Dead at Daybreak

O’Grady and De Wit and Joubert, his body primed for action, but he had to focus here first. “Okay, Nougat, I know where you’re coming from and you have my sympathy…”

O’Grady’s face twisted in disgust and he began to say something, but Van Heerden went on.

“But just think of the facts for a moment. I had one more clue than you: the false ID. That’s all. The rest is pure conjecture and it’s pretty flimsy. The thing about the dollars was a huge leap of faith and it’s only because I looked at the way the guy set himself up in business with cash, in the early eighties. I have no corroborating evidence. So tell me, do you think your superior officers” – he pointed at De Wit and Joubert – “would have allowed you to go to the newspapers on the strength of that?”

“It’s the fucking principle, Van Heerden.”

“And the damage you did to the reputation of the SAPS, Van Heerden.”

“I’m sorry about that, Col – er…Superintendent, but it was the price I had to pay for the publicity.”

“Sold us down the river for a lousy newspaper story.”

“Bullshit, Nougat. You guys get worse publicity every day of the week because the media see you as a political tool to get at the ANC. Are you going to blame me for that as well?”

“You deliberately withheld information that we could use in the investigation of a murder, Van Heerden.”

“I’m more than prepared to share, Superintendent. But the time isn’t ripe, for obvious reasons.”

“You’re full of shit, Van Heerden.”

“Seventy-six,” said Mat Joubert.

They all stared at him.

“You stopped the Military Intelligence jokers dead in their tracks with ‘seventy-six,’ Van Heerden. What did it mean?”

He should have known Joubert wouldn’t miss a trick.

“First,” he said slowly and in a measured tone, “we’re going to reach an agreement about the sharing of information.”

O’Grady gave a scornful laugh. “Jesus, just listen to him.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to negotiate,” said Bart de Wit, his voice slightly higher, slightly more nasal.

“Let’s listen to what he suggests,” said Mat Joubert.

“But we can’t trust the motherfucker.”

“Inspector, we’ve spoken about your language before,” said De Wit.

O’Grady blew out his breath loudly. It obviously wasn’t a new topic.

“Superintendent, this is the way I see the situation,” said Van Heerden. “You have the law on your side and you can force me to reveal everything.”

“Indeed,” said Bart de Wit.

“Damn right,” said Nougat O’Grady.

“But you’re also forced to work within the confines of the regulations if you take over the investigation. If Military Intelligence pulls strings, you’ll have to cooperate. And as long as I share information, you can’t stop me carrying on the investigation.”

De Wit said nothing. Finger and mole met again.

“I suggest a partnership. A working relationship.”

“And you call the shots?” Nougat, snorting.

“Nobody calls the shots. We just do what we have to do – and share the information.”

“I don’t trust you.”

Van Heerden made a gesture that implied it didn’t bother him.

A silence fell.

¦

“Where were you?” Hope asked when he eventually opened the door. “I don’t know how to handle the calls. A man phoned to say someone was coming to attack us, and the media, the Argus and eTV, want information and – ”

“Take it easy,” he said. “I had to negotiate with Murder and Robbery.”

“A man phoned. He said Smit was De Jager.”

“Rupert de Jager,” said Van Heerden.

“You knew?”

“The call that came in when Military Intelligence was here – ”

“Military Intelligence?”

“The two clowns, black and white.”

“They were from Military Intelligence?”

“Yes. The call was from a Mrs. Carolina de Jager of Springfontein in the Free State. Rupert was her son.”

“Good gracious.”

“It seems as if it all goes back to 1976. And the Defence Force.”

“The man who phoned also spoke about ’seventy-six. He said the murderer was a Schlebusch who was with them.”

“Schlebusch,” he said, rolling the name on his tongue.

“Bushy,” she said. “That’s what he called him. Do you know about him?”

“No. It’s new. What else did the man say?”

She looked at the paper in front of her. “I didn’t handle it well, Van Heerden. I had to lie because he assumed we already knew a lot of stuff. He said Schlebusch is dangerous. He’s going to shoot us. He has an M16.”

He absorbed the information. “Does he know where Schlebusch is?”

“No, but he said Schlebusch would find us. He’s scared.”

“Did he tell you what happened in ’seventy-six?”

“No.”

“What else did he say?”

“Schlebusch…he said Schlebusch likes killing.”

He looked at her. Realized she wasn’t up to this kind of thing. She was afraid.

“What else?”

“That was all. And then the Argus phoned and eTV.”

“We’ll have to hold a news conference.”

The telephone rang again.

“Now you must answer.”

“You must go to Bloemfontein.”

“Bloemfontein?”

“Hope, you’re repeating everything I say.”

She looked frowningly at him for a moment and then she laughed self-consciously. Tension breaker.

“You’re right.”

“You must fetch Mrs. Carolina de Jager.”

He picked up the receiver.

“Van Heerden.”

“I know who the murderer is,” a woman’s voice said.

“We would welcome the information.”

“Satanists,” the woman said. “They’re everywhere.”

“Thank you,” he said, and replaced the receiver. “Another crazy,” he said to Hope.

“We’ve uncovered something nasty,” she said, her face worried.

“We’re going to solve it.”

“And the police are going to help us?”

“We’re going to share information.”

“Did you tell them everything?”

“Almost. Simply said that we suspect it has to do with the Defence Force and something that happened years ago.”