‘That’s my problem with altruism,’ said Februarie.
‘It’s terminal,’ said Riedwaan. ‘You’re born with it. This therapy session is costing me five bucks a minute. I’m sure you can get it cheaper down there. Tell me what happened.’
‘Extra-judicial killings,’ Februarie mused. ‘A good concept that – always makes me wonder what a judicial killing is.’
‘No philosophy either, Februarie. What else? How is this connected to Hofmeyr’s murder?’ Riedwaan tried not to sound impatient; withholding information was Februarie’s favourite game.
‘Ja, well, Hofmeyr had a change of heart. He approached someone to make a full disclosure about what they’d been doing up there in Walvis Bay. Him and his friends.’
‘He must’ve stood out like a parade ground corporal in a ballet tutu,’ said Riedwaan.
‘Funny, you mention Tutu. The only person who looked like he might be happy about it was the Arch. Hofmeyr wanted forgiveness, I suppose. The major was dying of cancer, so I guess he was afraid of that final court date. His offer was shoved from one desk to another, and then he was murdered. So it all went away overnight.’
‘Until you started looking,’ said Riedwaan.
‘I was shafted,’ said Februarie. ‘Apparently my paperwork was bad.’
‘Was it?’
‘Of course it was. My paperwork’s fucking terrible. But it always was before I got into any of this.’
‘Why then?’ asked Riedwaan.
‘I found out that he had visitors before he died,’ said Februarie, after a pause.
‘Who told you?’
‘The maid. Who else?’
‘She see them?’
‘No. Hofmeyr told her not to come for a couple of days. But the woman who worked next door told her anyway. Two men. They argued on the second night. Then they left, and two days later, he was dead. Too many coincidences. The visitors while the wife was away. The convenient gangsters.’
‘You think it was the wife?’
‘You know what I think of wives,’ said Februarie. Riedwaan knew. The whole force knew. Februarie’s wife left him for her boss. Februarie had refused to take the fact that the boss was solvent, always sober and never violent as mitigating circumstances.
‘But no. Not her. It’s the visitors. I’ve been looking for them since I last saw you.’
‘And did you find them?’ Riedwaan felt his fingertips tingle in anticipation.
‘No. But I did get the names of the two friends Hofmeyr was going to implicate in his disclosure.’
‘Where did you get this from?’
‘It might be hard for you to swallow, Faizal, but I still have a few chips to call in.’
‘Who are they?’ Riedwaan asked. ‘Hofmeyr’s friends?’
‘Malan.’
‘Malan?’
‘Malan.’ Februarie was enjoying Riedwaan’s discomfort.
‘Now there’s a helpful name. There must be thousands of them.’
‘This one runs a security consulting business out of Good-wood in Cape Town.’
Riedwaan knew the area well, poor and working class, clinging to respectability despite the backyards filled with cars on bricks. ‘You got a number for him?’
‘Jesus, Faizal. You ever heard of a phone book? Phoenix Engineering. Look it up.’
‘Give it to me, Februarie. I know you’ve got it.’
‘Okay, I’m standing in front of the place right now,’ Februarie laughed.
‘I thought you were at the Royal,’ said Riedwaan. ‘That shit music I heard in the background.’
‘Don’t insult the Man in Black,’ said Februarie. ‘That was Johnny Cash on my new tape deck.’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Tell me what you see.’
Februarie was parked at the end of a littered cul-de-sac. ‘Spanish burglar bars on the front,’ he said. ‘A pile of mail at the front door. Nothing inside. Empty. Everyone gone.’
‘When would you say?’ asked Riedwaan.
‘The neighbours round here aren’t that chatty, but one old lady told me no one’s been here for a month.’
‘She know the people?’
‘No. Keeps her curtains shut. This isn’t the type of neighbour-hood where you pay too much attention to what your neighbours do. All she would say was that a man came here, used it for storage. Then he left and… nothing. I’ve done a company search. Not much, except some import/export permits to Pakistan.’
‘And the other one?’ asked Riedwaan.
‘The other who?’
‘Hofmeyr’s other friend?’
‘Oh him… Janus Renko.’
‘Russian. That must’ve caused him trouble in the army.’
‘From what I heard, he didn’t take any shit. Parents were immigrants.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No sign of him for ten years. No parents, no siblings. No ex-wives like Malan. No children like Hofmeyr. Could be he changed his name. Maybe he bought another passport, moved elsewhere,’ said Februarie. ‘Could be dead, in which case you’ll be hunting a ghost.’
‘Where did your witness in McGregor see them?’ asked Riedwaan, lighting a cigarette and going over to look at Clare’s display.
‘She didn’t. All she saw was two extra sets of dirty sheets a couple of days before the major was shot. Made me wonder who Hofmeyr had had to stay.’
‘Thanks, Februarie. I’ll buy you a case of beer when I’m back.’
Riedwaan put down the phone and looked again at the places the boys had been found. A triangulation between Rooibank, the Kuiseb Delta and the ugly cinder-brick town. Pretty much the area where South Africa had camped thousands of miserable, sand-blasted conscripts in their decades-long war in Namibia. Why would any of these men come back? Walvis Bay had been about the worst army posting anyone could get.
Riedwaan looked closely at the pictures of Kaiser Apollis, Fritz Woestyn, Nicanor Jones and Lazarus Beukes. Why would anyone bother to shoot them? Scrawny little rejects, unlikely to live past their teens anyway.
He sat down at Clare’s desk and opened her neat folders, looking for her interview transcripts. Details. The devil gave himself away in the detail. Riedwaan opened the first interview and started to read again.
forty-four
The plump blonde put down her coffee when Clare pushed open the door of the only travel agency in Walvis Bay.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked, almost cracking her heavy makeup with the first smile of the day.
‘Morning, Sabina,’ Clare said as she sat down opposite her.
‘Have you been here before?’ The girl looked disconcerted.
Clare pointed to the girl’s name tag.
‘Of course,’ said Sabina. ‘How can I help you?’ She pecked at her keyboard with crimson-tipped nails, bringing the computer to life.
‘I was wondering if you knew Mara Thomson.’
‘Yes.’ The girl’s pretty mouth closed on the single syllable. ‘I booked her ticket home for her. So if you’re looking for her, she’s gone. She would’ve left yesterday.’
‘Will you check her booking for me?’ Clare asked.
‘Sure,’ said Sabina. The printer muttered and whirred. ‘Here you go. Yesterday. Lufthansa. Nine-thirty a.m.’
‘Did you issue the ticket?’
