Dead Before Dying

“I’m trying to find out.”

“It must mean something.”

“Yes. Well . . . So you don’t know if there was any other contact?”

“No. I don’t think so. Jimmy never spoke about him again afterward.”

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Wallace.”

“Captain . . .” She was uncertain, hesitant.

“Yes?”

“How long did it take you . . . I mean, how much time, after your . . . your wife passed away . . .”

He thought. Because he couldn't tell her. He couldn't give her the bad news that it was more than two years and that he was still caught in the web of Lara’s death. He had to lie, give the woman with the mismatched eyes hope.

“About two years.”

“Dear Lord,” she said. “Dear Lord.”

* * *

Griessel knew that the makeup artist of the Arts Council’s drama department couldn't be the Sweetheart robber because she was a woman, an interesting woman without being good-looking. Her hair was very short and a deep auburn, her face open and intelligent. She smoked a long cigarette and gestured with her slender hands when she spoke.

“You’re looking for a film makeup artist,” she said and her voice was deep. She pointed to the row upon row of photographs of actors and actresses against the wall. “These were taken during productions or rehearsals. Look at the makeup. It’s heavy. Look at the eyes. Look at the mouths. Look at the clothes. For the stage you need to do makeup differently. Strong, because the guy right at the back must also be able to see. Very well, there are some things that are the same.” She put a forefinger on one of Griessel’s photos, which lay on the coffee table in front of her. “I would also be able to make him look old but my lines would be stronger. This was done with latex. I’d do mine with a pencil. Perhaps just a little latex for a double chin or something like that. This guy works for the movies. You can see it. Look here.” She pointed at the Elvis photo. “You can see his cheeks are fatter. It seems as if his cheekbones are stronger. They can do it with rubber, press rubber strips inside his cheeks. If you do that for the stage, the actor won’t be able to speak. And they must be able to speak on the stage, they have to project, because the guy up there must be able to see and hear. But with film they can rerecord the voices later. And this one. That’s not a theatrical beard. A threatrical beard or hair costs a fraction of what they use in films because the audience can’t see it close up. If you stand next to an actor wearing a theater wig, you can see it’s a wig. The same applies to a beard or a mustache.”

The cigarette had been stubbed out and she lit another one.

“Are there any who work for the theater and films?”

“No . . . Perhaps. But I don’t know of any. The theater world is pretty small. There are four or five of us here. And I don’t know one who has worked in films. It’s not something you can freelance because it’s an art of its own.”

“How many film makeup artists are there?”

“In the Cape? Can’t really say. Four or five years ago there wasn'’t one. Now it’s fashionable to come and starve in the Cape if you’re arty. But I don’t know how many there are now. Ten? Fifteen? No more than twenty.”

“Do they have a union or something?”

She laughed and he saw that her teeth were slightly yellow from the cigarettes, but it didn't make her less attractive. “No.”

“Where should I start looking?”

“I know a guy who has his own production house. I’ll give you his phone number.”

“Production house?”

“Filmmakers. They call themselves production houses. Actually it’s only one or two guys with a small company. They hire cameramen and makeup artists and directors and lighting and sound and so forth. He’ll probably have everyone’s telephone number.”

“What does a film makeup artist earn?”

“In Hollywood they’re probably rich. But here . . . Freelancing is a hard life . . .”

“That’s possibly why he robs banks,” said Griessel and gathered up his photos.

“Are you married?” asked the makeup artist.

“Divorced,” said Griessel.

“Attached?”

“No, but I’m going to get my wife back. And my children.”

“Pity,” said the makeup artist and lit another cigarette. “Let me get you that number.”

* * *

“Thank you for being here, ladies and gentlemen. We have all had a trying day and I will try not to waste your time. But please allow me a minute or two to explain something to you.”

Madame Jocelyn Lowe stood on a stage in one of the Cape Sun Hotel’s conference rooms. In front of her sat sixty-four representatives of the press and one member of Murder and Robbery.

“The talent I possess, I did not ask for. It was given to me by the grace of God. When it comes to helping the police in solving a murder case, I do not ask them for money. It is my way of saying thank you, of making a very small contribution. On the other hand, not all people believe that my powers are real. There will be skeptics among you. All I ask is to be given a fair chance. Do not make a judgment until the case is solved. Only then will we know if I was of any help.”

Louw sniffed. Then it wouldn't matter anymore, Clairvoyant, he thought. He and the English reporter had enjoyed talking to each other on the way from Melkbos. About the Madame. The reporter thought she was a rip-off. And he, Basie Louw, had agreed. Because the reporter might not be pretty but her ass looked good in the denim, and if he played his cards right he might strike it lucky tonight.

“Now let me get to the part I know you’re here for.”

A few media people clapped sarcastically but the Madame merely smiled in a dignified manner.

“I can assure you that it wasn'’t easy. In some instances the tragic incidents took place some fourteen days ago. Time, unfortunately, diminishes the aura. It is like sound, traveling through space. The further you are from it, the weaker it becomes. Also, when a murder takes place in public places, such as a parking lot, a beach, or an elevator, there are so many confusing vibrations. Again, to use the analogy of sound, it resembles a great many voices speaking all at once. It is hard to try and single out one of them.”

She’s already making excuses, Louw thought. The press people shifted in their seats as if they agreed with him.

“I can see some of you think I’m making excuses already . . .”

Jesus, Louw thought. She can read minds.

“. . . but again, save your reservations for later, because I have absorbed enough to draw a pretty clear picture.”

It was suddenly so quiet in the room that only the air-conditioning was audible— and the sound of the Sony Betacams turning.

“First of all, I sensed a lot of hate and fear. Even at the parking area in Newlands, the hate and fear were still palpable . . .” Press pens were scribbling frantically. “Hate that has accumulated over many years, I can tell you, to be that strong. Fear that goes back into the mists of time. I see”— and Madame Jocelyn Lowe closed her eyes, her hands in front of her, somewhat defenseless—“a figure consumed, driven, overcome. The patterns are not rational, sanity is but a shadow. A figure is moving in the twilight, large and imposing, a predator hungering for revenge. He moves into a faint pool of eerie light. A hat takes shape, broad-brimmed. Features emerge slowly, blunt, contorted, the eyes beacons of hate. A beard, I think. I sense a beard, light in color, sandy perhaps, luxuriant, flowing from chin and cheeks, into the coat. His hands . . . they are huge, shaped by generations of toil in a harsh land. He is holding the strange firearm at his side, waiting, searching, indiscriminately, for those . . . A predator, a warrior, a throwback to a forgotten era, a ghostlike apparition. But he is flesh and blood, he is real, his hate is real, his fears . . .”