He gestured with the glass: ‘Out there is somebody with a scheme. Someone that’s done his homework, someone who knows her history and wants to use it to get at her money. I don’t know how. But it’s about the money.’
He brought the glass to his lips again and then put it down on the counter with finality. ‘All you have to do is work out the scheme. Then you have your man.’
At that moment I could have told him Lemmer’s First Law. I didn’t.
‘No,’ I said.
It was not a word he was used to hearing. His reaction proved that.
‘I’m a bodyguard. Not a detective,’ I said before I walked out.
My room was beside Emma’s. Her door was shut.
I showered and set out clothes for the next day. I sat on the edge of the bed and sent Jeanette Louw an SMS: IS THERE FILE AT SAPS GARDENS RE ASSAULT/BREAK IN ON E. LE ROUX YESTERDAY?
Then I opened the bedroom door so that I could hear and I switched off the light.
5
Nobody followed us to the airport.
We travelled in Emma’s Renault Megane, a green cabriolet. My Isuzu pick-up stayed in Carel’s garage. ‘There is more than enough space for it, Emma.’
He had ignored me this morning.
‘Do you drive, Mr Lemmer?’ she asked.
‘If it’s acceptable to you, Miss Le Roux.’ It was our last formal exchange. While I was familiarising myself with the automatic gearbox and the startling power of the two-litre engine between Fisherhaven and the N2, she said, ‘Please call me Emma.’
This was always an awkward moment because people expect me to reciprocate, but I never volunteer my first name. ‘I’m Lemmer.’
Initially, I watched the rear-view mirror with extra attention, because that was where the amateurs would be – visible and keen. But there was nothing. I varied the speed between 90 and 120 kilometres per hour. Ascending the Houw Hoek Pass, I wondered about a white Japanese sedan in front of us. Despite the precautions I had taken, it maintained the same speed as we did and my suspicion grew stronger as we descended the other side of the pass when I pushed the Renault up to 140.
A few kilometres before Grabouw, I decided to make certain once and for all. Shortly before the T-junction, I put on the indicator, slowed down as though I intended to turn off and watched the white car. No reaction, it kept on going. I put off the indicator and accelerated.
‘Do you know the way?’ Emma enquired politely.
‘Yes, I know the way,’ I replied.
She nodded, satisfied, and rummaged in her handbag until she found her sunglasses.
Cape Town International was chaos – not enough parking owing to the building additions, too many people, a beehive of anxious Christmas season travellers on their way to somewhere and keen to get the journey over as quickly as possible. Impossible to spot shadows.
We checked in Emma’s large suitcase and my black sports bag.
‘What about your firearm?’ she asked on the way to Departures.
‘I don’t have one.’
She frowned.
‘Carel just assumed,’ I said.
‘Oh.’ Not happy. She wanted the assurance that her protector was suitably equipped. I kept quiet until we were through the baggage scanner, when we waited at the Nescafe coffee shop for a table to become vacant.
‘I thought you were armed,’ she said with faint concern.
‘Guns make things complicated. Especially travelling.’ It wouldn’t help to tell her that my parole conditions forbade the possession of a firearm.
A table became available and we sat down. ‘Coffee?’ I asked.
‘Please. Cappuccino, if they have it. No sugar.’
I went to stand in the queue, but in a position to see her. She sat with her boarding pass in her hand, staring at it. What was she thinking? About weapons and the level of protection she expected? About what lay before us?
That’s when I saw him. His eyes focused intently on Emma. He weaved between the tables. Big, white, neat beard, mustard T-shirt, pressed jeans, sports jacket. Early forties. I moved, but he was too close to intercept. He reached out a hand to her shoulder and I blocked him, gripped his wrist and swung back his arm, got my weight against his back, pressed him up against the pillar beside Emma, but without violence. I didn’t want to attract attention.
He made a noise of surprise. ‘Hey,’ he said.
Emma glanced up. She was confused, her body taut with fright. But she recognised beard-face. ‘Stoffel?’ she said.
Stoffel looked at her, then at me. He pulled back, trying to free his arm. He was strong, but uncoordinated. An amateur. I stayed fluid, gave him a bit of leeway.
‘Do you know him?’ I asked Emma.
‘Yes, yes, it’s Stoffel’
I loosened my grip and he jerked his arm away.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
I stayed very close to him, intimidating him with a look. He didn’t like that. Emma stood up, holding her hand in the air apologetically. ‘This is all a misunderstanding, Stoffel. Nice to see you again. Please sit down.’
Stoffel was indignant now. ‘Who is this guy?’
Emma took his hand. ‘Come say hello, it’s nothing.’ She pulled him away from me. He allowed it. She offered her cheek. He kissed it quickly, as if he still expected me to do something unexpected.
‘Coffee?’ I asked in a friendly tone.
He didn’t reply immediately. He sat down, slowly and solemnly, so he could restore his dignity. ‘Yes, please,’ he said. ‘Milk and sugar.’
There was a little smile on Emma’s face, the anxiety forgotten. She glanced fleetingly at me, as though we shared a secret.
The flight to Nelspruit was on SA Express’s fifty-seater Canadair jet. I sat beside Emma, on the aisle; she sat by the window. The plane was nearly full. There were at least ten passengers who, according to age, gender and level of interest, could qualify as members of Emma’s imaginary opponents. I had my doubts. To place someone on a plane as a tail is overkill, because the point of departure and arrival is known.
Before we took off she said, ‘Stoffel is an attorney.’ I hadn’t sat with them over coffee. There were only two seats at the table and I preferred to stand for a wider view and a final chance to stretch my legs. I expect Stoffel wanted to know who I was and she had avoided the question.
‘He’s a good guy,’ she said now. And added, ‘We dated, a few years ago …’ With nostalgia that indicated a history. Then she took the flight magazine out of its slot and flipped it open.
Stoffel, the ex.
My assumption had been otherwise – I thought he was a business acquaintance, or the husband of a friend. He hadn’t struck me as the kind of man she would be attracted to. And their interaction was so … friendly. But I could picture it: they meet at one of the social or cultural watering holes where the rich gather after sundown. He is well spoken and intelligent, with a cutting self-mockery and a fund of judicial inside stories that he tells with flourish. His attention to Emma would be subtle, he would have a method with women, a recipe he had perfected over twenty bachelor years. She would find it pleasant. When he procured her number from a mutual acquaintance
