Ill ask Captain Joubert to answer that, said the General.
Joubert looked at the expectant faces, speechless for a moment. His panic grabbed at words, selected, discarded, chose others, until he started to speak, carefully. We cannot summarily exclude any motive for the murders. To be frank, we investigated political motives from the start. But I have to tell you that there has been no reason up to now to believe that any political groups are directly or indirectly involved in this.
But you dont discount it altogether? asked a radio reporter, the microphone extended.
We dont discount
anything
at this stage.
The group realized that the impromptu news conference was over and began dispersing. The television teams packed up their equipment, photographers unscrewed their flashlights. Joubert walked up the steps, back to the ops room. He had to get hold of the pathologist.
* * *
Professor Pagel, the pathologist, complained about OGrady. The man has no respect for death, Captain. I would prefer you to be present in future. I find his kind of gallows humor unprofessional.
Joubert mumbled an apology, then asked about the time of MacDonalds death.
Its difficult, Captain. You know I cant give an exact time. Always the academic carefulness, honed by a thousand cases as witness for the state. But it looks like six oclock, with a sixty-minute margin either way. Then he began explaining what he ascribed it to. Joubert was saved by a voice from the charge office shouting his name. He excused himself and trotted off. The constable held out a receiver. He took it.
Joubert.
Captain, this is Margaret Wallace.
Good morning, Mrs. Wallace.
Captain, I dont know whether this is going to help you at all, but I think Jimmy knew one of the victims.
He heard her using the past tense and knew she had passed through the Portal of Night and now knew the texture of the landscape on the other side.
MacDonald? he asked.
No. The other one. From Melkbos. Ferreira, I think.
And suddenly Jouberts heart beat faster, because this was the first probable link. Along with Oliver Nienabers lie, the first sign of a breakthrough. Where are you?
At home.
Im on my way.
* * *
Margaret Wallace invited him to a breakfast nook at the big swimming pool behind the house and made him sit down while she went to make tea. Then she came back with a pretty tray with porcelain cups and saucers and a banana loaf, which was freshly cut and spread. She put it down on the white PVC table. Jimmy loved banana loaf, you know. But I stopped making it. I dont know why. Its just one of those things. Life moves on, past things like banana loaf. With the kids growing up, you start worrying about their favorite foods, their needs.
She poured the tea. Joubert heard the birds in the trees, the fluid whispering from pot to cup, saw her slender hands with the delicate freckles, the wedding ring still on her left hand.
And then yesterday I wanted to make banana loaf. Isnt it strange?
He looked at her, saw her looking at him with her mismatched eyes, but he didnt feel like replying.
Would you like some?
He nodded but immediately added guiltily: Im on a diet.
She smiled. Her teeth were white and even and he saw that she had a pretty mouth. You? Do you really need it?
Yes.
What does your wife say? Still amused.
Im not married. And then for no rhyme or reason: My wife is dead.
Im so sorry. There was a silence that caused the sun to darken and drowned out the garden sounds, to lie on the table between them like a tangible divide. Suddenly they were partners, buddies who knew the road up to here but didnt want to meet each others eyes, too frightened that the other would cause the pain to return.
In silence they poured milk, added sugar, stirred the tea with tinkling sounds. She told him about Ferdys visit, but her eyes were on the cup and saucer, her voice flat. He wondered how good her memory was, after four or five years, until she mentioned the visitors limping walk.
He had polio.
Oh.
He asked her whether Ferdy Ferreira had ever been there again. If there was nothing else she could recall. If she had ever heard of Alexander MacDonald. All her replies were in the negative. He quickly swallowed his tea. Then he asked her for a photograph of the late James J. Wallace. A recent one, if possible. Please.
Why?
To show the relatives of the other victims.
You think it means something? That Ferdy Ferreira was here?
I want to find out.
She was away for a while, then came back with a photo, gave it to him without looking at it. He hurriedly stuffed it into his pocket and excused himself. She walked to the door with him and smiled when she said good-bye, but the gesture was meaningless.
* * *
Uncle Zatopek Scholtz didnt like the Tygerberg shopping center. He didnt like the American riverboat theme in the big atrium, he didnt like the crowds, the loud music, and the smell of instant food. He wanted to go back to his farm beyond Malmesbury, but his wife had insisted that he stop there on his way back from the auction because Woolworths was having a sale of underwear and their bras were the only ones she could wear.
Thats why Uncle Zato, as everyone called him, was sitting in the Nissan truck in the parking lot until he remembered that he didnt have more than two or three rand in cash on him. He had to put in gasoline and buy tobacco for one of the farmhands.
Uncle Zato took his Premier checkbook out of the glove compartment, got out, carefully locked the truck, straightened his jacket, and walked to the shopping center. He knew there was a branch there. He took his time, unhurried a sixty-five-year-old man in a tweed jacket, a short-sleeved blue shirt, beige shorts, long beige socks, and brown Grasshoppers. He walked past the rows of cars, through the automatic doors to the centers banking area, and went to the Premier branch. He opened his checkbook at a desk, wrote out a check, and joined a queue, moving forward until his turn came.
He slid the check under the glass and looked up at the very young teller with her long black hair and her sulky mouth.
Give it in twenty-rand notes, sweetheart, he said and put his hand in the pocket of the tweed jacket to take out his wallet.
The teller only heard the last word and saw the movement that unbuttoned the jacket and the mans hand moving inside it.
She kicked the alarm button with a panicky foot and screamed.
Constable Vusi Khumalo was caught unawares. He was in civilian dress, standing at the window of the bank, staring outside, where a pretty black woman was mopping the floor of the shopping center. Then he heard the scream and his hand went to his belt and he yanked out the Z88, swung round, saw the teller and the man with his hand inside his jacket.
Khumalo was a good cop. He had had his baptism of fire in the townships of Cape Town in the stormy days of 1994 and in the past month had successfully passed his sergeants examination. And the book said spread your weight on two legs set wide apart, extend the pistol in front of you with both hands, eye behind the gunsight, and shout in a loud, commanding voice. Get respect, let them know whos in control.
Dont move or I shoot. His voice rose above the shrilling of the alarm and the terrified screams of the onlookers, his weapon aimed at Uncle Zatos head.
The innocence of the Malmesbury farmer was conclusive. If Uncle Zato was a bank robber he would undoubtedly have stood still, immobile so that there could be no suspicion about his intentions.
But hed had a fright, turned round quickly, saw the black man with the pistol, and instinctively wanted to hold his wallet in his hands, keeping it safe.
Uncle Zato pulled his wallet out of the inside pocket of his jacket.
Khumalo moved the pistol a few centimeters and pulled the trigger, dead certain that the man with the jacket wanted to take out a firearm.
The 9 mm round ripped through Uncle Zatos shoulder, broke the clavicle, and tore the subclavicle artery. He fell back against the counter, his blood spouting in a thick stream against the wood paneling. He had two minutes to live before too much of his lifes fluid pumped out onto the floor.
Between the screams and the exclamations of clients and banking personnel, only Vusi Khumalo, moving forward and bending over Uncle Zato, heard the flabbergasted words: What are you doing?
You wanted to rob the bank, Khumalo said.
No, said Uncle Zato, but darkness was overcoming him and he couldnt understand anything anymore.
I think we must stop the bleeding, a calm voice said next to Constable Khumalo. He looked up, saw a young black man in a short white coat.
Are you a doctor? asked Khumalo and moved away so that the mans hand could reach Uncle Zatos shoulder to block the red flow.
No, said the young man. Im still learning. And he saved Zatopek Scholtzs life.
31.
J
oubert and de WIT sat in the luxurious office of Premier Banks district manager. The view to the north, over the harbor and Table Bay, was breathtaking. None of the three men saw it.
The district manager of Premier Bank stood right in front of Joubert and wagged his finger at him. You promised me discretion. Discretion. Discretion is a much-loved and respected client who is fighting for his life in Tygerbergs intensive care unit. Discretion is the chairman of my board of directors, who is waiting for me to return his call. Discretion is my managing director, who is having a coronary. Discretion is a phone call from the media every seven minutes. Discretion is a bank robber whos still somewhere out there with a bloody great pistol while the discreet people of Murder and Robbery tell me theyre sorry.
Sweat dripped off the district managers face and his high, bald head shone under the concealed lighting of the office.
You must understand . . . said Colonel Bart de Wit and lifted a finger of his own.
No, I dont have to understand anything. This fat fart the district managers finger shot in Jouberts directiongave me the assurance that nothing would happen. But hed forgotten to assure me that you would deploy a crowd of kaffer constables with cannons in my branches. He
Joubert got up, his body virtually touching the district managers, his face only inches from the mans nose.
Listen, Mat Joubert said.
The district manager stepped back, kept his mouth shut.
Listen carefully, said Mat Joubert. If you speak to me or speak to him, and he indicated Bart de Wit, you speak politely. And if you ever refer to my men again as kaffer constables, Ill smash your face.
The district manager looked pleadingly at de Wit. De Wit looked at Joubert. There was a small, confused smile on the Colonels face.
Anyway, said Joubert. I cant be that fat anymore. Im on a diet.
Then he sat down again.
No one said anything. The district manager stared at the carpet. He sighed deeply, walked slowly to his chair. He sat down.
Im sorry. Im sorry. The stress . . . He took a corporately correct handkerchief from the top pocket of his coat and pressed it against his forehead. The stress, he said. Then he looked up. What now?
Obviously well relieve Constable Khumalo and do a complete investigation of the whole incident, said Joubert. And this evening well assemble all the policemen who have to do duty in Premier Bank branches. Well drill them. Safety, caution, public interest. Well give them a short course that they must impart to every branch member tomorrow morning. Crisis management. Self-control. Emergency planning.
De Wit nodded his head enthusiastically.
And from tomorrow the whole operation will be under the command of one of the Peninsulas top detectives.
De Wit and the district manager looked at him expectantly.
His name is Benny Griessel.
* * *
No, Captain. I mean I approve of your reaction to his racist and discriminatory remarks. But Benny Griessel?
They walked to Jouberts car.
Colonel, Im sorry. I shouldve discussed it with you first. But I only thought of it some minutes ago. In that mans office.
Griessel is lying drunk in a hospital, de Wit said.
I was there last night, Colonel. Hes dry. He needs something, Colonel. He must be kept busy now. He must regain his self-respect. This is just the right thing.
The right thing? With all the stress?
