Deon Meyer (3 page)

 

 

The forefinger acquired two friends held dramatically in front of de Wit.

 

 

“The first is loyalty. To the service and its aims, to the unit and your colleagues, and to me. The second is dedication. I expect quality work. Not ninety percent but one hundred percent. Yes, colleagues, we must also strive for zero defect.”

 

 

The detectives started to relax. The new man spoke a new language but the message remained the same. He expected no more than any of his predecessors. More work at the same inadequate pay. Results, as long as his back was covered with the higher-ups. And his promotion was assured. They were used to it. They could live with it. Even if he had been a member of the ANC.

 

 

Joubert took the red packet of Winstons out of his pocket and lit up. A couple of others followed his example.

 

 

“The third is physical and mental health. Colleagues, I firmly believe that a healthy body houses a healthy mind. I know this will make me unpopular in the short term, but I’m willing to take the chance.”

 

 

De Wit knotted his hands behind his back and straightened his shoulders again as if expecting an attack. “Each one of you will have to undergo a physical examination twice a year. The results remain confidential between us. But if the doctor finds certain . . . deficiencies, I expect you to correct them.”

 

 

The hands behind the back were released. The palms turned out as if he wanted to ward off an approaching attacker.

 

 

“I know, I know. It was the same at the Yard. I know how difficult it is to be fit all the time. I know your stress levels, the long hours. But colleagues, the fitter you are, the easier it is to overcome the obstacles. I don’t want to be personal, but some of you are overweight. There are those who smoke and drink . . .”

 

 

Joubert stared at the cigarette in his hand.

 

 

“But we’ll tackle it together. Together we’ll change your lifestyle, help you to get rid of your bad habits. Remember, colleagues, that you’re the cream of the service, you project the image both here and outside, you are ambassadors, PR representatives. But most important of all, you have a duty toward yourself to keep your body and mind in shape.”

 

 

Again the slight hesitation, the pause for applause. Joubert killed the cigarette. He saw Vos dropping his head into his hands. Vos didn’t smoke but he had a beer gut.

 

 

“Right,” said Colonel Bart de Wit. “Let’s handle today’s workload.” He took a notebook out of his jacket pocket and opened it.

 

 

“Captain Marcus Joubert . . . Where is Captain Joubert?”

 

 

Joubert raised his arm to half-mast.

 

 

“Ah, we’ll meet formally a little later on, Captain. Is it Marcus? Do they call you . . . ?”

 

 

“Mat,” said Joubert.

 

 

“What?”

 

 

“Like in rug,” said a voice on the other side of the room and a few detectives gave a subdued laugh.

 

 

“I’m called Mat,” Joubert said more loudly. De Wit misheard him.

 

 

“Thank you, Captain. Very well, Captain Max Joubert will lead the standby team for the coming week. With him are Lieutenant Leon Petersen, Adjutants Louw and Griessel, Sergeant O’Grady, Constables Turner, Maponya, and Snyman. I’ll get to know you all, colleagues. And Captain Gerbrand Vos led the standby team over the festive season. Captain, is there anything you want to discuss?”

 

 

* * *

The professional life of a Murder and Robbery detective didn’t leave much time for extended sympathy when a colleague lost his grip. There was comprehension because it could happen to anyone. There was gratitude because it hadn’t happened to you. And there was sympathy, which lasted for a month or two, until the fated colleague became a millstone round your neck in the execution of your duty.

 

 

Two colleagues in Murder and Robbery had retained their sympathy for Mat Joubert for two years— each for his own reasons.

 

 

For Gerbrand Vos it was nostalgia. He and Joubert had started together at Murder and Robbery as detective sergeants. The two shining new stars. Willy Theal allowed them to compete, to strive for more and more accolades, but they were promoted together to adjutant, to lieutenant. In the force they were a national legend. The Afrikaans Cape newspaper,
Die Burger,
wrote a quotable piece about them on the center page when they were promoted to captain simultaneously. Always simultaneously. The young reporter was obviously impressed by them both. “Captain Vos is the extrovert, the big man with the face of an angel, dimples in his cheeks, baby blue eyes. Captain Mat Joubert is the quiet one, even bigger, with shoulders that will fill a doorway and the face of a hawk— brown eyes that can look straight through you,” she had written dramatically.

 

 

And then Lara’s death came and Vos accepted that his colleague no longer wanted to compete. And waited for Joubert to complete the grieving process. Gerbrand Vos was still waiting.

 

 

Joubert was busy with the first case dossier of the morning. Seventeen more stood in three piles on his desk, yellow-gray SAP3 files that regulated his life. He heard Vos’s purposeful tread on the bare gray floor tiles, heard that the footsteps didn’t end at the office next door. Then Vos was in the door, his voice subdued, as if de Wit was in the vicinity.

 

 

“General forecast deep shit,” he said. Gerbrand Vos used language like a blunt weapon.

 

 

Joubert nodded. Vos sat down on one of the blue-gray government-issue chairs. “Patriots. Patriots! Jesus, it makes my blood boil. And Scotland Yard. What does Scotland Yard know about Africa, Mat? And ‘colleagues’ all the time. What kind of CO calls his people ‘colleagues’?”

 

 

“He’s new, Gerry. It’ll blow over.”

 

 

“He wants to see us. He stopped me at tea and said he wanted to see each and every one of us alone. I have—” Vos looked at his watch—“to be there now. And you’re next. We’ve got to hang together, Mat. We’re the two senior officers. We’ve got to sort out this fucker from the start. Did you hear him on fitness? I can see us doing PT in the parking area every morning.”

 

 

Joubert smiled slightly. Vos got up. “I’ll call you when I’ve finished. Just remember: band of brothers. Even if we’re not fucking patriots.”

 

 

“It’s okay, it’s only jam, Mat,” Vos said thirty-five minutes later when he walked in again. “He’s waiting for you. Quite friendly and full of compliments.”

 

 

Joubert sighed, put on his jacket, and walked down the passage.

 

 

Colonel Bart de Wit had taken over Willy Theal’s office and made it his own, Joubert saw when he knocked and was invited in.

 

 

The team pictures against the wall were gone. The dirty green carpet on the floor was gone, the sickly pot plant in the corner had disappeared. Three certificates of degrees conferred now hung against the newly painted white wall. The floor was covered in a police-blue carpet and in the corner was a coffee table on which a small plaque announced I PREFER NOT TO SMOKE. On the desk was a holder with four photographs— a smiling woman in glasses with heavy frames, a teenage boy with his father’s nose, a teenage girl in glasses with heavy frames. The other pictures showed de Wit and the minister of law and order.

 

 

“Do sit down, Captain,” said de Wit and gestured at the blue-gray chair. He also sat down. A small smile instantly hovered.

 

 

Then he straightened the thick personnel file in front of him and opened it. “What did you say? That they called you Max?”

 

 

“Mat.”

 

 

“Mat?”

 

 

“They’re my initials, Colonel. I was christened Marcus Andreas Tobias. M.A.T. My father called me that.” Joubert’s voice was soft, patient.

 

 

“Aaah. Your father. I see he was a member, too.”

 

 

“Yes, Colonel.”

 

 

“Never an officer?”

 

 

“No, Colonel.”

 

 

“Aaah.”

 

 

A moment’s uncomfortable silence. Then de Wit picked up the staff file.

 

 

“I don’t play my cards close to the chest, Captain. Not about my political views then and not about my work now. So I’m going to be painfully honest with you. Things haven’t been going well. Since your wife’s death.”

 

 

The smile on de Wit’s face didn’t match the seriousness of his voice. It confused Mat Joubert.

 

 

“She was also a member, wasn’t she?”

 

 

Joubert nodded. And wondered what the man across the desk knew. His stomach muscles contracted and doors closed in his mind as a precaution.

 

 

“She died in the course of duty?”

 

 

Again Joubert nodded, and his pulse rate increased.

 

 

“A tragedy. But with respect, Captain, since then things have gone badly for you . . .” He looked at the file again. “One serious disciplinary warning and two petitions from seven NCOs. A decrease in the solving of crimes . . .”

 

 

Joubert stared at the photograph of de Wit and the minister. The minister was a half meter taller. Both were smiling broadly. It was a clear picture. One could see the mole.

 

 

“Do you want to comment, Captain?”

 

 

The curious smile on de Wit’s face unnerved Joubert.

 

 

“It’s all in the file, Colonel.”

 

 

“The disciplinary action.” De Wit read the document in front of him. “The Wasserman case. You refused to make a statement . . .” He waited for Joubert to react. The silence grew.

 

 

“It’s all in the file, Colonel. I didn’t make a statement because Adjutant Potgieter’s statement was correct.”

 

 

“So you were guilty of unbecoming conduct.”

 

 

“According to the definition, I was, Colonel.”

 

 

“And the two petitions from the seven NCOs that they didn’t want to be with you on standby again?”

 

 

“I don’t blame them, Colonel.”

 

 

De Wit leaned back in his chair, a magnate. “I like your honesty, Captain.”

 

 

Joubert was astonished at the way the man could smile and talk at the same time.

 

 

“But I don’t know whether it’s going to be enough to save you. You see, Captain, this is the New South Africa. We’ve all got to make a contribution. Shape up or ship out. There are people in disadvantaged communities who have to be uplifted. In the police service as well. We can’t keep deadwood in officers’ posts for sentimental reasons. Do you understand?”

 

 

Joubert nodded.

 

 

“Then there’s the question of my appointment. The pressure is heavy. Not just on me— on the new government. Everybody’s waiting for the mistakes. The whites would love the black government to make mistakes so that they can say we told you so.”

 

 

De Wit leaned forward. The smile grew.

 

 

“Here there are going to be no mistakes. Do we understand each other?”

 

 

“Yes, Colonel.”

 

 

“Shape up or ship out.”

 

 

“Yes, Colonel.”

 

 

“Ask yourself, Captain: Am I a winner? Then you’ll always be welcome here.”

 

 

“Yes, Colonel.”

 

 

De Wit sighed deeply, the smile in place.

 

 

“Your first medical examination is at fourteen hundred hours, day after tomorrow. And a last point: The service contracted two clinical psychologists for members who need it. I referred your file. They’ll let you know. Perhaps by tomorrow. Have a good day, Captain.”

 

 

 

4.

P
remier Bank started out as a building society seventy-five years ago, but this kind of financial institution had become unfashionable.

 

 

So, like most other financial institutions, it broadened its scope a little. Now, in addition to home loans, its clients could also drown in overdrawn accounts, installment plans, and every other conceivable method of squeezing interest from modern man.

 

 

For the average client there was the Ruby Plan with the pale mauve-and-gray checkbook and its imprint of a red precious stone. Those with a higher income and more debt qualified for the Emerald Plan— and a green gem. But, above all, the Premier wanted all its clients to aim for the Diamond Plan.

 

 

On Wednesday, January 2, Susan Ploos van Amstel saw the attractive man with the gold-framed glasses, the blond hair, the deep tan, and the steel-gray suit walking toward her teller cubicle and knew he was a Diamond Plan client.

 

 

Susan was plump, thirty-four years old, with three children who spent their afternoons in a play school and a husband who spent his evenings in the garage tinkering with his 1962 Anglia. When the blond man smiled, she felt young. His teeth were a flawless, gleaming white. His face was finely made but strong. He looked like a film star. A forty-year-old film star.

 

 

“Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?” Susan gave him her best smile.

 

 

“Hi,” he said, and his voice was deep and rich. “I heard that this branch has the prettiest tellers in the Cape. And I see it’s true.”

 

 

Susan blushed, looked down. She was enjoying every moment.

 

 

“Sweetheart, won’t you do me a great favor?”

 

 

Susan looked up again. Not an indecent proposal, surely? “Certainly, sir. Anything.”

 

 

“Oh, dangerous words, sweetheart, dangerous words,” his voice loaded with meaning. Susan giggled and blushed a deeper red.