Dead Before Dying

“Why did you?”

“Followed a woman. And for the mountain and the sea and the atmosphere. Now she’s dropped me because I don’t have any money. I owe the bank and the makeup jobs are few and far between. The last one was two months ago. French team, came to make a television ad. But my car . . . I’m still paying it off even if it’s in the scrapyard . . .”

Griessel took a photo out of his pocket. Elvis. “Do you know him?”

Stewart looked. “He’s . . .” He searched for the word. “Careless.”

“Oh?”

“Look at the sideburns. The gum is visible here. Perhaps because he does his own makeup. It’s quite tricky. I'’ve never tried it.”

“Do you know him?”

“No.”

“Heard of Janek Milos?”

“Mmm . . .”

“You don’t know him.” Griessel didn't ask— he stated. With disappointment because he had hoped Stewart was going to be his man. Because Janek Milos didn't sound like a decent Afrikaans boy who robbed banks politely and called tellers sweetheart. Because his nice theories were crumbling.

* * *

The detectives came back for more names and addresses and Joubert’s heart sank with every new pair who walked into the parade room after another fruitless effort. They had reached Clark without an

e,

were at R and S for initials, but had found nothing.

He looked at his watch. His appointment with Hanna Nortier was getting closer and closer. He still didn't have an excuse.

Louw had come to say good-bye. He had found a seat on the six-thirty flight to Port Elizabeth and East London. They again went through the possible questions that Joubert wanted answered. Louw had left, his eyes droopy from his hangover.

Another two detectives arrived, shaking their heads.

“Telephone, Captain,” Mavis called from the door.

He got up and walked hastily to reception. “Joubert.”

“Bertus Botha, Captain. We’ve traced a Hester Clarke. But she’s dead. Died of cancer. Early in December.”

“Where are you phoning from?”

“Her sister’s house, Captain. Fish Hoek. Deceased was fifty-three. Spinster. Artist. Designed Christmas cards and stuff for a publisher in Maitland but worked from home. Developed cancer of the spine. The sister says it was due to sitting all day long, no matter what the doctors say. She says all she knows about the Mauser murders is what she’s read in the newspapers and seen on TV.”

“She’s quite certain?”

“Yes, Captain. We showed her the photographs ’n’ everything.”

“Her sister never had any contact with Oliver Nienaber?” He hoped, hopelessly, because there couldn't be that many Hester Clarkes in the Cape and he was desperate, there had to be an end to it.

“She says they never went out. She says the streets aren’t safe. She knew everyone her sister knew.”

Joubert’s mind dug around for more possibilities.

“The doctor who treated her sister— get me his name. I’ll hold on.”

He heard Botha putting down the telephone and the sounds of talking in the background. Then Botha came back with the information. Joubert wrote it down. Groote Schuur. He thanked Botha and looked at his watch again. Just enough time to check at the hospital and then drive to his psychologist.

38.

The doctor remembered Hester Clarke’s illness very well. “She never complained. Strong woman. It must’ve been extremely painful, especially the last few months.”

When was the cancer diagnosed?

Three or four years ago. They had tried everything.

Her mental state?

Strong woman. I told you.

And so Joubert fished, in a useless effort to catch something that would cast some light. He knew it was a dead-end street.

He drove to the city, spoke to O’Grady on the radio.

No news about Hester Clarke, O’Grady said. Most of the teams had returned. But Pastor Jacques Coetzee’s trailer was proving to be interesting. They had found forty thousand rand under the seat. In hard cash. And bank documents that indicated that the church was financially very well placed. Lists of members, deacons, elders . . .

Bring it to the office, Joubert said. And sent Bertus Botha’s team back to the sister of Hester Clarke. Find out to which church they belonged. And telephone the relatives of the other victims again. Ask Nienaber’s children. Had they heard of the Tabernacle of the Redeemer.

While he drove, a feeling of optimism took hold of him. Each case, each dossier, was a mountain to climb. Sometimes the hand- and toeholds were easy and you had a fast ascent to the summit, where you handed over the warrant of arrest, a neat parcel of motive and evidence, cause and effect. But sometimes, like this one, the mountain was smooth and slippery, without crevices for hands and toes to grip. You climbed and slipped, climbed and slipped without progress, without a way to the top.

But now things were beginning to change. Finally, something for which someone was willing to commit murder. To blow six people’s brains and bodies to kingdom come.

Money.

The root of all evil. The driving force, the urge that made them steal and shoot and hit and chop and set alight.

The adrenaline was flowing freely when he walked into the waiting room and sank down on a chair. They were close now. They were very close. He was going to solve the case. Today.

Hanna Nortier opened the door and there was a smile on her face.

“Come in, Captain Mat Joubert.” Her voice held a gaiety and he rejoiced because he knew she was going to accompany him to the opera.

“I think we must discuss tomorrow night first,” she said as she opened his file. “So that we can put it behind us. I’m not allowed to go with you. It’s ethically wrong. It’s unfair to you because we still have hard work ahead of us. I can’t justify it in any way at all.”

He looked at her while he kept the disappointment out of his face with great difficulty.

“But there is the other side of the coin. I’m flattered that you’ve asked me out. I can’t remember when last I went anywhere with a big, strong man. I want to very much. I badly want to see

The Barber of Seville.

I want to go out. I’m in a rut. I believe I can separate my private and professional life. I must be able to do it. But not at your expense.”

She spoke quickly, urgently, a Hanna Nortier he hadn't seen before, her slender hands dancing to stress her words, her pupils large and black, her beauty so perfect that he was unable to look away.

“Can you separate the therapy and the personal . . . togetherness, Mat?”

Not too fast, he warned himself. Not too keen.

“I think so.” Nice and even, thoughtful.

“You must be quite sure.”

“I am sure.” Too quickly.

“If you change your mind you can still phone me tomorrow.”

Was she going with him?