Читать книгу Blue Sunday - Irma Venter - Страница 14

Thursday, 8 February, 17:15

I should never have agreed to take over the story from Janet, maternity leave or not. Ranna was right, Captain Averil Joan Williams doesn’t know how to let go. But it doesn’t matter. I am sick of hiding my relationship, my life. Ranna Abramson is dead. Gone. Only Francis Beekman remains, and Frankie has her very own birth certificate, passport and ID card.

AJ can try to make trouble if she wants to.

And maybe she should, then this circus could finally pack up and leave town. And we could finally find out for sure whether there are any traces of Ranna left at the SAPS.

I drive towards the Stables’ exit, turn right and then right again. I hide the Land Rover in front of a park, freshly trimmed grass still wet from the rain. I write down the registration numbers of the three cars and the motorbike in the Van Zyls’ garage. Expensive vehicles with tracking devices produce lots of GPS data. Maybe I can find out where the Van Zyls have been driving around recently.

Off the record doesn’t mean stupid and blind.

I get out and search for a path back to the Van Zyl house. What are the chances that the neighbours saw or heard something?

I walk as if I live in the estate, slowly and at ease, my eyes open for anyone who might wonder who I am. I even greet the security guards on patrol with a nod.

On the corner of the street where the Van Zyls live, I hesitate for a moment. AJ is my biggest worry, but there is no movement at the cathedral house.

No one answers the intercom at the houses on either side of the Van Zyls. At the second house to the right of the Van Zyl home there is life.

Feet shuffle across the floor. Dogs yap and howl.

No one opens the door.

The burglar bars around the place make it look like C-Max.

“Hello! I’m a journalist. From NewsNow?” I keep it friendly. Switch to Afrikaans. “I work mostly for the Afrikaans website and the newspaper. I’d like to find out a little more about the Van Zyl family.”

The noises die down, even the barking.

“Ma’am?” I’m guessing. “I just want to chat, that’s all.”

The door opens. It’s an elderly man in long khaki shorts, brown Crocs on his feet. His grey hair is shaved short and his neck is sunburnt. He leans on a walking stick with both hands as though he is in pain. A handful of Yorkies, each with a different-coloured ribbon in the curls on its head, bounce around him.

“Sir. Good afternoon.”

“Afternoon.”

He glares at me, but there’s a spark of curiosity behind his irritation. After all these years of being a journalist I can almost smell it.

“I’m from the news—”

“I’m not deaf.”

I put out my hand. “Alex Derksen.”

He thinks for a moment, shuffles forward and shakes my hand. “Arthur Schoeman. You’re here about the Van Zyls.”

“Yes.”

I glance over his shoulder to see whether anything can help me peg the man. The TV’s on. CNBC. News addict, or is he watching the money markets? The worn La-Z-Boy shows he spends a lot of time in front of the television. The chair is clearly turned in such a way that he only needs to look up to view the whole street.

I smile as warmly as I can. “I’m curious about whether you heard anything on that Sunday, the 24th of December. The night of the break-in at the Van Zyls? Were you home?”

“Ja.”

That’ll teach me. One question at a time. I look towards the Van Zyl house, wonder how much longer AJ’s going to be busy there. I wish the man would invite me in.

I take my chances. “What did you hear that night?”

“Their TV. It’s always so loud. But that was it.” He lifts his walking stick and pokes it in my direction. “I don’t want my name in the newspapers.”

“I won’t say anything.”

Another quick look over his shoulder. Are those sports photographs of him on the wall behind him?

“What was on TV that evening? Rugby? I can’t remember.”

“It was Christmas.”

I give up. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

I turn around and walk two steps.

“You’re tall. Did you play lock?”

I swing round and step closer again. “Ja.”

He taps his chest. “Me too. First team. Grey.”

“That’s an excellent school. I come from Namaqualand. First team there doesn’t have quite the same meaning.”

He smiles, but so slightly I have to look carefully to see it. “You guys were tough. And the rugby fields in your neck of the woods … they could cause some serious damage.” He uses the walking stick again to wave me in. “Come in. But just for a bit.”

I walk into the house.

In the living room there are four armchairs, of which only one is regularly used. The dogs yap, excited, around my feet.

I bend down and stroke the biggest one’s head. “They’re lovely.”

“They were my wife’s.”

I look at the photos on the wall. Years and years of rugby teams. Looks like Arthur Schoeman was an enthusiastic coach. The only other two photos are of him and a dark-haired woman. They seem to indicate that not long ago he was a different, friendlier person. The dogs, the dust and the tired chair tell me his wife is probably dead.

He sits down and turns the volume down, shows me the chair furthest from him. I sink into it. One of the dogs, the smallest one, jumps onto my lap.

“Rambo, no. Down.”

“It’s fine. I like dogs.” I stroke the Yorkie’s back.

Arthur sits back with a satisfied smile, as though he thinks he was right about me.

“What do you want to know about the Van Zyls?”

“What were they like as neighbours?”

“Always on the go. The children made so much noise. I complained about it several times, but it didn’t help. Everyone liked Lafras.”

“But you didn’t?”

He helps the biggest dog onto his lap. The others lie at his feet. “No.”

“And did you see anything on Christmas Eve?”

“No. Just heard the TV. All night long. And the next day.”

“And before that? Did you see or hear anything strange?” He’s definitely a man who keeps an eye on the neighbourhood. From where I’m sitting, I can see the street clearly.

“No.”

“Really? Sometimes one can’t help hearing or seeing things.”

“Once Lafras and the woman fought about money. The children weren’t home. But that’s it.”

“When was that?”

“Probably early December.”

Interesting.

“And I noticed their domestic worker wasn’t coming in any more. Nor the gardener. Lafras mowed the lawn himself, when that mad daughter of his was at school.”

Very interesting.

“That helps a lot. Thank you.”

“As long as you don’t write anything about me.” He shakes his head. “The police haven’t even been here. Things aren’t what they used to be.”

Half an hour later I leave with his telephone number and the promise that I will pop in again when I’m in the neighbourhood.