Authors: Deon Meyer
‘We talked every day,’ said Grobler.
‘Even if it was just for a minute or two,’ said de Koker.
‘What sort of work do you do?’ Griessel asked her.
‘PR. I have my own boutique agency.’
‘And she makes money like it’s going out of fashion,’ said Grobler. Through the glass of the big coffee table Griessel could see her long slender legs in tight, bleached denim. And the high-heeled sandals. He struggled to reconcile these two – the plump de Koker in her wide red skirt, loose white blouse and flat shoes, and her girl friend with the accentuated, sexy slimness.
‘What did you talk about that day?’
‘Boo Radley’s,’ they said in unison, looked at each other and shared an empathetic smile. ‘Boo Radley’s?’
‘It’s a pub and bistro,’ said Grobler. ‘In Hout Street.’
‘We went there every Wednesday night,’ said de Koker.
‘Girls’ night out. Live music.’
‘Sam and I still go.’
‘We still order a Corona for Hanneke …’ They talked rapidly, without pauses between each other’s sentences, as though each knew what the other was going to say. Griessel had to concentrate to keep up.
‘With a slice of lemon …’
‘In memory …’
‘But it was a Tuesday,’ said Griessel.
‘Planning,’ said Grobler.
‘It was what we did, on a Tuesday,’ said de Koker. ‘Confirm Wednesday evening.’
‘You saw her the previous Wednesday?’
‘We did.’
‘It was big. Hanneke’s first Boo evening since she moved.’
‘And her last,’ said de Koker quietly.
‘She wouldn’t want us to think about it like that,’ said Grobler.
‘I know …’
‘Did she say anything about the apartment? About the move, or the builders …?’
‘She just said she didn’t know why she’d waited so long before moving to the city.’
‘She loved it in the city …’
‘And she said the apartment was fabulous …’
‘We were still discussing who she was going to invite to the house-warming …’
‘She wanted to have that this month …’
‘If her work allowed it …’
‘She put in an incredible number of hours …’
‘Nothing about problems with the builders?’ Griessel asked.
‘No.’
‘Anyone who made her angry?’
‘Only the agents.’
‘What agents?’
‘The estate agents. They promised her she would have wireless when she moved in, but it still wasn’t up and running.’
‘She gave them hell.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nobody bothering her?’
‘No.’
‘The people who did the moving?’
‘No.’
‘The security people?’
‘No.’
‘Problems at work?’
‘Just the long hours …’
‘No disagreements?’
‘No.’
‘How security conscious was she?’
‘Very.’
‘Her door always bolted?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did she have any very valuable possessions in the apartment? Jewels, that sort of thing …?’
‘Not really.’
‘What about the Aalbers?’ de Koker asked.
‘It could be. She paid fifteen thousand …’ said Grobler.
‘The what?’ Griessel asked.
‘The painting. In her sitting room. It’s an Aalbers.’
‘The one with the stripes?’ he asked.
‘It is supposed to represent the folds of the brain. The title is
Memory.’
‘She paid fifteen thousand for that?’
‘It’s an Aalbers,’ said de Koker again, as if that explained everything.
‘Nothing else?’
‘No,’ they said in unison.
‘Did she mention anything about keys going missing?’
‘No …’
‘Something about her spare key? About who she gave it to?’
‘The spare key of her apartment?’ asked de Koker.
‘That’s right.’
‘To me.’
‘She told you who—’
‘No, she gave the key to me.’
‘The spare key?’
‘Yes.’
‘For the
new
apartment?’
‘Yes …’
‘What did you do with it?’
De Koker lifted a large raffia handbag off the floor, put it on her lap, put in her hand and almost immediately brought out a key holder – a small pink bear, on a ring with a single key. ‘Here it is.’
A heartfelt ‘Fuck’ hovered at the tip of his tongue. Just in time, he found a replacement: ‘Faux pas,’ he said.
‘What?’ asked de Koker. ‘Nobody asked me anything about it.’
‘When did she give it to you?’
‘On the fourth. The day after she moved in. She phoned me and asked if I wanted to come around. Sam was still on location …’
‘In Mozambique,’ said Grobler. ‘Awfully hot …’
‘She asked me if I would keep the key. She always used to give it to Mister Big …’
‘But they had broken up,’ said Grobler.
‘Except for December’s quickie …’ said de Koker.
‘That’s true,’ said Grobler.
‘Wait, please,’ said Griessel, hands in the air. ‘Mister Big?’
‘Egan,’ said Grobler.
‘Roch,’ said de Koker.
‘Why Mister Big?’ he asked.
‘
Sex and the City
?’ said Grobler.
‘The TV show?’ said de Koker.
‘I don’t know it,’ said Griessel.
He saw the women exchange a meaningful glance, as though he had failed a test. ‘We called Egan Mister Big,’ said de Koker.
‘And apparently not without reason,’ said Grobler suggestively. He suspected she generally flirted a little with men.
‘And she told you about her and Roch, in December?’
‘Of course,’ said Grobler. ‘We didn’t have any secrets from each other.’
‘What did she say?’
‘A girl has to do what a girl has to do.’
‘If you have a new pair of puppies, you have to take them out for a walk,’ said de Koker, and put a hand over her mouth, as if she couldn’t believe what she had just said.
‘You
started it,’ she pointed an accusing finger at Grobler.
Griessel’s cellphone rang. He wanted to explain to them that he was JOC leader, he had to take the call, but then he realised how big-headed that would sound, so he just said, ‘Excuse me,’ stood up, took the phone, and walked towards the door.
‘Griessel,’ he said as he went out into the passage and closed the door behind him, though his thoughts were still inside.
‘Hannes Pruis told me to email you Sloet’s diary,’ said a man’s voice, hurried, hoarse and somewhat fuzzy. ‘But we don’t have your address.’
‘I’ll see you in an hour,’ said Griessel. He couldn’t remember asking Pruis to send her diary …
‘It’s too much to print out, we would rather send it.’
‘OK,’ he said, and spelled out his email address.
‘Thanks.’ And the line went dead.
Griessel shook his head, put the phone away, and went back in. ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the two women. ‘Where were we?’
‘Mister Big,’ said Grobler.
‘Oh. Yes. So she told you about her and Egan. In December?’
‘Everything,’ said Grobler.
‘And as far as she was concerned it was just a one-off …’
‘Quickie,’ said Grobler.
‘… occurrence?’ said Griessel.
‘Yes,’ said de Koker.
‘And there were no other men in her life?’
‘There were,’ said de Koker.
‘Hannes Pruis,’ said Grobler.
‘The pig,’ said de Koker.
‘Hannes Pr—’ His phone rang again.
He managed to change the instinctive fricative to ‘faux pas’ again, took the phone out of his pocket, and stood up.
‘You don’t need to go outside, we understand,’ said Grobler.
‘About the investigation and all,’ said de Koker.
He could see on the screen it was the DPCI. He didn’t want to take a call now, he wanted to hear about Hannes Pruis, his lifebuoy after their flood of words had washed away his spare key theory. But he would have to answer. ‘Excuse me,’ he told the women. ‘Griessel,’ he said into the instrument, halfway between his chair and the door.
‘Benny, this is Fanie Fick of IMC. Did you just receive a phone call?’
‘Yes,’ said Griessel.
‘It was the shooter,’ said Fick.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Solomon. The shooter. It’s the same phone he used to call Milnerton station yesterday.
‘Fuck,’ said Griessel before he could stop himself.
And then he looked guiltily into the eyes of the plump, motherly Aldri de Koker.
‘He called the provincial office switchboard first, fifteen minutes ago,’ said Fick. ‘They can’t tell us who he spoke to. No logs, too many calls. We were caught napping, it was so unexpected, but then we knew he was on the air again. What did he say to you?’
‘He wanted my email address. He said Hannes Pruis wanted to send Hanneke Sloet’s diary.’ So the shooter knew about Pruis, Griessel realised.
‘Do you want us to look at your emails?’
‘Yes, pl—’ He remembered the photo of Carla and the muscle man that Fritz had sent. ‘No, wait,’ he said, ‘I’m coming.’
‘He phoned from the city, Benny. The call was too short to triangulate. If he phones again, try to keep him on the line.’
‘His phone is off now?’
‘Totally.’
‘OK. I’m coming. Give me …’ He still wanted to hear the story of Hannes Pruis and Hanneke Sloet. ‘… forty minutes.’
He put the phone away. Both women were sitting and watching him intently. It took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘Hannes Pruis?’ he said to Grobler and de Koker. ‘He and Hanneke had an affair?’
‘An affair?’ asked de Koker, a bit shocked.
‘Never!’ said Grobler. ‘Mister Small.’
‘But just now you said they had …’
‘You asked if there was a man in her life,’ said de Koker.
‘Hannes Pruis made sure that he was the only man in her life,’ said Grobler.
‘Slave driver,’ said de Koker. ‘Little man. Jealous of Mister Big, he made sure they didn’t have any time together.’
‘So Pruis had a thing for Hanneke?’
‘All men had a thing for Hanneke.’
‘But he was jealous of Roch?’
‘Wouldn’t you have been too?’
‘But did he do anything? I mean, did he harass her?’
‘He made her
work
late.’
‘She wore herself out for him.’
‘So you are talking about a professional relationship?’
‘An understanding,’ said Grobler. ‘Hanneke had the understanding …’
‘And Pruis just had the standing,’ said de Koker. ‘You should have heard him at the memorial service.’
‘As if he really knew her at all.’
‘Used her, yes. He used her.’
‘Worked her butt off.’
‘Even weekends …’
‘We had to put up with that. And Mister Big. That’s why they broke up.’
‘Apart from the quickie.’
‘We barely saw her, those last months.’
‘Please,’ said Griessel. ‘Just a minute.’
They looked at him expectantly.
‘She never had an affair with Hannes Pruis.’
‘Not in the Mister Big sense of the word,’ said Grobler.
‘That means “no, absolutely not”,’ de Koker explained. ‘Except that he made her work too hard.’
‘There was no other man in her life?’
‘No,’ said Grobler. ‘Where would she find the time?’
Griessel breathed out, as if he had survived a sprint. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Faux pas?’ Grobler asked. ‘Is that some sort of police code?’
He knew everything was happening too fast, he had to keep his wits about him. In the BMW he first phoned Cupido and asked if he would go to the law firm straight away and supervise the questioning of personnel.
‘Sure, Benna.’
‘I found the spare key, Vaughn. She gave it to one of her friends. Aldri de Koker.’
‘Knock me down with a
vrot
fish … Aldri? What kind of name is Aldri? Look, we coloureds have our peculiarities, but fuck knows, you whiteys can think up
kak
names. What is our approach with the lawyers now?’
He thought of the shooter knowing about Pruis. ‘Alibis, Vaughn. For the eighteenth of January,
and
for the shooter.’
‘You think?’
‘Let’s make sure. Ask about fights, jealousy, office politics, affairs … Who would be angry if she set up on her own? Oh, and, did she have anything valuable in her apartment, something that might have belonged to the lawyers? Anything. Documents … I don’t know, Vaughn, something that might have had great value.’
‘OK. The whole shebang,’ said Cupido. ‘I’m on my way.’
Griessel put on the BMW’s lights and siren and drove to Bellville.
The fucker had phoned him.
Jissis
, and he wasn’t on the ball. He replayed the conversation with Solomon. The hoarse voice, half dulled, he must have been holding something over the mouthpiece. The hurried words. He wanted to be quick, he knew he could be traced.
But he was calm. Shot a policeman dead yesterday, today he was calm. And cheeky.
For the first time he felt rage against this insane bastard. But also the knowledge: this was not your usual mad hatter.
What did he want to send? Why now? He had only used John Afrika’s email address up till now.
There was something else, a note that he felt he should write down. And now he couldn’t recall it, those women had talked a hole in his head.
Was it something he had forgotten to ask them?
His cellphone rang again. It was Colonel Nyathi. ‘Benny, we’re having a meeting in half an hour, in the brig’s office.’
There were no new emails.
He deleted the one from Fritz after one last look at the picture of Carla and Etzebeth. Then he carried his laptop down to IMC.
There was no longer the frenetic activity of this morning, only the IMS personnel at their work stations, concentrating. He put his laptop down on Fanie Fick’s table. ‘He hasn’t sent anything yet,’ said Griessel.
‘I know. We’re watching the mail server. Put your laptop here and log in. I’ll keep an eye on it.’ With his apologetic attitude and sad eyes, like a bloodhound.
‘Thanks,’ said Griessel, and looked for a wall socket. It was hard for him to look at Fanie Fucked. As if he saw how he’d end up.
‘We have more or less all the names and numbers of the builders of 36 on Rose,’ Fick said. ‘Plus the removals, and security. Her Vodacom records for the last six months of last year are coming soon.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I should be able to start running the match at about eight o’clock.’