Читать книгу Present Tense - Natalie Conyer - Страница 6

Schalk Lourens got out his phone and started filming, something Pieterse taught him years ago. Keep a record. Do it yourself, boykie, every time. That way you can be sure. Cover your arse. Don’t trust any of them.

Schalk began with Pieterse himself, what was left of him. On his back, fists curled up and in like a prizefighter, his head and shoulders shiny grey and featureless, his mouth a wide black ‘O’. Bits of the tyre still there, Dunlop, from when it was forced over his head, doused with petrol and set alight. What was left stank of rubber and braai.

Schalk stepped away from the worst of it. He breathed out and, lifting his phone again, turned slowly, panning a circle into a rich man’s death.

Pieterse’s body lay on tarmac in front of a low gabled building, probably the original slave quarters. Next to it stood a modern copy, a garage holding a Merc and a Jeep, both black; between them a gap. Across the tarmac, a timber deck and a pool – the kind where water comes to the edge – and a tennis court. When did Piet Pieterse, strictly wors-and-beer, ever play tennis?

Behind Schalk, the back of the farmhouse: Cape Dutch, the real thing, thatched roof and all. The fourth side of the square was open. Grapevines, gnarled and thick, marched in strict ranks to the foothills of the Hottentots Holland Mountains whose peaks spiked sharp as knives against the sky on this golden summer morning.

Schalk squinted up at them. He remembered Sunday drives in the Franschhoek valley, their battered white Valiant cruising into the village before fighting its way up the pass in second gear. They’d stop at the lookout, he and his parents, his father still with them then, stand and gaze at the heart of the Cape, at centuries of winemaking and civilized living. Not the place for a necklace.

Not the first necklace Schalk had ever seen, not by a long shot, just the first white one. In South Africa, necklaces were black people’s justice. During apartheid, necklaces were punishment for collaboration and Schalk remembered one in particular, a man in his prime, shirtless and muscles glistening, the centre of a tight circle of onlookers learning what would happen if they betrayed the Struggle. The man was too scared or too confused to beg for mercy. Unresisting, he let them tie his hands behind him. He showed no expression as they forced him to his knees. When they put the tyre over his head he buckled and sank to the ground. Then petrol, flames.

Apartheid was a quarter century gone but necklaces lived on. Now they were used for revenge or money or community punishment. So, Schalk asked himself, what’s this one all about?

Next to him, Joepie Fortune adjusted his sunglasses. Joepie favoured the mirrored kind, classic aviator style. When he wasn’t wearing them, they sat on top of his shaven head.

‘What makes you so sure it’s Pieterse?’

‘Shape of the body. And…’ Schalk pointed to where things were clearer, calves emerging from blue board shorts, ‘white. Who else is it going to be?’

‘You should know,’ said Joepie.

Schalk pocketed his phone, thought how much he didn’t want it to be Pieterse. Not because Pieterse didn’t deserve it but nobody needed the grief. Petrus “Piet” Pieterse, formerly BOSS, apartheid’s Bureau of State Security. Murderers, torturers, bombers, general doers of evil. Famous for it, for getting away with it via the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Now Piet Pieterse, wearing a necklace. Every news team in the country would want a piece of this.

The day’s heat was kicking in. Schalk and Joepie headed for the shade of an oak where the local sergeant, name of Bheki, waited with two constables. Bheki was fat, legs splayed like tent-ropes and arms folded on top of his belly. The constables, one on either side, rested on their haunches. Bheki saluted, the constables snapped to attention. Schalk waved them down.

At least Bheki was on the ball. He phoned it in, the call bouncing from person to person until it reached Schalk’s boss, Lieutenant- Colonel Sisi Zangwa of Cape Town Central Police Station. When Colonel Zangwa phoned Schalk she told him this would be big, so find Captain Fortune and both of them get out there ASAP.

Now she waited to hear what was what. She picked up immediately.

‘It’s him,’ Schalk told her, lighting a Lucky Strike.

Tapping, pencil on wood. ‘Is it a farm murder?’

‘Not a lot of necklaces in farm murders.’

‘OK. Keep me in the loop. And make sure nobody there talks to the media. I’ll take care of my end.’

Good luck with that, Schalk thought. The station leaked like a sieve.

He stuck out his hand. ‘Sergeant Bheki? Captain Lourens. You’ve already met Captain Fortune.’

Bheki shook. ‘Who found him?’ asked Schalk.

‘The servants,’ Bheki said. ‘This morning.’

‘Where were they last night?

‘He gave them the night off. Nobody in the house, only him.’

‘Wife?’

‘Not here. I didn’t ask yet. I waited for you. There’s labourers too, none of them were here last night.’

‘What about security?’

‘The whole place got a high fence around it and the fence got barbed wire on top. But the front gate was open and the alarms were off.’

‘CCTV?’

‘The camera at the front is the only one. It’s off. He had dogs too, down there.’ Bheki took them round the back of the slave quarters where, in a caged run at the end of a dirt clearing, two honeyed Rhodesian Ridgebacks lay humped against the wire. Not a lot of blood.

Schalk sent Bheki and his boys to check the perimeter and keep reporters out. He and Joepie took the buildings. Nothing in the garage except cars. The old slave quarters had become a barn and inside it was dim, smelling of earth and oil. The end wall was lined with apparatus of a working farm: a tractor, wheelbarrows, barrels, spades, containers stacked neatly on shelves. Another wall supported high stacks of wooden crates. In the corner between them sat three Dunlop tyres piled one on another. Joepie pointed and Schalk nodded in agreement, said, ‘Knew where to find them.’

They walked out in time to see the techs pull up, two women, one in a bright red hijab. Schalk stared. This was the first time he’d seen one female forensic technician, never mind two. Not surprising really, given the turnover. The moment people got trained they left. State- of-the-art equipment and nobody to use it, no wonder the cops couldn’t win a case.

The hijabi was in charge. She was soft-cheeked and older, looked like someone’s mother. ‘Captain Lourens?’

‘Ja.’

‘Zeinab Gamsien.’

Schalk shook a plump hand, pointed at the sky. ‘Get going before the choppers arrive.’

Zeinab Gamsien didn’t answer. She was considering the body. She pulled on her overalls, covering her hijab with the hood. Seemed like she knew what she was doing, which was a change because the last lot had contaminated the crime scene all by themselves.

Meanwhile her offsider, young and slender, twisted long black hair into a rubber band. She looked at Joepie, more than speculatively. He was past 50 but had that effect. He looked back.

‘Jiss,’ he said. ‘She looks exactly like that one, you know, that actress. That Bollywood one.’

‘Give up, man. She’s too young for you.’

‘What? You jealous? I’m Trevor Noah, my bru, only better looking.’

‘Try Trevor Noah’s father. Come on.’

Joepie followed him, returning the offsider’s smile as he went by.

Inside it was cool, light filtering onto flagstones worn smooth by 300 years of feet. Schalk was surprised by the sophistication; not what he remembered about Pieterse. Persian rugs under riempie chairs, toffee-coloured leather couches, stinkwood tables. White walls showed off rough wooden sculptures, African masks, huge photographs of what could have been sand formations. Perfect, and at the same time as impersonal as a high-end hotel.

The house was T-shaped. They were in the lounge, the original voorkamer. The rest of the vertical arm held a kitchen and dining room. Two longer arms spread out horizontally, three rooms each side and here at last were signs of life. On the right a study. Then two bedrooms, each leading to an en-suite, both new. In the end bedroom a cupboard full of men’s clothes, shoes, a pair of glasses on a side- table with its top drawer open, empty.

In the left wing, a home theatre with a massive screen, and then another bedroom, this time female. The cupboard door swung wide, a drawer ajar presented a muddled pile of jewellery.

The last room had been turned into a professional-looking photographic studio. Computers on counters, all sorts of gadgets. Joepie got there first, whistled. ‘Come, take a look. Cost a fortune. Must belong to the wife, her side of the house.’

‘Second wife,’ said Schalk, ‘gotta be special for Pieterse to spend like this.’

‘Extra-special, if they aren’t even sleeping together. Maybe he’s past it, hey?’

‘Maybe he just snores. Or she does.’

‘You tell me,’ said Joepie, ‘you’re the married one.’

Schalk lifted a framed photo from one of the shelves. Head and shoulders of Pieterse in a bow tie, face sweaty with delight. He was looking at the woman next to him, pulling her close. The woman let herself be pulled.

Schalk remembered Lorraine, the first wife, peroxide and nails. This one was different. She was smiling slightly, directly at the camera, her light wavy hair brushing her shoulder. One strap of her dress had slipped down her arm.

He replaced the picture and checked out the room. Every inch of wall was covered by poster-sized photos taken in or against township shacks. They were all portraits of black faces, worn and battered, grimly confronting a world beating them down. Was the new Mrs Pieterse the type who liked townships because they were real; who drove in, took pictures, drove out again and came home to a place like this? People like her should live in a township for a couple of days. He moved to a shelf of cameras. Some were out of line, there were gaps.

Joepie raised a chin at an empty space. ‘What do you think? Robbery?’

‘Could be. But why not take more?’

‘Couldn’t carry it? Knew what they were looking for?’

‘Ja, must have been more than one,’ said Schalk, ‘to organise a necklace. Pieterse wouldn’t sit still while they put a tyre round his neck. What bothers me is why they necklaced him at all. They had a gun to shoot the dogs, but they necklaced Pieterse. That’s a message, right there, and not the sort of message that goes with a robbery. Also, if the killers came from the farm, why shoot the dogs? Dogs don’t kick up a row for people they know.’

Time for the servants, Florence Malgas and her spidery husband Valentine, sitting like Jack Spratt and his wife at the kitchen table. Florence, in a heaving black top, scoured her eyes with a shredded tissue. Valentine had shrunk into his clothes as much as possible, aware trouble at the house meant trouble for him.

‘Yes,’ Florence said, ‘yes, we live here, our rooms are there, behind the tennis court. We get every Friday afternoon off, every second Sunday. This wasn’t our usual Sunday but the master sometimes gives us extra. So the other day, Wednesday, he told us we could have last night off as well.’

‘Where did you go?’ asked Schalk.

‘My daughter, Rina, she lives now in Paarl, in the new part. She came in her car to fetch us to her house. Her own car. Then she brought us back in the morning because she must work. She’s a nurse.’

‘Does Mr Pieterse know you stay with Rina?’

‘Oh, yes, the master knows Rina since Rina’s a little girl. And he knows Trevor too, my son. Trevor’s a good boy, a good boy.’

She was trying too hard. Joepie said, ‘What did you see this morning, when you came back?’

‘The gate is open. Ja. That’s when we know something’s wrong. No alarm. And all the lights are on.’

‘Outside lights as well?’

‘Ja. Outside lights too. Then there’s smoke and the smell…and we follow it to the back–’ She shoved the tissue against her mouth.

Had they seen anything else unusual? Schalk asked, thinking, apart from the master smouldering. They hadn’t. Where was Mrs Pieterse? Away.

‘Where?’ They shrugged at each other. No idea.

Joepie added. ‘Is she away a lot? Does she stay out all night?’

Valentine flashed a few mismatched teeth, aimed his answer at Schalk, the witbaas. ‘Sometimes. Then she comes back and makes her pictures.’

‘Got a cell number?’ Schalk was losing patience. He tried it, left a message.

Joepie again. ‘How long have you worked here?’

‘Since the master was small,’ said Florence. ‘First we worked for the oubaas, Baas Manus, the master’s uncle. The young master, master Piet, came often to visit. Baas Manus, he passed last year. Now Master Piet came, he’s gone also, who will look after us?’ She started to cry, noiselessly.

‘What was in the drawer next to Mr Pieterse’s bed?’

Florence sensed trouble. She wiped her cheek with the heel of her hand, said with some dread, ‘His gun? His gun’s there?’

‘Not now.’

She leaned forward, heavy breasts resting on the table. ‘We didn’t touch it. True’s god, I don’t know any gun.’

‘The madam’s cupboard is open also, and it looks like things have been taken.’

‘I’m telling you, we don’t know. If something’s not there, it’s got nothing to do with us. You can’t make out it’s us just because we work here. You ask Rina, ask my daughter, she’ll tell you where we were last night. You people, you think you can treat us like kaffirs, well, we did nothing. I’m telling you, nothing.’

Valentine put a hand on her arm. ‘Baas,’ he said.

Joepie asked him, ‘Who are the other servants?’

‘There’s Belinda who works inside here with us. The rest, they work on the farm.’ Valentine thought. ‘What must we do now?’

Schalk said, ‘Don’t touch anything in any of the rooms. Nothing. Don’t clean anything. Some people will come look through the house. They’ll take your fingerprints. Understand?’

They did, he could tell from the way they sat, waiting for whatever was about to descend.

Joepie followed Schalk into the study. It was dominated by a desk, a long slab of yellowwood fronting a high-backed black leather armchair. No computer, though cables showed where a laptop had been. On the wall opposite hung a flat TV, flanked by framed photographs. A young Pieterse, uniformed, receiving a medal. Then Pieterse, older, in combat camouflage with a group of serious soldiers. A second photo of the soldiers, this time holding rifles and standing in a semicircle behind three cross-legged black soldiers, also in camouflage. This photo was labelled Tshanene.

The last image, Pieterse on a boat with another man, both in baseball caps, both grinning into the sun and holding each end of a huge tuna. Schalk went up close.

‘Look at this,’ he said, ‘Brian de Jager.’

‘He still alive? I haven’t heard about him since the Commission.’

‘He and Pieterse went into business together. Overseas, America, some sort of security operation. Venter told me.’ Schalk dumped himself in the office chair, stretched out his long legs, arched his back. Thought about smoking. ‘This is going to be one big fucking mess. When Pieterse and De Jager got amnesty there were protests in London, New York, all over. The whole world knows about them; and now Pieterse gets himself necklaced. They’ll say it was payback.’

Joepie perched a well-dressed buttock on the desk. ‘And now necklaces have jumped the colour bar, they’ll be shitting themselves. We’ll have every single whitey in the country on our case. If it was apartheid payback, why wait so long? Maybe the people on the farm, they had enough of him. Happens all the time.’

Schalk shook his head. ‘Nope. Doesn’t feel like a farm murder to me. Why does he make sure he’s alone? Why lock up the dogs? Who was he waiting for?’

‘You tell me, you knew him. You were his blue-eyed boy.’

‘Bullshit! He only noticed me because of the rugby. He was Special Branch then, we saw what they did, they were bad bastards. We were just ordinary cops trying to do our jobs. You know that, you were there. And then he got me suspended, remember.’

‘Ja,’ said Joepie, ‘and when we find out who killed him, I’m gonna give them a medal.’

Schalk snapped on gloves, opened drawers. A chequebook – who wrote cheques anymore? Manila folders, some bits and pieces, everything in its place. He remembered the rigid tidiness of Pieterse’s office in Caledon Square. He could see Pieterse now, not so tall but full in the chest like a bulldog, walking wide-legged down the middle of a passage, forcing everyone else close to the wall.

The folders from Pieterse’s drawers were marked Current, Miri, Global Sec, Languedoc. That was the farm. Schalk flicked through. Working papers. Nothing jumped out. A list of staff with one name crossed through, Franz Huisman. That was all.

Joepie studied his fingernails. ‘If Pieterse was waiting for someone,’ he said, ‘and they killed him, why the robbery? Where’s the laptop? Where’s the gun? What else is missing?’

‘Buggered if I know.’ Schalk took out his phone, pressed redial. This time a woman answered.

‘Yes?’

‘This is Police Captain Schalk Lourens…’

‘I was just going to call you. I have a message to contact you?’ Soft accent, American.

‘Mrs Pieterse.’

‘Yes?’

‘Mrs Pieterse, there’s bad news. Your husband…something happened.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘Yes, he’s dead.’

She took an audible breath and then there was silence, broken by a voice in the background, male. ‘Hang on,’ she said, her voice muffled, ‘just hang on. Wait.’ Then she came back. ‘What happened?’

‘He was killed. On the farm.’

‘Oh, Jesus.’

After a while Schalk said, ‘Mrs Pieterse?’

‘Are you sure? How?’

In Schalk’s experience it was best to be as clear as possible. ‘Murdered. I’m sorry.’

‘Oh god, Oh god, oh, how terrible, awful…’ her voice trailed off.

He was grateful she didn’t ask for details. ‘When will you be back? Where are you?’

‘Namibia. In the desert.’

‘This is going to get a lot of media attention, Mrs Pieterse. We’ll meet you at the airport.’

‘No, my car’s at the airport. I’m – it’ll take me a day to reach Windhoek.’

‘You need to get back to Cape Town as soon as possible. Also…it looks like things have been taken.’

‘Taken?’

‘Stolen.’

‘Stolen? A robbery?’

‘Yes.’

When he hung up, he told Joepie. ‘She’s not alone over there.’

Afternoon, country-still. roads and sky empty. Schalk was hungry but Bheki had rounded up labourers, six men sitting in the sun in their dusty clothes. A girl in a housecoat stood with Valentine against the garage wall.

Schalk offered Bheki a Lucky, told him to do a tour of pawnshops in case some of the stolen goods turned up. Then he looked for a place to talk to the staff. In the old barn, an ancient oak dining table and a few vinyl-backed kitchen chairs sat under a window overlooking a force field of tar and ash.

Pieterse himself was gone, in the back of a van on its way to Salt River morgue.

They brought the men in one by one but all of them sang the same song. They got Sundays off. They lived in farm housing, there by the Robertsvlei Road. They spent the night with their families and they hadn’t seen anything, no smoke in the dark, no smell, nothing. Why would they kill Baas Piet? For what? They or their fathers had been with the farm since they couldn’t remember when. There used to be more of them when the farm pressed its own grapes but when the young master Piet took over he decided to send the grapes somewhere else. Now they didn’t know what would happen, what would the madam do? Would she sell the farm, where would they go? Schalk believed them. He’d still get Bheki to check it out.

Valentine was last, his arm round the young woman, holding her up because she was shaking too hard to stand. He saluted them with his free hand.

‘This here’s Belinda Kuilsman. She works with us in the house. She asked me to come with her.’

He deposited the girl in one of the chairs and leaned against the wall. Belinda had big grey eyes, tight-curled hair streaked blonde, and brown skin that could have passed for white in times gone by.

Schalk left the questions to Joepie, reckoning Belinda would be less intimidated by a coloured cop. ‘What have you got to tell us?’ Joepie asked.

Belinda opened her mouth but nothing came out. Valentine patted her shoulder. ‘Kom, meisie, tell them. They not interested in you, they just want to know what happened.’

Belinda swallowed. ‘Mr Pieterse told me to take Sunday night off. But I stayed here.’

‘Oh ja?’ Joepie took it softly. ‘Why?’

‘I was waiting for my boyfriend. But my boyfriend, he’s late and then Mister Pieterse, he saw me and he told me I must go, I mustn’t be there on my night off. So I went, I had to walk to Robertsvlei, I was too late for the bus.’ She calmed down as she spoke.

‘What time was this?’

‘It was dark already, maybe nine o’clock.’

‘Did you see anything? Or anybody?’ She shook her head.

Joepie smiled. ‘Your boyfriend, hey? What’s his name?’

Belinda looked to Valentine for the go-ahead. Then, ‘My boyfriend, his name is Trevor Malgas.’

Schalk had to think for a second. ‘Trevor Malgas? The one Florence was talking about?’ He turned to Valentine. ‘Your son?’ Valentine hung his neck, nodded.

‘Why was Trevor late?’ No answer. Belinda’s eyes were on her feet and Valentine worked his tongue inside his mouth, checking the teeth he had left.

‘Did he tell you why he was late? Where’s he now?’ Joepie asked.

Valentine waggled his head. ‘Nay, we haven’t seen Trevor, baas. Trevor–’ he shrugged.

‘Where does he live?’

‘Swellendam?’ A guess.

Joepie tried Belinda again. ‘So Trevor could have come here after Mr Pieterse told you to go away?’

Belinda looked confused. Schalk asked, ‘Did Pieter – Mr Pieterse, was there any problem between him and Trevor?’

Belinda turned her grey eyes to Valentine, who spoke for her. ‘That Trevor, trouble just follows him. The master, he finds him here one time, and Trevor’s a bit, you know…’ Valentine rolled his eyes, mimed someone pulling on a pipe.

‘Tik?’ Joepie asked.

Valentine nodded, miserably. ‘And some of the master’s money’s missing…so he says if he sees Trevor again he’s going to fix him…’ Valentine ran out of steam, shrugged helplessly, you know how it goes.

Schalk got out business cards, one for Valentine, one for Belinda. ‘You see Trevor or hear from him, you phone me. You phone me the minute that happens.’ They nodded hard, walked away. Valentine reached the door, turned, came back, squeezed his hat between his hands. He bent from the waist, forcing words out.

‘If the baas doesn’t mind – if the police doesn’t mind, if you speak to my wife Florence again…please if you don’t tell her about our little chat? She just loves that Trevor, she doesn’t like to hear anything bad about him.’

‘We’ll do what we can.’

Valentine gave them a gummy grin, bowed a few times, exited bowing. ‘Dankie, dankie, my baas.’

It was late in the season but in Franschhoek the main street bulged with tourists, pram-pushers and retirees, all enjoying afternoon tea. Schalk and Joepie found a shaded table and ordered ham and salad sandwiches and cool drinks. Joepie’s choice, he liked his greens. They made an odd couple, Joepie the player in his sharp outfit and a head shorter than Schalk in his crumpled no-brand shirt, ironed this morning courtesy of Elsa but all over the place now.

Schalk’s phone rang. ‘Lourens.’

‘Hi, good afternoon, this is Steve du Toit from News24…’

Schalk interrupted. ‘Nothing to say. Talk to Captain Isaaks, he handles comms.’ He clicked off. So much for Colonel Zangwa keeping a lid on things. How did they get his number? It rang again immediately.

‘Not interested.’

A different voice. ‘Captain Lourens? Nkosi here.’

‘Who?’

‘General Nkosi.’ Schalk showed Joepie wide blue eyes. Lieutenant General Nkosi was senior; police commissioner for the Cape Province. Schalk could count on his fingers the times he’d spoken to Nkosi.

‘The Pieterse murder. You still there?’

Colonel Zangwa must have briefed him. ‘On my way back.’

‘We need to meet.’ Nkosi’s voice was beautiful, rounded and deep.

‘Now?’

‘My office. Soon as you can get here. I’ll wait for you.’

‘We’ll be there in a couple of hours.’

‘We?’

‘Captain Fortune’s here with me.’

‘No Lourens, just you.’ The line went dead.

Schalk stared at the phone. ‘Nkosi wants to see me.’

‘True? Why?’

‘Who knows? I bet he wants to take me off the case. Makes sense, I’m white, old-school, etcetera, etcetera.’

‘What about Zangwa?’ Sisi Zangwa wasn’t called pocket rocket for nothing. Small but steely, not advisable to upset her.

‘I’ll phone on the way. Come, we got to get cracking.’

Joepie called for the bill. He drank the last of his sparkling water. ‘You must look out, my bru, you got to watch how you go these days.’

Schalk screwed up his face. ‘I’m just going to see him, I’m not doing business with him.’ He knew what Joepie meant. A new corruption scandal every day. Commissioners in prison, generals on trial. Not counting the ones getting away with it.

‘Even so,’ said Joepie, ‘keep yourself nice, hey?’

Schalk slid into the passenger seat. Long-standing arrangement, Joepie preferred to drive. No smoking in his car.

On the way back Schalk tried Colonel Zangwa but the call went to voicemail. He rang Elsa to tell her he’d be late home. She reminded him Stella was coming for supper, told him if he got home too late he’d miss her. A jab of spite in her voice, Stella the daughter, daddy’s girl.

After that Schalk sat looking at the road. Once upon a time you could see the ocean but now high-rises blocked the view. A large truck cut in front of them, its back entirely covered by a poster of a middle-aged black man. Above the man’s head were the words VOTE RADEBE and below his tie, THE PEOPLE’S CHOICE. The whole thing was framed in black, yellow and green, colours of the African National Congress. The letters ANC and a small logo sat in the bottom right-hand corner.

‘Look,’ said Schalk, ‘that’s exactly the same as the old Mandela poster, the one from 1994.’

‘That’s because Radebe’s the new Mandela,’ said Joepie, waiting for a break in the fast lane. ‘Or at least that’s what they want us to think. The whole country’s counting on him to save us. You reckon he will?’

They zoomed past the truck, slid in front of it. The driver blasted them with a sound like a foghorn. When Joepie was clear, he spoke again. ‘If Radebe doesn’t make it, the ANC’s down the plughole. And if the ANC goes, we all go with it. Think about it. We’ve had enough presidents who don’t give a shit whether people live or die as long as they get rich. The rest of the government, well, half of them should be in jail and the other half – someone should…you listening, man?’

Schalk wasn’t. He was watching beggars and peddlers, a couple on every corner. They sold piles of wooden lions, whirling plastic fans, big bags of insulation. Who did they work for? Was there one shadowy organisation holding the rights?

Joepie persisted. ‘So, Oom, come on, you going to vote for the ANC?’

‘Ag, Joep, you know I hate politicians, all of them. They’re as bad as each other.’ Schalk pretended to think, tried to keep the grin out of his voice. ‘But if I had to choose – I think I’ll go for the EFF.’

Joepie bit. ‘What? The Economic Freedom Fighters? You crazy or something? They’re the worst of the lot. You want Hitler in power, go ahead, vote EFF. I’m telling you!’

Schalk laughed but Joepie persisted. ‘Maybe Radebe is the one. We need someone to pull us out of the shit, man.’

‘Joep, you got to stop looking for true love.’

‘Oom Schalk, you’re a true philosopher. An ou kan maar only hope. But you won’t find love in the EFF, that’s for sure. Radebe’s more my style.’

‘You watch,’ warned Schalk. ‘We’ll end up with the same kak we’ve got now.’

Apart from a security guard, Police Provincial Headquarters was open to the world, not even a lock on the glass entrance doors. Cameras in the foyer recorded comings and goings. General Nkosi’s office, top floor and spacious, sported large windows overlooking the harbour. Past seven, and the sky had turned violet. The Robben Island ferry was tied up for the night. Tourists were strolling to restaurants. The wharves were lit up like a stage, cranes moving like alien fingers. Nothing stopped business.

Nkosi came forward to shake hands. He was about 60, glasses, cheeks rough with faded acne scars. Like Radebe, he’d earned his stripes fighting apartheid in the Struggle. According to reports Nkosi’d worked his way through the ranks of the ANC’s military wing, Umkhonto We Sizwe, and when peace came was parachuted into public service, hopping from department to department until, less than a year ago, he landed in police. They said he was a good manager, someone who listened to reason. A smooth operator.

No trace of Nkosi’s fighting past now, though Schalk noticed he walked with a limp. Immaculate in a pinstriped suit, he eyed Schalk’s outfit: tie rescued from the glove compartment. He waved an invitation, said in his surprisingly rich bass, ‘Can I offer you a drink?’

‘Thanks.’

In one corner, two armchairs hugged a low table. Nkosi pressed the top edge of a low built-in cupboard, which swung open to reveal a fridge. He took out a bottle of whiskey, a label Schalk had never seen before, put ice in two heavy cut-glass tumblers, pinched them between his fingers and brought them over. Schalk scanned the shelves behind the desk. Stuff on the Struggle, thick books on policing, virgin spines. Tribal clay pots in the spaces between. Obligatory photo of Nkosi being anointed by Madiba.

‘So, the famous Schalk Lourens. I mean your name, of course.’ Nkosi smiled. ‘Do people comment on it often?’

‘All the time.’

‘Literary parents?’

‘My father.’

‘Did he admire the stories?’

‘I don’t know.’ His father’s idea of a joke, probably, naming him after Oom Schalk Lourens, Herman Charles Bosman’s fictional farmer in stories famous enough to be studied at school. His father, who never gave a reason for anything, not even for leaving.

Nkosi was sympathetic. ‘Must be a burden, being saddled with such a name. I hope your father was thinking of the character, not the author. You know about him of course, Bosman? He murdered his brother and they nearly hanged him.’

‘Step-brother.’ Schalk couldn’t resist. He was sick of people telling him about Bosman. He saw something flash in Nkosi’s eyes, realised he didn’t like being corrected.

‘In either case, Captain Lourens, the contradiction’s always interested me. The Afrikaners, their dark underbelly.’

‘I’m not Afrikaans.’

Nkosi let the comment pass. He swirled his drink, making ice ting against glass.

‘I must say, Lourens, you’re certainly a survivor. I mean as a policeman.’

‘I don’t know about that. I’ve been a policeman a long time.’

‘Since when? When did you join up?’

‘After police college. I started in ’85.’

‘Right in the middle of it all – State of Emergency.’

Schalk grimaced.

‘And in ’86 you got yourself suspended. Why?’

Schalk tried to work out the agenda. Nkosi had access to his file and could easily find this out. Certainly already had and was now working up to taking him off the case. Why not just leave it to Colonel Zangwa?

He said, ‘I was suspended for stopping an interview – an interrogation.’

‘Petrus Pieterse and Brian de Jager doing the interrogating,’ said Nkosi. ‘And now Pieterse himself is killed. Any news?’

Schalk put down his whiskey, leaned forward. Here it came, the pre-handover briefing. Keep it simple. ‘Early days. A necklace – could be apartheid payback. Pieterse was alone, definitely expecting someone. But it looks like things are missing. His wife is away and we won’t know what was taken till she gets back. So maybe it was someone from the farm, a farm murder and a robbery. One of the servant’s boyfriends was hanging round. Although I don’t–’

‘You’ve got someone?’ Nkosi interrupted, startled. ‘The boyfriend?’

‘Only possibly. Pieterse was necklaced, so more than one person must be involved.’

Nkosi knocked back the rest of his drink, levered himself forward, set his glass down. ‘Lourens, you will be wondering why I’ve called you in. As you no doubt appreciate this case will attract massive media interest, here and overseas as well. When we had our Truth and Reconciliation Commission the world wanted to know how we could forgive criminals who caused such terrible suffering. Pieterse was one of those criminals. Now he’s been killed in a way that points to an apartheid-related execution. Think about it. If Pieterse was murdered because someone didn’t like the TRC’s decision then we fail in front of the whole world. Already people say we’re descending into chaos and if we’re going to prove them wrong we must show we’re on top of crime. With the election only a few months away it is vitally important – vitally important – that we deal with this as soon as possible. Understand?’

‘Yes.’

Nkosi rubbed his trousered thighs with his palms. ‘For that reason, Captain, I am putting you in charge of the case.’

Schalk blinked. Heard Joepie telling him to watch himself. ‘General, I thought you’d be doing the exact opposite. I was a cop with Pieterse, not Branch like him, but I was a cop. A white cop, during apartheid.’

‘That’s precisely the point. I want to show we can be even-handed. That we’ve put the past behind us. We don’t want to be accused of not doing our best to find Pieterse’s killer, no matter what the man himself did, or was.’

‘What about the Hawks?’

‘No. The Hawks are too politicised.’

‘So me, because for once I’m the right colour? I look right?’

Nkosi chuckled, surprised. ‘Yes, because you look right but also because you’re an excellent homicide detective. You’ve got experience, you’ve got runs on the board. And of course your career could benefit from a high-profile case like this, if the outcome is successful.’

Schalk heard Pieterse’s voice, advising. And if it’s not successful, if everything goes to hell in a bucket you’ll be Schalk Lourens, the white hangover from the old days. They’ll feed you to the lions. They’ll say we gave the umlungu a chance but what can you do?

Schalk knew what Nkosi’s flirting was for. Good move, though, you had to admire it.

Nkosi limped to his desk and wrote on the back of a card. ‘Here’s my private cell number. You report directly to me, nobody else. Directly to me, understand? I want a daily update, more if there’s something urgent. And as I said, keep this confidential.’

This wasn’t good news, not at all. Nkosi was up to something. ‘Why?’ Schalk asked, watching Nkosi raise his eyebrows. ‘Why does it have to be confidential?’

‘Why? Politics. The press will know you’re in charge but not about my involvement. I want to make sure this looks like – is – an independent investigation.’

Schalk was unconvinced. The whole thing stank but going along with Nkosi was his only choice. ‘What about Colonel Zangwa?’ he asked.

‘I’ve already spoken to Colonel Zangwa.’

‘I get to pick my team?’ But Nkosi was already at the door, hand outstretched.

‘Talk to Colonel Zangwa about that. There’s a press briefing at nine tomorrow. I want you there. And Lourens?’

‘Sir?’

‘Smarten yourself up.’

Home was Milnerton, flat and featureless. Schalk drove down Koeberg Road with its small businesses, grimy liquor stores and a hoarding telling him the Black Ministry Finger of God was coming. Against the pavement, bakkies on their last legs waited for the next working day.

Schalk and Elsa lived in Balaclava Road, in a grid of streets named after famous British battles. The streets were lined with small bungalows, one or two being fancied up with plastered pillars and porticos. Number 28 stood right at the end, on the corner. It showed good bones, its corrugated-iron roof sloping over a wide wooden stoep. A low brick wall separated garden from pavement. The wall was low because when the house was built, Milnerton was a white middle-class preserve, immune. Now the wall was topped with rolling spirals of razor wire.

They’d inherited the house from Elsa’s parents, who got it, along with the furniture, from her grandparents. Schalk felt like a visitor though he’d lived there for decades. Originally the plan was for him and Elsa to stay with the in-laws while they saved for their own place but then Stella came and the in-laws died and later there was no question of moving.

Schalk was getting out of his car when an armed response security van cruised slowly by. He flicked a hand at the driver and the driver tipped the edge of his baseball cap, gave him a thumbs-up and moved on. Schalk felt heat rise in him.

What the hell sort of protection is that? One smile and everything’s OK. Hopeless. Pieterse in his head told him Boykie, you must know, they can’t get any fucking thing right.

Elsa and Stella were in the kitchen, finishing supper. Elsa was dieting again, no-carb this time. ‘Oh no,’ she said when she saw him, ‘tell me you didn’t go out in that tie.’

‘Hey, Pa.’ Stella gave him a kiss. They exchanged glances. His glance asked how is she? Hers answered OK. ‘You stink of smoke,’ she said, moving away.

‘How’s work?’ Schalk asked.

‘Not bad.’ Stella was office manager in a law firm. ‘Mr Herron’s giving me more responsibility. I’m looking after all the juniors now. André says I should ask for more money to go with it.’

André, Stella’s boyfriend, who looked like a rabbit and circulated lame jokes on email. Schalk didn’t have the heart to tell Stella to make him stop. It irritated him that she took advice from someone so colourless; and he was still needled about the security van. He said, ‘How many times must I tell you to park inside the gates? You have to park in the yard and lock the gate behind you. You park in the street, your car’s wide open, you’re exposed when you go in and out. You know the area.’

Elsa weighed in. ‘Ja. They wait for you to come home and if you leave the gate open then they’re in flick-flack and before you know it you’re dead.’ She was warming up. ‘And this afternoon, they were talking on the radio about those home invasions in Vredehoek, they’re breaking in everywhere and you people can’t catch them…’

Stella had had enough. ‘It’s perfectly safe, Ma. I lock my doors every time I get in. And if I didn’t drive at night, you’d hardly ever see me.’ She turned to Schalk. ‘Ma’s put your supper in the fridge, on the second shelf.’

Schalk lay in Stella’s single bed, in the bright pink room he’d painted for her when she was a teenager. He was tired but couldn’t sleep. Nothing unusual there. He reached for his phone, then changed his mind. They said the blue light woke you up even more. Thought of taking a pill but decided things weren’t bad enough yet. So he turned his radio on, CapeTalk, listened to callers discussing how to live a full life. Stared at the ceiling fan. Then he gave up, put on shorts and a T- shirt and scrabbled for his running shoes. He saw he needed a new pair, his had holes in the toes. He left the house quietly, walked up Balaclava and across Koeberg, ignoring his complaining rugby knee. He decided on a loop, to Sunset Beach and back. He did this often, had long ago stopped looking into shadows. After all, he was a big boy and they could see he wasn’t carrying anything.

He got into a rhythm, let his mind have its way. It went straight to Pieterse.

The first time he saw Pieterse, it was 1985 and Schalk was brand new. They needed good men and he was one, plucked straight from college. The report said smart but could be obstinate, a temper. A brilliant fullback though, outstanding on the field. It was the rugby more than anything else that got him to Caledon Square. There he learned his trade from Sergeant Venter. Venter was old school, forefingers yellow from decades of palmed cigarettes.

It was a hell of a time. Apartheid was in its death-throes and the country practically at war. Outside, on the borders of South West Africa and Angola, they faced insurgents. At home too, the blacks were up in arms, rioting. Police were expected to fight side by side with soldiers, this in addition to the usual murders and robberies and things that went on in people’s kitchens every day.

The government struck back in public and secret ways. They had spies everywhere. Dissenters were rounded up and imprisoned without trial.

That, Schalk remembered, was how he and Joepie met. A month after he started, on a warm night like this, Schalk was alone at his desk when the doors opened and two constables appeared, one white, one coloured. Both of them came through the whites-only entrance. The young coloured cop, trouser pleats sharp, chatted to Schalk like he was a friend.

‘Got a van-full outside,’ he said. ‘Roeland Street’s chockablock. You must make room for them here.’

‘Why?’ The constable grinned at Schalk, leaned over the desk and pushed forward his hand. ‘Fortune. Joseph, by the way. Joepie.’ The guy was out of line – coloureds didn’t ask white men to shake hands – but the grin was infectious. Schalk shook.

‘Too many detentions. Political. The government, they shit-scared about something big, something terrorist, ANC. I feel sorry for these okes.’ Joepie waved in the van’s direction. ‘They going to get a hard time.’

A hard time was right. It arrived in the form of Brian de Jager, a shadowy figure from Pretoria, Special Branch; and a new Captain, Petrus Pieterse. Schalk reached the sand. He was alone. Ahead, the dark flanks of Table Mountain encircled the twinkling city. Between him and it the Atlantic, Table Bay. The tide was in and he stood, hands on hips, breathing the sea and thinking about the past. Pieterse brought trouble with him then and he had a bad feeling about what Pieterse’s death would bring now.