‘That was Kobus’s unit.’ Mrs Hofmeyr pointed to the date on the bottom. ‘It was taken when they were disbanding. This was the last picture of all of them before they returned.’
‘They came back then?’
‘Kobus and a couple of officers wrapped up the last things, then came back. The troops returned by truck and on the train.’
‘You know them? The others?’ Riedwaan asked.
Mrs Hofmeyr shook her head. ‘Kobus kept us separate, me and his life.’ She stood closer to the photograph. ‘I can’t remember their names.’ She pointed to the shadowed figure. ‘He came to the house sometimes near the end. He and Kobus would talk. He never said anything to me. This one’ – she pointed at the man next to Hofmeyr – ‘had such a young wife. She was a dancer before she married.’ She frowned at the tug of memory. ‘Maylene or Marlene was her name. Something unusual.’
Clare pictured a house on the edge of the dunes. A bracelet of bruises. ‘Not Darlene?’ she asked.
‘That was it: Darlene. Her husband stamped on her ankle at a party. He said she’d been flirting. She never danced again.’
Darlene walking down a dim, polished passage. The awkward gait. A surname jettisoned to mark the end of a marriage. ‘She’s still there,’ said Clare.
‘In Walvis Bay?’ Mrs Hofmeyr was appalled. ‘I suppose it was the only way she could escape her husband.’
‘You never went back?’ asked Riedwaan.
‘Never. Neither did my husband. There was nothing left for him there. Or the others. They all got sent home to garden and become security guards in the new South Africa.’ She stood transfixed by the picture as if it were a cobra weaving in front of her. ‘He said it was better to leave things in the past, where they belonged. Walvis Bay was the place where all his dreams died. Fool’s gold is what he called the past.’ Mrs Hofmeyr tapped the photograph of her husband standing in a typical soldier’s pose, unfiltered cigarette in his hand. ‘A fool,’ she said. ‘They were all fools.’
‘Did your husband keep any kind of record of his time there?’ asked Riedwaan.
‘Never. He kept everything in his head. Habit from working with classified stuff. He was proud of the fact that he remembered everything even though he wrote nothing down.’
They stood looking at the fading photographs. Deep within the house, a clock chimed ten.
‘There’s nothing else,’ said Mrs Hofmeyr, ‘is there?’
‘He never fought back.’ Clare broke the silence of the journey. They had travelled from McGregor to the outskirts of Cape Town without saying a word.
‘Hofmeyr?’ Riedwaan’s thoughts had been elsewhere.
‘There were no injuries. No defensive injuries. You think he wanted to die? Just gave up?’
‘It’s possible he felt certain he was going to die and decided just to go with it, without the ritual of begging and pleading and trying to run away,’ Riedwaan suggested. ‘Or he knew his killer and he’d reached the end of a road that only the two of them knew about. The war in Namibia was a dirty one, and most of the dirt was brushed under the carpet.’
‘That’s not much help, is it?’ Clare played with the new puzzle pieces Mrs Hofmeyr had given her. ‘I guess we should talk to Darlene Ruyters again. Find out about her ex-husband.’ There were links, but no perfect fits. ‘She’s not very forthcoming, though. If she knows something, I doubt she’ll talk.’
‘Let’s go and talk to the investigating officer, if he’s sober enough.’
‘You know him?’
‘Eberard Februarie. Old connection,’ said Riedwaan, taking the Stellenbosch turn-off. ‘I probably owe him a drink anyway.’
thirty-four
The Stellenbosch police station was quiet when Clare and Riedwaan arrived. Clare waited in the car while Riedwaan went inside to extricate the officer who had worked on the Hofmeyr case.
‘Where’s Captain Februarie?’ he asked a bored-looking constable in the tea room. Talking to Eberard Februarie always cheered him up. No one had hit rock bottom at quite the same speed as the former narcotics unit captain.
‘Out.’ The woman ate another biscuit.
‘Out where, Constable?’ said Riedwaan, patiently.
‘Are you a cop?’ She looked him up and down.
‘I suppose you think I dress this badly for fun?’ said Riedwaan. The constable looked at him blankly. ‘Of course I’m a cop. Captain Faizal.’
‘Captain Februarie’s investigating a case.’
‘Which case?’
‘He didn’t write it on the board.’ It was true. Everybody else had a neatly printed note next to their names on the whiteboard. Everybody except Februarie, that is.
‘Can I have his cell number?’
‘Sure.’ The constable flipped through a grimy file. It was the wrong file. She found the right file. Found the right page. Found the number. Found a pencil. Found a piece of paper. Wrote it down. When she looked up to give it to Riedwaan, he was gone. She shrugged and went back to her tea.
Riedwaan and Clare were already three blocks away. The chances of Februarie not being at the Royal Hotel on a Saturday morning were minimal. Riedwaan pushed open the saloon doors, letting Clare precede him. It was dim inside the bar. The smell of last night’s drinking hung on the air. There was only one cigarette going: Februarie’s. He was sitting in the corner, a Castle lager in front of him.
Riedwaan sat down on the stool next to him. ‘Breakfast?’ he asked.
‘Faizal, you fucker. What are you doing here?’
‘Come to see you. You’re looking good.’ It was not quite true. But Riedwaan had seen him look much worse at this time of day.
‘I’m cutting back, man. This is my first.’
‘Why don’t you just stop?’ asked Riedwaan.
‘Not good to rush things,’ said Februarie. ‘You can shock your system. That’s not healthy.’
‘This is Clare Hart,’ said Riedwaan, his hand on Clare’s elbow.
‘Hello,’ said Clare.
Februarie looked her over, taking in her slim figure, the determined set to her jaw. ‘The head-case doctor. I’ve heard about you,’ he grunted. ‘I didn’t know they only let you out under guard these days, Faizal.’
‘As charming as ever,’ Riedwaan retorted. He ordered a Coke for himself and a soda for Clare and waited for the barman to leave. ‘The constable said you were working on a case.’
‘Of course I’m working on a case. I’m always working on a case. Someone’s bicycle will be stolen any minute, then I’ll have another case. You?’
‘No, I’m working too.’
‘You’re lucky they left you in town, man. This exile story is terrible. It’ll kill you quicker than cigarettes.’
Riedwaan took the hint and offered him one. Februarie took two.
‘You want something, Faizal? Or is this just a social call?’
‘We wanted to ask you about a case.’
‘So, ask.’ Februarie inhaled deeply, then coughed.
‘You sound like you’re going to die, Februarie.’
‘I told you, it’s being out here in the countryside. It’s unhealthy.’
‘Tell us about that shooting in McGregor,’ said Clare.
‘The army major? Hofmeyr?’ Februarie asked. He shifted his eyes from Riedwaan to Clare. Sharp. Calculating. In spite of the drink. ‘Why you asking?’
‘I’m on a case in Namibia. Looks like a serial killer,’ said Clare. ‘But the bullet found in the head of one of the boys threw up a match with Hofmeyr.’
