Dead Before Dying

Now Zeelie’s voice was trembling as well as his hand. “You must forgive me but I don’t see what that has to do with this.” It became an appeal.

“With what, Mr. Zeelie?”

“Jimmy Wallace’s death.”

“Oh, so you reckon you can help us with the investigation into the murder of Wallace?”

He didn't get it. “I’ll do everything in my power, but . . .”

“Yes, Mr. Zeelie?”

“Leave Drew Wilson out of it.”

“Why?”

“Because he has nothing to do with it.” Zeelie was recovering from the shock.

Joubert leaned forward again. “Oh but he has, Mr. Zeelie. Drew Joseph Wilson was killed at approximately ten o’clock last night. Two pistol shots, one in the head, one in the heart.”

Zeelie’s hands gripped the arms of the chair, his knuckles white.

“James J. Wallace died in the same way. And we suspect that the same weapon was used.”

Zeelie stared at Joubert as if he were invisible. His face had blanched. The silence lengthened.

“Mr. Zeelie?”

“I . . .”

“Yes?”

“I want an attorney.”

* * *

Joubert and Snyman waited outside the interrogation room for an hour and a half while Charles Theodore Zeelie consulted with his attorney. De Wit had asked to be called again and went back to his office.

The longer the conversation inside lasted, the more certain Joubert became that Zeelie was his man.

Eventually the gray-haired attorney appeared.

“If my client is completely open with you, I want the assurance that his evidence will be kept totally confidential.”

“In court nothing is confidential,” Joubert said.

“It won’t come to that,” said the attorney and Joubert’s confidence ebbed. He asked for de Wit to be called. The OC agreed to the attorney’s request. They went into the room. Zeelie was pale, his eyes on the floor. They sat down at the table.

“Put your questions,” the attorney said.

Joubert activated the tape recorder, cleared his throat, not certain of the correct words. “Did you have . . . a relationship with Drew Joseph Wilson?”

Zeelie’s voice was low. “It was a long time ago. Six, seven years. We were . . . friends.”

“Friends, Mr. Zeelie?”

“Yes.” Louder, as if he wanted to convince himself of that.

“We have photographs in an album which . . .”

“It was a long time ago . . .”

Only the faint whirr of the tape recorder was audible. Joubert waited. Snyman sat on the edge of his chair. The attorney stared at the wall. Bart de Wit rubbed his mole.

Then Zeelie started speaking in his deep, attractive voice, softly, almost tonelessly.

“He didn't even know who I was.” He thought for a moment, spoke as if he were alone in the room.

“I was thumbing a lift from campus to town. Drew picked me up. The previous year, during matric, I’d played for Border, and the newspapers made a big thing of it when I came to Cape Town. He asked me who I was and I said he ought to know. He smiled and said that all he knew was that I was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen.”

Zeelie became aware of the people around him again. He looked at Joubert. “No . . . I didn't know that I was gay. I didn't really know what it meant. I simply liked Drew very much . . . the attention he paid me . . . his company, his cheerfulness, his zest for life. I told him I was a student and a cricketer and that I was going to play cricket for South Africa. He laughed at my self-confidence and said he knew nothing about cricket. He said he was a goldsmith and his dream was to have his own establishment where he could make his own designs, not simply things meant for fat, rich tourists. We talked. We couldn't stop talking. In town he invited me for coffee at a street café. And said he would wait for me and take me back to campus. He came to visit, a week later. He was older than I was. So clever. Wise. He was so different from the other guys at cricket. He invited me to his home for dinner. I thought it was only friendship . . .”

He looked at de Wit and Snyman, seeking a sympathetic face. “At first it was just . . . right. With Drew it was neither dirty nor wrong. But it began to bother me. We discussed it. He told me it was never going to be easy. But it was different for him. I started playing for Western Province. Every time a schoolboy asked me for a signature, I wondered how long it would be before someone found out. I think I did . . . I was scared. My parents . . .”

He gave a deep sigh, his head on his chest, eyes fixed on the writhing hands on his lap. Then he looked up.

“One evening, after a match, I met a girl. Older. And sophisticated, like Drew. And . . . decisive. She took me to her flat. I was . . . relieved, thrilled. I didn't think I would be able . . . But I could. And enjoyed it. That was the beginning of the end because it offered a way out . . . Drew immediately noticed that something was wrong. I told him. He was furious. Then I . . . ended the relationship. He cried. We talked all night. But it was over.”

The hands in Zeelie’s lap relaxed. “I admit that I loved him. Those photographs don’t show the love. But the tension became too much. And the woman . . . I wanted to be normal. I wanted to be a hero in my own eyes . . .”

He rubbed a hand through his black hair.

“Carry on.”

“During the first two weeks he often phoned my campus residence. But I never returned the calls. A few times he waited for me in his car, wrote letters. I also saw him at matches a few times. Then I think he accepted it. It was over.”

“When last did you see him?”

“Lordy . . . Two years ago? At the airport. We were coming back from Durban after a match against Natal. His mother was on the same flight. We said hello, had a brief conversation. It was very . . . normal.”

“And you never saw him again?”

“No.”

“Mr. Zeelie, where were you last night between eight and eleven?”

“At Newlands, Captain.” Calmly, no bravado.

“Anyone able to confirm that?”

“It was a day-night match against Gauteng, Captain. I took two for twenty-four.”

15.

He was tired enough not to care what the other neighbors might say. He knocked loudly at the Stoffbergs’ front door. He heard her footsteps, then she opened the door. When she saw him her face changed. He knew he’d come to no purpose.

“Could we talk about last night?”

She stared at him with dislike, almost pity. Then the humiliation became too much for him. He turned and walked back to his house.

Behind him he heard her closing the door.

He walked home in the dusk of early evening but already felt shrouded in darkness.

He sat in his armchair in the living room but without a book. He lit a Winston and stared at the blue-gray smoke pluming to the ceiling.