You are not a handyman, he acknowledged resignedly. But once the books were on the shelves they would virtually cover the strips. But right now he needed a cigarette. And a Castle . . . No, not a Castle. A pear?
Whats happening to you? he said loudly.
Mr. Mat? Emily asked in the kitchen.
Bart de Wit Junior won the game easily because his fathers thoughts were not on chess.
His fathers mind was working at top speed. The big question was whether the newspapers knew about Jouberts psychological treatment and the black marks on his record. And if they knew, how did they know?
But if he presumed that they might not know, what were the chances of their finding out?
Theyre like hyenas, he thought. They would gnaw and bite at the bone until it snapped and they could get to the juicy marrow of the story, which they would then suck with a great noise.
Whether they knew or not, he was going to take Captain Mat Joubert off the investigations. On Monday morning.
Not a pleasant task but it was part of a leaders work. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made so that the law could take its course.
Rather give the cases to Gerbrand Vos.
It was like a weight off his shoulders. He felt relieved. He applied his concentration to the board in front of him.
Checkmate, said Bart Junior and rubbed his finger alongside his nose. There was no mole there.
He took Mrs. Nofomela to the bus terminus at Bellville station by car and drove home. He was physically tired, he felt dirty and sweaty, and he was hungry. The more he thought about his hunger, the more it grew.
He decided that he needed a good meal. Not junk food. He would go to a decent restaurant. For a steak, thick and brown and juicy, a fillet that melted in the mouth, with . . .
No, he would have to stick to fish. For the diet. Kingklip. A large, fat slice of kingklip with lemon butter sauce. No, sole, the way they prepared it at the Lobster Pot grilled, with a cheese and mushroom sauce.
His mouth filled with saliva. His stomach growled like far-off thunder. When last had he been this hungry? Really hungry, with that slight light-headedness, that sharp readiness for the taste of food, the pleasure of satiety? He couldn't remember.
He bathed and dressed and drove to the restaurant. When he sat down he knew it had been the wrong thing to do.
It wasn't the eyes staring at the big man sitting alone that upset him. It was the sudden realization, when he looked at the couples who sat at tables talking softly and intimately, that he was alone.
He gobbled his sole because he wanted to get away. Then he drove home. He heard the telephone at the door. He walked quickly, with a heavy tread, and picked up the receiver.
Hello, Captain Joubert?
He recognized the voice. Hello, Dr. Nortier.
Do you remember that I spoke about social groups?
Yes.
Tomorrow morning were going to the Friends of the Operas preview of
The Barber
. Its at eleven oclock in the orchestras practice room at the Nico. Youre very welcome to join us.
Her voice sang and danced over the electronic distance between them. He saw her features in his minds eye.
I . . . er . . .
You dont have to decide now. Think about it.
Im busy building a bookcase.
She sounded surprised and impressed. I didn't know woodwork was your hobby.
Well . . . er . . .
Well, perhaps well see you tomorrow.
Maybe. And he said good-bye.
He looked at his watch. It was half past seven. Which meant that she didn't have a very busy social life on this Saturday evening, either.
It made him feel better.
23.
Oliver Nienaber was reading the Sunday edition of the Weekend Argus. He was in bed, his wife next to him. She was reading the newspapers magazine. It was part of their Sunday-morning ritual. Except that since the day before yesterday Oliver Nienaber had been reading his newspapers with far closer attention than usual. That was why he saw the small report about Carina Oberholzer.
Now Oliver Nienaber urgently needed to get up. He needed to move, he wanted to run away, away from the things that were happening. The timing couldn't have been worse because he was about to achieve his ideals, make his dreams come true. Things were going so well, with him, his family, his business.
And now the Mauser murders and the death of Carina Oberholzer.
We believe it was a tragic accident, the police were quoted in the newspaper. He didn't agree. He had a strong suspicion that it was no accident. How it couldve happened he couldn't imagine. Because it was difficult to imagine . . .
Again he felt the tightening in his chest, as if a giant hand were pressing down on it.
He would have to speak to MacDonald. And Coetzee.
Then it struck him. MacDonald or Coetzee might well be the accident. Mac was big enough to fling a woman like Carina Oberholzer out of her window with one hand. But why would he . . .
Coetzee? What about Coetzee? No. It made no sense.
It made no sense. He got up, purposefully.
What now, darling? his wife asked and creased the flawless, smooth, creamy skin of her forehead.
I've just remembered a call I have to make.
You never relax, she said with more admiration than reproach and went back to the magazine she was holding.
He walked to his study and dialed the number of MacDonald Fisheries. There was no reply. Its Sunday, idiot, he told himself. He would drive to Hout Bay tomorrow. He had to discuss this affair.
It made him uneasy. It was irritating. It could spoil everything.
Margaret Wallace didn't read the Sunday papers. Especially now, after her husbands death.
But she caught a quick glimpse of the front page of the
Sunday Times
that her mother had bought. There was a report about the Mauser murders with a smallish photo of Ferdy Ferreira next to it.
She went to sit in the summer sun on the swing seat in the garden with a cup of coffee. The sun, its warmth, seemed to lighten her pain.
Where had she seen that face before?
Think carefully, she thought. Think systematically. Start with Jimmys work. Think, because it might help to catch the scum who had taken Jimmy away. And perhaps that would relieve her enormous grief. If only she knew why someone had wanted to do it to him, to her, to them.
He had finished sawing the planks. He placed them on the metal struts, arranged the shelves so that his paperbacks would fit.
His thoughts were even busier.
The Barber