Dead Before Dying

“Did she ever discuss it?”

“All she ever said was that she didn't want life to pass her by. She wanted to enjoy every minute.”

Joubert ended the conversation.

Carina Oberholzer from Keimoes. Who laughed and talked and lived her short life to the full. The willing girl from the farm, the sly of a Portuguese Catholic and who knew who else. Had no one known her well enough to know what she knew?

He got the number of her parents, dialed the long code and the number, waited. It rang for a long time. A woman’s voice answered, a servant.

“The people aren’t here now. They’ve gone to fetch their son in Johannesburg.”

He took the Tupperware container out of his drawer and opened it: 60 grams of fat-free cottage cheese; four rice cakes; tomato, avocado, and lettuce with a small portion of fat-free dressing. He was going to die of hunger. At least the Winston was waiting, the high point of his day, his greatest pleasure.

Someone came running down the passage.

They’ve traced someone, he realized.

It was Louw. “He shot Jacques Coetzee, Captain. Less than an hour ago. And someone saw him.”

* * *

The two schoolboys were in sixth grade and they were very keen to see the body, but the police wouldn't hear of it. The boys had to keep out of the way, stand between the guy ropes that kept the walls of the tent upright, watching one police vehicle after the other arrive. But it was much better than the double biology class they were missing.

One of the first detectives to arrive there came up to them with another man, a big one.

“These are the boys, Captain.”

“Thank you,” the big one said. He put out a huge hand. “Mat Joubert,” he said.

“I’m Jeremy, sir.”

“Neville,” said the other one.

He shook their hands.

“You’ll have to tell me everything.”

“Weren’t you on TV the other night, sir?”

He shrugged. “May have been.”

“Then this is the Mauser thing, sir?”

“We think so.”

“Sheesh, sir, but that guy is blowing them away, hey.” Great admiration.

“We’re going to catch him.”

“We only saw his car, sir,” Jeremy said. “We heard the shots. We were behind the tractor barn when we heard the shots, but a train passed and we weren’t sure. Then we walked over to have a look. Then we saw the car.”

“What make?”

“That’s a bit of a problem, sir.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t know one car from another,” Neville said.

“I know cars. You should have your eyes tested.”

“Hey,” Neville replied but without aggression, as if their arguments were a normal ritual.

“It was a Fiat Uno, sir, a white one. I think it was a Fire but I’m not sure. It wasn'’t a turbo because the turbos have fancy stripes and a louver.”

“It was a CitiGolf, sir. White. I know a Golf’s backside because my brother drives one. He’s also in the police, sir. In Natal. They shoot Zulus.”

“Hey,” said Jeremy. “They’ll lock you up.”

“You’re sure it was an Uno.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re sure it was a Golf.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Registration number?”

“We were too late. We only saw his tail as he drove away.”

Joubert measured the distance between the school grounds and the boundary fence and the road the vehicle had taken. “You didn't see what he looks like?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, men, thank you very much. And if either of you makes a different decision about the make, you’ll let me know. I’m with Murder and Robbery.”

“Of course, sir.”

He was about to walk to the trailer when Jeremy spoke again.

“Sir.”

“Yes?”

“May we really not see the body?”

He suppressed a smile and shook his head. “It’s not a pretty sight.”

“Lots of blood, sir?”

“Buckets.”

“And the bullet holes, sir?”

“As big as hubcaps,” he lied shamelessly.

“Sheesh,” Jeremy said.

“Jeez,” said Neville. “That Mauser is a cannon.” And they walked away deeply impressed, with information worth a fortune in their world.

37.

It was one of the additional teams who found the body. “We must’ve missed him by minutes, Captain. The blood hadn't even clotted.” The body lay in the trailer, driven back by the first shot, which had ripped into Coetzee’s skull just above the left ear. The other shot was through the heart, as in all the previous cases except MacDonald’s.

If only he had looked at the attaché case the previous day. But how could he have known? He walked to the Sierra, radioed O’Grady. They must try to recall the teams who were looking for Jacques Coetzee. The whole effort must focus on Hester Clarke now. He must try to save at least one life.

“There’s an address on the telephone account, Captain,” Louw called from the trailer. “Durbanville.”

At least, Joubert thought, the connection had been proven. They now knew that Nienaber’s list meant something. And there was only one name left.

He called Louw and they drove to Durbanville to a dilapidated house in the center of the town. The grass was long and untidy, the flowerbeds overgrown with weeds.

“I hope he was a better pastor than a gardener,” said Louw. He had brought a bunch of keys that had hung in the trailer door’s lock and tried until one fitted the front door’s.

They walked in. There was no furniture in the sitting room, only a telephone, which stood on the floor. In the kitchen there were dirty plates in the sink. An old refrigerator rattled in the corner. The empty hallway was uncarpeted. So was the first bedroom. The second held a single bed, a bedside table with no drawers. On the floor there was a pile of books. Joubert picked up one.

Praise His Name.

The second one was also religious. All the others as well.

On the bed table there was an opened envelope. He picked it up and took out the contents.

SMUTS, KEMP, AND SMALL, ATTORNEYS AND NOTARIES

Dear Mr. Coetzee:

According to our client, Mrs. Ingrid Johanna Coetzee, you are still in arrears with regard to the alimony set out in the divorce decree . . .

Griessel was hot on the trail of George Michael Stewart.

He found no one at the man’s flat in Oranjezicht, but the caretaker there said the suspect worked part-time as a waiter at Christie’s, the restaurant on Long Street.

He couldn't find a parking space, eventually parked in a loading zone on Wale Street and walked around the corner. The restaurant was virtually full for lunch, with yuppies very much in evidence. He was received at the door by a tall, refined man with a tense smile who quickly led him to a table at the back, near the kitchen door, and pushed a menu into his hand.