Deon Meyer (43 page)

 

 

“Spare me. I don’t need an attorney.”

 

 

“You’re going to need an advocate. We’re hitting you with armed robbery, Wachlaff.”

 

 

“It was a toy gun.”

 

 

“Pistol.”

 

 

“Whatever.”

 

 

“Do you admit that you’re undergoing this interrogation of your own free will, without any pressure or encouragement by the South African Police . . .”

 

 

“South African Police Service.”

 

 

“Sorry, Colonel. Without any pressure or encouragement from the South African Police Service?”

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

“Where did your name originate?”

 

 

“Good old Eskimo name.”

 

 

“You’re a funny one, Wachlaff.”

 

 

“My father was Polish, okay?”

 

 

“Is your mother Afrikaans?”

 

 

Silence.

 

 

“Will you speak? For the sake of the tape recording.”

 

 

“Yes, she was. What has that to do with anything?”

 

 

“Profession?”

 

 

“Housewife.”

 

 

“No, yours.”

 

 

“Makeup artist. Freelance.”

 

 

“Not very successful?”

 

 

“Not my fault. Blame the SABC. The more they dub, the more we die of hunger.”

 

 

“So you decided to rob a few banks.”

 

 

“Only Premier. The other one was to send him the message.”

 

 

“For the record, the accused is referring to Captain Mat Joubert. Why Premier, Wachlaff?”

 

 

“They owe me.”

 

 

“They owe you?”

 

 

“I wouldn’t have taken more than forty-five thousand rand. That’s what they owe me.”

 

 

“Why?”

 

 

“My house.”

 

 

“Your house?”

 

 

“They approved the loan. No problem, Mr. Milos. We’re happy to assist, Mr. Milos. Just sign here, Mr. Milos, we’ll let you have it at a quarter percent less.”

 

 

“And?”

 

 

“Then they withdrew the loan. Because their assessor hadn’t seen the structural defect until I told them about it.”

 

 

“Structural defect?”

 

 

“The entire back of the house is fucking slowly sinking into the sand but the contract says the seller is not responsible and I had already signed. ‘We’re sorry, Mr. Milos, but there’s not enough security for the loan. No, it would be overcapitalizing to have the defect repaired, Mr. Milos. We’re transferring the loan to overdraft facilities. Do look at paragraph so-and-so, subparagraph this-and-that, the interest is just slightly higher.’ And then the SAB fucking C downsized and what could I do? Phone Murder and Robbery?”

 

 

“Then you began to rob banks?”

 

 

“I looked for work.”

 

 

“With no success.”

 

 

“No, sir, I was snowed under by offers. Twentieth Century Fox, MGM, Warner. They stood in line. But I really don’t want to be a millionaire at thirty-two.”

 

 

“You are funny and sarcastic, Wachlaff.”

 

 

“You try looking for work with your white skin, pal. ‘What experience do you have, sir? Makeup? We’ll phone you, sir. We’re actually busy with affirmative action right now.’ ”

 

 

“Then you started robbing banks.”

 

 

“Then I went and took back what they owed me.”

 

 

“It’s known as armed robbery, Wachlaff.”

 

 

“My name is Janek. It wasn’t a weapon. It was a toy.”

 

 

“Do you admit that you robbed branches of Premier Bank of January 2 and 7 of seven thousand rand and fifteen thousand rand respectively? And that on January 11 you attempted to rob the bank’s branch in Milnerton? And that on January 16 you robbed a BANKSA branch in Somerset West of three thousand rand? Each time by threatening the employees with a firearm?”

 

 

“You saw the fucking gun. It’s a toy.”

 

 

“Can you prove that the toy pistol is the same one you used during the armed robberies?”

 

 

“No. But hell . . .”

 

 

“Yes?”

 

 

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I was polite and civilized, up to the moment you started fucking around with the Mauser thing.”

 

 

“What Mauser thing, Wachlaff?”

 

 

“My fucking name is Janek. You know very well which Mauser thing I’m talking about. The guy who’s wiping out the whole Peninsula.”

 

 

“What do you know about the Mauser thing?”

 

 

“What I and the rest of South Africa read in the newspapers.”

 

 

“Where do you keep your Mauser?”

 

 

“Listen, I’m prepared to cooperate but I’m not prepared to listen to shit.”

 

 

“You started the Mauser thing when you mentioned it in Milnerton. I quote from the statement of Miss Rosa Wassermann. ‘And then he said: Seems like I should’ve brought my Mauser.’ ”

 

 

“The fat bitch wouldn’t cooperate. I wanted to give her a fright.”

 

 

“There are twelve detectives busy searching your house at this moment. If they find the Mauser . . .”

 

 

“They won’t find anything.”

 

 

“Why, Wachlaff? Have you hidden it somewhere else?”

 

 

“I don’t have a fucking Mauser. How many times must I repeat it? I wouldn’t even know how to get hold of one. I bought a toy gun that looks like the real thing and I never took it out of my pocket because I was afraid people would see that it was a toy. Okay, okay, I admit I stole the money. But it wasn’t robbery. And it wasn’t theft. It was my money that I took back. I would’ve returned BANKSA’s money but I had to get it from Premier first. Okay? You can’t force me to admit something I didn’t do.”

 

 

“Where’s the money, Wachlaff?”

 

 

“Janek.”

 

 

“Where’s the money, Janek?”

 

 

“It’s my money.”

 

 

“Where is it?”

 

 

“Fuck you all. I’m going to jail in any case and when I get out Premier is still going to screw me for the money. Plus fucking interest. So what’s the use?”

 

 

“The judge will regard it in a very positive light if you return the money, Janek.”

 

 

“It’s my money.”

 

 

“Where is your money, Janek?”

 

 

(Silence)

 

 

“Janek?”

 

 

“In the ceiling. Under the hot water tank.”

 

 

* * *

They had a conference in de Wit’s office, the commanding officer now a member of the team, a frail camaraderie created by the Brigadier’s tirade.

 

 

Joubert’s mouth was dry and tasted of old cigarettes. In the interrogation room he had discarded his resolution of three a day— simply to get rid of the intense hunger and the headache that throbbed behind his temples. He had kept up with Griessel, one cigarette after the other, and he wanted another one now but de Wit’s sign stopped him. I PREFER NOT TO SMOKE.

 

 

They went through the dossiers line by line, bit by bit, studied the shapes of the puzzle, the holes bigger than the small pieces that fitted. They started from the beginning, built theories that others demolished with one question, shuffled again, built, broke down, until they realized the core simply wasn’t there, the angles and corners still made no sense.

 

 

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.”