They smiled politely at her, walked into the living room. She followed.
“Sit down,” she said. They sat down next to each other on the couch. She sat in the chair.
“Pretty place,” said Black with forced appreciation. White nodded his agreement. Hope said nothing.
“Miss Beneke, we were a trifle impetuous this morning,” White said feelingly.
“Thoughtless,” said Black.
“We don’t often work with civilians,” said White.
“Out of practice,” said Black.
“We appreciate the work you’ve done,” said White.
“Unbelievable,” said Black.
“But we would be neglecting our duty if we didn’t warn you that there are a number of very dangerous people involved.”
“Psychopathic murderers,” said Black. “People who kill without compunction. People who could do the South African government a great deal of harm. And still wish to do so. And we’re a young democracy.”
“We can’t afford it,” said White.
“We don’t want to expose you to the danger,” said Black. “It’s our task to keep you safe.”
“To contain the war to the front.”
“As we understand it, you’re looking for a will.”
“A noble crusade.”
“If we promise, on behalf of the state, to find the document when all those involved are under control…”
“We want to ask if you at least won’t defer the investigation.”
“Until all danger has been removed.”
“Purely for your own safety.”
“And the security of our young democracy.”
“Please.”
She looked at them. They looked at her expectantly, on the edge of the couch, two large, powerful men with impressive jaws and shoulders, fighting hard against natures that usually barked orders, and she suddenly wanted to laugh, with the same exuberance she had shared with Van Heerden, and in that moment she knew why he hadn’t wanted to hand the case to either the police or Military Intelligence, understood the change in him, and she said: “No, thank you, thank you very much, we appreciate it and I’m sure our young democracy appreciates it, but there is one problem attached to handing you the case, which makes it impossible.”
“What?” they said in unison.
“If you’re so serious about protecting us all, why wasn’t Bushy Schlebusch put behind bars a long time ago?”
♦
Rupert de Jager and Bushy Schlebusch and another. Members of Military Intelligence? The Three Executioners? The Wet Work Trio? The fingers that had pulled the trigger on behalf of an obscure section deep in the Department of Defence? Richly rewarded for Mission Impossible? Paid in American dollars? Go and shoot so-and-so of the ANC or the PAC in Lusaka or London or Paris, boys, and we’ll drown you in dollars.
Go and plant a bomb?
Hell, every Truth and Reconciliation Commission dossier was a clue in this affair.
“Another,” who spoke to Hope and said they had been together in ’76. Together where? To do what?
And now that the graves had opened and the ghosts were walking, Military Intelligence and the Yanks were scurrying round like trapped rats.
Where in hell did the Americans fit into this puzzle? The M16? The dollars? Was the target of the Deadly Trio an American one? Lend us a small team from your abundant secret army to eliminate dictator A in South American country B, and we’ll help you to bust a few sanctions. The Yanks as guarantors? The great joint struggle against Communism sometimes made for strange bedfellows.
Or were the Americans on the receiving end of elimination?
He stared at the words, the squares, the timetable, in front of him.
De Jager, Schlebusch, another. Together in ’76. And in the eighties De Jager came back with a new name. Had Military Intelligence provided him with the new identity? Start a new life, take your dollars, and keep your mouth shut.
And then Bushy Schlebusch’s dollars were finished and he brought his M16 and his blowtorch to fetch more?
Still too many questions.
But actually none of it really mattered.
Schlebusch mattered: Schlebusch had the will. And the dollars and the M16.
What mattered was how they were going to find Schlebusch.
And he had a plan.
His telephone rang.
“Van Heerden.”
“Military Intelligence was here,” Hope Beneke said.
“At your home?”
“They want us to defer the investigation so that we can protect our young democracy,” she said. “And ourselves.”
“That’s a new approach.”
“They were very polite.”
“It couldn’t have been easy for them.”
“It wasn’t.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said no.”
♦
He did the dishes and thought about Hope Beneke. Full of surprises. Idealistic, naive, loyal, temperamental, straight, honest, not beautiful but sexy, despite everything, sexy. What would it be like to hold those neat buttocks, to cup his hands around them and to enter her? What would she be like in bed, naive? Or would the same driving force that had brought her to speak to him about beating up the doctor, the same depths that could make the red mark of anger glow…
An erection grew against the edge of the sink.
Light falling through his windows made him look up.
At this time of night? A car door slammed, he frowned, dried his hands, walked to the door, it opened, and the wind blew in Kara-An, tight black sweater, nipples erect from the cold, black trousers, high heels. She slammed the door behind her, mouth scarlet and wide. “I came to fetch a progress report,” holding out a bottle of champagne.
“That’s not what you came for.”
She looked at him with a small half smile. “You know me.”
“Yes.”
They were a step away from each other.
“Take me,” she said, her eyes darkening.
He looked at the nipples, didn’t move.
“Take me. If you can.”
∨ Dead at Daybreak ∧
34
I found his name among hundreds of others.
I dug, prospected for weeks in the register of every sexual offender between 1976 and 1978 who had served a jail sentence. And found his name in the lists of comparisons that decorated my wall.
Victor Reinhardt Simmel.
It was a fleck of gold in the gray ore of information, but it didn’t show up immediately and brightly; it was almost invisible. I listed every one questioned in each of the murders. In the investigation into the death of the twenty-one-year-old waitress in Carletonville, there had been a Victor Reinhardt Simmel. Short notes, a group of regular guests in the restaurant where she worked were questioned. He was there on a few occasions and she served him, among others. He denied any knowledge, expressed his sympathy. There was nothing to lift him out of the mass of other suspects.
And eventually in the sentence register: On July 14, 1976, a Victor Reinhardt Simmel was jailed for three years in the Randfontein Magistrates Court on charges of indecent assault on a twenty-six-year-old librarian and possession of pornographic material. I traced the investigation and court files. Crime of opportunity: She walked home in the dusk of early evening, put her key into the lock, unlocked the door. Simmel was driving past, stopped at her garden gate, got out of the car, asked for directions in a friendly manner, suddenly grabbed her arm, and forced her into the house. She had yelled. He punched her in the face, threatened to kill her.
The neighbor opposite was defying water restrictions during the great drought of ’76 by watering her lawn. And she saw what was happening, called her two miner boarders. They burst into the librarian’s home. Victor Reinhardt Simmel was tearing off her blouse, his forearm against her throat, her nose broken and bleeding from the punch. They dragged him away, subdued and tied him. In the meantime the neighbor had called the police.