Читать книгу Blue Sunday - Irma Venter - Страница 20

Thursday, 8 February, 23:30

I knock on the front door, louder this time. “Come on, it’s the police, open up!”

But the door stays closed, and the lights stay off.

I stand back, looking for signs of life in the house two doors down from the Van Zyls.

The lights went on when I screamed in Cath van Zyl’s room, just to be switched off in a hurry when I came to knock.

The only sound inside the house is non-stop barking. Little yappers with razor-blade voices.

Security didn’t even show up after my Oscar performance. Goes to show. All the money in the world makes little difference. A big bank balance buys space and security, but the two aren’t always reconcilable.

Sydney and his team couldn’t find any eyewitnesses at the Stables. No one heard or saw a thing that night. I refuse to believe that every single one of the Van Zyls’ neighbours was away on Christmas Eve.

I knock on the door again. What kind of stubborn ass lives here?

I turn around and walk away quickly, out the gate, swearing loudly, turn right up the little side path … then right again, behind a shrub from where I can keep an eye on the front door.

Whoever lives here chose a place with large windows and low walls, as though they wanted to know what was going on in the neighbourhood. The burglar bars on the windows ensure that no one will think the house is an easy target, though.

After a few minutes, the door slowly opens, the house still dark. Four, five handfuls of fur bounce out. Yorkshire terriers. Why am I not surprised?

I step forward. The biggest of the bunch stops and growls.

It’s now or never. I run through the gate, grab the barking dog. Shout at the blue dressing gown standing there: “Police!”

The other dogs yelp and scamper into the house. The door slams shut, then opens up just a sliver. One eye stares at the Yorkie panting in my arms.

“Give me my dog.” The voice is that of an old man. “You’re stealing my dog. I’m going to call the police.”

“I am the police.”

Silence.

“My dog,” says the man.

Instead of answering, I take my ID out of my pocket and show it to him.

The front door opens a little more.

I put the dog down. “Sir, I want to know …”

The dog scrambles into the house. The door slams shut.

Seriously?

“Hey?” I call, knock again. “What the hell …”

I’ll have to make another plan to talk to this idiot.