Deon Meyer (15 page)

 

 

Joubert wiped the sweat off his upper lip.

 

 

“Any drugs?” de Wit asked, assuming a hurt expression in advance.

 

 

Joubert thought how odd it was that his concentration was always better after a heavy drinking session. Possibly because only then did the mind have the ability to concentrate on only one thing at a time. He took a deep breath and kept his voice calm and even: “I’m going through Wilson’s house with a team now, Colonel. We’ll look for drugs as well.”

 

 

“But that’s not all.”

 

 

He heard the barely concealed reproach in the other man’s voice. Overdone patience crept into his voice. “Colonel, I don’t know how matters stand at Scotland Yard, but white murders in the Cape are few and far between. And six or seven times out of ten male homosexuals are involved. We’ll have to investigate that in depth.”

 

 

De Wit’s smile broadened slightly. “I’m not sure that I understand you rightly. Wallace, you told me recently, played around with women, and now you tell me Wilson did the same thing with men. Are you telling me there are two different murderers?”

 

 

Joubert’s mind searched for cross-references. De Wit’s smile was different from anything he’d ever encountered. It was the man’s way of handling conflict, his way of releasing tension. But it confused the person on the receiving end. Maybe it was meant to do just that.

 

 

“No, Colonel, I don’t know. It could be a copycat. If a murder gets a lot of publicity . . .”

 

 

“I’m aware of the phenomenon, Captain.” The smile.

 

 

“But I think it’s too soon for that.”

 

 

“Did the victims know one another?”

 

 

“I’ll check on that.”

 

 

“Very well, Captain.”

 

 

Joubert rose halfway out of his chair. “Colonel . . .”

 

 

De Wit waited.

 

 

“There’s one other matter. The article in the
Argus
about the bank robber . . .”

 

 

“I see your friends at public relations think highly of you, Captain.” De Wit leaned forward and added softly: “Keep it that way.”

 

 

 

14.

I
t was the first time that Detective Constable Gerrit Snyman had had to search a house without the knowledge of the owner. It made him feel uncomfortable, like an intruder.

 

 

In Drew Wilson’s bedroom, at the bottom of the built-in closet next to a neat row of shoes, he found a thick photograph album with a brown cover. He knelt in front of the closet and opened it. Photographs were pasted in neat rows, each one with a caption— some witty, some nostalgic. The feeling of discomfort grew because here Drew Wilson was still alive in timeless moments of happiness, birthdays and awards, parental love, friendship. Detective Constable Gerrit Snyman didn’t consider the symbolism of the photo album for a single second, nor, for the same brief space of time, did it occur to him that everyone left only the happy moments for future generations and took the grief and the pain, the heartbreak and the failures, to their graves.

 

 

This was because the life of Drew Wilson as illustrated by the photographs changed in a way that upset the young policeman. Then he recognized someone in a photo and an involuntary whistle escaped him. He got up in one smooth movement and hurried to where Captain Mat Joubert was going through a chest of drawers in another room.

 

 

“Captain, I think I might have something here,” Snyman said modestly. But his face betrayed his shock and excitement.

 

 

Joubert looked at the pictures. “Isn’t that . . .” and he tapped a finger on a photo.

 

 

“It is, Captain, it is,” Snyman said enthusiastically.

 

 

“Shit,” Joubert said. Snyman nodded as if he agreed.

 

 

“Well done,” said Joubert. He tapped Snyman on the shoulder with a clenched fist.

 

 

Snyman saw the shine in Joubert’s eyes and smiled because he saw it as his reward.

 

 

“We must cover all the bases,” Joubert said thoughtfully. “But first of all you must fetch him.”

 

 

* * *

Mat Joubert knew it was impossible to be sure from the start whether a suspect was lying. Some wore the signs of guilt like beacons on their faces, others could hide it with the greatest of ease.

 

 

He looked at the man opposite him clad in a multicolored V-necked tracksuit and expensive running shoes. The man was big and broad-shouldered. He was attractive, with a square jaw and black hair that curled at the nape of his neck. At the neckline of the tracksuit curly hair was clearly visible. A gold cross on a thin chain nestled in the hair. There was a serious expression on his face, a controlled frown between the heavy black eyebrows, an expression of grave cooperation. Joubert had seen it before. It could mean anything, because all this suspect had been asked to do was to accompany Snyman to Murder and Robbery because he “might be able to help us with an investigation.” Who knew what thoughts were churning behind that attractive frown?

 

 

Snyman sat next to the suspect, his place there earned by his good work. Bart de Wit sat somewhat behind the suspect, against the wall, an observer by personal request.

 

 

Joubert pressed the button of the tape recorder. “Mr. Zeelie, you’re aware of the fact that we’re recording this conversation?”

 

 

“Yes.” A small muscle next to the mouth twitched the upper lip.

 

 

“Have you any objection?”

 

 

“No.” His voice was deep and masculine.

 

 

“Please give us your full name for the record.”

 

 

“Charles Theodore Zeelie.”

 

 

“Your profession?”

 

 

“Professional cricketer.”

 

 

“You regularly play for the Western Province senior team?”

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

“As a Province cricketer you must’ve known the late Mr. James Wallace well?”

 

 

“I did.”

 

 

Joubert watched him closely. Sometimes precisely the exaggerated ease was a sign, the forced lack of concern a mask for guilt. But Zeelie kept to the exact opposite— the tense frown, the serious helpfulness.

 

 

“Tell us about your relationship with Mr. Wallace.”

 

 

“Well . . . er . . . acquaintances, I’d say. We saw one another from time to time, generally at the get-togethers after the match. We chatted. I liked him. He was a . . . flamboyant man. Acquaintances. We were no more than acquaintances.”

 

 

“Are you positive?”

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

“You never discussed your personal life with Mr. Wallace?”

 

 

“Er . . . no . . .”

 

 

“You had no reason to dislike Mr. Wallace?”

 

 

“No. I liked him.” The seriousness of the issue deepened the frown on Zeelie’s forehead.

 

 

“Never got annoyed with him?”

 

 

“No . . . not that I can remember.”

 

 

Joubert leaned forward slightly and stared straight at the man in front of him. “Are or were you ever acquainted with a Mr. Drew Joseph Wilson of 64 Clarence Street, Boston?”

 

 

Shock spread like a veld fire over Zeelie’s face— his jaw clenched, the eyes narrowed. The left hand on the arm of the chair trembled.

 

 

“Yes.” Barely audible.

 

 

“Would you please speak more clearly for the sake of the tape recorder.” Mat Joubert’s voice carried the civility of the victor. “Would you like to tell us about your relationship with him?”

 

 

Now Zeelie’s voice was trembling as well as his hand. “You must forgive me but I don’t see what that has to do with this.” It became an appeal.

 

 

“With what, Mr. Zeelie?”

 

 

“Jimmy Wallace’s death.”

 

 

“Oh, so you reckon you can help us with the investigation into the murder of Wallace?”

 

 

He didn’t get it. “I’ll do everything in my power, but . . .”

 

 

“Yes, Mr. Zeelie?”

 

 

“Leave Drew Wilson out of it.”

 

 

“Why?”

 

 

“Because he has nothing to do with it.” Zeelie was recovering from the shock.

 

 

Joubert leaned forward again. “Oh but he has, Mr. Zeelie. Drew Joseph Wilson was killed at approximately ten o’clock last night. Two pistol shots, one in the head, one in the heart.”

 

 

Zeelie’s hands gripped the arms of the chair, his knuckles white.

 

 

“James J. Wallace died in the same way. And we suspect that the same weapon was used.”

 

 

Zeelie stared at Joubert as if he were invisible. His face had blanched. The silence lengthened.

 

 

“Mr. Zeelie?”

 

 

“I . . .”

 

 

“Yes?”

 

 

“I want an attorney.”

 

 

* * *

Joubert and Snyman waited outside the interrogation room for an hour and a half while Charles Theodore Zeelie consulted with his attorney. De Wit had asked to be called again and went back to his office.

 

 

The longer the conversation inside lasted, the more certain Joubert became that Zeelie was his man.

 

 

Eventually the gray-haired attorney appeared.

 

 

“If my client is completely open with you, I want the assurance that his evidence will be kept totally confidential.”

 

 

“In court nothing is confidential,” Joubert said.

 

 

“It won’t come to that,” said the attorney and Joubert’s confidence ebbed. He asked for de Wit to be called. The OC agreed to the attorney’s request. They went into the room. Zeelie was pale, his eyes on the floor. They sat down at the table.

 

 

“Put your questions,” the attorney said.

 

 

Joubert activated the tape recorder, cleared his throat, not certain of the correct words. “Did you have . . . a relationship with Drew Joseph Wilson?”

 

 

Zeelie’s voice was low. “It was a long time ago. Six, seven years. We were . . . friends.”

 

 

“Friends, Mr. Zeelie?”

 

 

“Yes.” Louder, as if he wanted to convince himself of that.

 

 

“We have photographs in an album which . . .”

 

 

“It was a long time ago . . .”

 

 

Only the faint whirr of the tape recorder was audible. Joubert waited. Snyman sat on the edge of his chair. The attorney stared at the wall. Bart de Wit rubbed his mole.

 

 

Then Zeelie started speaking in his deep, attractive voice, softly, almost tonelessly.

 

 

“He didn’t even know who I was.” He thought for a moment, spoke as if he were alone in the room.

 

 

“I was thumbing a lift from campus to town. Drew picked me up. The previous year, during matric, I’d played for Border, and the newspapers made a big thing of it when I came to Cape Town. He asked me who I was and I said he ought to know. He smiled and said that all he knew was that I was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen.”

 

 

Zeelie became aware of the people around him again. He looked at Joubert. “No . . . I didn’t know that I was gay. I didn’t really know what it meant. I simply liked Drew very much . . . the attention he paid me . . . his company, his cheerfulness, his zest for life. I told him I was a student and a cricketer and that I was going to play cricket for South Africa. He laughed at my self-confidence and said he knew nothing about cricket. He said he was a goldsmith and his dream was to have his own establishment where he could make his own designs, not simply things meant for fat, rich tourists. We talked. We couldn’t stop talking. In town he invited me for coffee at a street café. And said he would wait for me and take me back to campus. He came to visit, a week later. He was older than I was. So clever. Wise. He was so different from the other guys at cricket. He invited me to his home for dinner. I thought it was only friendship . . .”

 

 

He looked at de Wit and Snyman, seeking a sympathetic face. “At first it was just . . . right. With Drew it was neither dirty nor wrong. But it began to bother me. We discussed it. He told me it was never going to be easy. But it was different for him. I started playing for Western Province. Every time a schoolboy asked me for a signature, I wondered how long it would be before someone found out. I think I did . . . I was scared. My parents . . .”

 

 

He gave a deep sigh, his head on his chest, eyes fixed on the writhing hands on his lap. Then he looked up.

 

 

“One evening, after a match, I met a girl. Older. And sophisticated, like Drew. And . . . decisive. She took me to her flat. I was . . . relieved, thrilled. I didn’t think I would be able . . . But I could. And enjoyed it. That was the beginning of the end because it offered a way out . . . Drew immediately noticed that something was wrong. I told him. He was furious. Then I . . . ended the relationship. He cried. We talked all night. But it was over.”

 

 

The hands in Zeelie’s lap relaxed. “I admit that I loved him. Those photographs don’t show the love. But the tension became too much. And the woman . . . I wanted to be normal. I wanted to be a hero in my own eyes . . .”

 

 

He rubbed a hand through his black hair.

 

 

“Carry on.”

 

 

“During the first two weeks he often phoned my campus residence. But I never returned the calls. A few times he waited for me in his car, wrote letters. I also saw him at matches a few times. Then I think he accepted it. It was over.”