it could be repaired. The gray matter was still in working order, ladies and gentlemen, and he was going to end this thing today and tonight he was taking Hanna Nortier to

The Barber

and, ladies and gentlemen, the repair work would begin in all seriousness. Because he was free— the wound was bleeding but it was free of pus.

He wanted coffee and a Wimpy breakfast with eggs and bacon and sausage and fried tomatoes and toast with butter and coffee, and a Winston— life wasn'’t so bad— and then he would return to his diet and he would get very thin and fit and become a nonsmoker. He got up, the tiredness thrown off his shoulders like a useless garment. When he went to fetch coffee, he was in the passage when he heard his telephone ringing and ran back.

“It was in 1989,” said Margaret Wallace. “Three months in 1989— August, September, and October. I remember now. He took evening classes and then the whole group went away, at the end, for a few days. There’s a certificate on the wall, and I found a curriculum and a prospectus. They’re on Protea Road, in Woodstock. The man who signed the letters of confirmation was Slabbert, W. O. Slabbert, the registrar. It was seven or eight years ago, Captain . . . What on earth could it mean?”

“I’ll let you know before the day is over.”

Petersen was the first to reach the office. Joubert sent him to Hout Bay to MacDonald’s boat. Then O’Grady arrived and also got an immediate order. Snyman was late. “I recall something like that in Drew Wilson’s wardrobe, Captain, a certificate, among the other stuff, at the back, behind the photo albums, but I didn't think it was important.”

“I wouldn't have, either,” Joubert said. “Fetch it for me.” De Wit was pacing to and fro in Joubert’s office, finger nervously next to the nose. Vos was drinking tea, then said calmly: “Now you’re going to nail him, partner.”

The telephone rang. O’Grady calling from Nienaber’s house. “Certificate’s date is 1989, Captain. This is it.”

They waited, talked, speculated. Half past eight. He phoned Gail Ferreira’s work number. “Yes, it was in 1989, Captain. Late in the year. Late in Ferdy’s life. He was useless by then.”

“Seven years,” said de Wit. “It’s a long time.”

“Indeed,” said Joubert.

Telephone again. “This is Basie Louw, Captain.” His voice was weak, like an old man’s.

“What’s the matter, Basie?”

“Jeez, Captain, I had to go out in a boat to find them.”

“And?”

“Seasick, Captain. I get horribly seasick.”

“Is Mrs. Coetzee with you, Basie?”

“Yes, Captain, but she says she doesn’t know the others. She’s never heard of . . .”

“Basie, ask her if Coetzee did a course in small business management in 1989 at the Cape Commercial College.”

“A course in what, Captain?”

“Just ask her whether he was at the Cape Commercial College in 1989.” He said the name slowly, pronouncing each word clearly and distinctly. He heard Louw putting his hand over the mouthpiece, and waited.

Louw replied, surprised: “He did, Captain. He—” Joubert heard the woman interrupting Louw but couldn't make out what she was saying. He heard Louw saying impatiently, “Yes, yes, yes.” Then Louw spoke into the receiver again. “She said it was that Christmas that he became so involved with the church, Captain. Christmas of ’89. She says that’s when all the trouble started.”

“He said nothing about the course? About the people who were with him?”

Again an indistinct conversation with the woman. “No, Captain, he didn't say anything.”

“Thanks, Basie.”

“Is that all, Captain?”

“That’s all, Basie. You can . . .”

“The college, Captain . . . is it a new thing?”

“It seems they were all there, Basie.”

“Fuck my duck.”

“You can come back, Basie. Take the boat.”

“Captain?”

“Joke, Basie.”

“Hu, hu.” Louw laughed without humor.

Leon Petersen came back from Hout Bay. “There’s nothing. Not a certificate, nothing.”

“His men?”

“They say they don’t remember anything like that.”

“It doesn’t matter. MacDonald is already involved, through Nienaber.”

“What now?”

“Now we’re going to the Cape Commercial College.”

41.

W. O. Slabbert, the registrar, principal, and only shareholder of the Cape Commercial College, was a bullfrog of a man with multiple double chins, a wide, flat nose, a broad, open forehead, and big, fleshy ears. He had a crew cut. He looked pleased with the deputation from Murder and Robbery who came into his office in single file— Joubert leading, then O’Grady and de Wit, with Petersen bringing up the rear.

“Call me W. O. You probably want to take a course,” he said, pen in hand, after they had introduced themselves and found a seat. He sniffed and his nose made a little curve just above the left corner of his mouth.

“No,” Joubert said.

“You don’t want to take a course?” Sniff. Again the strange movement of the one nostril.

“We’re investigating a series of murders that were committed in the Peninsula in the past fortnight, Mr. Slabbert.”

“Oh.” Disappointment.

“We’ve been informed that Miss Carina Oberholzer worked for you.”

“Yes?” Tentative.

“Tell us about her.”

“Is she dead?”

“She is.”

“Carina dead,” he said as if he couldn't believe it and sniffed again. Joubert wished the man would blow his nose.

“How long did she work for you?”

“Four, five years. Who . . . How did she die?”

“What kind of work did she do here, Mr. Slabbert?”

“She was in administration. Received the applications and the registrations, sent out the lectures, saw to it that the lecturers received their subject matter. We don’t have lecturers here— they’re part-time, do other work as well.”

“And that’s all she did, the administration?”

“She was only the third or the fourth person I’d appointed. You can imagine, we were very small. Carina grew with the place— bit of this, bit of that, admin, secretarial, answering the phone, doing a little typing.”

“And then she resigned?”

“Yes, she left to join some petrol concern.”

“Why?”

“With Carina it was always money. She was a pretty little thing and a good worker but she was always talking about money. I said: ‘You must be patient, Carrie.’ But she always said that life costs money. She was such a pretty little thing, always laughing and talking. And I had to take her off the switchboard because of the endless personal calls.” Sniff.

“She was working for you in 1989?”

“Yes, I . . . Yes, she was, from ’87. Shame, her parents farm in the Northwest. I met them once or twice . . . They must be taking it badly.”

“Does the name James J. Wallace mean anything to you?”

“No, I can’t say . . .”

“Drew Wilson?”

“I can’t . . .”

“Ferdy Ferreira?”

“Aren’t these the Mauser . . . ?”

“Alexander MacDonald?”

“If it’s the Mauser people, why didn't I read anything about little Carina?”

“Do the names mean anything to you, Mr. Slabbert?”

“Yes, I'’ve heard of them. That hair salon chap as well— what’s his name?”

“Nienaber.”

“That’s him, and the one yesterday, the reverend . . .”

“Pastor.”

“Yes, the pastor. But . . . was there another one today? Little Carina?”

“No, not today. How do you know about the Mauser, Mr. Slabbert?”

Sniff, curve. “One could hardly avoid it. The newspapers are full of it.”

“You only heard the names in the media?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know a Hester Clarke, Mr. Slabbert?”

“Yes, I know Hester Clarke. Don’t tell me she . . .”

“Hester Clarke from Fish Hoek? The Christmas card designer?”

“No, I don’t know whether she designed Christmas cards.”

“Fifty-year-old spinster?”

“No, not our Hester— she was a small little thing, young. Young girl.”

“She was?”

“Yes, we don’t know what became of her. Had simply disappeared when we looked for her again. Changed her telephone number or something. Never heard from her again.”

“What was your connection with her?”

“She gave our self-actualization courses. Cute girl, just out of university. We advertised and she came to see me almost immediately. Clever girl, full of bright ideas . . .”

“Your self-actualization?”

“We started the business school for the small businessmen, you know”— sniff—“evening classes. We’d started the evening classes by then but only in the Cape— the correspondence courses for the other stuff, evening classes for creative courses and the business school. First, how to start your own business, the legal aspects, the ways and means, the books, the stock . . . all those small things. Then we saw we needed a last rounding off to send them out into the world. Self-actualization. Norman Vincent Peale, Dale Carnegie— how to make friends and think positively, that kind of stuff.” He sniffed again and Joubert wondered whether he should offer the man a handkerchief.

“She gave a course in self-actualization in 1989.”

“Yes.”

“With evening classes.”

“No, it was little Hester’s idea to take them away for two days, Friday and Saturday, to the Berg River. There’s a little guest farm between Paarl and Franschhoek. It was her idea— she said they were too tired in the evenings during the week. They had to get away, be fresh, out of the usual surroundings. She was full of plans. We still do it in the last part of the course. There are usually ten or twelve in the group and then they finish and we hand out certificates on the Saturday evening.”

“How often did you go away like that?”

“Oh, just once a year. Look, the course is three months of theory in the evening classes because people work during the day. You can’t get them to class every evening— they don’t want it.”

“And that’s all that Hester Clarke did? Two evenings in a year?”

“No, she wrote lectures as well for the creative sections. We still use them. All the introductory lectures about what creativity is, and she checked the little projects set and drew up the little exam papers.”

“Here, in the office?”

“No, I don’t have the money to keep lecturers here. She worked from home.”

“Where did she live?”

“Stellenbosch. I think she was studying part-time as well.”

“And then she disappeared?”

“I won’t say disappeared. But it was very strange. When we tried to find her in the new year, her telephone wasn'’t working or someone else answered the phone . . . I can’t remember any longer. We sent letters and telegrams but she was simply gone. I had to find someone else in a hurry. I thought she would probably come back— on holiday or something like that. But later we gave up.”

“Who gives the self-actualization now?”

“Zeb van den Berg. He was in the navy for years and it’s his retirement job. But little Hester’s stuff . . . We’re still using it.”

“Carina Oberholzer? Did she have anything to do with it?”

“She organized the stuff, the accommodation and the lecture hall and the prize giving. She went to the guest farm on the Saturday.”

They chewed on this until Joubert asked: “What year did Hester Clarke disappear, Mr. Slabbert?”

“I’ll have to think.” Sniff. The nose performed its impossible action again, a small muscle spasm. “Let me see . . .” He counted, using his fingers. “’Seventy-eight, ’eighty-eight, ’eighty-nine . . . Yes, ’ninety because we got someone from the Mutual who was doing their training just for a month. But it didn't work— they wanted too much money.”

“So Hester Clarke did her last self-actualization in 1989.”

“Got to be.”

“Mr. Slabbert, we’re reasonably sure that all the victims of the Mauser murderer were in the 1989 group of your small business course. Have you—”

“No!”

“Have you records of that year’s students?”

“Were they students?”

“Do you still have the records?”

“All students?”

“Mr. Slabbert, the records?”

“Yes, we keep the records . . .”

“May we see them?”

Slabbert returned to reality. “Of course, of course. I’ll show you.” He opened one of his desk drawers, took out a bunch of keys.

“You’ll have to follow me.”

“Where to?”

“Oh, there’s far too much to store here. I have a little warehouse in Maitland.”

They followed him, through the door, past the desks of the administrative personnel, past fourteen women, black and white, at tables on which stood piles and piles of documents.

“There’ll be a photograph as well,” Slabbert said when they were outside.

“Of what?”

“Of the group, with their certificates. But to find it, that’s the problem,” said Slabbert and he sniffed.

42.

The “little” warehouse in Maitland was the size of a Boeing hangar, a dirty, rusted steel construction between a salvage yard and a body shop. Slabbert pushed open the huge wooden sliding door with difficulty and disappeared into the dusk. They heard the click of a switch and then lights flickered and steadied against the high ceiling of the warehouse.

O’Grady turned shit into a three-syllable word. The others simply stared. Piles and piles of brown cartons ran from the front to the back, from side to side, stacked seven meters high, neatly packed on shelves of metal and wood.

“The problem,” Slabbert said when he’d indicated that they must come in, “is that in the beginning we didn't think that it would grow to be so much. Then people started asking for re-marking and records of scores and copies of certificates and we realized we’d have to store everything. But by then there was so much stuff that we only began a filing system in ’92.”

“And before that?” Vos asked anxiously.

“There’s a bit of a problem.”

“Oh?” Joubert said and his heart sank.

“It hasn’t been filed. There are simply not enough hands. Hands cost money. Besides, we seldom get any queries for before ’92.”

“Where would the ’89 records be?” Joubert asked.

“In this row.”

“Where in this row?”

“To be perfectly honest, I have no idea.”

Bart de Wit radioed for more help, this time only from Murder and Robbery because he wanted to avoid the Brigadier at all costs. The others rolled up their sleeves and started taking down cartons. They developed a system and when the reinforcements arrived, extended it.

Carton after carton was pulled down, opened, passed on. Another team took out the contents, put them on the floor where Joubert, Petersen, Vos, O’Grady, and, later, Griessel, paged feverishly through the documents looking for dates, names, subjects.

“Who’s going to put it all back?” Slabbert asked with a sniff of annoyance.

“Your administrative personnel,” de Wit said with finality.

“Time means money,” Slabbert complained and he took a hand as well, dragging cartons that had been searched into a corner.

Progress was slow because there was no system in the manner in which the material had originally been packed— documentation on computer repair courses lay next to

Introduction to Journalism. Basic Welding

was in a carton with

Painting for Beginners.

De Wit had lunch delivered— Kentucky chicken and Coke— and they ate while they worked, swore, laughed, had serious discussions. One carton after another was checked without a break. The afternoon slowly wound to an end, the cartons slowly became fewer. Just after three they were halfway, with no success. Ties were off, sleeves were rolled up, shirts had become untucked, the firearms in their leather holsters were in a neat row next to the door. There were dust marks on their clothes, arms, and faces. Occasionally a few words were exchanged while time marched inexorably on.

Joubert and Griessel took a break, stood outside in the sun, their bodies stiff. Exhaustion was stalking Joubert again.

“I’m going to ask the Colonel for leave,” Griessel said and sucked on his Gunston. “I want to take my wife and children away for two weeks to see if we can make a fresh start.”

“That’s good, Benny.”

“Perhaps ask for a transfer. To the platteland. Station commander in a village somewhere where all you have to do is lock up the drunks on a Friday night and try to solve a few stock theft cases.”

“Yes,” Joubert said, and wondered how he was going to make a fresh start.

Then they walked back to the hive of activity inside, sat down on the cold cement floor, licked their fingers, and started paging again— Joubert with urgency because he had an impending appointment and he was developing a strong suspicion that he wouldn't be able to make it. He wondered whether there was still time to ask them to exchange the tickets for the following night and whether Hanna Nortier would be available then.

I want to go out. I’m in a rut.

In what kind of a rut could such a woman be stuck, he wondered while his fingers flipped, flipped, flipped and his eyes skimmed. He shifted from one buttock to the other when they put more documents in front of him.

They had started arguing about supper— pizza opposed to fish and chips, anything as long as it wasn'’t chicken. They complained about wives who were going to be annoyed about the long hours again. Couldn't Mavis start phoning and explaining? It was nearly seven o’clock.

Then Benny Griessel shouted triumphantly, “Ferreira, Ferdy,” and held the documents above his head. They all came to a halt, some applauded.

“Wilson, Drew Joseph. They’re here.” The detectives walked toward him. Griessel took out one parcel of documents after the other— each individual’s registration form, assignments, examination papers, score sheets, receipts, letters of inquiry and replies, final score sheets. All stapled together.

“MacDonald, Coetzee, Wallace, Nienaber. They’re all here.”

“Is there a photo?”

Griessel searched.

“No,” he said. “Where’s the box this came out of?”

W. O. Slabbert came steaming up from where he was trying, with great difficulty, to replace the cartons. “The photo will be in one of their parcels.”

Hands grabbed at the stapled documents of the individuals, fingers paged quickly.

“Here,” said Griessel, on whom the gods were now smiling. He got up, stretched, extracted the staple, dropped the other papers to the floor, carefully held on to the photograph. He stared at the faintly yellowed print. Joubert got up, walked to Griessel, tried to peer over his shoulder.

“How young Nienaber looks,” Petersen, next to Griessel, said in surprise.

Joubert held out his hand for the photo. For a moment he thought he’d seen . . .

A black-and-white image. The men stood in a semicircle wearing jackets and ties, each one with a certificate in his hand. Wilson’s eyes were closed at the moment of flash and shutter. MacDonald, his smile wide, towered above the rest. Coetzee serious. Ferdy Ferreira’s shoulders were angled toward the limp, his eyes didn't look at the camera. Wallace’s hands were folded in front of him; there was a space between him and Ferreira, a detachment. Mat Joubert saw nothing of this.

He stared uncomprehendingly at the small, slender figure of the woman in front of them, a head shorter than the shortest man. He looked, without assimilating what he was seeing. Time stood still. Solemnly he took the photograph out of Griessel’s hand, held it to the light, still not looking for an explanation.

She wasn'’t smiling. He knew the frown between her eyebrows, the contours of her head, the nose, the mouth, the chin, the narrow shoulders. Seven years ago her hair had been longer, hung over her shoulders down to the small breasts. The dress, gray in the black-and-white photo, reached to below her knees. She wore flat-heeled shoes. Serious. She looked so serious . . .

“That was little Hester,” Slabbert said behind him. “Small little thing.”

It was an old house in Observatory, restored and painted in a strong, earthy color on the outside, dark brown. The wrought-iron lattice on the wall was white and neat. The garden gate opened soundlessly. He walked down the cement path, two rows of flowers on either side of him, the little lawn so small and tidy. The door had a brass knocker but he used his knuckles, knocking softly. The photo was in his left hand.

“You know her,” Griessel had said when he saw the paleness of Joubert’s face. Suddenly everyone was staring at him. He said nothing. He remained staring at the photo, a moment of life seven years ago. He couldn't even begin to formulate questions because the impossibility of her, there, among the dead, was too overwhelming.

“I know her,” he had said eventually and didn't hear the voices asking “Where?” and “How?” and “When?” The photo trembled lightly in his hand. Life seemed unreal to him, like one of his dreams in which someone appeared where she didn't belong, suddenly, so oddly that you wanted to laugh, shout: My, Mat Joubert’s peculiar mind! But this was no dream, this was reality.

“I’m going alone.”

De Wit had walked to the car with him. “I owe you an apology, Captain.” Joubert was silent. “You’ll be careful?” He heard the concern in the other man’s voice, understood something of de Wit at that moment. “I’ll be careful.” He had said it to himself. Not arrogantly but with gentle determination.

Now there were hurried steps on the wooden floor inside the house, the door swung open and she stood there.

“You’re early.” Her rosy mouth was smiling. She wore lipstick, just a touch. He had never seen her wearing it before. Her hair was drawn back into a braid, her neck open and white and defenseless, the black dress off the shoulder. He captured the image with the camera of his mind until her face changed when she saw that he was jacketless and tieless, saw the dust on his shirt, the rolled-up sleeves.

Wordlessly he held the photograph out to her. Her smile disappeared, her face was expressionless. Her eyes searched his for an explanation. She took the photo and looked at it. He saw the shadow that fell over her, her eyes, which closed, then opened, still fixed on the picture. She dropped it on the polished wooden floor and turned away, now almost unaware of him.

She walked down the hallway. He saw the shoulders, the pretty shoulders with the bone and muscle so boundlessly perfect. The shoulders carried a heavy burden. She walked slowly, with dignity, her back to him as if he didn't exist. He followed her, one, two, three steps on the wooden floor, then stood in the passage, where a light was burning. Her odor was in his nostrils, a faint, feminine perfume. She had disappeared at the end of the hall. He remained where he was, hesitant.

He heard a sound in the silence of the house, a whisper of activity. Then she returned, walking up the hallway, the firearm in her hands, the slender stock in the palm of her right hand, the slender fingers of the left hand holding the long barrel. She carried it like a sacrifice, the scale of the pistol wrested out of context by her frailness. She stood opposite him, a space between them. She remained in that position, holding the pistol as if the weight was too much for her. A corner of the magazine pressed against the black fabric of her dress, against her stomach. Her head was bowed as if he was an executioner. Her eyes were closed.

He couldn't prevent his mind from completing the puzzle. It was a mechanical process, involuntary expertise, irreversible even had he wanted to reject it. But he was too empty. He stood there while the gears in his head slowly meshed, one after the other. This is the case for the prosecution, your worship— conclusive proof, at last, conclusive proof, the chase ended.

“Why?”

She didn't move.

He waited.

An almost invisible movement of her breast, the breath shallow, in and out. Otherwise there was no movement.

He walked carefully toward her, slowly, put his hand on her shoulder, felt her cold flesh. His big hand folded over the collarbone, pulled her nearer, led her up the hallway. She came with him like flotsam. He steered her to the right, to a room where there were a couple of big chairs, the floral fabric colorless in the dusk. The carpet muffled his footsteps. The paintings against the wall were dark squares. He made her sit down in a deep chair with soft cushions, her eyes open now, in the dusk. She sat up straight, the Mauser on her lap gripped with both hands. He sank down on his knees in front of her.

“Hanna.”

She forced her eyes toward him.

He put out his hand, wanted to take the weapon away from her, but her grip was too strong for the softness of his heart. He pulled his hand away.

“Hanna.”

Her lips parted slightly. She saw him. The corners of her mouth contracted as if she wanted to smile. She looked at the object in her hands.

“It’s so strange,” she said, so softly that she was barely audible. “I was always so afraid of it. When Grandfather took it out of the leather holder. It looked so evil. So big and ugly. And the smell . . . When he opened the holder I could smell it. It smelled of death— an old, dead smell, even though he cleaned it. I didn't even hear what he was telling me. I just wanted to look at the pistol, looked at the pistol the whole time until he had finished and put it back in the holder again, then I could look at him. I wanted to be sure that he had put it back, closed it.”

She looked at him again. The corners of her mouth had drooped again, forming a half-moon.

“I found it among my father’s things. Two piles. What I wanted to keep on one side, what could be given away on the other. There was so little that I wanted to keep. Photographs of him and my mother. His Bible, a few records. His watch. I put the pouch on the other pile at first. Then I transferred it. Then back again. Then I unfastened the buckles and the smell rose up and I remembered my grandfather and I moved it back.”

Her eyes had wandered, somewhere in the dark, then suddenly looked at him again.

“I never thought that I would need it. I’d almost forgotten about it.” Then she was quiet, the grip on the weapon relaxed, and he considered whether he should try to take it away again.

Her awareness of his presence wandered again.

He said her name again, but she didn't move.

“Hanna.”

The eyes slowly blinked.

“Why?”

She gave a deep, long, slow breath, preparation for a last, all-embracing sigh.

Then she spoke.

43.

Inside they were laughing, systematically more and more loudly, with greater exuberance. Outside it was clear and quiet, a night without imperfections. The moon was bright and in full sail, the stars were a sweep of glittering dust from horizon to horizon. It was cloudless, balmy, warm. She was standing on the little stoop of the lecture hall. The river murmured below, the moon was a yellow stained-glass design on the water. Only a layer of wine remained in the glass she brought to her lips. The wine was very dry but she could taste the sun in it. She took a tiny sip because she only allowed herself one glass. Perhaps another half when she went to her room as a reward for good work done. It hadn't been an easy group. The differences in personality, in seriousness, in intelligence, and in application had demanded a great deal from her, more than usual, she thought. Even so, it had been a success. Everyone had discovered a piece of himself, everyone had grown— some very little, she had to admit, but their growth potential had not been formed by her.

Perhaps another year or two of this, then bigger, better things. She regarded the college as a step on a ladder, a temporary pause, but she felt no guilt. Slabbert got a great deal of value for his money. He got integrity and work ethic.

Another year or two.

She tasted the last of the wine on her tongue, let it slip gently down her throat, looked forward to her room. The others had been housed two to a cottage, she and Carina had the privilege of single rooms. She had insisted on that— her time was too precious. Her book and music waited in her room. This evening she was going to listen to

Il Trovatore,

perhaps the first two acts. “So much death?” they had asked, even in Verdi’s time. “But is all life not death?” the maestro had replied. She smiled at the moon, turned, slid open the glass doors, and walked in.

They were sitting around a table, talking with great verve, each one with a glass in front of him. Nienaber was holding the floor while MacDonald, Ferreira, and Coetzee listened. Wilson, her star pupil, the one for whom she had a soft spot, sat a little outside the group. Wallace and Carina Oberholzer were having their own conversation at the end of the table.

No one else was evidently drinking dry white wine. She found the bottle easily between the full and empty beer bottles, the open brandy and whisky, liter bottles of mixers, and a big ice bucket. She poured herself exactly half a glass.

“I’m going to excuse myself,” she said as they looked up when she came to stand next to the table.

They protested. She saw the alcohol had filmed their eyes.

“I’m coming with you,” said MacDonald. The others laughed, exaggeratedly.

“She’s too thin,” said Ferdy Ferreira slyly but she heard it with painful discomfort.

“The closer the bone . . .”

Suddenly she was in a hurry. She gave a weak smile, said they must enjoy the rest of the evening and she would see them and say good-bye at breakfast.

They said good night and sleep well. “Hands above the blanket,” Ferdy Ferreira called out before she had gone through the door, and one or two laughed loudly. When she was outside, she shook her head. A rough diamond, that one.

She walked through the sounds of the night— insects, the river, a dog barking somewhere, a truck roaring its way up a hill. The voices behind her faded as the distance increased. She focused on what was waiting, everything placed exactly where it should be, late that afternoon while others were dressing for the certificate ceremony. She had uttered a few words of encouragement, handed over the certificates. MacDonald had insisted on kissing her when he received his. They clapped hands for one another, made senseless remarks. Then the photograph: Carina Oberholzer had made them stand in a semicircle and taken one, two, three photos.

She unlocked her bedroom door. The bed light was burning. Everything was just so. She shut the door, leaned against it, and gave a gratified sigh.

First of all she pressed the button on the radio and cassette player. The music filled the room. Bent the knee of her right leg, lifted the ankle up to her hand, removed the shoe. Then the other one. The start of a ritual. She placed the shoes next to each other, symmetrically, at the bottom of the single-door wardrobe. She unbuttoned her blouse from the top, watching herself in the long mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. She didn't want to do the usual self-evaluation now, didn't want to consider the meaning of the sequence and every other step of the undressing process— even if it was only a game, a vague, cynical, rueful smile, a game she played with herself almost every evening. She put the blouse on a hanger in the wardrobe, then reached behind her for the button of the skirt, pulled down the zip. It cost only one smooth movement to remove each leg from the garment. Her hands randomly brushed the fabric to remove imaginary threads from the skirt. She hung it next to the blouse.

Her underwear was delicate. While she listened to the music, she unhooked the front fastening of the bra, saw her small breasts in the mirror, the whiteness of the skin. She smiled involuntarily because the decision not to be caught up in self-argument about size and shape at this stage had been a deliberate one. The music was too beautiful, her mood too light and elevated.

The soft fabric of the nightgown slipped over her head. She adjusted it over her almost boyish hips and knew that the texture was a small sensation against her skin. She gave one last pleased look at the tidiness of the wardrobe— she could be packed in minutes the next morning. She switched off the main light, pushed the pillows against the headboard, and slid between the sheets. She picked up the biography on the little bedside table and didn't consider her incapacity to enjoy fiction but made herself comfortable and opened the book.

Then she read.

Twice noise of the night’s party disturbed her concentration. The first was a shout of resounding collective laughter that rose above even the sweetness of the aria and briefly she shook her head. They should take it easy, she thought, and then focused on the words in front of her again.

The second time was more disturbing. In the silence between aria and recitative, their cries had become a barometer of their inebriation. She recognized MacDonald’s voice, maybe Coetzee’s. Swear words were shouted. She immediately discarded the possibility of getting up and warning them— they were adults. Her eyes looked for the words on the paper in front of her but the level of their intoxication remained a vague worry for a while until she lost herself in the life between the pages again.

At first sleepiness was an invader, then a friend.

She waited until the aria ended, then pressed the button to halt the tape. She shifted the bookmark against the spine of the book, placed it on the bedside table, and reached for the switch of the bed light. Then she turned, shifted onto her left side, lay like a fetus between the blankets, and closed her eyes.

The sounds of the revelry slowly penetrated her sleep. The vague laughter and single cries of nearly recognizable words cut sharply through the night sounds of the insects and the river’s flow. Were they still at it? What was the time? There was a supervisor who might complain. Sleep fled before the pressure of anxiety.

She got up, annoyed, walked to the window, and drew aside the faded floral curtains. Would she be able to see what was going on up there?

The moon was high in the sky and bright. The trees, shrubs, and lawns were bathed in a ghostly light. She peered in the direction of the small hall, where the lights were still burning. She knew there was movement that had to accompany the sounds but she couldn't see anything.

Something moved outside, close, against the river. She focused on it.

A single dark animal, square-shaped and strange. Until she looked more closely. A human figure. Two. An embrace. She looked away, took a small step back from the window, a convention. Another anxiety. It was Carina out there. She looked again, indignant. Carina and Wallace. He was kissing Carina next to the water. His hands were on the Rubens curves of her rump, her hands were around his neck. Their mouths were wide open, the tongues deep. Genitals against genitals, the drunkenness a close bond.

They had to stop. It was her responsibility to make them stop.

He pulled up her skirt, pulled away the elastic of her panties, and placed his hands on her bare buttocks. He kneaded the softness, the flesh, thrust a finger into the cleft. Her one hand came away from his neck, pushed in between them, etched the cylinder of his cock against his pants, looked for the head with an experienced finger and thumb, rubbed and stroked it. Their mouths were busy. His one hand suddenly reached up, pulled the shirt out of the skirt. While the one hand remained at the back, the other was in front, under the bra. He pushed it up, looked for the nipple, took the whole breast in his hand.

She looked away, deeply shamed. It was her fault. She looked back, spellbound.

Carina’s hand looked for his fly, unzipped it. Their mouths were together, the bodies slightly separated, a space created. Her hand slipped into his underpants, gripped him, pulled his cock through his fly. He knew what was coming and let her go, his hands next to his sides. She was on her knees, her tongue on the head of his prick, licking, tongue probing for its small mouth, licking, sucking it all in, sucking strongly, a slurping noise. He bent down. Her hand was jerking up and down. No, he said, his hands against her head. He pulled her up, placed an arm around her shoulders, and steered her away from the river. His lust preceded him, still out of his trousers. Carina gave a brief laugh.

The scene held her captive. Her disgust and her indignation were slightly diluted by another minor anxiety. Wallace was married. There were children. And Carina Oberholzer knew it. She closed her eyes, waited until she knew they were beyond the window, outside her field of vision. She opened them again, stared at the shadows, now lifeless.

It was their lack of self-control, of civilized behavior, of small loyalties, that disturbed her so much. And her own inability to look away.

More movements in the night.

What were these people doing?

The spectators were dodging after the couple, drunk, clumsy, wordless, the eyes fixed, the brains switched to a primitive mode.

MacDonald and Ferreira, Coetzee and Nienaber, Wilson reluctantly in the rear.

She saw them— clumsy shadows— walking in the direction of Wallace and Carina. MacDonald was staggering. Their inebriation, she knew, was total.

She drew the curtains quietly and carefully until the moon was completely blotted out. She turned away from the window in the darkness of the room and knew that they had disturbed her peace, she did not want these memories. It was going to take an effort to forget them, sleep now forgotten. She switched on the bed light. She pressed the button for the music again. Let them know she was awake. Let them come to their senses.

She sat down on the bed.

What were they doing? They were like children. She got up, opened the curtains of the other window a chink.

They stood outside the window of a cottage, in the pool of light shining from inside, quiet and intense spectators. It was Carina’s bedroom and she knew what they were looking at even before she saw Ferdy Ferreira, his cock in his hand. She closed the curtain. Nausea rose in her until she struggled to breathe and tasted the vomit. She mustn’t vomit now. She should have walked up earlier and acted firmly. She sat down on the bed again. Let there be an end to their lust. Lord, how primitive humans were. She raised the volume of the music.

It was the liquor. Liquor wouldn't be permitted again.

She picked up the book, sat up against the pillows and tried, with the greatest possible effort, to concentrate. It was going to be so difficult to erase the images. She read half a sentence, still aware of nausea. There were footsteps outside— they were going now, apparently they had had enough.

MacDonald crashed open the door, saw her lying there, saw her jerking the book away, the fright on her face. “Come on, Hester, let’s fuck.” He pulled Wilson inside as well. MacDonald was on her, threw the book aside. His hand was on the blanket. She cried out in sudden anger, sudden fear. She tried to stop him with her hands, saw the total, wild drunkenness on his red face, smelled the sour stench of his breath. He weighed her down with his big body, his hand held hers above her head. She jerked to and fro, she struggled. His other hand was under her nightgown, pulled it up, bared her breasts. “At least there’s something there, Hester.” She didn't hear it, she screamed. Her legs wanted to wriggle out from under him, shake the animal off her. He was too heavy, pressed down on her. “Come on, Hester,” he said impatiently. He shifted his body down toward her knees, had to stretch to keep her hands above her head. She wanted to bite him, turned her head to bite the thick wrist. He wrenched her panties down, tore them. “You’re fuckin’ small.” She sank her teeth into hair and skin. He yanked his hands away, smacked her against the side of her head. “Fucking bitch, you bite.” He slapped her again. “No,” Wilson said. The others entered the room. “Me too,” said Ferreira, his prick in his hand. “Jesus, Mac,” said Nienaber. His voice was slurred.

MacDonald had captured her hands again. A thin stream of blood was running from her nose. Her struggles were weaker, stupefied by the knowledge that was taking shape in her. He opened his pants, forced a knee between her legs. She jerked, wanted to get away, kicked. He weighed her down, his full weight on her. “Open up, Hester.”

“Mac,” said Wilson, swaying.

“Fuck off,” said MacDonald and looked back over his shoulder. “Your turn is coming.” He grinned at the audience, forced her legs apart with his hips, his cock searching briefly for the opening and then he thrust it in, pressing inhumanly hard.

She felt the tearing, no pain to begin with, felt the tissue tearing. Then the pain came. Her consciousness fled, strength flowed out of her. He experienced it as acquiescence, dropped her hands, lifted himself slightly, looked back. “She fucks, too. Just like the other one.”

Her consciousness came and went. A fire burned down there, a hellish fire, consuming pain.

He slipped out, swore, pushed in again. “Ha, ha, ha, ha.”

“Come on, Mac.”

“In a minute.”

Orgasm.

“Ferdy.” MacDonald got up, offered her.

Coetzee was faster, his pants down to his knees already. He kneeled in front of her, rubbed his hand over her stomach, rubbed her from side to side, pushed himself in, and came suddenly. He stood up, surprised. Ferreira pushed him out of the way, licked Hester Clarke’s breasts with long swipes of his tongue. The saliva left trails on her skin. He licked her stomach, licked downward, licked her pubic hair. His hand jerked up and down between his legs. The yellowish fluid sprayed over her, over the bed.

“Ollie.” An order from MacDonald. Nienaber grinned, shook his head.

“Drew. Where’s Drew?”

Wilson was outside, vomiting against the wall, on the lawn.

“What are you doing?” Wallace and Carina Oberholzer came stumbling up.

“You’ve had your fuck. We saw you having your fuck. It’s Drew’s turn,” said MacDonald, his big hand on Wilson’s neck. He pulled, dragged him inside.

Wilson’s throat wanted to rid itself of more fluid. The words were stuttered between retching noises: “I can’t, I can’t.” MacDonald pushed him into the room, toward the bed.

The red of the fire was deep, all round her, she floated through the flames, light as a feather, without gravity, the pain an armor.

“You’re a queer, Drew.” MacDonald hit him against the back of his head. Wilson staggered. “Fuck her.” MacDonald grabbed Wilson’s shirt.

“Mac, no,” said Wallace. Carina Oberholzer stood in the door, staring.

“Fuck off, Wallace. We saw you screwing like fucking dogs.”

He jerked Wilson upright. “Fuck her, queer.” Wilson tried to defend himself with his hands but the knuckles were in his neck. She was lying there. Her eyes were open, wide open— she stared at the ceiling. He couldn't, he couldn't. He had trouble with his trousers, managed to undo the belt. He was soft, small, hid it from MacDonald, pressed it unwillingly against her.

“Put it in, you fucking queer.” MacDonald was at the bed, an eagle eye. Red face under the red hair. Red nose.

Wilson made the movements, felt his penis slipping in the blood.

“I want to see you come.”

He pretended, wanted to survive. MacDonald pushed him from behind. MacDonald’s hands pushed him in and out, up and down. Wilson threw up, couldn't help it. He vomited again, over her.

Joubert got up off his knees.

She spoke mechanically, her voice dead, her body perfectly quiet in the chair, her gaze nowhere. He wanted her to stop.

“I was woken by the birds the next morning and the sun shining. Just another day. I just lay there. At first I could only hear. The birds. I couldn't smell. I couldn't feel. I lay there for a long time. When I moved it hurt. Then I looked. It wasn'’t my body any longer. I no longer knew it. They weren’t my breasts, and my stomach and my legs. I didn't want to wash it because it wasn'’t mine. My body is clean.”

He went to sit in the chair opposite her. He was very tired.

“They had all gone. It was so beautiful and so quiet, in the morning. Only the birds.”

Then she was quiet and he was grateful.

He sat looking at her for a long time. It was as though she wasn'’t really there, he thought.

Why did he no longer want to touch her?

She hadn't finished. “They wanted a blood test, last year. Everyone who was appointed had one. The doctor found it so difficult to tell me, to soften it.”

He didn't want to hear it. He knew, he understood immediately, but it was too much.

“He wanted to draw more blood. He thought it had to be a mistake.” She smiled. Sitting opposite him. He could barely see it but he could hear it in her last words— not a rueful smile but a genuine one.

“It’s such a funny name. HIV-positive. Positive.” Still the smile, the last word almost a laugh.

“It was then that I bought the Smith & Wesson.”

He felt so heavy. He felt the weight pressing him down in the chair. His whole body felt the weight pressing down on him.

Her smile took a long time to disappear, bit by bit.

He had to take the pistol from her.

He remained seated.

He heard a car stopping outside. He knew. But the expected sounds of doors slamming didn't come.

“Your name,” he said and it sounded too loud in the silence.

He didn't know whether she had heard him.

Her fingers clenched the barrel of the Mauser more tightly.

“They killed Hester Clarke.”

He didn't want them, in the car out there, to come inside.

He didn't want to ask the questions that now wanted to tumble over his lips. He wanted to leave her here and go away. He also wanted Hester Clarke to be dead.

But he had to know.

“When you received my file . . .”

Now she looked at him. For a long time, a journey to the present. “I didn't know that it was your investigation.”

He hadn't wanted to ask it.

“I didn't invite anyone else to the music. I knew by then.”

He wanted to get away.

She was still looking at him. The left hand came away from the pistol, the right hand stiffened, a finger through the trigger guard.

“Will you go outside?”

He wanted to look at her for the last time. Alone. For a brief moment disappear into a future that might have been different. Then he got up, moved.

“No,” he said, because she had helped to heal him. He took the Mauser from her hand.

44.

He used one of the side doors of the Supreme Court building to evade the press. After the crescendo of the arrest, the case had moved to the center pages and then disappeared. But dates of the court’s sitting had been noted and now the media were back in full cry.

He heard the voice behind him. “Captain.”

He waited on the stairs for her to catch up with him.

“How are you?” he asked.

“It’s a long process. And you?”

“I’m all right.”

He saw that she was looking pretty, the mismatched eyes clear. He didn't want to go back to the office.

“Would you like to have some coffee somewhere?”

“That would be nice.”

They walked next to each other on the pavement in the gray August light. Neither wanted to talk about the wordless, quiet figure in the dock, each for a different reason.

On Greenmarket Square there was a small coffeeshop, where he held the door for her. They sat down, ordered coffee.

“I didn't want to come. But I wanted to see her. Once. I wanted to tell her, somehow, that it was all right.”

He wanted to tell her that it would make no difference. He had heard the rumors of the psychiatrist’s report. It would be laid before the bench that afternoon.

“But she looks so remote.”

“Yes,” he said.

“You’ve lost weight.”

He was pleased that she had noticed it. “You think so?”

“Yes.”

Their coffee came.

“So what have you been doing with yourself?”

“Working.” It was true. Just working. First to hide. From everyone, from himself, from Anne Boshoff— who telephoned twice and then gave up— and from the new psychologist. Later he had worked as part of his therapy, seeking a balance, step by small step.

“And I'’ve given up smoking.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“How are the kids?”

“They’re better now. But still . . .”

“I'’ve sold the house.”

“So have I. We’re in Claremont now. Ashton Village. It’s quite charming.”

“I’m in Table View.”

“Another house?”

“No, it’s a . . .” He searched for the English word, achieved it. “A townhouse.”

“You can speak Afrikaans if you like. Mine isn’t very good.”

“It sounds fine to me.”

Silence.

“Have you ever been to the opera?” he asked.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It would not have been possible to write this book without the most generous help of the former Cape Town Murder and Robbery Squad (now the Serious and Violent Crimes Unit). My most sincere gratitude goes to Captain Peter Lister and Sergeant Jeff Benzien, who so patiently shared their precious time and vast knowledge. I would also like to thank Major Otto, retired firearms expert of the South African Police Service, and the former state pathologist and head of the Department of Forensic Medicine at the Free State University, Professor Jan Olivier, for meticulously answering every question.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Deon Meyer is an internationally renowned South African crime writer who also works as a journalist and Internet consultant. He is the author of

Heart of the Hunter

and

Dead at Daybreak.

He lives in Cape Town.