Читать книгу Blue Sunday - Irma Venter - Страница 11

Thursday, 8 February, 15:16

I wave Alex over. Kudos to him for not saying anything about the storm. He knows to keep his sources happy.

He takes a notebook, pen and recorder out of his jacket pockets, and opens the notebook. There’s a weathered leather bracelet around his right wrist.

Goodness, his handwriting is terrible. Probably has two left hands. Nice, strong boerseun face, though, just like I remember, in spite of the dogleg scar under his eye. There’s still dampness from the rain in the brown hair curling in his neck.

“Aikona.” I gesture to him to pack it all away again. “First we show you what’s what and then we decide what we’re going to say. That’s the deal. And let’s just get this straight from the outset: you don’t quote me. You say ‘a reliable police source’, that’s it.”

He considers for a moment, then puts away the notebook and recorder, hooks the pen into the pocket of his green shirt. “Okay. Deal.”

I wonder whether he hesitated for my sake, to show me he’s not automatically going to obey my every word.

I wonder whether he’s a good poker player.

I am.

In the car, I could see he was surprised about the colour of my eyes, but he hid it quickly.

“If you write anything that’s off the record, anything, neither Colonel Ndlovu nor I nor anyone in the entire police service will ever talk to you again.”

He nods. “Got it.”

“Do you understand?”

“One hundred per cent.”

“Well, now that that’s out of the way …” Farr, who’s been watching the conversation like a spectator at a tennis match, motions us through the open-plan living and dining room towards the kitchen.

The room is big enough for a wedding reception. The style is French country: creamy white, blue and terracotta. An eight-seater dining table with a rich dark stinkwood grain is laid for a breakfast for five people, cereal bowls and silver cereal spoons at the ready.

“Let’s start at the beginning.” Farr looks at me. I nod. She points at the back door. “The men came in here.”

Alex turns to take in the room. “How did they get over the boundary wall?”

“There’s nothing to show how they got into the estate.” Farr stands in the middle of the kitchen, between bloodstains like rusted paint, which she’s outlined because I asked her to. No one must step on them. I want to keep everything as it is for as long as possible.

“Nothing?” Alex seems unconvinced.

Farr nods. “There were no marks on the wall. No alarms went off. The electric fencing wasn’t damaged, and it was never switched off. There weren’t any suspicious people or deliveries at the Stables that day. Everyone who went in, went out again, according to the security guards, the access records and the CCTV cameras.”

“Are there CCTV cameras everywhere?” he asks.

“No,” I jump in, “just at the gate and on the boundary walls. People here like their privacy. You could trick the cameras if you really wanted to.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “A place like this … did the security patrols not see anything?”

“Uh-uh.” I shake my head. “Two armed guards walk past every hour, patrolling inside the estate and along the outer perimeter. Captain Mthembu grilled them, but none of them seems guilty.”

“Every hour, including the Sunday of the attack? The night of the 24th of December?”

“Well, no,” I concede. “Because it was Christmas Eve and there were literally only three or four families home, the guards came by every two hours. They were working on two-thirds of their staff.”

He frowns. “That’s not good.”

Precisely. But I don’t say so.

He motions towards the back door. “Could the CCTV on the boundary wall not even catch a glimpse of the guys going in the back door?”

“No.” Farr is getting impatient. “We told you. The camera is trained on the exterior of the wall. You don’t see even a centimetre of the property.”

“Okay.” Alex wipes a stray raindrop off his neck.

Farr opens the back door. I remain in the middle of the kitchen, where the lightning won’t reach.

“We think the gang used the back door because the family sometimes left it open for their dog while they watched TV,” I say. “That’s according to Katerien van Zyl’s sister, Annabel Kirkpatrick.”

Alex turns towards me. “Do you know how many of them there were?”

“We suspect there were three. We found three blood samples that don’t belong to the Van Zyls.”

“This blood?” He points at the stains on the floor.

“Among others. Lafras van Zyl fought … and I mean fought.” I look Alex up and down. “He’s taller than you. And very fit, even though he is 45. You probably know he used to do all kind of strange expeditions, even with his father when he was alive. Walked to the South Pole, climbed Kilimanjaro, rode a bike around Africa, all kinds of mad things. He was big and strong.”

“And then his company started making money.”

“Yes. Invest+. He could spot a good deal a mile away. So they say.” I lean against the kitchen table. “What else do you know?”

“Just what was in the papers. He and Katerien Kirkpatrick married a few years after varsity. She was at UCT and he went to Stellenbosch. They met at Lafras’s family farm when she went there as a third-year student with friends for a wine tasting. A few years later he listed Invest+ on the Johannesburg Stock Exchange and they moved to Pretoria. A little more than two years ago Lafras was dismissed as CEO.”

Alex rubs his forehead as if he’s trying to unravel the facts. “Apparently, he lived too royally on the company’s credit card, and he took over a company in Nigeria just before the oil price, and the country’s economy, collapsed. He argued that Invest+ was his company, that he’d built it up from nothing, but the shareholders weren’t interested.”

The man’s done his homework. But does he know about Lafras’s debt?

If he does, he’s not showing his hand. He watches us expectantly.

Farr’s expression enquires whether we’re done talking. I nod, and she motions for us to follow her. We walk out of the kitchen and immediately turn left into the passage.

“The TV in the living room was on when the police arrived, so we’re not sure where Lafras was when his attackers came in,” Farr explains. “I suspect he was moving between the living room and his study.”

The spacious study at the end of the passage has a desk so big you could play table tennis on it, two bookshelves full of National Geographic DVDs and business books, and some home gym equipment. The room has thick carpets and underfloor heating. The exercise machines rest on custom-made rubber mats.

Alex walks over the to the bench press. “He must have had the chest of an ox.”

“He did,” I say. “And in the garage, there are two mountain bikes. Well used. His and hers.”

He tests the weights as though he wants to lift them. What is it with men? I don’t even want to tell him how many policemen have tried to lift those weights. The betting pool is at R370 for the first guy to manage it.

Farr stands at the desk and sweeps her hand over the empty surface. “His computer was on, and there were holiday brochures lying around. Looked to me like he was busy booking trips for his family. There was a soccer match on TV that night, which makes me suspect that he was moving between the two rooms.”

“So his computer was still here,” Alex asks. “It wasn’t stolen?”

Farr looks at me. I know why. Sydney made the case sound like a robbery for as long as possible.

“No, it wasn’t stolen,” I admit. “It’s at the cyber unit. We’re missing two iPads, Katerien and Cath’s laptops and Cath and Willem’s phones. Again, this is what Katerien van Zyl’s sister says.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Alex takes the pen out of his shirt pocket, as if he’s itching to write something down. “Do you really think it was robbery?”

It’s clear that this is the first scrap of news for the day. But I don’t want to admit anything.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe the guys got cold feet after they ran into Lafras.” I keep my voice as neutral as possible. “You must remember, the Van Zyls weren’t supposed to be home. They were supposed to drive to their holiday home on Christmas Eve. So we can’t really eliminate the possibility that it was simply a robbery.”

“We think Josie, the ridgeback, started barking when she saw the intruders,” Farr gestures impatiently. “Lafras went to the back door.”

We follow her back to the passage.

“The dog must have given the intruders a helluva surprise,” Farr continues. “Just like the open back door. As AJ says, the Van Zyls and the dog were supposed to leave for Hermanus that night. Apparently, Lafras always loaded everything and everyone up and drove through the night.”

“So why were they still here?” Alex asks.

I know Farr’s not going to answer. “No idea.”

“And if you had to guess?”

I shrug. “It looks like someone might have got sick … nauseous. There’s an open pack of Valoids next to the basin in the bathroom.”

Alex rolls the pen between his fingers again. “The parents’ bathroom or the children’s bathroom?”

Clever. A place like this would have at least two bathrooms. “The children’s.”

“So either Cath or Willem was sick.” The pen clicks in and out. “And you know the family wasn’t supposed to be home that Sunday night, because that’s what Annabel Kirkpatrick said.”

“Yes.”

“And it was Christmas Eve,” he says. “And, as you say, ninety per cent of the houses in the estate were empty. The people who live here have money, and houses in Germany, Mozambique and who knows where else. Embassy personnel with euros and dollars. People with money, like Lafras.”

I listen to Alex working through the facts in his head. Facts I hope he gathered from the media and didn’t get from some big-mouthed police contact.

“According to Annabel, she was unaware that the Van Zyls were still here. The last message she got said they were on their way,” he continues. “She came around on the afternoon of the 26th, as she’d promised to do while the family was gone. She couldn’t come earlier, because she didn’t have a nursing assistant over Christmas. She’s the one who found Lafras.”

“No,” I stop him.

He looks at me questioningly, then realises his mistake.

“Oh yes, Annabel didn’t find Lafras, her new assistant did. Razmik. She was waiting outside for him to unlock the door. He went in and then came storming out. Two security guards walking by saw the gate was open and came to see what was going on. They told Annabel to call the police and an ambulance. According to Annabel, she hadn’t been too worried when she couldn’t get hold of Katerien on Christmas Day because Katerien, Lafras and the kids often switched their phones off when they went on holiday. Even on the high days. Katerien demanded it.”

“That’s right,” I say. “And the phone records confirm that.” I prod him to find out where he got his information from. “Rapport had a front-page story about Annabel.”

“Yes. And a feature about the Kirkpatrick family. They came to South Africa after the First World War. The sisters’ great-grandparents were well-known missionaries. Annabel is … was … a famous ballet dancer, not just here, but also abroad.”

“Correct.” I motion towards Farr, who is waiting with her face pulled into a question mark, as it always is when people waste her time. “Come on. Let’s get a move on.”

Farr walks down the passage. “So. The dog barks. Lafras moves to the back door.”

Alex follows her, and then stops. He hooks his pen back into his shirt pocket. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“What now?” Farr grumbles.

“Wouldn’t a guy like Lafras van Zyl have a gun?”

Farr nods curtly. “It was in the main bedroom in a safe. We think that he might have been on his way upstairs when he was stopped. Anything else?”

Alex smiles warmly. “Sorry. Was just wondering.”

Farr walks to the living room, impatience practically nipping at her heels. Her steps are getting shorter and that frown of hers isn’t budging.

She points up the stairs. “Lafras tries to run up to get the gun. The guys tackle him. They fight. The ridgeback joins in but gets kicked in the windpipe. She also gets stabbed three times. Dead.”

Farr waves towards the blood splatters on the wall. She makes a fist with one hand and points to her knuckles with the other. “Lafras gave them a run for their money. His fists were raw from the punches he threw. See this stain? We think he beat one guy’s head against the wall. But he came off badly. His whole body was bruised. He was stabbed nine times. It’s an absolute miracle he’s alive at all.”

“And he’s still in a coma?” Alex asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“Did the intruders only have knives? No firearms?”

“Not that we know of. Maybe they didn’t want to use guns. Shots would have called attention.”

“And DNA? Any success?”

“Nothing. Not one of the attackers is on our database.”

He gives a lopsided grin. “That would have been too easy, right?”

He turns around, points outside, where it’s still bucketing down. “Could you follow the blood anywhere? Was there a car waiting in the street?”

I shake my head. “The heavy rain on Christmas Day destroyed everything, if there was anything to start with. And if there was a car outside, it didn’t leave via the Stables’ main gate.”

We go up the stairs to the top floor. I open the first door.

“Cath van Zyl’s room. She’s twelve. An old twelve, clearly.” I consider the name. “Cath is her new name. She was always called Maria. Her full name is Catherine Mary, like her grandmother. On her twelfth birthday, she decided she wanted to be called Cath, because Maria was too old-fashioned, cheesy and biblical … this is according to a friend of hers.”

Alex walks past me into the room, and then stops, as though he’s having difficulty digesting the space.

I understand his reaction. Cath van Zyl was a raving perfectionist. Everything neat, perfectly in place, precisely arranged next to, and on top of, one another. Just the bed is messy, as though she’d been sleeping in it and got up in a hurry. White sheets, black blinds.

“May I look?” Alex gestures towards the cupboard.

Farr nods, reluctantly.

He opens the door with his index finger, stares at the neat rows of school uniforms, ballet clothes and jeans, sorted by category and colour. “Was she … is she …?”

I had the same problem until Farr and I decided to talk about Katerien, Willem and Cath as though they were still alive.

Is. Not was.

“She doesn’t come across as the average teenager,” he says eventually.

“Definitely not,” I say. “Mad about ballet. Above-average intelligence. She’s in Grade 7 already. Ambitious child. She wants to go to Juilliard, that performing arts school in New York, when she finishes school.”

“I take it there’s still no trace of her.”

“No. All we know is that none of the blood in the house is hers.”

“I suppose that’s good news.”

We follow Farr out to the passage. The next door is the oldest child, Willem’s room.

Farr opens the door. Alex wants to go in, but I stop him. “Wait.”

He turns.

“What you’re going to see in here is one of the things we tried to keep out of the media.”

“I won’t write anything,” he says. “As we agreed.”