Dead at Daybreak
2000, EN
An antiques dealer is burned with a blow torch, before being executed with a single M16 bullet in the back of the head. The contents of the safe are missing and the only clues are a scrap of paper and the murder weapon. Ex-cop Zatopek “Zed” van Heerden has 14 days in which to fill the blanks.
? Dead at Daybreak ?
DAY 7
THURSDAY, JULY 6
? Dead at Daybreak ?
1
He awoke abruptly out of an alcohol-sodden sleep, the pain in his ribs his first conscious sensation. Then the swollen eye and upper lip, the antiseptic, musty smell of the cell, the sour odor of his body, the salty taste of blood and old beer in his mouth.
And the relief.
Jigsaw pieces of the previous evening floated into his mind. The provocation, the annoyed faces, the anger – such normal, predictable motherfuckers, such decent, conventional pillars of the community.
He remained motionless, on the side that wasn’t painful, the hangover throbbing like a disease through his body.
Footsteps in the corridor outside, a key turning in the lock of the gray steel door, the grating of metal slicing through his head. Then the uniform stood there.
“Your attorney’s here,” the policeman said.
Slowly he turned on the bed. Opened one eye.
“Come.” A voice devoid of respect.
“I don’t have an attorney.” His voice sounded far away.
The policeman took a step, hooked a hand into the back of his collar, pulled him upright. “Come on.”
The pain in his ribs. He stumbled through the cell door, down the paved passage to the charge office.
The uniform walked ahead, used a key to indicate the way to the small parade room. He entered with difficulty, hurting. Kemp sat there, his briefcase next to him, a frown on his face. He sat down in a dark blue chair, his head in his hands. He heard the policeman close the door behind him and walk away.
“You’re trash, Van Heerden,” said Kemp.
He didn’t respond.
“What are you doing with your life?”
“What does it matter?” His swollen lip lisped the
Kemp’s frown deepened. He shook his head. “They didn’t even bother to lay a charge.”
He wanted to indulge in the relief, the lessening of the pressure, but it eluded him. Kemp. Where the fuck did Kemp come from?
“Even dentists know shit when they see it. Jesus, Van Heerden, what’s with you? You’re pissing your life away. Dentists? How drunk do you have to be to take on five dentists?”
“Two were GPs.”
Kemp took in Van Heerden’s appearance. Then the attorney got up, a big man, clean and neat in a sports jacket and gray slacks, the neutral colors of the tie a perfect match. “Where’s your car?”
He rose to his feet slowly, the world tilting slightly. “At the bar.”
Kemp opened the door and walked out. “Come on, then.”
Van Heerden followed him into the charge office. A sergeant pushed his possessions over the counter, a plastic bag containing his slender wallet and his keys. He took it without making eye contact.
“I’m taking him away,” said Kemp.
“He’ll be back.”
The day was cold. The wind knifed through his thin jacket and he resisted the impulse to pull it closer around his body.
Kemp climbed into his large 4?4, leaned across, and unlocked the passenger door. Slowly Van Heerden walked around the vehicle, climbed in, closed the door, and leaned his head against it. Kemp pulled off.
“Which bar?”
“The Sports Pub, opposite Panarotti’s.”
“What happened?”
“Why did you fetch me?”
“Because you told the entire Table View police station that I would sue them and the dentists for everything ranging from assault to brutality.”
He vaguely remembered his charge-office tirade. “My attorney.” Mockingly.
“I’m not your attorney, Van Heerden.”
The ache in the swollen eye killed his laughter. “Why did you fetch me?”
Aggressively Kemp changed gears. “Fuck alone knows.”
Van Heerden turned his head and looked at the man behind the steering wheel. “You want something.”
“You owe me.”
“I owe you nothing.”
Kemp drove, looking for the pub. “Which car is yours?”
He pointed to the Corolla.
“I’ll follow you. I have to get you clean and respectable.”
“What for?”
“Later.”
He got out, walked across the road, and got into the Toyota. He found it difficult to unlock the door, his hand shaking. The engine stuttered, wheezed, and eventually fired. He drove to Koeberg Road, left past Killarney, onto the N7, wind suddenly sweeping rain across the road. Left to Morning Star and left again to the entrance to the smallholding, Kemp’s imported American Ford behind him. He looked at the big house among the trees but turned off to the small whitewashed building and stopped.
Kemp stopped next to him, opening his window just a crack against the rain. “I’ll wait for you.”
¦
First of all he showered, without pleasure, letting the hot water sluice over his body, his hands automatically soaping the narrow space between shoulder and chest and belly – just the soap, no washcloth, careful over the injured part of the ribs. Then, methodically, he washed the rest of himself, leaning his head against the wall for balance as he did first one foot, then the other, eventually turning off the taps and pulling the thin, overlaundered white towel from the rail. Sooner or later he would have to buy a new towel. He let the hot tap of the washbasin run, cupped his hands under the slow stream, and threw the water over the mirror to wash away the steam. He squeezed a dollop of shaving cream into his left hand, dipped the shaving brush into it, made it foam. He lathered
