“Where do you burn them?”
Jan Kleyn seemed to have recovered his composure.
“In the kitchen sink, or in the toilet,” said Jan Kleyn. “As you know already, my fireplace has no chimney. It was bricked off by the former owners. I never got around to opening it again.”
The interrogation continued. Scheepers reverted to asking questions about the secret Committee, but the answers were always the same. Kritzinger protested at regular intervals. After three hours of questioning, Scheepers decided to call it a day. He rose to his feet and said curtly that Jan Kleyn would remain in custody. Kritzinger was absolutely furious. But Scheepers overruled him. The law allowed him to detain Jan Kleyn for at least another twenty-four hours.
It was already evening by the time he went to report to Wervey, who had promised to remain in his office until he arrived. The corridors were deserted as he hurried to the chief prosecutor’s office. The door was ajar. Wervey was asleep in his chair. He knocked and went in. Wervey opened his eyes and looked at him. Scheepers sat down.
“Jan Kleyn has not admitted to any knowledge whatsoever of a conspiracy or an assassination,” he said. “I don’t think he will, either. Moreover, we have no evidence to connect him with either offence. When we searched his house, we found only one item of interest. There was a notebook in his safe, with references to various dates and locations. All of them were crossed out except one. Durban, July 3. We know that Nelson Mandela will be giving a public address on that day. The date we first suspected, Cape Town June 12, is crossed out in the book.”
Wervey quickly adjusted his chair to the upright position and asked to see the notebook. Scheepers had it in his case. Wervey leafed through it slowly in the light of his desk lamp.
“What explanation did he give?” asked Wervey when he got to the end.
“Various meetings. As far as Durban is concerned, he claims he is having an affair with a married woman there.”
“Start with that tomorrow,” said Wervey.
“He refuses to say who she is.”
“Tell him he won’t be released unless he tells us.”
Scheepers looked at Wervey in surprise.
“Can we do that?”
“Young man,” said Wervey. “You can do anything when you are chief prosecutor and as old as I am. Don’t forget that a man like Jan Kleyn knows how to eradicate every trace of where he’s been. He must be beaten in battle. Even if one has to resort to doubtful methods.”
“Even so, I sometimes got the feeling he was insecure,” said Scheepers hesitantly.
“He knows we’re snapping at his heels in any case,” said Wervey. “Really put him under pressure tomorrow. The same questions, over and over again. From different angles. But the same thrust, the same thrust every time.”
Scheepers nodded.
“There was one more thing,” he said. “Inspector Borstlap actually made the arrest, and he had the distinct impression Jan Kleyn had been warned. Even though only a very few people knew only a short time in advance what was going to happen.”
Wervey looked at him for a long time before responding.
“This country of ours is at war,” he said. “There are ears everywhere, human and electronic. Penetrating secrets is often the best weapon of all. Don’t forget that.”
The conversation was over.
Scheepers left the building and paused on the steps, enjoying the fresh air. He felt very tired. Then he went to his car to drive home. Just as he was about to open his car door, one of the parking attendants emerged from the shadows.
“A man left this for you,” said the attendant, handing him an envelope.
“Who?” asked Scheepers.
“A black guy,” said the attendant. “He didn’t say his name. Just that it was important.”
Scheepers handled the letter carefully. It was thin, and could not possibly contain a bomb. He nodded to the attendant, unlocked the car and got in. Then he opened the envelope and read what the note said by the light of the inside lamp.
Assassin probably a black man by the name of Victor Mabasha.
The note was signed Steve.
Scheepers felt his heart beating faster.
At last, he thought.
Then he drove straight home. Judith was waiting for him with a meal. But before sitting down, he called Inspector Borstlap at home.
“Victor Mabasha,” he said. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
Borstlap considered before replying.
“No,” he said.
“Tomorrow morning go through all the files and everything you have in the computer. Victor Mabasha is a black, and probably the assassin we are looking for.”
“Have you managed to break Jan Kleyn?” asked Borstlap in surprise.
“No,” said Scheepers. “How I got that information is neither here nor there for the moment.”
End of conversation.
Victor Mabasha, he thought as he sat down at the dining table.
If you’re the one, we’ll put a stop to you before it’s too late.
Chapter Thirty-two
That day in Kalmar, Kurt Wallander began to realize how bad he actually felt. Later, when the murder of Louise Akerblom and the sheer nightmare that followed in its wake had become a series of unreal events, a desolate charade in a distant landscape, he would insist stubbornly that it was not until Konovalenko was lying on the Oland bridge with staring eyes and blazing hair that it really struck him how rotten he felt deep down inside. That was the moment of insight, and he would not budge from that view, even though the memories and all the painful experiences came and went like changing patterns in a kaleidoscope. It was in Kalmar that he lost his grip on himself! He told his daughter it was like a countdown had started, a countdown leading to nothing but a vacuum. The doctor in Ystad, who started treating him in mid-June and tried to sort out his increasing gloom, wrote in his journal that according to the patient the depression started over a cup of coffee at the police station in Kalmar while a man was being burned up in a car on a bridge.
There he sat in the police station in Kalmar, drinking coffee, feeling very tired and low. Everybody who saw him hunched over his cup that half hour had the impression he was preoccupied and completely aloof. Or was he just thoughtful? In any case, nobody went to keep him company or to ask him how he was doing. The strange cop from Ystad was surrounded by a mixture of respect and hesitation. He was simply left in peace while they all dealt with the chaos on the bridge and the endless flow of telephone calls from newspapers, radio, and television. After half an hour he suddenly jumped to his feet and demanded to be taken to the yellow house on Hemmansvagen. When they passed the place on the bridge where Konovalenko’s car had become a smoking, burned-out shell, he stared straight ahead. When he got to the house he immediately took over command, forgetting completely that the investigation was actually being led by a Kalmar detective called Blomstrand. But they deferred to him, and he worked up an enormous level of energy over the next few hours. He seemed to have put Konovalenko right out of his mind already. There were two things that interested him above all others. He wanted to know who owned the house. He also kept going on about Konovalenko not being alone. He ordered an immediate door-to-door survey of the other houses in the street, and he wanted cab drivers and bus conductors to be contacted. Konovalenko was not alone, he kept repeating, over and over again. Who was the man or woman he had with him, who had now disappeared without trace? None of his questions could be answered immediately. The local property register and the neighbors who were questioned gave completely contradictory answers about who actually owned the yellow
