“The guy on fire in the car is Konovalenko,” said Wallander. “He’s the one who shot our colleague in Stockholm. And a few more besides.”
Wallander looked around.
Something that might have been joy, or maybe relief, was beginning to well up inside him.
“Shall we go?” he asked. “I could use a cup of coffee. It’s all over here.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Jan Kleyn was arrested in his office at BOSS headquarters around midday, Friday, May 22. Soon after eight in the morning Chief Prosecutor Wervey had listened to Scheepers’s account of the circumstances and President de Klerk’s decision late the previous night. Then, without comment, he signed a warrant for Jan Kleyn’s arrest and another to search his house. Scheepers requested that Inspector Borstlap, who had made a good impression in connection with the murder of van Heerden, should take care of the arrest of Jan Kleyn. When Borstlap had deposited Jan Kleyn in an interrogation room, he went to an adjacent room where Scheepers was waiting. He was able to report that the arrest had taken place without any problems. But he had observed something that seemed to him important, and possibly worrisome. His information about why somebody in the intelligence service should be brought in for interrogation was scanty. Scheepers had stressed the secrecy surrounding everything to do with state security. Nevertheless, Borstlap had been told in confidence that President de Klerk was aware of what was happening. Borstlap had therefore felt instinctively that he ought to report what he had seen.
Jan Kleyn had not been surprised by his arrest. Borstlap had seen through his indignation as a poorly performed charade. Somebody must have warned Jan Kleyn about what was going to happen. Since it was clear to Borstlap that the decision to arrest Jan Kleyn had been made in great haste, he realized Kleyn must either have friends in circles close to the president or there must be a mole operating in the public prosecutor’s office. Scheepers listened to what Borstlap had to say. It was less than twelve hours since de Klerk made his decision. Apart from the president only Wervey and Borstlap knew what was going to happen. It was clear to Scheepers he must inform de Klerk immediately that his office must be bugged. He asked Borstlap to wait outside while he made an important telephone call. But he did not get hold of de Klerk. His secretary said he was in a meeting and could not be reached until later in the afternoon.
Scheepers left the room and went out to Borstlap. He had made up his mind to keep Kleyn waiting. He had no illusions about the latter being worried because he was not told why he had been arrested. It was more for his own sake. Scheepers felt a degree of uncertainty about the imminent confrontation.
They drove to Jan Kleyn’s house outside Pretoria. Borstlap was driving, and Scheepers was slumped in the back seat. He suddenly started to think about the white lioness he and Judith had seen. It was a symbol of Africa, he thought. The animal at rest, the calm before it gets to its feet and musters all its strength. The beast of prey one cannot afford to wound, but which must be killed if it starts to attack.
Scheepers gazed out of the car window and wondered what was happening in his life. He wondered whether the grand design worked out by de Klerk and Nelson Mandela, involving the ultimate retreat of the whites, would actually succeed. Or would it lead to chaos, uncontrolled violence, a crazy civil war with positions and alliances constantly changing and the outcome impossible to predict? The apocalypse, he thought. The doomsday we have always tried to contain like an evil genie in a bottle. Will the genie take its revenge when the bottle is broken?
They stopped outside the gate of Jan Kleyn’s big house. Borstlap had already informed him on his arrest that his house would be searched, and requested the keys. Jan Kleyn played up his outraged dignity and refused. Then Borstlap threatened to break down the front door. He got the keys in the end. There was a guard posted outside the house, and a gardener. Scheepers introduced himself. He looked around the walled yard. It was designed on the basis of straight lines. In addition, it was so well tended it had lost all signs of life. That’s what Jan Kleyn must be like as well, he thought to himself. His life is an extension of straight ideological lines. There is no room in his life for divergence, not in his thoughts, his emotions, nor his garden. The exception is his secret: Miranda and Matilda.
They entered the house. A black servant stared at them in astonishment. Scheepers asked him to wait outside while they searched the building. They asked him to tell the gardener and the guard not to go away until they received permission.
The house was sparsely but expensively furnished. They could see Jan Kleyn preferred marble, steel, and substantial wood in his furniture. Lithographs hung here and there on the walls. The motifs were taken from South African history. There were also some fencing swords, old pistols and game bags. A hunting trophy was mounted over the mantelpiece, a stuffed kudu with powerful, curved horns. While Borstlap went through the whole house, Scheepers shut himself into Jan Kleyn’s study. The desk was empty. There was a filing cabinet against one wall. Scheepers looked for a safe but found nothing. He went downstairs to the living room where Borstlap was searching through a bookcase.
“There must be a safe,” said Scheepers.
Borstlap picked up Jan Kleyn’s keys and showed them to him.
“No key, though,” he said.
“You can be sure he’s chosen a place for the safe he thinks is the last place we’d think of looking,” said Scheepers. “So that’s where we’ll start. Where’s the last place we’d think of looking?”
“Right in front of our very eyes,” said Borstlap. “The best hiding place is often the most obvious one. That’s what we find hardest to see.”
“Concentrate on finding the safe,” said Scheepers. “There’s nothing on the bookshelves.”
Borstlap nodded and replaced the book he was holding in his hand. Scheepers went back to the study. He sat at the desk and started opening the drawers in turn.
Two hours later he had found nothing at all of significance for the investigation. Jan Kleyn’s papers were mostly concerned with his private life and contained nothing remarkable. Or else they were to do with his coin collection. To his astonishment Scheepers discovered that Jan Kleyn was chairman of the South African Numismatic Society, and did sterling work on behalf of the country’s coin collectors. Another peculiarity, he thought. But that is hardly of significance for my investigation.
Borstlap had made two thorough searches of the house without finding a safe.
“There must be one,” said Scheepers.
Borstlap called in the servant and asked him where the safe was. The man stared at him uncomprehendingly.
“A secret cupboard,” said Borstlap. “Hidden, always locked?”
“There isn’t one,” said the man.
Borstlap sent him out again in annoyance. Then they started searching anew. Scheepers tried to see if there were any irregularities in the house’s architecture. It was not unusual for South Africans to have secret chambers built into their houses. He found nothing. While Borstlap was up in the cramped loft searching around with a flashlight, Scheepers went out into the yard. He observed the house from the back. The solution struck him more or less immediately. The house had no chimney. He went back inside and squatted in front of the open hearth. They had pocket flashlights with them, and he shone his up into the chimney. The safe was cut into the wall. When he tried the handle he found to his surprise that it was unlocked. Just then Borstlap came downstairs.
“A well-chosen hiding place,” said Scheepers.
Borstlap nodded. He was annoyed that he had failed to find it himself.
Scheepers sat down at the marble table in front of the big leather sofa. Borstlap had gone outside for a cigarette. Scheepers sorted through the papers from the safe. There were insurance policies, some envelopes containing old coins, the house deeds, about twenty stock certificates, and some government debentures. He pushed it all to one side and concentrated on a small, black notebook. He leafed through the pages. They were full of cryptic notes, a mixture of names, places and combinations of numbers. Scheepers decided to take the book with him. He replaced the papers in the safe and went out to Borstlap.
A thought suddenly struck him. He beckoned to the three men who squatted watching them.
“Were there any visitors late last night?” he asked.
The gardener replied.
“Only Mofolo, the night watchman, can tell you that,” he said.
