He glared at Adam Barnard in one photo. Big man full of confidence. The smile was the same in every photo, the way he looked at the camera, his body angled slightly, hands around the shoulders or waists of the artists. He was the very image of success, Mr Beloved, not an enemy in the world.
Impossible.
And that, Dekker knew, was the source of his frustration: he was in a dead-end street. The whole investigation was slowly but surely sinking into a swamp of, fuck it, improbabilities. Nothing made sense and the whiteys were laughing at him.
And where was Mbali Kaleni?
He walked around the desk, sat down and put his elbows on the desk, head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. He would have to think, he would have to suppress this anger and think it all through from the beginning, because none of the pieces fitted together. Josh and Melinda Geyser. Both were lying. Or neither. The video? The blackmailer? Where was Mbali? She had found something and was following it up, she was going to solve the case and he would look like a fool. He took his phone out of his pocket and called her number. It rang and rang and rang.
She would see who was calling, she was ignoring him on purpose. His temper flared up again, like a wildfire.
Wait, wait, wait. Calm down.
He put his head in his hands again and closed his eyes. Fuck knew, he would have to pull finger to crack this one.
Concentrate: Adam Barnard was carried into his house, up the stairs to his drunken wife.
That meant someone who knew his wife passed out, blind drunk, every night. That meant someone who was strong enough to carry the dead weight of Adam Barnard. Someone who knew
Barnard had a pistol in the house - and knew where to find it. Forget Bloemfontein and the blackmailer, there was no way. The knowledge of the pistol was key.
Who would know?
Josh Geyser? Perhaps. Maybe Melinda too. Knowledge. Motive. Strength.
But Benny Griessel had said it wasn't Josh. Griessel was nobody's fool, even though they said he used to drink like a fish. Was Griessel mistaken, how much of the new Captain's attention was on the churchyard murder? He was only human after all ... Knowledge of the pistol. How many people would know that? Alexa Barnard, another one pronounced innocent by Griessel, an alcoholic woman. Was Benny being objective? As a sister-in-drink, had she pulled the wool over his eyes? Did she have help? A lover?
Who else? If you took into account that seventy or eighty per cent of crimes were committed by someone in the immediate family.
Then it struck him - the maid. Whining Sylvia Buys, only concerned about where she would find another job. Sylvia, who was so terribly fond of Adam Barnard, so quick to lay the blame on Alexandra. He must not overlook her. Motive? Anything. Had Adam caught her stealing? Confronted her?
How well had the Geysers known Barnard? Would they have visited the house?
Would one of them have known where to find the pistol? He would have to find out. He would have to phone Griessel first, tell him he had doubts about Alexandra, about the Geysers. Benny wouldn't like it.
Where was Mbali?
Someone knocked.
'Yes?'
Natasha Abader put her head around the door. 'There is a policeman at the door. He says he wants to show you where they found a shoe.'
He jumped up. 'Thank you,' he said and walked over to her. 'I want to talk to you again, please.'
She didn't look too ecstatic about that.
14:02-15:10
Chapter 36
Dekker and the young black Metro policeman had to shoulder their way through the journalists at the front door, over the tiny lawn, pass the koi pond, through the access tunnel for the building to Buiten Street. The press kept throwing questions at him like accusations, until they shook off the last vulture on the corner of Bree Street. When would Cloete come and sort out this chaos?
'Up there, around the corner,' the Metro man said and they walked in silence. Dekker realised the southeaster had picked up and the perfect summer day was gone. He looked up at the mountain. The cloud was beginning to form on its tabletop like an omen. By late afternoon the wind would be gale force; but then it was January, there was nothing you could do about that.
The Metro man led him to a corner, they turned left into New Church Street and crossed the road. Six paces further on he stopped and pointed with his baton.
'Right there.'
'The shoe was lying here?'
'Just there,' the man confirmed. 'Almost in the gutter.'
'You're sure of this?'
'This is where I found it.'
'You didn't look inside it?'
'Inside the shoe?' The man screwed up his face in an expression of suspicion, as if he wasn't completely convinced of Dekker's intelligence.
'I wouldn't have either,' said Dekker. 'Thanks a lot.'
'Can I go now?'
'Wait. I just want to know, did they ask you to pick things up?' 'Yes, Senior Inspector Oerson sent us. We had to pick up anything that might have been in a rucksack. Anything. Then I saw the shoe. I picked it up and put it in the plastic bag. I found a hat too, over there on the corner of Watson Street. But that's all. I took it to Abrams, he had the big rubbish bag. I put it in the big rubbish bag. Abrams took the big rubbish bag to Senior Inspector Oerson, because he said he wanted to see everything.' He was thorough and systematic, as though he still harboured doubts about Dekker being the sharpest pencil in the box.
'Thank you. That's all I wanted to know.'
The man nodded, turned around and strolled away, swinging his baton, one hand on his cap to protect it from the wind.
Dekker considered the spot where the shoe had lain. Then the corner of New Church and Buiten. About two to three hundred metres from AfriSound.
What was the significance of that?
He took out his phone. It was time to call Benny Griessel.
The Metro Police licensing department told Vusi the Peugeot Boxer panel van, CA 409-341, belonged to CapSud Trading ...
'Spell that for me, please,' Vusi asked.
'Capital letter C, a-p, capital letter S, u-d ... the contact person is a Mr FrederikWillem de Jager, the address is Unit Twenty-one, Access City, La Belle Street in Stikland.'
'Thank you very much,' said Vusi.
'But there's a tag on it,' the woman said. 'The vehicle is in the pound.'
'Which pound?'
'Our vehicle impound. Just here next to me in Greenpoint.'
'Is it there now?'
'That's what the system says.'
Vusi thought it over. He asked: 'Do you have a phone number for de Jager?'
'Yip.' She gave it to him.
Griessel stood at the big table holding a sheet of paper with two numbers on it. One of them was his cell phone number. The other was a Cape number that he did not recognise. He studied the handwriting, comparing it to the notes in tiny, almost illegible scribbles on the hordes of documents strewn across the table. The numbers were written in larger, rounder and more feminine script.
Rachel Anderson?
He dialled the other Cape number. Three rings and a woman answered with a distinctive accent. 'United States Consul, good afternoon, how may I help you?'
'Oh, sorry, wrong number,' he said and terminated the call.
'Gourmet Foods, good afternoon,' a woman's voice answered.
'Is that not CapSud Trading?'
'This is CapSud, trading as Gourmet Foods.'
'Could I speak to Mr de Jager, please?'
'Who is this speaking?'
'This is Inspector Vusi Ndabeni of the South African Police Service.'
'Mr de Jager is deceased, Inspector.'
'Oh. I'm sorry. When did he pass away?'