Читать книгу Blue Sunday - Irma Venter - Страница 12

Thursday, 8 February, 16:19

It takes Alex Derksen a few seconds to realise what secret lies hidden in Willem van Zyl’s bedroom. He walks towards the double bed and looks at the shape under the duvet, as though someone is sleeping there.

“He slipped out earlier that evening.” Alex puts out his hand as though he wants to lift the duvet.

Farr clears her throat. He retracts his hand, tucks it into his jeans pocket.

“What do you know about Willem?” I ask.

“That the Stables’ CCTV picked him up at just after 1 am when he rushed out the gate. According to the cameras he was alone in the BMW … no sign of Katerien or Cath. Everyone is speculating that he murdered his family and fled.”

“Correct. Because then he disappeared off the face of the earth.”

Alex looks at the bed. “But this … what does it mean? Did he slip out at 1 am when the cameras spotted him, or earlier?”

Farr moves restlessly beside me. I ignore her. After some consideration, I realised that Ndlovu was right: Sydney had held back on this information, but it hadn’t served him in any way. Maybe Alex can help us find out where Willem was on the evening of the 24th. I’m not talking to him because I have a warm and generous heart. I need answers.

“This is something the papers don’t know and that you’re not allowed to write,” I say. “The cameras picked Willem up the first time just after 9 pm when he left the Stables on foot, just behind a car leaving through the gate. The image is grainy, but Willem’s rugby coach says the figure runs like him. Locks apparently have a characteristic way of moving. The CCTV loses him as he moves around the corner of the estate. No one knows where he went.”

“When did he come back?”

“Just before 1 am. Also on foot. But this time he used his access card, so we know it was him.”

“And a few minutes later he leaves in his car through the gate as if the devil is after him?”

“Precisely.”

“So what does that mean?”

I shrug. “I’m not sure it necessarily creates a different scenario to the one the media has been speculating about. Willem seems guilty. He pretends he is ill. His family doesn’t leave for Hermanus. He pays someone to attack them and then slips away to give them time to do their work.”

Alex frowns. “But where’s he now, then?”

“Good point,” I say. “Why not come back, cry crocodile tears, deny that you’re guilty and say you were out while the tragedy was unfolding? The life insurance is well worth it – R10 million for Lafras and R3 million for Katerien.”

“Maybe Willem had to flee,” Alex says. “Maybe the intruders decided to get rid of him too. Maybe they found something more valuable?”

“Not that we know of. The safe was still locked and nothing is missing from it, according to Annabel. Everything is there, including Lafras’s pistol. And firearms are usually high on the list of things that get stolen.”

Alex frowns again. “That doesn’t make sense at all.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“Any other scenarios on the table?”

“One or two. Maybe their attackers were here for a different reason. Maybe they were after Cath or Katerien.”

Farr looks at me sharply. I pretend I don’t notice.

Alex tries his best not to ask the question immediately. He stares at Willem’s bed for a long time, then at the window. “Has anyone demanded a ransom for the women?”

“No. That’s just a wild theory, something I’ve wondered. Are we done here, or is there anything else you want to know?”

“A few things. Did no one call the police or paramedics? Did Willem make no phone calls before he left?”

“No. And no.”

“And you’re certain the attack happened just before one? When Willem left here for the second time?”

“No, we’re not. We know that Willem was here for about seven, eight minutes.”

“That’s enough time for an attack.”

I nod.

“And Lafras can’t help you put together a timeline, because he’s still in a coma?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Alex pushes both hands into his jeans pockets. “I don’t envy you this one, that’s for sure.” He exhales slowly. “Do you know where Willem went when he slipped out earlier that evening?”

“No idea. His friends say they know nothing.”

“Girlfriend?”

“All his electronic information indicates there’s no girlfriend.”

“Maybe he used an Uber?”

I look at Farr.

“There’s nothing in his cellphone records,” she admits.

“And there’s never been another sign of him? Nothing in the six weeks since the attack?”

“No,” I say.

“Nor of Katerien or Cath?”

“Nothing.”

“So what the hell happened?” Alex shakes his head. “Maybe you’re right, maybe the women were kidnapped. Maybe Willem was blackmailed to do something to secure their safety. Maybe there was someone in the car with him, someone you can’t see on the CCTV.”

“But, once again, it’s weeks after the attack and Willem is still gone,” I argue. “Same for Cath and Katerien. No sign, not even a body. Three people, gone without a trace.” I gesture at the house around me. “And what did Willem have to go and do? There’s nothing in the Van Zyls’ lives that suggests that they were involved in anything sinister.”

Well, not yet.

“Okay, good point.” Alex takes the Bic out of his front shirt pocket again and fiddles with it as he puzzles. “Let’s go back to the first, more logical, theory. Willem is guilty. The media speculates that he had the bodies of his mother and sister in the BMW’s boot when he left. What if they’re right?”

“It’s a possibility,” I admit. “But why not come back and load up his father as well? Willem is built like Lafras – tall and strong. He could have got rid of all the evidence. And the question remains: why would he do it? What about the life insurance?”

Alex rubs his chin. “And it wasn’t a sudden rage either. The intruders’ movements indicate that this thing was planned.”

“Correct. The other theories make more sense. Organise the hit on your family. Come back home and bump into the attackers, who decide to get rid of you too. Maybe they argued about sharing the money. Who knows?”

“But then what about Cath and Katerien? Where are they?”

“Kidnapped. Taken. But not for money.”

I can see he suddenly thinks of something.

“You’re sure the family was actually here, at home?”

I nod. “We are. The CCTV shows the Van Zyls driving out the gate at about six o’clock to go on holiday, and then coming back at about seven. Everyone is in the car. It’s still light and you can see it clearly on the footage. The only one who left again after that was Willem. On foot.”

“Okay, so they were here, and then they disappeared.” He clicks the pen. In and out. In and out.

The cheap black Bic fascinates me. I’d have imagined he would write with something more expensive.

“What are you wondering?” I ask.

“Something … something else that doesn’t make sense to me, why would a twenty-year-old man slip away from his parents’ house? Why didn’t he just drive?”

“I’m open to any theories.”

He laughs and throws his hands up in the air. “Okay, I give up. Going around in circles like this could drive you mad, and it’s not my job.”

He hooks the pen into his pocket again. “Let’s forget about this mess with Willem for a bit. You found Willem’s red BMW a few days later at Menlyn shopping centre. The same car his father was in the process of selling?”

“Yes.”

“Was there blood in the car?”

“No.”

“You can’t …” Farr wants to argue.

I ask her with an open hand to calm down. “Only the family’s DNA was in the BMW. None of the attackers’ DNA, which we found in the house, was in the car.”

“And no one knows where the attackers went? Or whether they were injured?”

“No one has seen them. Not where they came in or where they left. And only one house in the Stables is rented out, and that to a family – three children, two mothers. So it’s not like the intruders rented a house and then waited for Christmas Eve to attack the Van Zyls.”

“Workers? Painters?”

“There was one house that was having work done in the holidays. A new garden was being laid on the 19th and 20th of December, but all the workers are clean. The rest is just the usual: rubbish removal, garden services, new installations on the fibre-optic cable network, furniture being delivered. But nothing on Christmas Eve. It was a Sunday, after all.”

Alex shakes his head incredulously. “Willem is the key. Must be.”

“I also think so.”

Farr looks at her watch, walks towards the door. I can feel her irritation all the way over here.

Alex looks at her as if he realises he needs to get her on his side. “And you’re none the wiser from Willem’s phone records, Sergeant? Surely he needs money to buy food? And where’s he staying?”

I know, again, that Farr isn’t going to answer.

“His friends haven’t seen him again since the 24th,” I say. “And there are no grandparents to help. They’ve all died. And no uncles or aunts except for Annabel. She also lives here in the Stables and she says Willem hasn’t contacted her since the attack. Her e-mails and phone confirm that. The family’s bank account is dead quiet, and Willem’s phone’s been dead since the Sunday of the attack. Ditto Cath’s and Katerien’s.”

Farr, leaning against the door frame, snorts. “And tomorrow it’ll all be in the papers.”

“No,” says Alex. “We have a deal. All of this is off the record. I’ve been a journalist for fifteen years. You don’t survive if you can’t keep your word.”

He smiles at Farr, warm and sincere. A smile that shows his hands and his conscience are clean. Every mother-in-law’s dream. And every police officer’s nightmare. It’s smiles like those that make people trust journalists.

I start to move to the next room, but he hesitates.

“Most of the family phones were stolen, but can’t you work out where they last pinged? Surely you can see which cellphone towers they were near earlier in the day?”

Farr’s eyebrows lift.

One is good. It means she’s impressed. Two – the question mark, the are-you-stupid look – is bad.

“I swear, if you write a story …” she says.

“I won’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You invited me here. With a goal, I assume? No one is ever just nice to journalists.”

The man’s a pro. Oh so patient and logical …

“I don’t like any of this.” Farr walks out.

I ignore her.

“Sorry,” I say to Alex. “The media’s been riding us non-stop about this case.”

“It’s okay. Journalists aren’t exactly popular.” He points at his chest. “Leeches. Liars. Sensation-seekers. Lazy asses idling away their time on other people’s money.”

I point at mine. “Useless. Affirmative action.”

“Because you’re a woman. And coloured? Does that still count?”

“I’m half-coloured. My mother is pure German perfection and precision. My professor father is all justice and ethics and Upington spartanism.”

“German?” He sounds surprised.

I nod. That’s all he needs to know about me.

I point at the bed again with the pretend body sleeping in it. “No one knows where Willem van Zyl is. That’s the bottom line.”

“What about the phones?” he asks again. “Are they really not helping you? Where was everyone on the morning of the 24th?”

I put my hands on my hips. “Don’t want to tell you. You already know more than you should. And I don’t want you to start meddling in the case.”

“Okay.” He gives the same warm smile from earlier. “Then tell me about the money. You said Lafras’s life was insured for R10 million and Katerien’s for R3 million. The newspapers say the wine farm was lost a long time ago. Lafras’s father gambled it away and Lafras inherited nothing. Katerien’s father died when she was little, and her mother recently died of a heart attack. Is your information correct?”

“Yes.”

Some of the facts were news even to us when the newspapers came out, but I don’t say that.

“Is there anything else, anything they didn’t write?”

“No,” I say, with the right amount of conviction.

I gesture towards the passage, tap on a door on the right. “Guest room.” Another door. “Bathroom. Nothing funny or unusual.”

We carry on. “And here’s the main bedroom.”

The door is open. It’s dark inside, the curtains are shut, just as they were that night. The bed is slept in, the duvet on the floor, the sheets bunched up on the mattress.

I switch on the light and keep my eyes trained on Alex, suddenly curious about what journalists see at crime scenes. “Tell me what you think.”

He snaps at the gloves around his wrists as though they’re starting to irritate him. Doesn’t say anything for a long time. Looks at the framed family photo above the king-size bed. One bedside table neat, the other one messy.

I know what he’s seeing: business books on the untidy side, love stories and Afrikaans and English literature on the other. Kate Atkinson, Breyten Breytenbach, Helene de Kock, Zadie Smith. The sheets are too dishevelled to distinguish whether one or two people slept here.

“His untidiness doesn’t bother her.” He finally decides to play along. “She compartmentalises it. As long as her own space remains neat and clean, it doesn’t matter. She controls what she can, and controls it well.”

Interesting observation.

“And?”

“They still shared a room.”

I nod, satisfied.

“So Katerien and Lafras still loved each other?” he asks.

“That’s what Annabel says.”

“No problems?”

“One or two. The usual.”

“But nothing that would make her want to murder him?”

“No. Unless she was able to hide it from everyone.”

He walks to the bed, looks at the tangled sheets. “Did they have sex, or was Katerien attacked? Or did you guys mess up the bed like this?”

“We didn’t find any DNA from any of the intruders in the bed or anywhere else up here.”

“Where was Katerien during the attack? Here, in bed?”

“We’re guessing upstairs somewhere.”

He stares at the photo above the bed. “Beautiful family.”

I nod in agreement. Willem looks like his mother. Dark-blonde hair, blue eyes. Open face, friendly and laughing. Cath is more like her dad, dark and brooding, but her skin is paler. They all look athletic and fit, as if they spend a lot of time outdoors.

“Come,” I say, showing Alex he must follow me.

We walk through the walk-in wardrobe, which unexpectedly opens on to a spacious study.

“This is Katerien’s work space. Annabel said she often sat here reading or listening to music.”

The room is full. There’s a small desk, a row of bookshelves, a neat pile of old LPs, alphabetically ordered, an expensive sound system and a large red leather chair with a blanket on the armrest. There’s an open book on the other armrest. A World History of Carpets and Tapestries. A yoga mat stands rolled up next to a bookshelf.

The only wall without shelves is full of holiday photographs of the family in exotic locations.

Alex goes over to study them. There’s a handful of beautiful underwater photos of Katerien. A young Lafras at the top of Mount Everest, on a mountain bike with the Giza pyramids in the background.

“If Cath was awake during the attack, do you think she might have fled here?” he asks.

“One would think she’d come here, yes.”

“But everything is so neat?”

“I know. It probably means she was caught unawares, sleeping.”

“Maybe the intruders were after the women, as you said.” He glances at me. “What would the motive be? Sex? Revenge?”

“Captain Mthembu couldn’t find a single person who didn’t like Katerien and Cath.”

He nods. “That would be too easy, right?”

He walks to the window, lifts the curtain. Unlike Cath and Willem’s rooms, this room does not look out onto the garage. Before us is a green lawn and some shrubs, with the swimming pool to the left. There’s a changing room hidden in the corner of the garden.

He drops the curtain. “I can’t believe no one called the police. Not even the neighbours.”

I decide to be honest. “Katerien’s phone shows she tried, but she had no luck on the 10111 line.” This fact makes my blood boil, but I know not to show it.

“The Stables’ security also received a call,” I continue, “but the phone cut off before anyone spoke. No one else called.” I hold up my hand. “But, please …”

“I know. Don’t write anything.”

“Correct.”

“Isn’t there an alarm? There’s a panic button in the passage.”

I feed him another crumb, watch him closely. “The account was six months in arrears, so it was cut off. Maybe Lafras thought a security alarm was unnecessary in a place like this.”

I can’t remember whether Annabel mentioned in the interviews she gave that the Van Zyls no longer had a domestic worker or a gardener. If Alex is curious about Lafras’s money matters, he’s not showing it.

“Did security at least come around after the call?” he asks.

“No.”

“And later, when they patrolled, didn’t they get suspicious when they saw the lights on?”

“The lights were off.”

“All of them?”

“Every last one, except for the lamp next to the television, which was on when we got here. People often do that when they go away.”

“And during the attack, didn’t the dog’s barking call attention? Didn’t Lafras shout? Didn’t anyone hear anything?”

“No. As I said, most of the estate’s residents were away.” I motion towards the photos on the wall. “And I wonder whether Lafras is the kind of man who would call for help. I’d imagined he’d fight until his last breath.”