Deon Meyer (26 page)

“Messy,” said Professor Pagel. He saw the second wound in Alexander MacDonald’s groin. “And a new twist, I see.”

 

 

“Yes,” said Joubert and sighed. “A new twist.”

 

 

Outside, the photographer, the video unit, and the dog unit had arrived. They would all have to wait. They wouldn’t like it but they would have to wait.

 

 

He lit a cigarette and walked out. His radio on his hip suddenly spoke loudly. De Wit wanted him urgently. He thought he knew why.

 

 

 

25.

T
he district commissioner was a major general, a short, square man with black hair that he wore well oiled and combed straight back. He also had a black Charlie Chaplin mustache. The chief of detectives was a brigadier, a tall, large man with a bald patch. They looked like a South African edition of Laurel and Hardy. With one difference: Bart de Wit did not find their presence amusing in the least. The smile on his face was present, but Joubert decided that beyond reasonable doubt it was a nervous smile.

 

 

They were in the General’s office. The office was large and attractive, the walls paneled in dark wood, a large desk at one end and a circular conference table at the other, with ten chairs around it. They sat at the table. Joubert had been in the office before, more than three years ago, after an award ceremony at which he had been honored. The office hadn’t changed, he noticed. But a great many other things had.

 

 

The General wanted to know if the latest murder had supplied any new clues. Joubert told him about the circumstances, the shot in the groin.

 

 

“That’s a new one,” the General said.

 

 

“Indeed.” De Wit grinned.

 

 

“We’ve installed a temporary investigation office at the Hout Bay station, General. The men are still busy doing the legwork, the neighbors, the crew of the boats. We’re looking for relatives and friends.”

 

 

“What else?”

 

 

De Wit’s hopeless gaze was fixed on Joubert. Relax, Two Nose, he thought, I have things under control.

 

 

“I would like to send men to all the arms dealers in the Cape, General,” Joubert said.

 

 

“Haven’t you as yet?”

 

 

“We first tried to trace all the licensed Mausers in the Western Cape, General. It yielded nothing. Now we have to talk to dealers and gunsmiths. Maybe someone somewhere had a Mauser Broomhandle serviced.”

 

 

“Makes sense,” the General said.

 

 

“Undeniably,” said the Brigadier.

 

 

“Of course,” de Wit said.

 

 

“But will it help? People must show licenses if they want to have weapons serviced.”

 

 

“The dealers are only human, General. A few fast rands are often more effective than the rules. If we apply enough pressure . . . Even if they don’t have a name and an address, they might remember what the person looks like.”

 

 

“Then we’ll have a description at least,” the General said. He turned to the Brigadier. “Would you assist in getting Captain Joubert more manpower, Pete? As long as necessary.”

 

 

The Brigadier nodded enthusiastically.

 

 

“There’s something else, General,” Joubert said. “The other weapon in the Ferreira murder. We still haven’t had the ballistic report. If we know the caliber and what kind of weapon it was, we can ask arms dealers about that as well. Maybe, if we’re lucky, someone had both weapons serviced at the same time.”

 

 

“You’ll have your report within the hour, Captain. Believe me.”

 

 

Joubert believed him.

 

 

“And if there’s anything else moving too slowly to suit you, let me know. Or if you need more men. Got that?”

 

 

“Thank you, General.”

 

 

“What else?”

 

 

“I’m going to see all the relatives of the previous victims, General. With the new murder . . . perhaps they’ll remember something.”

 

 

“Fine. What else?”

 

 

“I’m seeing a doctor in criminology at the University of Stellenbosch, General. I—”

 

 

“The one who was in
Die Burger
?”

 

 

“Yes, General, I—”

 

 

“Why?”

 

 

“I want to put together a profile by tonight, General. Everything we know. It’s not much but we have to take the chance. We think it’s a man because the weapon is large. Perhaps the doctor can help to compile the profile. I want to give it to the press. Maybe someone knows somebody with a Mauser and a small-caliber handgun.”

 

 

“It’s a shot in the dark.”

 

 

“Indeed,” said the Brigadier.

 

 

De Wit nodded and grinned.

 

 

“I simply want to make sure that I’m doing everything possible, General.”

 

 

“Might just work.”

 

 

“More like than not,” said the Brigadier.

 

 

De Wit nodded.

 

 

“What about the bank robber?”

 

 

“General, I firmly believe the robber has nothing to do with the murders.”

 

 

“Tell that to the newspapers.”

 

 

“All we can do is to put a policeman in every Premier Bank branch in the Peninsula— in civilian dress, General. And hope that the man strikes again. But the manpower . . .”

 

 

“Captain, if we’ve made an error of judgment and the robber and the Mauser guy prove to be the same person, you and I will be selling insurance by morning. Every station can afford a few men. I’ll speak to Brigadier Brown. Then you have to talk to Premier.”

 

 

“Thank you, General.”

 

 

“Is that the lot?”

 

 

“For the moment, General.”

 

 

“What about a medium?” de Wit asked.

 

 

“A what?” the General asked on behalf of everyone else.

 

 

“A medium. A spiritualist. The English refer to them as psychics.”

 

 

“You mean someone with second sight? A fortune-teller?” the Brigadier said.

 

 

“Are you serious?” the General asked disbelievingly.

 

 

“General, they often use them in England. While I was there they solved two murders like that. One was a body they couldn’t trace. The site the psychic indicated was no more than five hundred meters from where the body was found.”

 

 

“Do you want the Minister to sh—” The General controlled himself. “There’s no money for a circus like that, Colonel. You should be aware of that.”

 

 

De Wit’s smile was a mask. “It needn’t cost us a cent, General.”

 

 

“Oh?”

 

 

“Sometimes these people do the work for free. It’s like a marketing ploy. Publicity.”

 

 

“Mmm. I don’t know. Sounds like a circus to me.”

 

 

“The media would like it,” Joubert said. The others looked at him. “It would give them something to write about, General. Take the pressure off us so that we can get on with it.”

 

 

Joubert caught a glimpse of de Wit’s surprise.

 

 

“That’s true,” the General said. “But on one condition. It doesn’t cost us a cent. And the psychic doesn’t reveal that we asked him to come.”

 

 

“Her,” de Wit said. “The best psychic in England is a woman, General.”

 

 

“Indeed,” said the General.

 

 

“But surely we have psychics here,” said the Brigadier.

 

 

“It’s just that I know her. And the publicity value of a foreign person . . .”

 

 

“Imagine that,” said the Brigadier.

 

 

Joubert said nothing.

 

 

* * *

The man in the overalls, with no neck and a head as bald and as round as a cannonball, walked through the crowd of detectives and uniforms looking for someone. He could hardly believe that the Hout Bay station could be so busy. He asked where Captain Mat Joubert of Murder and Robbery was. In that storeroom, someone replied. It’s the investigation office, someone else said.

 

 

He tried getting in through the door. The room was full of people and smoke. In one corner, sitting at a table, was a big man with hair that was too long and too untidy to be a detective’s. It tallied with the description he’d been given. He walked toward him. The man had a cigarette in one hand and a pen in the other. He was talking to a fat man in front of him.

 

 

“They must divide the Peninsula into sectors, Nougat. And not skip an arms dealer or a gunsmith, no matter how small. Now we’re just waiting for the bloody ballistics report.”

 

 

“Here it is,” said the man with the cannonball head and handed Joubert a brown envelope.

 

 

Joubert looked up in surprise. “Thank you,” he said. “Did the General send you?”

 

 

“Yes, Captain.”

 

 

Joubert looked at his watch. “He’s a man of his word.” He tore open the envelope and read the report.

 

 

“Twenty-two Long Rifle caliber. According to the marks on the case and the cartridge, a Smith & Wesson Escort, the so-called Model 61.”

 

 

“Point two two. Shit. Common as muck,” Nougat said.

 

 

“It does help us, though. They must question the dealers, Nougat. Has someone bought a Smith & Wesson and perhaps had a Mauser serviced. Or bought .22 long ammunition. Or had a Smith & Wesson and a Mauser serviced. Or just a Smith & Wesson . . .”

 

 

“I catch your drift.”

 

 

“Anything, Nougat. We’re looking for needles in a haystack. That doesn’t mean asking a few simple questions and going on to the next shop. They must do it properly. Apply some pressure. Threaten with inspections. The Mauser isn’t licensed.”

 

 

“Leave it to me, Cappy. We’ll get our man.”

 

 

“Woman,” said the man with the cannonball head.

 

 

“What did you say?” asked Joubert, slightly irritated.

 

 

“I think it was a woman, Captain.”

 

 

“Oh?”

 

 

“The Model 61 is a woman’s weapon, Captain.”

 

 

“And who are you, if I may ask?” said Nougat O’Grady.

 

 

“I’m Adjutant Mike de Villiers. From the armory. The General phoned me and asked me whether I’d look through the ballistic report and bring it to you. He said you could ask me questions if you want to. I . . . er . . . I know something about guns, Captain.”

 

 

Joubert looked at the man opposite him, the round head, the absence of a neck, the blue overalls covered in gun oil marks. If the General had sent him . . .

 

 

“What do you know about the .22, Adjutant?”

 

 

Mike de Villiers closed his eyes. “Smith & Wesson made the Escort for the female market. In the seventies. Short grip, small weapon. People called it the Model 61. Fitted easily into a handbag. Semiautomatic pistol, five in the magazine. Not a great success, especially the first produced, which had a weak safety indicator. Smith & Wesson built a magazine safety mechanism into the second model, in ’70, but owners had to take the pistol back to the factory for adjusting. Four models between ’69 and ’71. Good penetration capacity, better than the Baby Browning. Accurate at short distance. Jamming rare but not impossible.”

 

 

Mike de Villiers opened his eyes.

 

 

Joubert and O’Grady stared at him.

 

 

“That doesn’t mean a man won’t use it,” Joubert said, still bemused.

 

 

The eyes closed again. “Short grip, Captain, very short. Small weapon. Your finger won’t even fit into the trigger guard. Doesn’t fit into a man’s hand, doesn’t fit a man’s ego. A man looks for a large gun—9-millimeter, .45 Magnum. Statistics show that eighty-seven percent of handgun murders are committed by men with large calibers. Shooting incidents by women are rare, generally in self-defense, generally small caliber.”

 

 

The eyes opened slowly, like a reptile’s.

 

 

O’Grady’s jaw had come to a halt and dropped slightly. Joubert frowned.

 

 

“But the Mauser is a man’s weapon.”

 

 

“I don’t know anything about the Broomhandle, Captain. If it was made before 1918, I’m not interested,” de Villiers said.

 

 

“Is Captain Joubert here?” the leader of a group of uniforms who had walked through the door called out.

 

 

“Here,” Joubert said and sighed. The place was a madhouse.

 

 

“Did the Captain want to know anything else?”

 

 

“Thank you, Adjutant. I know where to get hold of you if there’s anything else.”

 

 

De Villiers nodded, said good-bye, and quietly left.

 

 

“Looks like a lizard, talks like a computer,” said O’Grady. “Man’s a fucking genius.”

 

 

Joubert didn’t hear him. His thoughts were frustrated, confused by the new information. “Nothing in this investigation makes any sense, Nougat. Nothing.”

 

 

* * *

He phoned Stellenbosch University and asked to speak to Dr. A. L. Boshoff.

 

 

“Anne Boshoff,” a woman’s voice answered. He sighed quietly. Another female doctor.

 

 

He explained who he was and asked whether he could speak to her that afternoon, explaining that it was urgent.

 

 

“I’ll prepare in the meanwhile,” she said.

 

 

* * *

He closed the station commander’s door. “How peaceful the silence is,” said Lieutenant Leon Petersen.