me – even if our staple food, when no friends were visiting, was fruit and bread. She played Beethoven, Schubert, Haydn, and Bach (J. S. and, to a lesser extent, C.P. E.) without forcing the music down my throat and later, when I wanted to listen to Bachman Turner Overdrive and Black Sabbath, even kept her music in the background. I suspected that she knew which music would stay with me in the long run.
Those were safe years. Until I was sixteen. When I discovered Mozart and books and food and sex and the long arm of the law.
? Dead at Daybreak ?
9
He was awake long before the alarm went off at five o’clock. He lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, and waited for the instrument’s electronic beep. He killed it, swung his legs off the bed, checked the pain in his body. The ribs hurt a little less, but the eye still throbbed. He knew it would turn purple during the morning. It wasn’t his first.
He walked to the kitchen. The crockery was neatly stacked in the drying rack. He put the kettle on. The cold penetrated the worn old police tracksuit. He put instant coffee into a mug, waited for the water to boil, poured it onto the grains, added milk, walked to the combined dining and living area, put the coffee on the small table. Looked for the CD he wanted. Clarinet Concerto. Pressed the buttons on the portable stereo, put on earphones, sat down, drank a mouthful of coffee. Adjusted the volume.
He had known since the previous day that he would have to think about Nagel. Since that moment in the attorney’s office.
It was because this reminded him so much of what he used to do. The first time…the first time since he had left. The first time since then that he was looking for a murderer again. That was why he would think about Nagel. It was normal. He simply had to be careful. He could think about Nagel, about everything Nagel had taught him. He just had to stay within those bounds. Then he would be safe. Set the parameters now. Then he could carry on.
Jan Smit.
He wrote in the notebook.
1. Neighbors.
He sat back, thought again, wrote.
2. Manie Meiring Transport.
3. What kind of company?
4. Registrar of Companies (referrals) (??)
5. Dept. of Home Affairs (??)
He leaned back and swallowed some coffee. Were there other angles?
6. Regular/ big clients?
7. Bank?
That was all he had. He chewed the end of his pen, swallowed another mouthful of coffee, put the pen down, leaned back, closed his eyes.
It hadn’t been so bad. He could keep Nagel out.
He listened to the music.
¦
He saw the sides of the large trucks, just before the Polkadraai crossing. MMT in huge, exaggerated dark purple letters pierced by an arrow, to suggest speed. He turned off and drove through pools of water and mud to the small building with the sign reading OFFICE/RECEPTION. The clouds were dark and low. It would start raining soon. He got out of the car. The wind was even colder today. Snow on the mountains, probably.
A woman sat behind a computer, speaking on the telephone.
“The truck should’ve been there by now, Dennis. They left here on time, but you know what it’s like at the tunnel, or a damn traffic cop pulled him…”
Blond and overweight, she smiled at Van Heerden, a smear of scarlet lipstick on her front teeth. She listened for a moment, spoke again. “Okay, Dennis, phone me if he isn’t there by twelve. Okay. Bye.”
She turned to Van Heerden. “Did you walk into a door or did her husband come home early?”
“Is Manie here?”
“If he is, I’d be extremely worried.” She rolled her eyes heavenward.
He waited.
“Manie was my father-in-law, doll. Been in his grave for three years, bless his soul. You’re looking for my husband, Danie – or is there something
“I’m investigating Jan Smit’s murder. I want to speak to someone who knew him.”
She looked him up and down. “You look too thin for a policeman.” Then she turned and shouted through the open door to the back. “Danieeeee…” Then back to Van Heerden. “Have you found anything yet?”
“No, I’m not – ”
“What?” said Danie Meiring when he walked in, annoyed. Then he saw Van Heerden.
“Police,” said the woman, and pointed at him with a red-painted fingernail. “It’s about Jan Smit.”
Meiring was short and sturdy, with a thick neck trying to escape from the collar of his clean overall. He stuck out his hand. “Meiring.”
“Van Heerden. I’d like to ask a few questions.”
“Did that fat Mick fuck up?” The small eyes were set close together beneath an aggressive frown.
Van Heerden shook his head, uncomprehending.
“That Irish cop, O’Hagan or something. Couldn’t he manage?”
Light dawned. “O’Grady.”
“That’s the one.”
“I’m not from the police. This is a private investigation for Smit’s friend, Miss van As.”
“Oh.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Badly.”
“What kind of contact did you have?”
“None, actually. They faxed the orders through to Valerie and every Christmas I delivered a bottle of whiskey to his shop. Never got as much as a cup of tea. He wasn’t exactly a chatterbox.”
“For how long did you do business?”
“I don’t know. Valerie?”
The woman had listened to the conversation attentively. “Oh, for years. Many years. He was a client of Pa Manie’s for a long time.”
“Five years? Ten?”
“Yes, ten, easily. Maybe more.”
“You don’t keep records?”
“Not from so long ago.” Apologetically.
“Was there anything odd about his business at any time?”
“The Mick asked that as well,” said Danie Meiring. “Wanted to know whether Smit didn’t perhaps smuggle grass in his old cupboards. Or diamonds. But how would we know? We tucked ’em and trucked ’em. It’s our job.”
“Any regular clients or destinations?”
“No, we collected all over. And the off-loading as well, except for the big antique shops in Durban and the Transvaal.”
