Deon Meyer (30 page)

 

 

“Sheesh,” said the attorney.

 

 

“You’re lying,” Petersen said.

 

 

“You can’t say that,” said Nienaber.

 

 

“I can say exactly what I like.”

 

 

“He can’t say that.” Nienaber turned to the short attorney.

 

 

“I insist that you treat my client with respect.”

 

 

“With respect, Oliver, you’re lying.”

 

 

“He can’t say that,” Oliver complained and looked at Joubert, who was leaning back in his chair, a sneer on his face. The scene in front of him was faintly unreal.

 

 

But Petersen was angry now. Angry, because Nienaber had ignored him in the first place and then sarcastically called him “Lieutenant.” Angry, because the man was rich and superior and blatantly lying.

 

 

“I can, Ollie. You’re lying. And I’m going to catch you out. I’m going to lock you up. And throw away the key. And what’s going to happen to your pretty little wife then, Ollie? Huh? While you’re behind bars, Ollie? Who’s going to scratch her when she itches, Ollie?”

 

 

“Leon,” Joubert said warningly, because he suddenly recognized the tone of voice. He remembered the Sunday afternoon in Mitchells Plain when Petersen had a go at the young gang member who was also lying, smashed his face. Petersen had a temper, a bad one . . .

 

 

“Fuckin’ rich asshole whitey is lying, Captain,” Petersen said, the whites of his eyes huge. His hands were shaking.

 

 

“No, no,” said the attorney and waved an admonishing finger.

 

 

Nienaber was halfway out of his chair, his face contorted. “Hotnot,” he said, the charm of the newspaper advertisements unimaginable. “You hotnot.”

 

 

Petersen jumped over the attorney and hit Nienaber on the cheek in one, smooth, quick movement. Nienaber fell backward in his chair. His head hit the bare tiled floor with a dull thud and then he rolled out of the chair.

 

 

Joubert had jumped up even before the blow fell but he was too late. Now he grabbed Petersen’s shirt and jerked him back while the attorney dived down to his client and spread protective arms over him. “No, no, no,” he shouted, his big head tucked into his shoulders as if he expected more blows.

 

 

Petersen let out his breath and relaxed in Joubert’s grip. “Never mind, Captain. I won’t hit him again.”

 

 

“Get an ambulance,” said the attorney from the floor, his arms still extended to ward off another attack. “I think he’s dead.”

 

 

Joubert kneeled next to them. “Let me see.” The attorney was reluctant but moved away. Joubert saw that Nienaber’s cheekbone was already swollen and discolored. But his chest moved up and down in a perfectly healthy manner. “There’s nothing wrong with him,” said Joubert. “Just a bit faint.”

 

 

“Get an ambulance,” said the attorney. “And get your commanding officer.”

 

 

Joubert knew what that meant. And he knew what the upshot would be. De Wit would give the case to Gerry. SALON BARON SUES STATE FOR MILLIONS. De Wit would have to give the case to Gerry. He would have no choice. Joubert sighed and his shoulders sagged. Petersen saw it and he grasped something of the attitude.

 

 

“I’m sorry, Captain.”

 

 

“Will someone get an ambulance! Now!” the attorney pleaded and ordered at the same time.

 

 

“It’s not necessary,” said a voice from the floor.

 

 

All three stared at Nienaber, who slowly sat up.

 

 

“We’re going to sue them, Oliver,” said the attorney. “We’ll strip them of everything. He . . .” A finger pointed at Leon Petersen. “He’ll never find another job in this country.”

 

 

“No,” Nienaber said.

 

 

Silence.

 

 

“Drop it,” Nienaber said. “Let’s just drop the whole thing.” He got up with difficulty, his right hand touching the bruised cheek. The attorney immediately rushed to his assistance, pulled Nienaber upright, helped him to straighten the chair, carefully helped him to sit down.

 

 

“They don’t stand a chance, Oliver. It was brutality in its worst form. Under the new government . . . They’ll both be looking for work.”

 

 

“I’m prepared to drop it, Phil.”

 

 

“Sheesh, Oliver.”

 

 

Nienaber looked up at Joubert. “Are you prepared to leave it?”

 

 

Joubert said nothing. His mind was at a standstill, he was holding his breath. He merely stared at Nienaber. Petersen stared at the wall.

 

 

“Let’s go, Phil,” said Nienaber and he walked to the door. The attorney grabbed his attaché case, his notepad, and his pen and hurried after him on his short legs. Nienaber opened the door and walked out. The attorney followed him, slamming the door behind him.

 

 

Petersen lifted his head slightly and massaged the hand that had hit Nienaber. “I’m sorry, Captain.”

 

 

“It’s okay, Leon.” Joubert sat down at the table and took out his cigarettes. He lit one and blew a thin plume of smoke toward the ceiling.

 

 

“It’s okay. I also think the fuckin’ rich asshole whitey is lying.”

 

 

 

29.

T
hey drank coffee in the tearoom at half past eight on the Monday night. They sat next to each other, elbows resting on their knees, both hands curved around the coffee mugs. Rows of cheap steel-and-plastic chairs were stacked against the wall waiting for the seating rush in the morning.

 

 

“I’ve fucked up everything, Captain.”

 

 

Joubert sighed. “That’s true, Leon.” He swallowed a mouthful of the coffee, which had been brewing in the big urn for too long. “You’ll have to do something about that temper of yours.”

 

 

“I know.”

 

 

Petersen stared at the contents of his mug, the muddy color, the steam that formed a transparent wisp. “God, Captain, there’s so much trouble. My wife . . .”

 

 

His head dropped. He sighed deeply.

 

 

“What is it, Leon?”

 

 

He looked up at the ceiling as if searching for help. He blew out his breath slowly.

 

 

“My wife wants to leave me.”

 

 

Joubert did not say anything.

 

 

“She says I’m never at home. She says my daughters need a father. She says a stepfather in the house is better than an own father who they never see. And she says in any case there’s never any money for anything. You work like an executive and get paid like a gardener, she says. Can I tell you something, Captain? Something private?” He looked at Joubert and carried on before Joubert could reply. “Do you know when my wife and I last . . . You know . . . Months. And now Bart de Wit tells me I must spark because blacks must get up the ladder, show it’s not just affirmative action. Now, suddenly, I’m a black. Not colored anymore, not Cape Malay or brown, but black. Instant reclassification. And I must spark. Now I ask you, Captain, what else do I do? I’ve been sparking for fucking years but my pay slip is still waiting for affirmative action. And not just mine. All of ours. White, black, brown. All the troubles, all the murders and deaths and rapes, all the long hours with fuckers shooting at you and rich whiteys who act as if you’re not there and your boss who says you must spark and the union which says don’t worry, things will be fine, and a wife who says she wants to leave you . . .”

 

 

Petersen took a large swallow of his coffee.

 

 

He sighed again. Then there was silence.

 

 

“We’ll get him, Leon.”

 

 

“No, Captain, I’ve fucked it all up.”

 

 

“Temporary setback.”

 

 

“What now, Captain?”

 

 

They heard hurried footsteps in the passage.

 

 

“I’m going to have him followed.”

 

 

They looked expectantly at the door. A sergeant peered round it. “Captain, Gerrit Snyman on the phone. He’s holding on. You can take it in my office, Captain.”

 

 

Joubert put down the mug on the big table in the center of the tearoom and hurried out with him. In the sergeant’s office he picked up the receiver. “Gerrit?”

 

 

“I’ve found Eleanor Davids, Captain.” Excited.

 

 

“Who?”

 

 

“The woman who accused MacDonald of rape.”

 

 

Joubert struggled to remember. Snyman interpreted the silence correctly.

 

 

“Two years ago, Captain. She withdrew the charge.”

 

 

“Oh. Yes.”

 

 

“She’s a prostitute, Captain.”

 

 

“Oh?”

 

 

A little more interest.

 

 

“And she owns a Smith & Wesson Escort, Captain.”

 

 

His heart jumped.

 

 

“She says she has an alibi, Captain, but I think she’s lying.”

 

 

“We’re on our way, Gerrit.”

 

 

“Great, Captain.” Then Snyman spoke more softly, confidentially. “She’s a pretty strange lady, Captain. Colored, but the hair has been dyed pure white and the clothes are all black. High boots, pants, shirt. A cloak, even . . .”

 

 

This long, black cloak, like Batman. And black boots and black hair. The angel of death.
Hercules Jantjies. The vagrant. In the Newlands police station. Joubert remembered it.
Ipsissima verba,
as the thick-lipped attorney would say.
Black hair.

 

 

“Gerrit,” he said hurriedly.

 

 

“Captain?”

 

 

“You said her hair is white.”

 

 

“As snow, Captain.”

 

 

Perhaps Hercules Jantjies had grasped a part of the truth despite his meths haze.

 

 

“Where are you?”

 

 

“Charlie’s Little Devils Escort Agency, Captain. Galleon Parade, Hout Bay.”

 

 

“Stay right there. Leon and I are on our way.”

 

 

* * *

The little devils were painted on the window facing the street, two of them, large and red, with long lithe legs, slender waists and big, voluptuous breasts. Above the roguish buttocks a tail grew, ending in an arrow point. Under the long, blond hair there were two little horns. Above them, the name: CHARLIE’S LITTLE DEVILS..

 

 

Snyman perched self-consciously on a slightly worn armchair in the reception area, as if he wanted to leave in a hurry. Joubert and Petersen shared the couch. It matched the other chair in which Eleanor Davids sat. Her legs, encased in black leather trousers, hung over the arm of the chair. She wore black boots that reached to her knees. A long cigarette dangled from the black lips. At the back of the reception area the owner sat, a young Greek with long curly hair and an unbuttoned shirt. He was concentrating on a paperback in front of him but Joubert knew his ears were pricked.

 

 

Eleanor denied having known of any of the other Mauser victims.

 

 

“Only MacDonald. And I say good riddance.”

 

 

“The rape?” Petersen asked.

 

 

“He was a flippin’ animal, that one, brother,” she said and took the cigarette out of her mouth with fingers ending in long, black-painted nails. She spoke slowly, intimately, unworried.

 

 

“What happened?”

 

 

“He phoned for a girl. One night, over a weekend. Friday. Saturday. Said he wanted brown bread. Then Mike took me there in the van. Mike went in with me, to get the fee and to suss out the place. Then he left. And then MacDonald took me, brother, and all he wanted was love. I was still trying to hold him off but he grabbed me here and grabbed me there and tore my clothes, brother, and he forced himself on me. That’s not how I do business, brother. We must negotiate first. It’s not just grab and fuck. But he was an animal, bro’, he said he’d paid and he wanted it right away.”

 

 

“And then?”

 

 

“Then he took what he wanted, brother.”

 

 

They waited in silence. She took a deep drag on the cigarette, killed it half-smoked in an overflowing ashtray with calm, deliberate movements.

 

 

“I phoned Mike when he’d finished, told him he had to take me to the charge office first. Mike didn’t want to but I insisted. Then I laid the charge.”

 

 

“You withdrew it later.”

 

 

“Mike gave me a bonus.”

 

 

“And then you shot him on Saturday, sister.”

 

 

She smiled slowly, her teeth uneven and yellow. “You’re cute, brother. You must come for a freebie.”

 

 

“You possess a firearm.”

 

 

“Of course, bro’. In my line of business . . .”

 

 

“May we see it?”

 

 

She stood up slowly, swung the black cloak theatrically over her shoulder.

 

 

“What’s with the cloak, sister?”

 

 

“One must give the product a unique package, brother.”

 

 

She walked with precise steps on her high heels to a door next to the reception desk. She opened it, left it open. The three detectives looked into another room, where four women were seated, one with a magazine, one doing her makeup, two chatting. Then Eleanor Davids closed the door, a handbag in her hand. She took out a pistol, small and black, and gave it to Petersen.

 

 

Petersen turned it in his hands. “It’s an Escort, sister.”

 

 

She sat down again, lit another cigarette, shrugged her shoulders.