“We did well today.”
“
“You were a great help.”
“No. I was pathetic.”
“Merely a lack of experience.”
“It was your idea, Van Heerden. Your plan. And it worked.”
He was quiet for a moment, enjoying the praise.
“Do you really think Powell is American Secret Service?”
“Something like it.”
“Why?”
“Regular consular people don’t do things like that. They don’t walk in and offer to assist with a crime investigation. They are reactive, polite, careful not to interfere in household affairs. And if there was a real need to help, they work through official channels.”
“He looks like someone’s uncle.”
“They all do.”
“Except for the two from Military Intelligence.”
He smiled at her. “That’s true.”
“Everything for tomorrow is organized. I’m meeting Mrs. de Jager in Bloemfontein and she is flying back with me.”
“You asked her about the things she has to bring?”
“I did. She will.”
“Thank you. There’ll be publicity again. I spoke to the
“I’ll bring Wilna van As up to date. On my way home.”
“Good.”
She nodded. “Zatopek,” she said softly, almost experimentally.
He grinned. “Yes?”
“There is something serious I have to discuss with you.”
¦
He put on the Sinfonia Concertante, K. 364, for violin, viola, and orchestra, turned up the sound, the sweet, triumphant notes filling his dark house and blotting out the howling northwester. He ate leftovers, spaghetti and then the tangy chicken livers, sitting in his battered armchair, notes on the table in front of him.
Hope wanted him to hand over the case to the police.
He had refused. And dished up excuses. They worked on hundreds of cases at once. He had focus. They had procedures and restraints; he was free. If they were so good,
“Please,” she had said again. She was scared, he could see that, scared of the sudden twists, the strange groups involved, scared of the possibility that a psychopath called Bushy was going to get them.
He had refused.
Because he had to.
¦
She couldn’t concentrate on the book.
She put it back on the bedside table and leaned back against the cushions.
Wilna van As had cried again. Out of gratitude. In anticipation of the meeting with Carolina de Jager the following day. From fear of the skeletons of the past. From longing for her Johannes Jacobus Smit, who had become Rupert de Jager, someone whom she didn’t know.
“Would you like to spend the night with me?” Hope had asked, looking at the large, cold house.
“No,” Wilna van As said.
Hope had stayed as long as she could, until the other woman had realized and said she should go, tomorrow was going to be a long day.
And underlying it all was the knowledge that couldn’t be ignored.
Something had changed today. Between her and Zatopek van Heerden. Between them.
They had laughed together, heartily and honestly, even exuberantly, when she had sworn – goodness gracious, where had that word come from? She hadn’t known she had it in her, but he had laughed and looked at her and in that moment he was someone else, all the anger, the unapproachability, suddenly gone.
And he had knocked. And spoken to her calmly. When she had shared her fear, when she had said that the police should take over.
Something had changed today…
There was a knock at her door and she thought it was him. She smiled – it was becoming a habit, these late-night visits – put on her dressing gown, her teddy-bear slippers, shuffled to the front door, peered responsibly through the spy hole and saw Black and White, two peas in a pod, and said, “What do you want?”
“We have to talk, Miss Beneke.”
“Go and talk to Van Heerden – he’s in charge of the case.”
“He works for you, Miss Beneke.” Suddenly “Miss Beneke”; this morning it had been nothing, simply arrogance. She sighed, unlocked the door.
They smiled politely at her, walked into the living room. She followed.
“Sit down,” she said. They sat down next to each other on the couch. She sat in the chair.
“Pretty place,” said Black with forced appreciation. White nodded his agreement. Hope said nothing.
“Miss Beneke, we were a trifle impetuous this morning,” White said feelingly.
“Thoughtless,” said Black.
“We don’t often work with civilians,” said White.
“Out of practice,” said Black.
“We appreciate the work you’ve done,” said White.
“Unbelievable,” said Black.
“But we would be neglecting our duty if we didn’t warn you that there are a number of very dangerous people involved.”
“Psychopathic murderers,” said Black. “People who kill without compunction. People who could do the South African government a great deal of harm. And still wish to do so. And we’re a young democracy.”
“We can’t afford it,” said White.
“We don’t want to expose you to the danger,” said Black. “It’s our task to keep you safe.”
“To contain the war to the front.”
“As we understand it, you’re looking for a will.”
“A noble crusade.”
“If we promise, on behalf of the state, to find the document when all those involved are under control…”
“We want to ask if you at least won’t defer the investigation.”
“Until all danger has been removed.”
“Purely for your own safety.”
“And the security of our young democracy.”
“Please.”
She looked at them. They looked at her expectantly, on the edge of the couch, two large, powerful men with impressive jaws and shoulders, fighting hard against natures that usually barked orders, and she suddenly wanted to laugh, with the same exuberance she had shared with Van Heerden, and in that moment she knew why he hadn’t wanted to hand the case to either the police or Military Intelligence, understood the change in him, and she said: “No, thank you, thank you very much, we appreciate it and I’m sure our young democracy appreciates it, but there is one problem attached to handing you the case, which makes it impossible.”
“What?” they said in unison.
“If you’re so serious about protecting us all, why wasn’t Bushy Schlebusch put behind bars a long time ago?”
