Authors: Deon Meyer
‘
Molo
, Mama,’ he said after a swift glance.
‘
Hayi
,’ said Mbali, and her tongue clicked through the room. ‘Mama? Is that how you address an officer?’
He focused on her, astonished, saw the identity card around her neck, screwed up his eyes to decipher it. Only then did he spring to his feet, still holding the magazine. ‘
Uxolo
, Captain,’ he said, and saluted.
‘Do not speak Xhosa to me.’
‘Sorry, so sorry, Captain, how can I help you?’
‘I am looking for Giel de Villiers.’
‘Ah.
Icilikishe
. He is in the back.’
‘
Icilikishe
?’
‘You will see, Captain. Come with me, I will take you to him.’
He was very keen now.
She walked after him crossly. That was the trouble with the young ones. No work ethic, no respect for women, senior officers or colleagues.
Giel de Villiers, in a blue oil-stained police overall, was stooped over
a lathe with a can of lubricant in his hand. He didn’t hear them come in, and the constable had to tap him on the shoulder. He looked up, saw Mbali, and gave a slow double blink. For a moment it confused her, she thought the look was critical, superior. But then she saw the strange eyelids that blinked from below, like a lizard. She immediately understood his nickname.
‘Good day, Sergeant,’ she called above the noise of the lathe.
He raised his hand in greeting, turned the lathe off carefully, put down the can, and wiped his hands on a cloth. His bald head gleamed in the sunlight that shone through the window. His eyes blink-blinked again.
‘Sarge, this is Captain Mbali Kaleni, from the Hawks,’ the constable said.
‘I’m sorry, Captain, my English is not good,’ said de Villiers.
‘Captain Benny Griessel said you could help me,’ she said slowly, so he could follow.
‘OK. I hear he is a Hawk now.’
‘I would really appreciate your help. We need information on silencers. For a rifle.’
‘Suppressors,’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘A firearm, you cannot silence it,’ he said slowly and carefully, the Afrikaans accent heavy on the ‘r’ sounds. ‘It can only be suppressed. That is why it is called a sound suppressor.’
‘I see …’ She realised the constable was standing behind her, wide-eyed and fascinated. ‘You can go and man your post,’ she said.
He drew himself to attention, saluted smartly. ‘Yes, Captain!’ Clicked his heels, turned, and walked out briskly.
She turned her attention to de Villiers. ‘We have reason to believe that the man shooting members of the SAPS is using a rifle with a telescope and a suppressor. Where can people buy a suppressor?’
‘You mean like in a shop?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a gun shop in Jo’burg … But they don’t sold many.’
‘So they’re not illegal?’
‘No. A lot of hunters use them.’
Mbali’s scowl deepened. ‘So, if a lot of hunters use them, but this shop does not sell many … I don’t understand.’
‘This gun shop … how you say … imports the suppressors from Vaime in Finland. They are too …’
He shut his eyes while trying to find the English words. ‘… expensive. So people have them made by … gunsmiths.’
‘In South Africa?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where do I find these gunsmiths?’
‘In
Wild en Jag
. Game and Hunting. It is a magazine. They advertise.’
‘All of them?’
‘I don’t know. But I think all of them.’
Mbali opened her massive handbag, took out her notebook and pen, and wrote in it. ‘So I just go to these people and ask them to build me a suppressor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it expensive?’
‘Not very.’
‘How much?’
‘Depends on the type of suppressor. About one thousand eight hundred, or two thousand rand. For the … how you say … screw-on.’
‘How many types are there?’
‘
Basies
, uh, basically two. The screw-on, that’s the one for hunters. And the sleeved, the one that sleeves back halfway over the rifle. It is the type military snipers use. Because it does not make the rifle that much longer. It is easier to … how you say … manoeuvre it.’
‘And these gunsmiths build both types?’
‘You will have to ask them. Some do both.’
‘Why would a hunter want a suppressor?’
De Villiers’ peculiar eyes never stopped blinking.
‘Game farms. They have tourists, and they have hunters at the same time. So they don’t want to have noise from the hunters’ shots. And the hunters want to shoot more bucks. If you hunt springbuck in the Karoo, and they hear the shoot, they all ran away. If you use a suppressor, they stand longer. And you can shoot more.’
‘I don’t like the killing of animals,’ said Mbali dubiously.
Giel de Villiers shrugged.
‘Are there any of these gunsmiths in Cape Town?’
‘No. There is one in Villiersdorp.’
‘Do you have his contact details?’
‘It is in
Wild en Jag
.’
‘Do you have it?’
‘Yes, in my office. I will give you all the numbers.’
‘Thank you. You said suppressors can be imported from Finland?’
‘Yes.’
‘And some hunters do that?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Will there be some sort of record?’
‘Yes. At Customs. Anything …
geklassifiseer
… how you say … classified as firearm things must be inspected. That is why it is too much trouble.’
‘Do you need a permit to have a suppressor built over here?’
‘No.’
She wrote, then asked, ‘Just how much of the noise is suppressed?’
‘Depends on the rifle.’
‘How quiet? If I shoot a rifle from a car in a street, how far can the shot be heard?’
‘A good suppressor can make it very quiet.’ He unfolded his arms, clapped his hands together, hard. ‘About like that. Eighty-five per cent more quiet.’
Mbali nodded. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Can you get me the contact details?’
De Villiers began walking to the door. Then he stopped and looked at her. His eyes closed as if he was having deep thoughts. ‘You can also build your own suppressor.’
‘Oh?’
‘You just need to make a space for the gasses to … How you say?’ He gave up: ‘You need a pipe, some rubber … disks, and washers. And other things. You can buy it all from a hardware store. There are plans on the Internet … You can even just use a PVC pipe and a sponge, if you want to …’
‘
Hayi
,’ sighed Mbali.
De Villiers opened his eyes.
Alexa and he drove in silence to the Grand West Casino in Goodwood.
Griessel thought he understood Sloet better now. Gabby Villette
had described her as an ‘excluder’ who deliberately distanced herself from the personal assistants. Then Alexa’s story of the narcissistic singer who ignored people if she felt they were her inferior.
Both of them had talked about ambition, of a woman who would do anything for prestige and promotion.
And Anni de Waal, ‘
This
child had a boob job, and was very pleased with it. With the way it made her feel and look.’
It all meant that the photos were meaningless, they weren’t relevant to her murder. She was just a self-satisfied woman who wanted to show off her assets. ‘A monument,’ Alexa had called it. De Waal had referred to ‘something tangible’.
It meant the communist thing was all they had.
And that was a mess.
Nothing was ever simple.
He pulled the cellphone out of his pocket, called Cupido. ‘Vaughn, I’m going to be late. And I will have to see the colonel first. Can you let Roch know we will be there closer to half past ten?’
‘Did you find something?’
‘Trouble,’ he said. ‘Only trouble.’
He ended the call.
‘You have never talked about your work,’ said Alexa.
He didn’t know what to say. She wouldn’t understand, that was how he kept the evil away from the people close to him. Doc Barkhuizen was always on his case: ‘Don’t keep internalising it, Benny, talk about it.’ He didn’t want to. He needed to keep the two worlds separate – he needed a place that was unspoiled.
‘I won’t drink today,’ she said. ‘But you must come and tell me tonight. About … how you’re getting on.’
‘Alexa, it’s hard. It’s …’
‘Harder than not drinking?’
‘No,’ he said.
When they drove through the gate of the Grand West Casino, Alexa phoned Ella. ‘We’re here. It’s best if you come and fetch me from the car, otherwise my detective will think I’m going to escape.’
Griessel saw her hand shaking. Her battle of the day was intensifying.
She indicated where he should go, where he should stop.
A young woman came jogging out of the building. He recognised her. It was the pretty one who had confused him with Paul Eilers on Saturday evening. Before he made a complete fool of himself.
She came around to his side, and he wound the window down. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘so
you’re
the detective.’
He shook her hand. ‘I am.’
‘No need to worry, Paul Eilers, I’ll handle this,’ she said with great self-confidence.
‘You’ve got my number?’
I’m a tough cookie,’ she said. ‘It won’t be necessary.’
‘Hey, I’m here too, you know,’ said Alexa.
Colonel Zola ‘Giraffe’ Nyathi looked at the seven names on the list of directors of Ingcebo Resources Limited. His face grew sombre, then he rose and said, ‘I think we should talk to the brig.’
Griessel followed him to the office of Musad Manie. The brigadier was in a meeting with four group heads. Nyathi said, ‘Apologies, but we need to talk to you.’
‘Gentlemen, if you don’t mind,’ said Manie to the senior officers. They stood up, walked to the door, looking curiously at Griessel.
Nyathi and Griessel sat down. The colonel waited until the door closed and slid Benny’s notebook over to Manie. ‘The deal Hanneke Sloet was working on. It’s BEE.’
‘I see,’ said Manie, the foreboding of trouble in his voice.
‘This is the list of company directors. There is a former ANC cabinet minister, and two were provincial premiers. These three I’m not sure about … But director number seven could be our problem.’
‘A. T. Masondo,’ Manie read. ‘I don’t know him.’
‘He was on the Central Committee of the Communist Party, late nineties.’
A shadow crossed Manie’s granite face when he put two and two together. ‘Our communist.’
‘Yes. He was also in Mbeki’s second cabinet. Deputy Minister of Mining, I think.’
Griessel saw the look the two senior officers exchanged. He had a strong suspicion why. ‘Brigadier,’ he said, ‘the problem is that Sloet’s boss said there was nothing funny about the transaction. It was all in the newspapers, there is nothing to hide. And Sloet hardly knew
these
people at all.’
‘Hardly at all?’
‘She met them briefly. Her boss said he doubts she had any further contact with them.’
‘We will have to make sure.’
Griessel nodded. ‘Brigadier, the whole transaction … It’s people borrowing money to buy fifteen per cent of a company, but without risk … I don’t really understand it … I will have to get Bones in.’
‘Yes,’ said Manie. ‘All right.’ He looked at the colonel. ‘Will you talk to Bones?’
‘Shall I get him in now?’
‘I have to go to Stellenbosch first, Brigadier,’ said Griessel. ‘To talk to Sloet’s ex …’
‘I’ll get Bones on standby.’
‘Zola, please, you know Bones. Make absolutely sure he understands: this is completely confidential.’
‘I will.’
‘Let him read the file,’ said Manie. ‘I swear, I will fire his butt if he talks. This thing is a minefield.’
‘I’ll make sure he understands,’ said Nyathi patiently.
‘Benny, please. Only the four of us know. Let’s keep it that way.’ Very earnest.
‘Yes, Brigadier. But there is something else …’
‘Yes?’
‘The gunman not mentioning the communist to the media. It doesn’t make sense. He’s looking for attention, he’s looking for publicity. He wants the papers to go after us. The whole time he’s been saying: “You’re taking money from the communist, you are in cahoots with the communist.” But when he writes to the press, there’s nothing about communists, just “the SAPS know who it is”.’
‘You think it’s political, Benny? Is that it?’
‘Sir, I don’t know what it is. It’s just … strange.’
‘The whole damned thing is strange,’ said Manie. He tapped the list in Griessel’s notebook. ‘But we can’t afford to ignore it.’
‘No, Brigadier.’
‘And we don’t have anything else.’
‘No, Brigadier. We don’t have anything else.’
‘I’ll brief Bones,’ said Colonel Nyathi, the tension in him obvious now. He stood up.
They drove to Stellenbosch. Griessel was at the wheel. Cupido sat with the photos of Hanneke Sloet in his hands. ‘
Jissis
,’ he said. ‘What a fucking waste. Bloody majestic jugs.’
Griessel was angry with himself for forgetting the envelope on the back seat of the car. Cupido spotted the word
Sloet
in blue ink and homed in on it.
‘Where did you get this?’ Cupido asked.
‘In her bedroom. Bedside cupboard.’
‘Fokkit
. Little porn star. How come she didn’t have a boyfriend, at the time of death? I mean, a chick like
this
, body to die for, and she flaunts it. I’m telling you, Tommy Nxesi missed something. That’s the problem with the new
mannetjies
, they don’t do footwork any more.’
‘Her cellphone records don’t show anything. There were no other men.’
‘That’s the problem. Cellphone is yesterday’s technology. I mean, did they check her Facebook account?’
‘Nxesi said he did …’
‘Did she have Gmail? Was she on Twitter?’
‘Twitter?’
‘
Jissis
, Benny, you’re so
fokken
old school, it’s scary …’ Cupido, ten years younger than Griessel, pulled out his cellphone. ‘This, my friend, is the HTC Desire HD, runs on Android. TweetDeck at the tap of an icon …’ He showed Benny. ‘That’s Twitter. You have to motor, Pops, to keep up, there’s a new tweet every second.’
Griessel was driving, he stole a quick glance at the screen of the smartphone. ‘A
twiet
?’