She opened her eyes, stood quite still for a moment, then picked up the glass of water on the lectern next to her and took a small sip.
You must understand. This is very tiring. Another sip. Then calmly, without the theatrical intonation, but softly, only loud enough for her voice to reach every corner of the absolutely quiet room. I have reason to believe that the killings are politically motivated. Not, ladies and gentlemen, the politics that you and I know, but the politics of a slightly demented mind. Yes, I did sense a man. But a strange man, a special, strange creature. A man who feels his heritage heavy on his shoulders, who carries the weight of a nation.
Are you saying hes an Afrikaner? a reporter of the
Weekly Mail
couldn't help asking.
She smiled slightly. I did not hear him speak, sir. There was subdued laughter, a release of the tension that had accumulated in the room.
But you said his beard was sandy. That makes him a white man.
Caucasian? Yes. That much I can say.
And he wears a hat?
Yes.
Questions suddenly became a chorus. The Madame held up her left hand. The gems in her rings reflected the light. Please, I have almost finished. But I have something to add.
Silence again.
I sensed a hat. But that does not mean that he wears it every time he pulls the trigger. I also sensed a long, black coat. But again, that is just a vibration, that could merely imply that he favors these garments. But there was one other thing. He does not live in this city. He does not have a home here. If they want to find his home, they must look elsewhere. They must look for a place where the plains are wide and the sun is strong. They must look for a place where you can see no mountains, where the river runs dry.
There
this man is at home.
There
he nurtured his hate and fear.
There
he found the devilish energy that moved him to kill.
Now I will gladly answer your questions. But please keep in mind, I have told you all I know.
Hands shot up, questions were asked.
The reporter of the
Argus
turned to Louw and smiled. What do you think? As a policeman?
I think shes talking shit, Louw said honestly and was immediately sorry that he had used the word. Some women didn't like swearing and he didn't want to spoil his chances.
I think so, too, said the reporter and smiled again. Can I buy you a beer?
No, Louw said. Ill buy you one.
Jouberts dinner was chicken stew: 60 grams of (skinless) chicken, 60 milliliters of (fat-free) gravy, 125 milliliters of mixed vegetables, and as much boiled (tasteless) cauliflower as he liked and one bloody fat unit.
And after that, one full-flavored Winston, one tot of whisky.
His life, measured out in small grams.
But he looked forward to the cigarette and the drink. It suddenly made the bleak evening worthwhile. His reward.
After he had phoned Gail Ferreira and she had given him negative answers to his questions, he drove to a liquor store and bought himself a bottle of whisky. Glenfiddich, because it was the most expensive, and he wanted to drink a decent whisky, not the cheap muck with spurious Scottish names marked as special offers on the shelves. And then to the café for a packet of Winstons, which now lay on the table, unopened and full of promise. Oh, it was going to be good. Oh, that first drag that still tasted of matches (because hed thrown his damn lighter away with the Special Milds that morning), which he was going to draw deep . . .
The phone rang. He jogged down the passage, swallowing a piece of cauliflower as he went.
Joubert.
This is Hanna Nortier. This time the weariness in her voice was unmistakable and he wanted to fetch her and tell her everything was going to be fine. I dont know whether its a good idea, she said and he was suddenly sorry that he had asked her.
He didn't know what to say.
Youre a patient.
How could he have forgotten that? How could he have placed her in such a position? He wished for an honorable way out for her . . .
But I need to get out, she said, as if she was talking to herself. May I give you an answer tomorrow?
Yes.
Thank you, Mat, she said and put the phone down.
He walked back to the kitchen.
The reporter was as clever as a cageful of monkeys. She waited until they had started on their fifth beer in the ladies bar of the Cape Sun. I hear the Wallace guy slept around. Not a question, a statement, her English accent now marked when she spoke Afrikaans because although she could take her drink, it wasn't easy to keep up with the policeman.
You journalists always know everything, Louw said with honest admiration.
That wasn't what she wanted to hear. I only know a little.
Its true, though. He was ever ready. Up to the very last. He was with a blonde in the hotel and when he walked out they blasted him.
But he was married.
That didn't stop him with the blonde. Louw suddenly realized to whom he was speaking. You wont . . . you wont quote me, will you?
My lips are sealed. And she smiled at him.
Tonight my lucks in, Louw thought. She was from Johannesburg. Worked in computers. And then Wallace screwed her, over lunch, as it were. Van der Merwe. I've her name here somewhere. He took out his notebook and paged, swallowed some beer, paged on. Elizabeth van der Merwe. But she wasn't a suspect. I could see that immediately.
He emptied his glass. Another one?
Why not? She slipped into English again. The night is but a pup. And gave Basie Louw a meaningful look.
36.
Nienaber knew MacDonald and Wallace. Wallace knew Ferreira. And Oberholzer. And Wilson, who didn't want to fit in.
The previous evening, after his gloom about Hanna Nortier, he had considered the information from all angles. Now, in the swimming pool, the pieces of the puzzle still wouldn't come together.
He knew the feeling: the awareness that everything meant something but there just wasn't enough to unravel a premise, to put enough information together so that he could formulate a firm theory. It was frustrating because he didn't know where else to look. The answer might well be there already, right in front of him. It sometimes needed a fresh perspective, a new approach.