Trackers (66 page)

'I'm coming
too,' she said.

There was a high wire fence around
the Self Storage warehouse, a double gate on the right-hand corner, a caretaker
in his hut nearby. He stood in the headlights of his Honda, trying both keys in
the huge lock, without success. His shoes crunched in the gravel as he walked
to the caretaker's window. A black man with flecks of grey in his hair sat
there with a tabloid paper spread out in front of him.

'Can I help
you?'

'The key doesn't
seem to fit,' said Joubert.

'Let me see.'

He took the keys and had a look.
'This is not our depot. Where did you find them?' he asked, his tone one of
long-suffering courtesy.

'They belong
to that lady's husband. He's gone missing.'

'Very bad,' said the man. 'Very sad.
It might be for one of the other two depots.'

'Where are they?'

'There's one in Kenilworth, and one
in Salt River.'

Salt River. Near Danie Flint's ABC
job. He knew that would be the one.

'Thank you very much.'

'I hope you find him,' said the man,
and handed back the keys.

In Otto du Plessis Drive, just beyond
Woodbridge Island, Tanya said, 'It has to be for someone else.'

'What do you mean?'

'Danie ... I know Danie. I
know
him. The
money ... He's helping someone else. He's protecting someone else. That's how
he is. He cares about people.'

'Maybe it is,' he said. It was the
best he could do for now.

She stood with her hand to her mouth
while Joubert unlocked the roll- up door of number 97B, bent down and pulled it
up and open.

There was something inside in the
dark, in the space slightly bigger than a single garage. The front of a car.

Joubert spotted a light switch on the
wall, turned it on.

Tanya was still outside, staring
silently at the red-grey car that was parked with its nose to them, the two
single headlamps like staring eyes. He recognised it straight away, but went up
to it first, looked through the closed doors to see if there was something
inside.

Only the keys in the ignition.

'Is there anything?' she asked.

'No.'

She came in, her hand stretched out
to the car.

'Porsche,' she read the name of the
yellow, red and black logo on the nose.

'It's a nine-double-one Carrera.
Please don't touch it. I'll fetch some gloves.' He walked back to the car, to
fetch the murder kit he had put in the boot this morning.

She stood at the driver's door and
stared, a strange expression on her face, amazement and loss.

'Danie,' she said. 'Danie, what have
you done?'

At twenty to twelve he was sitting with
Margaret in the kitchen as she braised a sirloin steak in the pan. He told her
about his strange day, a glass of red wine in his hand.

'He bought the Porsche from a Mark
Marshall of Sweet Valley Street in Bergvliet - his name was in the service book
in the cubbyhole. The Nokia phone was there too, with three SMSs from Absa
that said he had logged on to Internet banking. I think that's why he had the
extra cellphone. For the bank account.'

'And she knew
nothing about it?'

'Nothing.' He ate some of the salad
on his plate with his fingers, his hunger taunted by the aroma of the steak. It
was a tradition that they had begun when the children were still at home. When
he came home late from work, the steak 'because you deserve it', and the chat
in the kitchen so they could have an hour or two together.

'And how did
she take it?'

'Not well. She ... I think she went
through the mourning phase in December already. And now she has to do it all
over again. Tonight she went through denial, then guilt, then anger. And I
didn't know how to ... The trouble is, there's an unwritten law in the police,
you keep your distance from the next of kin, you don't get emotionally
involved. As detective you are always one step removed, you can pass on the bad
news and get in your car and go and do your job. But it's all different now.
She's paying, so she has the right to come with you ...'

'And now you have to be a kind of
comforter as well,' she added as she took the heated plate out of the stove
with an oven cloth.

'I find that
hard.'

She slid the steak onto the plate,
put it in front of him. 'It's because you care.'

'I'll have to
find a way to handle it.'

She drew up a chair and sat down
opposite him, pushed the salt and black pepper closer to him. 'So he got the
money from somewhere, and bought a Porsche ...'

'It's a 1984
model, over 200,000 kilometres on the clock. Reasonable

condition. The upholstery has been
redone. Probably the best he could buy with the money he had. Selfish, but it
fits.'

'Oh?'

He ate a mouthful of steak first.
'This is delicious, thank you. If you see how Tanya spent most of their money
on him. He was ... "carefree" is probably the best word. An only
child. Maybe his mother spoiled him a bit. I saw her today ... I don't know, I
just get the idea she ... there is something superficial, materialistic ...You
know, one of those houses where everything is used to point out that "we
have money". And ... let me tell you my theory: I think the mother was a
bit manipulative. I think she was one of those women who pushed her husband to
buy a bigger house and a more expensive car, so people would look up to them.
Status. It must have an influence on a child, to see his father working hard,
his mother spending. Maybe that's why Danie kept the money for himself, even though
he knew their finances ... How can you buy a Porsche when you know your wife is
struggling? That says something about him. It says something about the origin
of the money. I just don't yet know what.'

'Eat up first,' said Margaret, and
put her hand gently on his arm. 'That steak is getting cold.'

He hadn't smoked for ten years, but
as he pushed his plate away and swallowed the last of his red wine, the desire
came back, clear and strong. He knew it was the stress and fatigue.

He carried his plate and cutlery to
the dishwasher and thanked Margaret for the steak, and the sandwiches at lunch.

'Hunger is the best sauce,' she said.
'Tomorrow
I
'm going to try something new.
Chicken, mature cheddar and a special peach chutney I got from Bizerca. Tell me
if you like it.'

'You spoil me.'

She smiled. 'As long as there's not a
Porsche in a garage somewhere.' She picked up the pan from the stove and
walked over to the sink. 'So now, what's next?'

'Now, I follow the money.'

She came back to him, her face
suddenly sombre. 'You won't find him alive, will you?'

'No,' he said. 'I don't think there
is any chance of that. She knows it too. Now. Even though she said she had
accepted the possibility. She kept hoping. Until tonight.'

'Is she going to be OK?'

They had driven back from Self
Storage in Salt River to her house in Parklands in total silence. She sat there
curled in on herself, broken, her hands on her lap, mute. In front of her house
he asked Tanya Flint whether it would be better if he took her to her
mother-in-law.

She shook her head, emphatically,
despite the weariness.

'You can stay with me and Margaret,
tonight.'

She sat and stared at her hands,
eventually drew a deep breath, turned her exhausted eyes to him and said: 'I'll
have to learn to be alone.'
_t

She opened the car door. When he did
the same, meaning to walk her to her front door, she said: 'No, don't.'

He watched her go. She walked halfway
up the paved pathway, paused for a second, then squared her shoulders and
lifted up her chin.

'Yes, I think so,' he said to Margaret.

Just after eight in the morning,
before he totted up his kilometres or recorded his hours, he phoned Mrs Gusti
Flint.

'Sorry to bother you so early,' he
said. In the background he heard her dogs barking.

'You're very welcome. I'm sure you
can hear why I can't sleep late.'

'Mrs Flint, I understand it could be
a confidential arrangement between you and your son, but it is very important
that you tell me: did Danie borrow money from you in the past year?'

For a second, only the yapping of the
chihuahuas could be heard. Then she said: 'Why? What's happened?'

He had been expecting the question,
but he wasn't going to tell her. 'Nothing has happened. I'm just trying to be
as thorough as possible.'

'No. Absolutely not,' she said with a
barely suppressed indignation. 'Danie knew I'm a widow.'

Who lives in luxury, Joubert thought.
'So he definitely didn't ask you for a loan?' His cellphone began ringing. He
took it out of his pocket.

'No. But I still have the feeling
there's a reason you're asking me.'

'Mrs Flint, I have another call,
thank you very much.'

'I have the right to know ...'

He ended the call, because he
recognised the number on his cellphone. It was Tanya Flint. He answered.

'Tanya?'

'You had better come and look at
this,' she said. There was something in her voice, an urgency.

'Where are you? What's happened?'

'I'm at work. Someone has ... Please,
it's better if you see for yourself.'

'Are you safe?'

'Yes,' she said. 'The police are
here.'

Her company was in a complex of small
businesses in Stella Street, Montagu Gardens. He saw the metre-long signboard
with the silhouette spy figure, the blue kidney-shaped swimming pool icon, and
the words
Undercover. Protect Your Pool.
Two SAPS
patrol vehicles stood in front of the door.

When he walked in he saw her standing
in the workshop area with two uniformed policemen. Blue and black PVC material
in broad rolls, a swimming pool cover that was nearly all cut out, tool boards
against the wall. Tanya saw him approaching, pointed at the high white wall to
his right.

In huge, spray-painted red letters
was: DROP IT.

He went over to her.

'They broke stuff up there,' she
said. He was puzzled by her tone. It was calm. Almost satisfied.

He looked where she had pointed.
Concrete steps leading to a wooden deck. He could see the legs of a desk that
had been overturned, standing upside down.

'Is this the investigator?' one of
the uniforms asked, a black sergeant.

'I am,' said Joubert, and took a
business card out of his pocket, held it out.

'You must wait for Inspector
Butshingi. He is coming.'

Then Tanya Flint spoke, with
happiness in her voice, 'I knew it was someone else. I knew ...'

Joubert did not respond. He stood and
looked at the passive infrared detectors on both side walls. 'Why didn't the
alarm go off?'

'I don't know,' said Tanya Flint, as
though it was of no importance.

'But did you switch on the alarm last
night?' asked a patient Inspector Fizile Butshingi. He stood with Joubert and
Tanya Flint at the small bathroom window, its glass smashed, the burglar bars
ripped out.

'I can't remember.' Her euphoria a
thing of the past, the adrenaline drained from her system.

Butshingi raised his eyebrows.