Even if Kemp, and now she, had it all wrong.
She handed him the sheets of paper. “Marie said you wanted to know if the houses were mortgaged.”
“Yes.” He felt the discomfort of standing while talking, with furniture around them. He didn’t want her to sit down. He wanted her to leave.
“It doesn’t look like it. That’s the usual letter and account that attorneys send out after a property has been transferred to the new owner. To confirm that the registration has been completed at the Deeds Office. If there were mortgages, the accounts would have mentioned them. Generally complete figures about outstanding amounts, or the surplus, if the mortgages were larger than the purchase price.”
He stared at the documents. He didn’t quite grasp it all.
“There’s nothing about that here.”
“That’s why I think there was no mortgage.”
“Oh.”
He looked at the accounts. It established the price of the two houses. R43,000 for the business one; R52,000 for the home.
The water in the pot boiled with an explosive hiss. He turned it down.
“My timing was bad,” she said. “You’re probably expecting guests.”
“No,” he said.
“Did you discover anything about the identity document?”
He stood in the no-man’s-land of his kitchen, Hope uncomfortable among his chairs.
“You’ll have to sit down,” he said.
She nodded, gave a small smile, tucked her skirt neatly underneath her, sat down in the gray chair with the frayed arms, and looked at him expectantly and with empathy.
“Smit isn’t Smit,” he said.
She waited.
“The ID is forged.”
He saw her eyes widen slightly.
“Professional forgery. Possibly the work of one Charles Nieuwoudt, possibly done in the late seventies or early eighties.”
He would have to tell her the whole thing now. She sat there, waiting, her attention wholly fixed on him.
“There’s more,” he said. “I have a theory.”
The nod was barely visible. She was waiting, impressed.
Slowly he took a deep breath. He told her about his day, chronologically: Home Affairs. Ngwema’s phone call, his visit to Van As, the bookkeeping, the dates and amounts, Orlando, gave her an overview. Explained the mental jump based on a piece of paper that, more than fifteen years ago, held dollars together in a neat parcel, linked it to the walk-in safe. The time, all of it in 1983, the cash acquisition of two houses, the R15,000 with which the business was started. Aware that she was looking at him, he was looking past her, staring at the door, putting his theory to her.
“Sheesh,” she said when he was done. He saw her dragging her fingers through her short hair.
“Someone knew,” he said. “Everything points to the fact that someone knew. Someone with an M16 and a blowtorch arrived with premeditated intent. It’s hardly standard issue when you’re robbing a house. At the very least they had had to know that Jan Smit had a fortune in some form or other and that it would take a certain amount of persuasion to get it from him. Someone who knew him in his previous life.”
She nodded.
A wind-driven gust of rain thudded against the window.
“That means Jan Smit knew where to get a forged ID. It means he knew how to get rid of hot dollars. That means he built the safe to hide something, not for security. That means Van As never really knew him. Or she’s lying, but I don’t think so.”
He leaned back against a kitchen cupboard, folded his arms in front of him.
“You’re very good,” she said.
He tightened his arms. “It’s a theory.”
“It’s a good theory,” she said.
He shrugged. “It’s all we’ve got.”
“And tomorrow?”
He hadn’t really thought about tomorrow. “I don’t know. The dollars are the key. I want to find out who controlled the black market in currency in 1983. And who were the major drug dealers. But maybe it’s something completely different. He may have stolen the money in America. Or it could’ve been an arms transaction. Who knows, in this fucking country of ours.”
He wondered whether she would react to his language again.
“I’ll dig. There are a few places. A few people…”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“You’ll have to decide what you’re going to tell Van As.”
She got up slowly, as if she was tired. “I don’t think we’ll tell her anything.”
“It’s your choice.”
“There are too many uncertainties. We can speak to her when we have more.”
She picked up her attache case. “I have to go.”
He unfolded his arms. “I’ll phone you if I find something.”
“You have my cell phone number?”
“No,” he said.
She opened her case again, took out a card, handed it to him. Then she turned and walked to the door. He noticed that she had a pretty, rounded bottom beneath the skirt.
“I don’t have an umbrella.” A statement, almost aggressive.
She stood at the door and smiled at him. “Is that Domingo?”
“What?”
“The music.”
“No.”
“I thought it was the sound track from the movie. You know, Zeffirelli’s – ”
“No.”
“Who is it?”
She had to leave. He didn’t want to discuss music with her.
“Pavarotti and Sutherland.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“It’s the best.” Biting his tongue.
She was quiet for a moment. Then she looked at him, frowning. “You’re an odd man, Van Heerden.”
“I’m trash,” he said quickly. “Ask Kemp.” And opened the door for her. “You have to go now.”
“You did good work,” she said, and turned her head sideways against the rain and ran down the stairs. He heard her laugh, one quick sound, and then the BMW’s roof light came on when she opened the door and got in, waved to him. The door slammed and the light went off. He closed the front door.
He walked to the CD player and switched off the music. She knew fuck-all about music.
He would have to phone her in the morning. Tell her he would come to her office every day, just before she went home, for a complete report.
She mustn’t come here again.
Or he would write a report every evening and take it to her.
The telephone rang.
“Van Heerden.”
