him, just another vehicle passing, he was driving fast, the truck still faster, and then it swung into him, against the bumper and the right front wheel of the car. Perhaps there was immediate damage, because he had lost control, Lord, the roll was so quick, the disoriented Steve Mzimkhulu hadn’t said a word, didn’t make a sound, only breaking glass and metal on tarmac, rolling, rolling, rolling, and then the Corolla lay on its roof and he hung there and heard the footsteps and the voice of Bushy Schlebusch.
How did he know?
It still existed. The document was somewhere, but no one had said anything about a will. Not in the
Only he and Hope and Wilna van As and Murder and Robbery.
Wilna van As.
Nougat O’Grady had been suspicious of her.
There was hatred in that voice, pure, intense hatred.
How was he going to protect her? How was he going to do his work and protect her against Schlebusch?
He had followed him in the truck. From the office? For how long had he watched? How had Schlebusch known what he looked like, what kind of car he drove?
Probably not too difficult to find out if you wanted to.
He had to protect his mother. He had to find Schlebusch before Schlebusch found them. He had to fight Military Intelligence’s court interdict.
How did Schlebusch know about the will? Because it was among the stolen goods, among the dollars and the documents of Rupert de Jager/ Johannes Jacobus Smit, and he had reached a conclusion?
Or because Wilna van As had spoken to him?
And if it was gone, why continue with the investigation?
A gun against his head. Why hadn’t Schlebusch shot him?
Had he seen other vehicles stopping? Or had it never been the aim to eliminate – merely to frighten?
His first responsibility was to protect her.
He looked at her sitting in the chair next to the hospital bed.
Had to protect her first.
And then get Military Intelligence off his back. Which probably wouldn’t be too difficult.
And then find Schlebusch.
The man with the long blond hair running away, getting into the truck, but there was something…
The left-hand drive…
Perhaps he had lied about the will. Perhaps it was still somewhere. And if it no longer existed…
There were dollars.
Chaos.
¦
They were all there: Bester Brits and a new man, Brigadier Walter Redelinghuys, steel gray crew cut, square jaw, O’Grady and Joubert, Hope Beneke, his mother, the doctor. He came out of the bathroom dressed in the clothes his mother had brought and they were all there.
“It’s a homicide, sir, and therefore it’s our case.”
“It’s got nothing to do with you. It’s our man who’s dead.” Staking out territory on the grounds of murder. As he walked in, everyone was quiet for a moment. He looked at Hope, hoping for an indication of the whereabouts of Carolina de Jager. She gave a small nod, knew what he wanted. Relief.
“We want a statement, Van Heerden,” said O’Grady.
“I forbid you to speak to them,” said Bester Brits, and he turned to Joubert: “You got your orders from high up. Why are you messing around?”
Mat Joubert stood in the doorway, filling the space with his height. “The orders changed this morning,” he said calmly. “Speak to your boss.”
“I’m his boss,” said Square Jaw, “Walter Redelinghuys,” extending his hand to Van Heerden. “Brigadier.”
“Van Heerden.”
“I know. How do you feel this morning?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” said the doctor, a startled young man with a mustache and a small beard and large pebble glasses, a different one from last night’s. “You’ll have to wait outside until I’ve finished the examination,” he said without conviction.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” said Van Heerden.
“Then I want to take down a statement,” said fat Inspector Tony O’Grady.
“No, you don’t,” said Bester Brits.
“Stop it!” said his mother in a sharp and decisive voice, and a silence fell. “You’re like children. You should be ashamed of yourself. A man died yesterday afternoon and you’re squabbling like a lot of schoolboys. Have you no respect?”
He saw Hope at that moment, her small, secret smile.
“Tell me,” said Joan van Heerden, “did he have a wife and children?”
“Yes,” said Walter Redelinghuys. “Three children.”
“Who’s with them? Who’s looking after them? Who’s comforting them? I don’t know where you all fit in, but that’s where you should be now.”
“Mrs. van Heerden,” said Redelinghuys, weightily and conciliatorily, “you’re right. But there is also a murderer out there and national security is involved and – ”
“National security? What an absurd concept. What does it mean, General…”
“Brigadier,” said Bester Brits.
“Be quiet,” said Joan van Heerden. “You and your big, empty words.”
“It was Schlebusch,” said Van Heerden, and they all looked at him.
“Doctor, you’ll have to excuse us,” said Bester Brits, and, taking the young man’s arm, guided him to the door, the eyes behind the pebble glasses huge, but he made no objection, allowed himself to be led out, and the door closed.
“Who is Schlebusch?” asked Mat Joubert.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Brits. “Privileged information.”
“You can choose,” said Van Heerden, the old rage coming back. “You can stay here and bark like lapdogs and I’m going home, or you can shut up and listen. One interruption and I leave. One more reference to national security and I leave.” He pointed at Brits. “You’ve got something you want to cover up and I’m telling you I don’t want to know what it is. What happened in ’seventy-six doesn’t matter to me, and you can keep your secrets. But I have a job to do and I’m going to do it because I hold all the aces. Forget about your court interdict because you can’t stop this thing now. How are you going to keep Carolina de Jager quiet if she goes to the Sunday papers and starts asking questions about why, more than twenty years ago, she was informed of the death of her son and given a medal but he wasn’t dead? What are you going to do if Hope Beneke applies for an urgent interdict today to fight your gag and she invites every newspaper in the Cape to the hearing? Can you imagine the headlines?”
Bester Brits was agitated, uncomfortable, and itching to speak.
“I don’t want to hear a word, Brits, or I leave.”
He looked up at them, and they looked down.
“We know Johannes Jacobus Smit was Rupert de Jager. We know he and Bushy Schlebusch and another man did something for you in 1976 and I can only guess at the unholy shit that was involved. I don’t know where the
