Dead Before Dying

He didn't know that the Star wasn'’t a murder weapon. Neither did he know that under the pistol, between all the other documents, there was a list of names waiting to be discovered. He didn't know that the name of the murderer appeared on the list.

But Carl van Deventer didn't have second sight, even if he could read ashtrays like tea leaves.

* * *

“No, I don’t read tea leaves,” said Madame Jocelyn Lowe and smiled.

She stood in the parking area of the hotel in Newlands where James J. Wallace had breathed his last. She was at the center of a fairly large crowd of media people. The SABC was there and M-Net and a freelance team that hoped to sell something to Sky News or CNN. The BBC2 and Thames teams were also present. The newspapers were there as well, local— with their wide range of languages— and those from other countries. The British tabloids were strongly represented.

Mat Joubert, Nougat O’Grady, and Louw stood to one side. Louw’s jaw had dropped in sheer amazement at it all. Joubert stood with his head bent. He didn't want to be there. He wanted to get on with other things. Like phoning Hanna Nortier and saying: Hi, Doc, what about a little boogie at

The Barber

’s on Friday evening? But he had to be here because he had to get his evidence back. Madame Lowe had personally spoken to the Brigadier and the Brigadier had personally asked Joubert to assist her.

Joubert could see why de Wit had been so keen on having the Madame. And he could see why the Brigadier was so keen to help the Madame.

She was a good-looking woman, in her forties, but tall and attractive, with great dignity and a chest measurement to match.

“Gypsies read tea leaves and palms,” she said. “I’m a psychic. Psychics don’t read. They feel.” Her voice was light but strongly Oxbridge accented. “I have acquired some pieces of clothing worn by the murder victim and will proceed to see if I can sense some vibrations of the tragic incident that transpired here.”

“Transpired here,” O’Grady mimicked her accent under his breath. “Woman’s a fucking charlatan. But she’s playing them like a violin.”

Joubert said nothing because he wasn'’t sure of the meaning of “charlatan.”

“There is such a strong presence. We must have some very talented people here,” she said. “But I’ll have to ask you to move away. I need space and silence to do my work.”

The press quieted down.

“If you could wait over there, please.” She pointed an elegant, beringed finger to the edge of the parking area. “And please, Messrs. photographers, no flashes while I’m concentrating. There will be plenty of time for pictures later.”

The media scrum moved meekly in the direction the woman had indicated, the television cameras in the lead to get tripods and Sonys ready before she started.

She waited patiently, then turned her back to them and went to stand on the spot Joubert had self-consciously pointed out to her. The bloodstained marks where Jimmy Wallace had lain were dull and black by now, like the many oil marks on the tar.

She took Wallace’s bloody white shirt out of the plastic bag, closed her eyes theatrically, and pressed the piece of clothing to her breast. Her body stiffened and she stood stock still.

Joubert heard an unearthly noise— a low, monotonous sound. He realized that it emanated from the woman’s mouth. “Mmmmmmm . . .” A single, unmusical note. It kept on and on while she remained standing quite still, her back straight, her backside neat in the sober but fashionable dress.

“Mmmmmm . . .”

Joubert wondered whether de Wit had known her very well.

An old friend,

Anne Boshoff had quoted the

Cape Times.

They would be a very odd couple, he thought. The tall, sensual woman and the short, ugly little man.

No, Anne Boshoff had said de Wit hadn't even given anyone the glad eye at congresses.

“Mmmmmmmm . . .”

He had trouble in dismissing the image from his mind, the Madame naked on her back in her house in a spooky room with cobwebs in the candelabra and a black cat in front of the hearth. Bart de Wit grinning, while he played with that chest measurement and the Madame made an unearthly noise.

“Mmmmmmm . . .”

Why was he thinking about sex again? His stomach suddenly contracted. Was it in expectation of his potential evening out with his psychologist? Did he hope somewhere in the back of his head that he would get the opportunity to stroke the frail body with his big hands, to enfold her small, small breasts and slowly but surely ready her for love? To kiss her gently on that pretty lipstickless mouth, to let his hands slide to her shoulders, to touch her carefully . . .

Madame Jocelyn Lowe audibly blew out her breath. Her shoulders sagged wearily; her hands, holding the shirt, dropped from her chest; her head was bowed. She stood like that while the seconds passed and the press shuffled uncertainly.

“Not enough,” she said with tired resignation. “We’ll have to move on.”

35.

A convoy of cars moved from murder scene to murder scene, the Madame and her black chauffeur leading in a Mercedes-Benz, then the detectives in their Sierra, and following, a caravan of press vehicles— from minibuses for television teams to cars for the print media.

While Madame was trying to pick up the vibrations of Ferdy Ferreira’s last moments, Joubert went looking for a telephone booth at the Old Ship Caravan Park. He looked up Computicket’s number in the ragged directory and dialed. They said

The Barber of Seville

was indeed being performed on Friday night. Also on Saturday and the following Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.

He asked whether there were seats available for the coming Friday evening.

It depended on whether he wanted expensive or cheap seats.

“Only the best,” he said.

“There are quite a few expensive seats available. If you give me your credit card number . . .”

He hesitated for a moment. If Hanna Nortier didn't want to go with him . . . He saw himself and Benny Griessel sitting among the operagoers, two fucking stupid cops listening to sopranos and librettos and stuff like that. But then he decided he had to think positively. Nothing ventured . . .

He booked two seats, put the phone down, and drove down to the sea, where the Madame was still going “Mmmmmmm . . .”

“I have some interesting observations but you will have to give me time to get my thoughts in order. I can do that while we’re traveling back to the hotel. Shall we call a news conference at six o’clock?”

The press complained but they were long acquainted with patience. They packed up and moved back to the vehicles, which were neatly lined up in the gravel parking area next to the beach.

“World’s biggest bullshitter,” said O’Grady as he moved.

Joubert said nothing. He held the pieces of clothing that the Madame had required for her work and thought about his craving for a cigarette. His head felt . . . There was a buzzing in his ears. Lord, he could