Deon Meyer (35 page)

 

 

“The ‘old friend’?”

 

 

“Don’t you read the papers?”

 

 

“I’m busy with a murder investigation, Dr. Boshoff.”

 

 

“Anne.”

 

 

“Your adopted, middle-class homosexual struck again this morning, Anne.” He stressed her name, somewhat irritated, but she didn’t react.

 

 

She whistled. “He’s speeding up.”

 

 

“Speeding up?”

 

 

“Do you know that most of the time you repeat what I’ve just said? Yes, he’s speeding up. It’s only three days since MacDonald, Matthew. The time span between murders is getting shorter and shorter. Let me see . . .” Joubert heard the rustle of paper. “A week between the first and the second— if you count the day of the first murder as day one. Then three days until the third. Another three days, then MacDonald on Monday. And only two days up to today. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.”

 

 

“That’s true.”

 

 

“He’s sick, Matthew. Very sick. He’s getting out of control. He needs help. This changes my analysis. I’ll have to go back to the books. Tell me, was the victim gay again?”

 

 

“It’s Oliver Nienaber.”

 

 

“The hairdresser king?”

 

 

“The very same.”

 

 

She whistled again. “He wasn’t gay, Matthew.”

 

 

“He wasn’t gay. But how do you know?”

 

 

“I know men, Matthew. And that one wasn’t gay. You could see it.”

 

 

“I have to go.”

 

 

“I want to know about the psychic first. She says in the
Times
 . . .” The sound of paper again. “ ‘Let’s just say I came to help an old friend. Someone involved in the investigation.’ Is that you?”

 

 

“No.”

 

 

“I’m so pleased. Be careful of those creatures, Matthew. They lie like troopers. Martin Reiser, of California, did scientific research on them. And you must know what he says: ‘The bottom line is that they all did very, very poorly . . .’ ”

 

 

Gerrit Snyman appeared in the door, in an obvious hurry.

 

 

“I really have to go,” Joubert said. “But I appreciate . . .”

 

 

“Don’t let it be words only, Matthew,” Anne Boshoff said and put the phone down.

 

 

* * *

They rolled Nienaber over. There was a splash of blood on his chest, a neat hole through the designer tie.

 

 

“No, the family jewels were spared,” said O’Grady, sounding disappointed and biting off another piece of nougat.

 

 

“But it’s definitely the Mauser. It isn’t over yet.”

 

 

“Yup, it ain’t over till the fat lady sings, as they say at the opera.”

 

 

And then Joubert suddenly knew where he would take Hanna Nortier when he asked her out.

 

 

“The attaché case is locked, Captain,” Snyman said from the floor.

 

 

“Let forensics check it for fingerprints and then take it to the office. Van Deventer can use his little screwdrivers on it.”

 

 

“He’ll love that,” said O’Grady.

 

 

“Gerrit, we’re going to Nienaber’s wife. Let me know if anything crops up.”

 

 

“Very well, Captain.”

 

 

* * *

Joubert took the stairs, followed by O’Grady, Petersen, and Louw. There was a lightness in his step. Because he knew where he could take Hanna Nortier.

 

 

 

33.

T
HE BANK ROBBER liked the names the media had given him. Don Chameleon in the English-language press, Sweetheart Robber in
Die Burger.
But now he was unhappy. They thought he was the Mauser murderer. And an innocent man lay in the Panorama Clinic, shot through the shoulder because a constable had thought it was the Sweetheart robber.

 

 

He hadn’t wanted violence or anything approaching killing. He hadn’t wanted all the publicity. All he wanted . . . but it didn’t matter any longer. All he wanted now was to rectify the matter.

 

 

That was why he was going to rob a different bank that morning. Premier Bank’s branches were getting too hot. Why had that constable been at hand in the Tygerberg branch? Were they setting traps for him? That big captain who had been on television. He looked somewhat absentminded but he wasn’t a captain for no reason.

 

 

Don Chameleon wouldn’t allow himself to be caught. He would only rectify the matter. And then wait until the whole thing subsided.

 

 

He was a businessman this morning, a bearded, mustached businessman in a black wig, dressed in a charcoal gray, tailor-made suit with a white shirt and a blue-and-orange tie. He walked through the doors of BANKSA’s branch in Somerset West, the furthest he could get from his other working areas. He walked straight to the teller, a short, middle-aged woman, and took a white envelope out of his pocket.

 

 

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said succinctly.

 

 

“Good morning, sir.” The woman smiled at him. “Words like that can get you into trouble,” she said calmly and unsuspectingly.

 

 

“How so?”

 

 

“The man who robs Premier Bank. Can I help you?”

 

 

“What do you think of the robber?”

 

 

“They say he’s the Mauser murderer. I hope they shoot him before someone else is hurt.”

 

 

“They’re lying,” the robber said angrily. “Do you hear me? They’re lying.”

 

 

“Sir?”

 

 

He opened the left side of his coat. “Do you think this looks like a Mauser?”

 

 

The woman stared at the black pistol under his arm, her eyes frightened now.

 

 

“I want fifty-rand notes. Quickly. And I don’t suppose I have to mention the alarm.”

 

 

The woman nodded. “Just remain calm, sir.”

 

 

“You remain calm.”

 

 

She took packets of fifty-rand notes out of her cash drawer and placed them on the counter.

 

 

“Put it in a bank bag, you moron.”

 

 

The sharpness of his voice startled her. He shifted the envelope toward her. “See that the police get that. Captain Mat Joubert.”

 

 

“Very well, sir.”

 

 

“What perfume do you use?”

 

 

“Chanel.”

 

 

“It disgusts me,” he said, took the bag, and walked to the door.

 

 

* * *

Joubert stared out over the Cape Flats and the Hottentots-Holland Mountains but he had no appreciation of the view from the window in Oliver Nienaber’s study. He was exhausted after the session with Antoinette Nienaber.

 

 

They had first gone back to Murder and Robbery to inform de Wit. The Colonel had smiled and phoned the Brigadier. Then they went to the big house in the wealthy suburb and knocked on the door.

 

 

The beautiful blond woman had collapsed— collapsed and screamed, “No, no, no,” an incessant shrill sound that penetrated the marrow.

 

 

Joubert had bent down and placed a hand on her shoulder but she had slapped it away, her face contorted with pain. She had jumped up and with both hands on his chest, had pushed him back across the threshold, outside, while she made wailing noises and slammed the door in his face. There he, Petersen, Louw, and O’Grady had stood, their heads bowed, listening to the sounds on the other side of the door.

 

 

“Get a doctor and a policewoman,” Joubert had said and opened the door again. “Tony, come with me.”

 

 

He’d walked in and walked in the direction of the sounds. A maid stood in the passage.

 

 

“I’m going to phone the police,” she said.

 

 

“We are the police.”

 

 

The black woman said something in Xhosa that he didn’t understand.

 

 

“Mr. Nienaber is dead,” he’d said.

 

 

She called on her gods in her own language.

 

 

“Help us with her.” He gestured in the direction of the noises.

 

 

They had found her in the bedroom on the floor, a framed photo pressed to her breast. She hadn’t heard them entering the room and remained unaware of their presence, only making the noises— not the tearing sobs of grief but the wails of insanity.

 

 

They had stayed with her until the doctor and a policewoman arrived. They had stood there in the bedroom of the Nienabers, next to the big double bed, and tried to see nothing and hear nothing until the tall, slender doctor had eased past them, opened his black bag, and taken out a needle and a small phial. He had tried talking to her first but Joubert had seen that she heard nothing. Then the doctor had given her an injection.

 

 

Now Joubert stood in the study, against the window and felt guilty— all he could think about was having a smoke, to take a deep draw of the rich, full flavor of a Winston and to forget about the message of death that he had brought and the abyss into which it had plunged Antoinette Nienaber.

 

 

“Shit happens, Captain,” O’Grady said at the door.

 

 

Joubert turned and wondered how long the man had been standing there.

 

 

“Yes,” he said.

 

 

“It’s part of the job.”

 

 

“Some job.”

 

 

O’Grady, now wordless, rummaged in his pocket for nougat. He took out a new bar, nimbly tore off the wrapping.

 

 

“It’s all I can do, Captain.”

 

 

Joubert looked out the window again, chewed on the fat sergeant’s words.

 

 

How had he handled it in earlier days? How had he carried the black coat over his shoulders with such ease? How had he acted the angel of death then, without it gnawing at his vitals like a cancer? Had he been too young? Too stupid?

 

 

No.

 

 

It had been ignorance, pure and simple. Death had no capital letters, it was something that happened to other people’s nearest and dearest. A phenomenon, a normal aberration, a source of excitement, the start of the chase, the sound of trumpets as the cavalry was called in. Have no fear, Mat Joubert is here— the great leveler, the long arm of the law, the restorer of the legal scale’s balance.

 

 

And then came the death of Lara Joubert and he had tasted it on the palate of his soul for the first time.

 

 

It’s all I can do.

 

 

“I’ll have to go through the study, Tony.”

 

 

“I’ll cover the bedroom, Cappy. The lieutenant is talking to the maid. I’ll get Basie to come and help you.”

 

 

“Thanks.”

 

 

O’Grady disappeared. Joubert turned and walked to the desk. He sat down in the armchair. A blotter and pencil set lay in front of him. The blotter was a monthly calendar with space for appointments but nothing was written on it. There was a telephone to one side. Next to the telephone was a new Cape telephone directory with two smaller books on top of it. He looked at the books.

 

 

Seven Habits of Highly Successful People.

 

 

Maybe he should read it.

 

 

Bottom-up Marketing.

 

 

Oliver Nienaber’s books. Oliver Nienaber’s keys to fame and riches. He shifted the telephone directory toward him. Had Nienaber sat in this chair and read? Had he used the directory to look up Alexander MacDonald’s number, made an appointment? He opened the directory, paged to M, looked for MacDonald. MacDonald Fisheries was underlined. His heart beat faster. F? He found Ferdy Ferreira’s number but it wasn’t underlined.

 

 

Disappointment.

 

 

W for Wallace. Not underlined, either. Wilson, D.? Unmarked.

 

 

Had Nienaber spoken the truth about MacDonald? Joubert closed the guide and started at A. He paged with his middle finger, licking it occasionally.

 

 

Basie Louw came in. “Need any help, Captain?”

 

 

Joubert looked up. “Yes.” He wanted to open a desk drawer but it was locked.

 

 

“We must go through the drawers, Basie. Ask the maid if she knows where the keys are.”

 

 

When Louw left, Joubert paged on, past MacDonald Fisheries again. The next name that was underlined was Oberholzer, C. A., 1314 Neptune’s View, Yates Road, Sea Point. And a number. He stared at it. Why? When? He pulled the telephone toward him, his insides clenching. He dialed the number.

 

 

A long, steady beep.

 

 

He looked up directory assistance, dialed, and asked them to check the number. They said they would phone back.

 

 

He paged on, as far as Z, but found nothing.

 

 

Louw came back. “The woman says Nienaber had the keys, Captain.”

 

 

“See if you can get hold of Snyman, Basie. He’ll have them.”

 

 

Louw walked to the telephone.

 

 

“No, use the car phone. I’m waiting for an urgent call.”

 

 

Louw nodded and left. Joubert got up, idled toward the window. He looked at Nienaber’s newspaper and against the wall again, the smile, the neat hairstyle, the honest face.

 

 

“What did you know, Oliver?”

 

 

He studied all the certificates against the wall: ACADEMY OF HAIR DESIGN GOLDEN SCISSORS AWARD; CAPE COMMERCIAL COLLEGE BUSINESS SCHOOL— THIS IS TO CERTIFY THAT O. S. NIENABER COMPLETED THE COURSE IN SMALL BUSINESS MANAGEMENT; JUNIOR BUSINESSMAN OF THE YEAR. And the company registration certificate for Hair Today.