the ledger, you’ll see that it’s the same as the debits. And the other figures are income that is entered in the ledger as credit. The difference between the two is R1,122.35. Subtract that from R15,000.00 and you get R13,877.65.”
“Aaaah…”
He pulled the ledger toward him again, paged to September 1983. The balance was minus R817.44; October: minus R674.87; November: minus R404.65; December: R312.05.
“He began making a profit in December 1983.”
“December is always a good month.”
He drew the following year’s ledger and bank statements toward him, studied them with his newfound knowledge. He made notes. The devil was in the detail. His credo. Nagel’s scorn. Wilna van As sat opposite him, her hands folded on the table, quiet. He thought briefly about what was going through the woman’s head. Later she offered tea. He accepted gratefully. She got up. He paged on. A business that grew conservatively: prices of cupboards and desks, tables and chairs, four-posters and headboards, rising steadily, a microeconomic picture of an era. In 1991 the ledger system changed to computer printouts that he had to decipher all over again, with the aid of Wilna van As.
“The houses. Is there no record of the sale of the houses?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could you find out?”
“I’ll ask the bank.”
“I’d be most grateful.”
“What does this all tell you?” she asked, indicating the figures scattered in front of him.
“I don’t know yet. Something. Maybe nothing. But let me make sure first.”
“Something?” The fear in her voice again, in her eyes.
“Let me make sure first. May I take the ID?”
“Yes,” she said, but hesitantly.
¦
On the way to Mitchell’s Plain he was in the foothills of that curious breakthrough euphoria, the Everest of insight still hidden behind mist and clouds, data stored in his head, in his notes. The columns of the investigation ledger didn’t balance yet: a theory, somewhere between the figures and the years and the information of Wilna van As the truth lay hidden. His heart now beating lightly, his head touching on this and that, he felt light as air. Fuck, fuck, fuck, it was like the old days. What was happening to him? Was it that easy? Release, liberation, freedom, walking the old roads with the compass of knowledge and procedures and instructions and senses and Nagel’s nagging voice in the back of your head?
Not likely…
Don’t think about it. Like a man climbing, don’t look down.
Did he want to climb up? Did he want to get up out of the safe, stinking shit of his existence?
Orlando Arendse’s house had been here five, six years ago. Things had changed.
Security wall with razor wire on the top, Fort Mitchell’s Plain. He stopped at the gate and got out. Behind the gate a man came walking up, large pistol holstered at his belt.
“What?”
“I’m looking for Orlando.”
“Who’re you?”
No respect anymore.
“Van Heerden.”
“SAP?” Spelling out the initials.
“Used to be.”
“Wait.”
SAP. They had always had the gift of smelling a cop, even if you were no longer official. Even if you didn’t look like a policeman. He looked at the extensive burglarproofing against the windows. Battlefield Mitchell’s Plain. Now there were gangs and Pagad – People Against Gangsterism and Drugs – and Chinese Mafia and Colombian and Nigerian cartels and Russian Mafia and solo flyers and an alphabet soup of splinter groups. No wonder the police couldn’t keep up. In his day there were only gangs – jittery teenagers and fucked-up jailbirds…
The man came back, opened the gate. “You’d better bring in the car.”
He drove in. Got out.
“Come,” said pistol-on-the-hip.
“Aren’t you going to search me?”
“Orlando says I don’t have to because you can’t hit a double-door shithouse at two yards.”
“It’s always nice to be remembered.”
In at the front door. The living room was furnished like an office. Home industry of organized crime. In the corner sat three more soldiers, while Orlando sat at a large table. Older than he remembered, gray at the temples, looking like a headmaster now, still fond of cream-colored three-piece tailor-made suits.
“Van Heerden,” Orlando said, unsurprised.
“Orlando.”
“You want something from me.” The soldiers in the corner busy with paperwork, ears pricked, ready for action.
He took the identity book out of his pocket, handed it to Orlando.
“Sit,” said Orlando, waving him to a chair. He opened the booklet, put the reading glasses that hung around his neck on a string on his nose, pulled the lamp nearer, switched it on, held the book under the light.
“I don’t do IDs any longer.”
“What do you do now, Orlando?”
“You’re not official anymore, Van Heerden.”
He grinned for a moment.
Orlando closed the book. “It’s old. And it’s not my work.”
“But it’s forged.”
Orlando nodded. “Good job. Could be Nieuwoudt’s.”
“Who’s Nieuwoudt?”
Orlando put the ID down on the table, flicked it deftly across the surface to him. “You come in here, Van Heerden, unannounced, as if I owe you. You’ve been out of the Force for five, six years. Rumor has it you’re a bottom-feeder going down. Where’s your negotiating power?”
“I don’t have negotiating power.”
Orlando stared at him, a man with brown skin and the features of a Xhosa, the unsympathetic genes of his legendary white wine-farmer father and his servant mother. “You were always honest, Van Heerden, I’ll give you that. A straight shooter as long as it’s not with a firearm.”
“Fuck you, Orlando.”
The hands of the soldiers in the corner grew still.
Orlando folded his hands in front of him, gold rings on each small finger. “You still touchy about Nagel, Van Heerden?”
“You know fuck-all about Nagel, Orlando.” His voice was high, hands shaking. He sat on the edge of the chair.
Orlando rested his chin on his folded hands, his eyes black and glistening. “Relax,” he said quietly. Soldiers holding their breath.
Steady on, struggling, can’t lose control, not now, not here, red tide slowly receding, a deep breath, felt his heart beating, slowly, slowly.
Orlando’s voice was gentle. “You’ll have to let go, Van Heerden. We all make mistakes.”
Breathe, slowly.
“Who’s Nieuwoudt?”
Orlando’s eyes and hands were quiet for a long while, measuring, thoughtful. “Charles Nieuwoudt. Boer. White trash. Been riding the slow train for ten years, even missed Mandela’s birthday-bash amnesty.”
“Forger.”
