A week after my return, I went to Klerksdorp to beg for the official Marnewick dossier, armed with a letter from the professor and the commissioner and all the manipulative charm I possessed.
It took another two weeks before I sent out the other letters because it took that long to get all the names and addresses of every officer in charge of every Murder and Robbery Unit in the country.
I rewrote the letter to them five or six times. The balance had to be right: an academic request, a pricking of professional curiosity, just another servant of justice – without insinuating that I was one of them, because I knew the brotherhood, the unique ties that were formed in a daily round of death and violence and scorn.
The letter, apart from the well-considered opening, contained the salient points of Baby Marnewick’s death and asked for information on similar murders between the years 1975 and 1985 with all the possible variations on the theme, a la Quantico.
And then I went back to the books and the notes and the theory of my thesis but merely to make the time spent waiting for information pass more easily.
“What’s wrong with you, Zet?”
I’m certain that Wendy, at the very least, had an intimation of the threat.
I hadn’t told her about my and Baby Marnewick’s past history. As far as she was concerned, it was an academic, scientific process that would lead to a doctorate and a step nearer to her dream. Professor and Mrs. van Heerden.
What would we call our children? Her father’s and mother’s names (Gordon and Shirley) and my Afrikaans surname? Not that I worried about it.
I’m losing the thread.
“Is there someone else?”
There was. Behind a wooden fence, six feet under.
But how to explain that?
“No. Don’t be silly.”
? Dead at Daybreak ?
29
Hallo, is that the crime number?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a reward?”
“It depends on the kind of information you have, madam.”
“What’s the size of the reward?”
“There is no official reward, madam.”
“My ex did it. He’s an animal, I tell you.”
“Why do you think he did it?”
“He’s capable of anything.”
“Is there anything that connects him to this case?”
“I know he did it. He never pays his alimony…”
“Does he own an M16 rifle, madam?”
“He has a gun. I don’t know what kind.”
“Is it an attack rifle, madam? A machine gun?”
“He hunts with it.”
That was the first call.
“It was my father.”
“Who?”
“The murderer.”
“Is there anything that connects him to the murder?”
“He’s a monster.”
That was the second call.
Hope was waiting for him at the front of the building at a quarter to six in the morning. She unlocked the office and showed him the empty room with the telephone on the bare desk. He asked for writing paper. She brought it. They didn’t speak much.
The phone rang at seven minutes past six.
Hope listened to the first twelve calls, got up, went out. He drew three-dimensional squares on the paper in front of him.
“Hallo.”
“Jesus, Van Heerden, what the fuck is this?”
O’Grady.
“I didn’t write that piece, Nougat.”
“You stabbed me in the back, you bastard. Do you know how this makes me look?”
“I’m sorry…”
“That doesn’t cut it, asshole. The super wants to fire me. He’s fucking furious. I trusted you, you – ”
“Did you read the whole thing, Nougat? Did you see what I said?”
“That doesn’t make much difference. You should have come to me with the fucking evidence, Van Heerden. You have no loyalty.”
“Come on, Nougat. We’ve got three days in which to find the will. If I had taken it back to you – ”
“Bullshit, Van Heerden. You made me look like a cunt.”
“I’m sorry, Nougat. That wasn’t the intention. I’ve got a job to do.”
“Fuck you.”
Hope brought more coffee, listened to more conversations. Three jokers. Two useless calls accusing family members. She left again.
He waited patiently. He doodled. He had known there would be primarily useless callers. The sickness out there was widespread.
But perhaps…
At 9:27 she opened the door. There was something different in her eyes. Worry?
Two men followed her into the room – dark suits, short hair, broad shoulders. One black, one white. The white one was older, in his late forties, early fifties. The black man was younger, bigger.
“This is Van Heerden,” said Hope.
“Can I help you?”
“We’ve come to terminate the investigation,” said White.
“Who are you?”
“A messenger.”
“From whom?”
“Won’t you sit down?” asked Hope. Her frown deepened.
“No.”
Van Heerden got up. The black man was taller. “This investigation is not terminable,” Van Heerden said, his temper flaming.
“It is,” said Black. “National security.”
“Bullshit,” said Van Heerden.
“Easy does it,” said White. “We come in peace.” There was a calm in him, authority.
The telephone rang. They all stared at the instrument.
“Do you have identification?” Hope asked.
“You mean one of those little plastic cards?” Black asked with a small smile.
The telephone rang.
“Yes,” Hope said.
“That’s only for people in the movies, miss,” said White.
“You have five minutes to leave this room…” said Van Heerden.
