Joubert stood unobtrusively in the door of Murder and Robberys parade room. Griessel mustnt think he had come to check on him.
Griessel stood on a chair next to the TV set, addressing the twenty-two uniformed people.
In the file youll find photographs taken by the security cameras in the branches of the bank and an Identikit of what our artist thinks the robber might actually look like. But these are only pointers. And it could be dangerous, as we learned from this mornings incident. For heavens sake dont confront every possible suspect who vaguely resembles the Identikit with a firearm. Use your common sense. Think. And think again, Griessel said, and he smiled at the faces in front of him.
Joubert saw that the traces of the past week lay heavily on Griessels face, on his bulky body, which had shrunk visibly. But his voice was clear and enthusiastic.
The media still dont know that we have people in every branch. We told them Khumalo was there by chance to draw money. That means that the robber doesnt have to suspect anything. But hes nobodys fool. Hell check out the scene very well before he robs. Hell be careful. I know thinking isnt covered by a police salary but do it for your country. Think before you hang around looking like a cop whos a plant. Move around. Fill in bank forms. Pretend to be drawing money. Go to the inquiries desk. Lieutenant Brand of internal stability will speak to you shortly about crisis management, which you must share with the personnel in your bank branch. Tell them they must be in on the act. They must treat you like a client. Nothing more and nothing less . . .
Joubert turned away and walked down the passage on his way home.
Griessel didnt need his help. He walked out, into the night, toward his car.
* * *
Oliver Nienaber grinned behind the wheel of his dark red BMW.
The police must think him a fool. He had already noticed it the day before, quite by chance, when the white Opel Kadett followed him all the way home. The idiot had to jump a red light to keep up. And later he had noticed him again on the quieter roads of Plattekloof. Early this morning he had seen the red Sierra in the street, just below his house.
Now, at a quarter to six in the morning, the N1 wasnt busy enough for an unobtrusive tail. He could see the Ford far back in the rearview mirror.
They were wasting their time, he thought. He was innocent. He wasnt the hunter, he was the prey. And now they were unwittingly giving him protection.
If it hadnt been for the little brown lieutenant he wouldve gotten away with his lie. Lord, but hed done some fast thinking. On Monday in that interrogation room. But that was why he was where he was today. Quick thinking. From hair stylist to millionaire in six, seven years.
That tale about MacDonald phoning him about the building had simply risen unbidden in his mind. Needs must when the devil drives.
Need. The whole Monday had been filled with need. From the moment hed seen Mac lying in the door of that pitiful wooden house with blood against the wall and blood on the floor and his neck which had been blown away and the shot between the balls, he had needed to feel safe.
He had wanted to speak to him. He hadnt known at what time Mac went to sea and had hoped that he was early enough. Hed stopped in front of the door, opened the gate, and then he saw the man lying there, big Mac. Big Mac with the biggest penis hed ever seen in his life. He could remember that.
Mac, youve got a prick like a pole, Ferdy Ferreira had said. The late Ferdy. The late, lame fool.
A penis, said Oliver Sigmund Nienaber loudly and snorted with laughter. That was the word that had caught the attention of that little lieutenant.
Fuckin hotnot. He rubbed his cheek. It still hurt. But it had been worth it. A small price to pay.
I fell, he had told his beautiful wife.
With what did you have to help the police? shed asked.
Think fast. Oh, it was about a black cleaner who used to work for us. Theyve charged him with child abuse. They wanted to know whether wed noticed anything.
Couldnt they have asked about it here, darling?
He had merely shrugged. But they should clean those steps of theirs. All the dirt makes them slippery. I slipped and fell against the door frame.
This morning Antoinette had fetched some of her makeup base to disguise the purplish mark on his face.
There, darling, that looks better.
He turned off again, to Wynberg, drove to the Main Road. Just before driving into the parking garage of his building, he looked to check whether he could still see the Sierra. But there was nothing. Never mind, he thought, theyll probably park somewhere around here where they have a clear view. He stopped in his parking bay RESERVED FOR MD HAIR TODAY.
He set the numbers of the combination lock on his attaché case and opened it. The Star pistol lay on top. He closed it again, gave the lock numbers a routine spin with his thumb. He wouldnt need the pistol now that the police were giving him free protection. He got out, pressed the button on his key holder for the central locking system of the BMW, and walked to the elevator. The door was open. He walked in and looked at his watch. Six oclock. Dead on time. As usual. With the exception of Monday morning. He pressed the button for the sixth floor. The doors closed soundlessly.
* * *
Snyman parked opposite the Servier Building in the Main Road in such a way that he could watch the buildings entrance and that of the parking garage. He opened the lunch box next to him and took out a flask of coffee and a packet of sandwiches. He wasnt hungry but the coffee would taste good now. He unscrewed the flasks cup, poured the steaming liquid into it, and sipped slowly and carefully.
The coffee burned his lips. He swore and blew on the brown surface of the drink.
He leaned back in the comfortable seat of the Sierra.
It might just be a long day.
* * *
Nienaber stared at the floor of the elevator as he habitually did and only looked up when the doors opened.
He saw the executioner immediately.
Feet slightly apart, arms extended, the firearm held in both hands, aimed at him.
He knew the executioner had waited for him, had watched the lights above the elevator. B for basement, M for mezzanine, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. He knew all this in a microsecond.
Quick thinking, Oliver Nienaber. Thats why you are where you are.
He also knew that the Star in his attaché case was too far away, useless. But he could talk. He could negotiate. He could think.
He lifted his hand in a stop gesture.
You he said, but by then the cartridge had penetrated the palm of his hand and was unstoppably on its way to his brain.
* * *
At a quarter to seven on the Wednesday morning, Joubert sat on the wooden bench of the swimming pools changing room. His elbows rested on his knees, his head hung down, water dripped onto the cement floor, and he knew he would have to give up the cigarettes.
His lungs were burning. He knew it was the layer of tar, the black, sticky, dirty, gummy layer that smoldered in his lungs after the swim, which caused his inability to cross the fitness threshold permanently. He could feel it with every breath he tried to draw after five, six lengths this morning. With every new swing of his arm, every rhythmic kick of his legs, the clearer the image became of the muddy encrustation in his lungs which stood between him and the energy-supplying oxygen.
Mat Joubert, human garbage carrier. Full of fat and soot.
No matter that it was Special Mild, sooner or later he would have to stop. They had no taste, in any case.
He made a decision.
He got up suddenly, purposefully, and walked to where his clothes were hanging on a peg. He took the white-and-gray packet and the lighter out of his coat pocket, walked to the big, black trash bin in the corner, lifted the lid, and forcefully threw the smokes into it.
The bin had been empty. He stared at the packet and the lighter lying there.
Ive done with it, he thought. Forever.
Solemnly he closed the trash bin, turned, and walked to the showers.
On the way to Kasselsvlei Road he saw the
Cape Times
poster: MAUSER: UK PSYCHIC FLIES IN TO HELP.
The paper seller held the newspaper in such a way that Joubert could read the headline on the front page, one huge word stretching across the entire page: HYSTERIA. The subheading read: FARMER CRITICAL AFTER BANK SHOOTING.
For a moment he considered buying the paper, but the lights changed and he drove on. De Wits psychic had arrived, he thought. Hysteria, indeed.
* * *
I heard nothing, Captain, Snyman said. The first I heard about it was when they gave the address of the place over the radio. I couldnt believe it. The bastard shoots a cannon and I heard nothing.
They stood in a circle around the mortal remains of Oliver Sigmund Nienaber Joubert, Snyman, Petersen, OGrady, Basie Louw, and two uniform men from the Wynberg police station. Nienaber lay in the doorway of the elevator, almost covering his attaché case, on his stomach, one bloody hand extended. The doors of the elevator slowly, mechanically opened and closed, bumped against Nienabers body, opened and closed . . .
Someone must switch off the elevator, Joubert told one of the uniforms.
Right away, Captain.
The security guard at the front entrance didnt hear anything, either, Snyman said.
Where is the woman now? Joubert asked.
She works for a computer firm here on the seventh, Captain. They called a doctor. Shes suffering from shock. She says she took the stairs when the elevator didnt arrive. When she got there Snyman pointed to the entrance to the stairwell that ran alongside the elevator shaftshe saw him. She says she knew him. He always greeted her in such a friendly fashion.
No one saw anything?
I think the Mauser came in at the service entrance at the back, Captain. Security man says there are too many people in the building who have keys for it, and tenants are constantly leaving it open.
How do you know it was the Mauser?
Snyman took a small plastic bag out of his shirt pocket. There were two cartridge cases in it.
Is someone watching the door for fingerprints?
Stations people, Cappy, OGrady said.
A man and a woman from the video unit came walking up the stairs. Why isnt the bloody elevator working? the man asked as he breathlessly climbed the last few steps.
No one said anything. The man saw Nienaber lying in the elevator. The doors opened and closed, opened and closed.
Oh, the man said.
I cant believe that I heard nothing, Snyman said.
Joubert looked at Petersen. You were right, Leon. Nienaber was lying.
But now well never know what the truth was, Captain.
Well find out.
Where are the photographers? I want to turn him over and see if he got one in the cock as well, said OGrady.
You also think it was the Mauser? Louw asked.
Another Mauser? Pagel, the pathologist, asked breathlessly from the staircase.
We think so.
Snymans hip radio crackled. Captain Mat Joubert, Captain Mat Joubert, please phone Dr. Boshoff at the University of Stellenbosch. Captain Mat Joubert . . .
Is there a phone anywhere here? he asked.
In Nienabers office, there, around the corner, Captain.
He walked down the passage. Anne Boshoff what did she want? He dug in his inside pocket, looking for his notebook with her telephone number.
Nienabers office was luxurious a big reception area with expensive furniture in pastel colors, a carpet with a thick pile, paintings against the one wall. Nienabers newspaper advertisement had been enlarged and framed and hung under the big logo of his firms name.
The end of an era, Joubert thought. The Great Predator wasnt scared off by success, didnt allow himself to be sidetracked by egotism and vanity.
He found a telephone on the reception desk, paged in his notebook until he located Anne Boshoffs number, and dialed.
She replied by stating her name.
This is Mat Joubert.
Matthew! How lovely to hear your voice. But you still sound old. Are you living yet, Matthew? When are you coming to see me?
I got a message . . .
And called back so quickly. Efficiency in the civil service always makes me feel so secure. Its about the psychic, Matthew. Madame Jocelyn Lowe. I do hope youre not the old friend?
