Fuckin hotnot. He rubbed his cheek. It still hurt. But it had been worth it. A small price to pay.
I fell, he had told his beautiful wife.
With what did you have to help the police? shed asked.
Think fast. Oh, it was about a black cleaner who used to work for us. Theyve charged him with child abuse. They wanted to know whether wed noticed anything.
Couldn't they have asked about it here, darling?
He had merely shrugged. But they should clean those steps of theirs. All the dirt makes them slippery. I slipped and fell against the door frame.
This morning Antoinette had fetched some of her makeup base to disguise the purplish mark on his face.
There, darling, that looks better.
He turned off again, to Wynberg, drove to the Main Road. Just before driving into the parking garage of his building, he looked to check whether he could still see the Sierra. But there was nothing. Never mind, he thought, theyll probably park somewhere around here where they have a clear view. He stopped in his parking bay RESERVED FOR MD HAIR TODAY.
He set the numbers of the combination lock on his attaché case and opened it. The Star pistol lay on top. He closed it again, gave the lock numbers a routine spin with his thumb. He wouldn't need the pistol now that the police were giving him free protection. He got out, pressed the button on his key holder for the central locking system of the BMW, and walked to the elevator. The door was open. He walked in and looked at his watch. Six oclock. Dead on time. As usual. With the exception of Monday morning. He pressed the button for the sixth floor. The doors closed soundlessly.
Snyman parked opposite the Servier Building in the Main Road in such a way that he could watch the buildings entrance and that of the parking garage. He opened the lunch box next to him and took out a flask of coffee and a packet of sandwiches. He wasn't hungry but the coffee would taste good now. He unscrewed the flasks cup, poured the steaming liquid into it, and sipped slowly and carefully.
The coffee burned his lips. He swore and blew on the brown surface of the drink.
He leaned back in the comfortable seat of the Sierra.
It might just be a long day.
Nienaber stared at the floor of the elevator as he habitually did and only looked up when the doors opened.
He saw the executioner immediately.
Feet slightly apart, arms extended, the firearm held in both hands, aimed at him.
He knew the executioner had waited for him, had watched the lights above the elevator. B for basement, M for mezzanine, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. He knew all this in a microsecond.
Quick thinking, Oliver Nienaber. Thats why you are where you are.
He also knew that the Star in his attaché case was too far away, useless. But he could talk. He could negotiate. He could think.
He lifted his hand in a stop gesture.
You he said, but by then the cartridge had penetrated the palm of his hand and was unstoppably on its way to his brain.
At a quarter to seven on the Wednesday morning, Joubert sat on the wooden bench of the swimming pools changing room. His elbows rested on his knees, his head hung down, water dripped onto the cement floor, and he knew he would have to give up the cigarettes.
His lungs were burning. He knew it was the layer of tar, the black, sticky, dirty, gummy layer that smoldered in his lungs after the swim, which caused his inability to cross the fitness threshold permanently. He could feel it with every breath he tried to draw after five, six lengths this morning. With every new swing of his arm, every rhythmic kick of his legs, the clearer the image became of the muddy encrustation in his lungs which stood between him and the energy-supplying oxygen.
Mat Joubert, human garbage carrier. Full of fat and soot.
No matter that it was Special Mild, sooner or later he would have to stop. They had no taste, in any case.
He made a decision.
He got up suddenly, purposefully, and walked to where his clothes were hanging on a peg. He took the white-and-gray packet and the lighter out of his coat pocket, walked to the big, black trash bin in the corner, lifted the lid, and forcefully threw the smokes into it.
The bin had been empty. He stared at the packet and the lighter lying there.
I've done with it, he thought. Forever.
Solemnly he closed the trash bin, turned, and walked to the showers.
On the way to Kasselsvlei Road he saw the
Cape Times
poster: MAUSER: UK PSYCHIC FLIES IN TO HELP.
The paper seller held the newspaper in such a way that Joubert could read the headline on the front page, one huge word stretching across the entire page: HYSTERIA. The subheading read: FARMER CRITICAL AFTER BANK SHOOTING.
For a moment he considered buying the paper, but the lights changed and he drove on. De Wits psychic had arrived, he thought. Hysteria, indeed.
I heard nothing, Captain, Snyman said. The first I heard about it was when they gave the address of the place over the radio. I couldn't believe it. The bastard shoots a cannon and I heard nothing.
They stood in a circle around the mortal remains of Oliver Sigmund Nienaber Joubert, Snyman, Petersen, OGrady, Basie Louw, and two uniform men from the Wynberg police station. Nienaber lay in the doorway of the elevator, almost covering his attaché case, on his stomach, one bloody hand extended. The doors of the elevator slowly, mechanically opened and closed, bumped against Nienabers body, opened and closed . . .
Someone must switch off the elevator, Joubert told one of the uniforms.
Right away, Captain.
The security guard at the front entrance didn't hear anything, either, Snyman said.
Where is the woman now? Joubert asked.
She works for a computer firm here on the seventh, Captain. They called a doctor. Shes suffering from shock. She says she took the stairs when the elevator didn't arrive. When she got there Snyman pointed to the entrance to the stairwell that ran alongside the elevator shaftshe saw him. She says she knew him. He always greeted her in such a friendly fashion.
No one saw anything?
I think the Mauser came in at the service entrance at the back, Captain. Security man says there are too many people in the building who have keys for it, and tenants are constantly leaving it open.
How do you know it was the Mauser?
Snyman took a small plastic bag out of his shirt pocket. There were two cartridge cases in it.
Is someone watching the door for fingerprints?
Stations people, Cappy, OGrady said.
A man and a woman from the video unit came walking up the stairs. Why isnt the bloody elevator working? the man asked as he breathlessly climbed the last few steps.
No one said anything. The man saw Nienaber lying in the elevator. The doors opened and closed, opened and closed.