Theres not a thing wrong with it, said Gail.
Ferdy Ferreira had contracted polio as a child. His left foot was affected but only insofar as it needed a slightly thicker sole to his shoe and gave a subtle list to his walk. But Ferdy had learned to use it as a weapon, with only qualified success.
Ferdy sighed, as he did every morning, and got dressed. He took the dogs leads out of the broom closet in the kitchen and walked back to the bedroom, the list heavily emphasized in a useless play for sympathy. The dogs were still sitting in the bedroom, their eyes fixed on Gail. Ferdy clipped the leads to their collars. Charles and Diana growled.
Ill be going now. He sounded hurt, his voice martyred.
Be careful with my angels, was Gails reply.
He walked down the mobile home parks tarred road to the main gate on the west side. He greeted old Mrs. Atkinson, who lived in the park permanently on site seventeen with eleven cats. The corgis strained toward the cat smell. Ferdy jerked them back with satisfaction, using more force than was necessary. The corgis growled.
He walked them through the gate. The black gatekeeper was probably still sleeping in the little wooden hut. They walked across the tarred road, over the empty piece of land that lay next to the Little Salt River, which flowed into the sea there.
He didnt see the orange of the eastern horizon or the blue-green of the Atlantic Ocean in front of him or the long stretch of white beach or the car parked on the empty piece of land. Because he was thinking of other things. George Walmer had acquired three new videos. Pure porn. He was bringing them later.
Between the brown soil of the informal parking area and the stretch of beach there was a low dune an irregular sandbank a meter or two high with occasional clumps of Port Jackson bushes or vygie ground cover.
Ferdy aimed for his usual route to the beach, a pathway worn through the dune. The corgis wanted to smell a plant. He jerked them back. They growled.
Ferdy saw the figure coming toward him but didnt find it odd. There were people on the beach at that hour quite often. Some jogged, some walked, some stared at the sea.
Ferdy only really saw the figure when the Mauser appeared from under the blue windbreaker. He assumed that it was a joke and wanted to laugh, but then the big pistol was aimed at him and he saw the face and fear gripped his guts in a painful grasp.
Im a cripple, he said, his eyes wild.
The corgis growled at the figure in front of them.
The Mauser, gripped in both hands, was aimed at his head. He saw the tension in the trigger finger, the set of the killers jaw, the purposeful eyes, and knew that he was going to die. Ferdy dropped the corgis leads and sprang forward in an effort to save his life.
The shot thundered across the beach, an echo of the waves. The lead bullet broke his bottom right incisor, tore through his palate, just above his upper teeth, punched through the lower bone of his eye socket, and broke through the skin just in front of his left ear. He staggered back, then dropped down into a sitting position. Pain shot through his head. The blood dripped warmly down his cheek. His left eye wouldnt focus.
But he was alive.
He looked up. His left eye. There was something seriously wrong with his left eye.
But with his right eye he saw the big pistol in front of him again.
Im a cripple.
He didnt see the trigger finger tightening again. But he heard the mechanical metal sound.
Jammed, he thought. The thing wont shoot. Its innards have seized up. And Ferdy Ferreira thought he was going to live.
The Mauser disappeared in front of him. He saw another pistol. Toy pistol, he thought, because it was so small.
He saw the strangest thing. The corgis stood with trembling upper lips and bared teeth, growling at the executioner. Then Charles rushed forward. Ferdy heard a shot. Another shot.
The dogs wanted to protect him, he thought, and he was overcome with emotion. The little pistol was in front of him, but he didnt hear the last shot.
* * *
Joubert drove to work from the swimming pool in his own car, a yellow Cortina XR6, one of the monuments to the days when he still competed with Gerbrand Vos. He worried about the fact that after exercising for a week, he still couldnt swim more than four lengths before he was forced to rest.
Perhaps Im in too much of a hurry, he thought, and lit a Special Mild. His diet also had to get off the ground. On the seat next to him was a blue-and-white Pick n Pay plastic bag. In it was his lunch, which he had made himself that morning: whole wheat bread with low-fat spread, lettuce leaves, tomato, and cucumber slices. No salt.
He stopped at Murder and Robbery and Mavis came running out. He knew there was trouble before he even heard what she was saying.
* * *
The news editor at the SABC offices in Sea Point heard from the crime reporter of the radio team that the Mauser murderer had claimed a third victim.
The news editor read the newspapers. He knew this saga had the local newspapers on the hop. He could just imagine what they would do with number three. Now there was irrefutable evidence that the Cape could boast a serial killer. And that was good enough for national television. So the news editor telephoned the television reporter at home and the cameraman at his flat. He gave them their orders.
* * *
If anyone had a motive for killing Ferdy it was me, said Gail Ferreira.
She sat in an armchair in the Plettenbergs sitting room. Gerbrand Vos sat opposite her on a two-seater couch. He was on backup duty that week. Joubert sat next to him, the two large detectives squashed together on a couch that was too small. But there was no other seating.
Each one held a cup of tea.
What do you mean, Mrs. Ferreira? Vos asked and lifted his cup to his mouth.
Because Ferdy was bad news. She said it forcibly and stressed the last two words. She sat up straight, with her knees together, her teacup held on her lap. Joubert noticed that she wasnt a pretty woman. Her black hair was liberally laced with gray. It was short and curly. Traces of a skin complaint in youth were still visible under the makeup. The corners of her mouth turned down naturally, which gave her a permanently surly expression.
Why do you say that? Vos asked.
Because he could never keep a job. Because he was lazy. Because he felt too sorry for himself. You see, Captain, Ferdy had polio, and his left foot was slightly affected. But there was nothing wrong with him. Only in his head. He thought the world owed him a living.
She brought the cup to her lips.
What kind of work did he do? Joubert asked.
He was a carpenter when he worked at all. He was clever with his hands. But according to him, his bosses were never good enough. 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 came of it. Then they advertised for carpenters for the factories in Atlantis and we moved here, but it didnt last long. He complained that the black carpenters got the best jobs and preferential treatment and he couldnt work under bosses like that. Now he sits at home every day, in front of the television, and he and that worthless George Walmer of the club watch blue movies the moment my back is turned.
Vos put his cup down on the little table in the middle of the room.
But you didnt kill him, maam. Therefore there must be someone else who had reason to . . .
Captain, Ferdy was too useless to make enemies, Gail Ferreira said with finality.
Have you ever heard the name James Wallace, Mrs. Ferreira?
No.
Jimmy Wallace?
No.
Drew Wilson?
No. Should I have?
The same murder weapon was probably used in their murders, maam. Were looking for a connection.
Were they also bad news? she asked seriously.
The detectives didnt reply Gerry Vos because he saw the question as rhetorical and Joubert because he was wondering whether the wife of Ferdy Ferreira didnt have something there. Both James J. Wallace and Drew Wilson had been bad news. Each in his own way.
But then Gail Ferreira showed that she wasnt wholly without feeling. The house is going to be empty, she sighed and put her cup on the table.
The detectives looked up, faintly surprised.
Whos going to bark at me when I get home?
19.
T
he television news team was too late to shoot, in their somewhat tactless parlance, the gruesome remains of Ferdy Ferreira. They were too late at the murder scene to record the police ballistics team, laboratory team, video unit, photographer, and dog unit.
However, the cameraman found a blotch of blood in the sand where Ferdys head had rested after the pistol had punched a hole through it. He made a recording of it. He also held the camera low over the white sand and walked through the gap in the dune in an attempt to get dramatic material of Ferdy Ferreiras last steps this side of the grave.
Then he and the reporter drove to the Old Ship Caravan Park and waited with the newspaper reporters in front of the Plettenberg. The television team didnt like that. They usually got preferential treatment at news events. The cameraman set up his tripod, screwed the Sony Betacam SP onto it, and focused on the front door of the Plettenberg.
Joubert and Vos came out. Gail Ferreira said good-bye to them at the front door. The policemen walked to their cars. The reporters hurried after them.
The camera lens followed the procession. The microphone on the camera didnt pick up Voss words, however. Fuckit, now the TVs here as well. You can keep the case, partner. The goings getting rough.
The reporters reached them and asked for information.
You know you must work through PR, Joubert said.
Just the basics, Captain, please.
* * *
The Brigadier wants to know what were doing, said Colonel Bart de Wit and nervously rubbed his mole. His smile was very vague. He heard from PR that the television was there as well.
Joubert and Vos were sitting opposite him.
Whether its a new government or not, everything remains the same. Isnt it amazing the way the entire force shits its pants every time the TV covers something, said Vos and shook his head sadly.
De Wits smile disappeared and Jouberts heart swelled with pride in his colleague.
Captain, that was totally unnecessary. The services image is at stake here.
With respect, Colonel, its the minister and the commissioner and the Brigadiers image. Because when the newspapers write something, its fuckall. But just let the TV guys show an interest . . .
Captain Vos, your language does not become an officer. And we arent here to do the work of PR. The Brigadier wants to know what were going to do.
Joubert saw that de Wit had regained his self-possession and his voice was heavy with that sarcastic intonation. Were investigating the case, Colonel.
But not well enough, Captain. This is the third murder and you dont even have a clue. Every theory bombs out. First the man who sleeps around. Then the homosexual. Whats it this time? Lesbians?
He knew de Wit was trying to humiliate him in front of Vos. He wanted to say something, retain his dignity, but his mind refused to formulate the words.
Thats unfair, Colonel. With a serial there never are any clues. Vos defended his colleague.
Do you know something about the murders we dont know, Captain?
One doesnt have to be psychic to know that its a serial, Colonel.
There was a gun of a different caliber involved in the Melkbos murder. Doesnt sound like the same modus operandi to me.
Joubert found words. He knows his Mauser and his ammunition are not a hundred percent dependable. One jamming and youre in trouble . . .
Thats for fucking sure, Gerbrand Vos helped.
And there was a jamming this morning. Only one 7.63 cartridge case.
De Wit said nothing.
Well know if its the same murderer tomorrow, Colonel.
Oh?
The ballistics guys in Pretoria are on the jump, Colonel. Because you evidently phoned them. I must thank you.
Its my job, Captain, to support my staff. Then his tone of voice changed. But what do I tell the Brigadier?
Im doing my best, Colonel, Joubert said softly.
But is that enough, Captain? de Wit asked and smiled.