Authors: Deon Meyer
7 Days (3 page)
‘We are going on radio as well, but I don’t know if that will help,’ said Afrika.
‘It’s a bit of a mess,’ said Nyathi, his frown deepening. ‘To say the least.’
‘If you’re willing, Benny. We will back you up. All of us.’
Griessel put the sheet of paper down on the table, straightened his new, fashionable black jacket and asked: ‘Hanneke Sloet … she was the lawyer?’
‘That’s right,’ said Manie and pushed the file across to Griessel. ‘Mid-January. Green Point investigated the case …’
Griessel took the fat pack of documents and tried to remember what he had heard about the Sloet murder. There had been a small media storm about six weeks back, his colleagues had discussed the case constantly.
‘Five blocks away from my office in her fancy apartment,’ said Afrika. ‘Nailed her.’ And then half apologetically he added: ‘With one helluva knife.’
The brigadier sighed. ‘They found nothing. Nothing. Look at the investigation diary, you’ll see, they followed up everything.’
Griessel opened the dossier at the SAPS5 form in Section C, quickly paged through it, saw the extensive, detailed notes. ‘You know how it’s been since the Steyn case,’ said Afrika. ‘Everyone makes doubly sure, nobody takes chances any more. The Sloet investigation was by the book. The forensics were good, the footwork was thorough, they talked to everyone who lived and breathed, there’s no motive that stands up to scrutiny.’
‘Except that she was a lawyer,’ said Nyathi philosophically. ‘Big clients. Big money.’
‘True …’ said Afrika.
‘Crime of opportunity,’ said Nyathi. ‘Impossible case.’
Afrika sighed. ‘Trouble is, she moved into the flat on the third of January, she was murdered on the eighteenth. She hadn’t even finished unpacking. Nobody could tell the Green Point detectives if anything was stolen.’
‘Let’s not disclose everything,’ said Manie carefully to the general. ‘We want Benny to look at this with fresh eyes. Work through the file from the beginning, see what he can find.’
Afrika nodded in agreement.
Griessel picked up the email. ‘Brigadier, what about this “cover-up … you know why she was murdered”?’
Before Manie could answer, Afrika said vigorously: ‘It’s rubbish, Benny, absolute rubbish. Take a look at his other emails. Dreadful insinuations. We are protecting the communists and the Antichrists and whatnot.’
‘The guy’s a loony,’ said Nyathi. ‘White supremacist, hates us, hates the government, hates gay people, hates everybody.’
‘A terrorist, that’s what he is, a terrorist hiding behind an anonymous email address. Untraceable.’ Afrika slid the thin folder that lay in front of him over to Benny as well. ‘Here are the other letters. You’ll see.’
Was he supposed to investigate the sniper affair too?
The brigadier picked up on his uncertainty: ‘You know how it is with these crazies, Benny – sometimes they fixate on a specific case. But if there is a connection between the gunman and Sloet, and we have missed it … CATS are going to hunt the gunman. Colonel du Preez is the JOC leader.’
‘Mbali will be our official investigator, Brigadier,’ said du Preez. ‘She arrived back from Amsterdam yesterday …’
‘Amsterdam, oh, Amsterdam,’ said Afrika, shaking his head, but with good humour.
The unit had been abuzz the past week, over ‘the incident in Amsterdam’. The stout Mbali Kaleni, a member of du Preez’s CATS team for the past six months, had been one of a group of detectives taking a course in Holland. Something had happened to her – according to the bush telegraph it was a great embarrassment. But, despite pointed speculation in the corridors, nobody really knew what had
happened. Except the top management, and they were as silent as the grave.
‘You will have your hands full, Benny, but it’s important that you know what progress CATS are making, what they are looking into. And if you find something that could help them …’
‘You know how we work, Benny,’ said Colonel du Preez. ‘One big team …’
Griessel nodded again.
Nyathi folded his arms and sighed. ‘Benny, if word gets out there’s someone blackmailing us, shooting policemen … Feeding frenzy for the press, public panic.’
‘Cloete will keep the constable’s knee out of the papers. Just so you know, Benny,’ said Manie. ‘Please be careful with the press. In any case, Adjutant-Officer Nxesi is the Green Point detective who handled the Sloet case. You can call him, any time, he’s ready to come in.’
‘Our whole team is ready to support you,’ said Nyathi.
‘Not to put any extra pressure on you, Benny,’ Afrika said seriously, ‘but you must get moving. This mad bastard is going to keep on shooting policemen until you solve the case.’
At half past ten on a Saturday night Griessel walked to his office down the deathly silent, wide corridors of the DPCI – the Hawks – building. He was amazed at the effect that the Steyn affair, which Manie had referred to a few minutes ago, had had on the SAPS this past year.
Estelle Steyn, a newly qualified young chef, had been strangled eighteen months ago in her Pinelands town house – with a piece of material, probably a tie. No signs of breaking and entering, theft or sexual assault – it must have been someone whom she knew and trusted. Like her tie-wearing fiancé, the sombre, emotionless KPMG consultant with cold eyes and a key to her door. Within seventy-two hours he had been arrested and charged, and the media and fascinated public immediately declared him guilty. Because Estelle Steyn was a joyous, lively bundle of sunny energy, a brilliant cook with a bright future according to her colleagues. Alongside her blonde, smiling beauty on the front pages of the papers, her fiancé’s photo looked brooding and forbidding, the taciturn stare turned away from the camera. Like a man burdened by his misdeeds.
Then came the court case.
Like a pack of wild dogs, the defence ripped apart the carcass of poor crime-scene management, the narrow focus of the investigation, and the creative assumptions of the forensic testimony.
After seven months of sensation, the fiancé walked away a free man.
The media scolded and squawked, the public were shocked and dumbstruck. Months later best-selling books by criminologists and forensics experts analysed and criticised every SAPS misstep. In parliament, time and again the opposition used the whole as a stick with which to beat the government – the damage and scandal would not go away.
The career of the investigating officer, Fanie Fick, was over. He was tucked away in the Information Management Centre (IMC) of the Hawks now, retrained and redeployed as a computer analyst, but everyone knew he would not be promoted again. Behind his back they talked about ‘Fanie Fucked’, the guy who relieved his pain after hours every day at the Drunken Duck in Stikland.
That was why the Sloet file that Griessel carried to his office was so painfully detailed and ‘by the book’. The police service’s wounds were still raw, their honour deeply dented, the fear of another detective scapegoat, of more punishment and criticism from top management, the press and Joe Public, loomed large.
That was why General John Afrika had sat in on the meeting at the DPCI tonight, and why he had asked for a specific investigator.
Fear. The Hawks did not usually accept orders or input from a provincial head of investigations. They were too protective of their independence, of their own structures.
Fear, he thought, was also the reason they were allowing the gunman to blackmail them. In the old days the SAPS would not have bowed to threats from a sharpshooter.
Griessel sighed, unlocked his office door. It was a recipe for trouble.
Life was never simple.
He arranged the files on his desk, first opening the slim one that John Afrika had given him. He began to read the emails in chronological order, initially struggling to focus, too many things had happened too fast tonight.
Sent: Monday 24 January. 23.53
Re: Hanneke Sloet
You know very well who murdered Hanneke Sloet. Arrest the communist, or I will hand everything to the press.
The second one was much longer:
Sent: Monday 31 January. 23.13
Re: Hanneke Sloet, you’re all going to hell!!!
You are ungodly and sinners (1 Timothy 1:9, Proverbs 17:23).
The truth will come out about the communist and about the money he is paying you. You are all equally corrupt. Your time is running out.
1 Timothy 1:9-10: Knowing this, that the law is not made for a righteous man, but for the lawless and disobedient, for the ungodly and for sinners, for unholy and profane, for murderers of fathers and murderers of mothers, for manslayers, for whoremongers, for them that defile themselves with mankind, for menstealers, for liars, for perjured persons, and if there be any other thing that is contrary to sound doctrine.
Proverbs 17:23: A wicked man taketh a gift out of the bosom to pervert the ways of judgement.
Proverbs 21:15: It is joy to the just to do judgement: but destruction shall be to the workers of iniquity.
In the third he used a new tack:
Sent: Sunday 6 February. 22.47
Re: Hanneke Sloet – on your conscience.
You have three weeks to arrest Hanneke Sloet’s murderers. The process to let justice prevail has begun.
I warned you twice, but you did nothing. What is to come is on your
and your communist bedfellows’ consciences, not mine. You leave me no choice.
Let justice be done.
And then, the second last one, sent on Sunday 13 February, thirteen days ago:
Ecclesiastes 3: To every thing there is a time.
Verse 3: a time to kill, and a time to heal, a time to break down, and a time to build up.
Verse 8: a time of war, and a time of peace.
Griessel put the email down and arranged all five in a row, his eyes moving from one to the other.
Then he read them all over again.
When he was done, he propped his chin in his hands, and thought.
The dates of the emails. The pace had increased systematically. The first two were a week apart. Then six days. Then five. A fixed rhythm. Except for the last one.
Almost every one had been sent late at night.
In the first and second emails, the references to ‘communist’. Singular. Then it became ‘murderers’. And ‘communist bedfellows’. But back to the singular ‘murderer’ in the last one.
The sudden jump to Bible verses, the religious justification, the building momentum of a crusade. But in the last one there was a stronger style, more confidence. And purpose. Suddenly a man with a mission.
He could understand why John Afrika and Zola Nyathi thought these were the words of a disturbed man. All the signs were there: crazies did their things at night. And they became increasingly urgent with the passage of time, their communications more frequent. They phoned, breathless and anonymous, or wrote, disjointed, often full of racism or conspiracy theories or warning of the Day of Judgement, of the gods’-vengeance-on-a-land-of-sinners.
Like this one.
They were usually media parasites, studying every piece that appeared about a case, reacting to it, quoting it, embroidering on it.
This
one didn’t do that.
They almost always gave themselves a name when they wrote, some mythological or astrological or awe-inspiring pseudonym.
Not
this
one.
This one had a new tactic with every communication. This one went abruptly silent for two weeks before the final email. Which he had sent in daytime, a Saturday morning, twelve hours before he went out shooting.
This one referred to a motive in the last email:
You know why she was murdered
.
This one had carried out his threats, he had done the one thing that would ignite the wrath of the SAPS – he had shot a policeman. And he was threatening to do it again.
Something was not right here.
He put the emails back one by one in their file and drew the hefty Sloet folder closer. He opened it, he wanted to start at the beginning, take a look at the murder scene first, the photos, the forensic report, the pathologists …
Someone knocked on his door, softly and apologetically.
He was brought back from his reverie. ‘Come in,’ said Griessel.
Brigadier Musad Manie’s nickname in the DPCI was ‘the Camel’. Because ‘Musad’, one of the Hawk detectives had learned from a Muslim friend, meant ‘loose camel’ in Arabic. And when the tall, lean Colonel Zola Nyathi was appointed head of the Violent Crimes group – with his slow and stately, deliberate, slightly bent forward walk – he was swiftly dubbed ‘the Kameelperd’ or in the simpler English, ‘the Giraffe’.
It was the Giraffe who ducked through the door now, his shaven head shining under the fluorescent lights of Griessel’s office.
‘No, please, Benny, don’t get up …’ He walked up to the desk, his slender fingers putting down a car key.
‘You can use the BMW.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Benny, you know we’re a family here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You know that we approach investigations as one big team.’
‘Yes, sir. I just want to study the files first …’
‘I understand that, Benny. But when you’re ready, get the guys involved. I’ve already called Vaughn, he’s on standby …’
‘Yes, sir.’
Nyathi tapped a finger on the case files, his voice suddenly soft and confidential. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘You’re an old hand. I don’t have to spell it out for you …’ The colonel hesitated, lifted his head, looked Griessel right in the eyes. ‘You come talk to me, Benny. Or to the Brig. You find any monkey business anywhere, you come to us …’
Griessel didn’t know what to say.
‘Are you with me, Benny?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said in the hope that he would be able to decipher what the Giraffe meant later.
‘Good.’
Nyathi turned and walked to the door. Just before he closed it, he said: ‘Good luck.’
Griessel sat and looked at the door. Manie and Nyathi had also been taken by surprise over this affair, by Afrika’s request and involvement. They were playing along, but cautiously.