carried the music, the beauty, so there was no forewarning. That day we had talked and couldn’t stop. We sat next to the little swimming pool and later went inside and I prepared supper in her kitchen and we talked, I can’t remember what about – it wasn’t important, it was what was implied between the words and the sentences, it was the thirst for each other. We ate and talked and looked and laughed and I couldn’t believe it: the search of a lifetime, and here she was, here I was.
I didn’t touch her that evening.
But I was there again the following day after I had phoned Nagel and heard that he was making slow progress and I was glad, my first act of treason, that call, my first betrayal of my friend and colleague. “Hallo, Nagel, how’s it going?”
“Did you get the pistol?” And I went ice-cold because I had forgotten about the weapon. It was still lying around in her house.
“Yes.” And then I realized it was an excuse to go back and I stopped talking, heard that he was still going to be busy for days, that there were a few suspects but “the country members of the Force are hopeless, let me tell you,” and then I drove back to Nonnie Nagel.
The story of their marriage unfolded gradually during our conversations, the true story, not the imaginary tales Nagel would dish up to anyone who would listen.
It had been a whirlwind courtship. He was a smooth-talking lover who promised her the world, who painted a dream future for them, told her he was on his way up in the South African Police, and she was enchanted by the charm, the humor, the self-assurance. She, a junior-school teacher who had reported a burglary in her Bellville flat and found Nagel, Detective Constable Willem Nagel, the man who had the culprit behind bars within days and then used his considerable ingenuity to put her in a prison as well.
It went well for the first year or two. She worked, he worked, they went visiting, had barbecues, and sometimes went to the movies, and then when he couldn’t get her pregnant, he sent her to a doctor, time after time. Every time the message came back – she was normal, that there was nothing wrong – and every time he swore and said there had to be, and gradually he lost interest in her, in sex, and on top of it he was promoted to Murder and Robbery as sergeant, his talents recognized, his prophecy of promotion fulfilled, his hours longer and longer, endlessly longer, and the green monster of jealousy began raising its ugly head.
She said she believed he had realized that the problem of conception lay with him. Perhaps he had had tests done without her knowledge, discovered that he was infertile or had too low a sperm count. She could only guess, but something triggered the jealousy, only insinuations at first, then hints, later direct accusations, as if he was afraid that someone else would make her pregnant. That was all she could imagine – there was no other reason. And then one evening, when she was at a school concert, he came to fetch her, out of the hall, dragged her to the car, and told her she was going to be a housewife from now on, that she was going to resign, that he didn’t want to come home and find no food. His work, the tension, the hours, the stress – he needed her at home. She had cried that evening, through the night, and he had said: “Cry – it’s no use. Your place is at home.”
And then he would phone. At any hour of the day or night, and if she wasn’t home, there was trouble. No, he had never hit her, only verbal abuse.
Mornings between eight and ten were safe. He never phoned before ten, and it became her library time, and when he gave her money it was her bookshop time, the secondhand bookshops of Voortrekker Street – her book exchange circuit, she called it – and she cooked with distaste, gardened with enthusiasm, and wrote stories by hand, the manuscripts stacked high in her wardrobe. I asked her why she didn’t send them to someone and she merely shook her head and said it was fantasy, not literature, and I asked her if there was a difference, and she laughed.
That second night we succumbed to our urges. On that second night I – we – completed the betrayal, not like illicit, guilt-stricken lovers, but like released prisoners, with joy and humor and an unbearable lightness of being.
That second night and every night after that until Nagel returned.
? Dead at Daybreak ?
49
You know I have great respect for you, Van Heerden,” said Mat Joubert.
He didn’t reply, knowing what was coming.
“As far as I’m concerned you’re one of us. One of the best.” He sat on the edge of a living-room chair in Van Heerden’s house, spoke seriously. “But this morning, things changed. Now there are civilians in the firing line.”
Van Heerden nodded.
“We’ll have to take control, Van Heerden.”
He simply nodded. “Control” was a relative concept.
“We don’t want to exclude you. It’s Nougat’s case. You’ll work with him. Share all your information.”
“You already know everything.”
“Are you sure?” O’Grady’s voice was suspicious.
“Yes.” Except the call that was coming at two o’clock and the wallet in his pocket.
“This woman, Carolina de Jager. She was the mother?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to talk to her.”
“I’ll take you to her.”
“And I’ll need those photographs.”
“Yes.”
O’Grady looked sharply at him, as if gauging his sincerity.
“I’m sorry, Van Heerden,” said Joubert, as if perceiving his disappointment.
“I understand,” he said.
“How do we play the media?”
Van Heerden thought for a moment. Minutes ago he had wanted to use the newspapers and television to break Brits, to use the natural aggression of the media as his battering ram to gain information about the whole cover-up. But now, after seeing the man’s struggle, he was no longer so certain.
“Say we’re cooperating. Everyone, the Defence Force as well. Say the investigation is at a sensitive stage and we must keep back certain information. But a breakthrough is imminent. Keep them hungry.”
Joubert gave a little smile. “You should come back, Van Heerden.” He rose. “Let’s go and feed the monster.”
They walked out, stood outside. The Murder and Robbery detectives led the way to the media lines, the press suddenly moving in anticipation. Then, behind it all, Van Heerden saw a new row of cars moving along the driveway. Right in front, in a white Mercedes-Benz, was Orlando Arendse.
“I wanted to warn you,” said Tiny Mpayipheli behind him. “The boss phoned to say he’s on his way.”
¦
There was something surreal about the scene. While he was briefing the repairmen, he looked out over the smallholding. In front of his mother’s house stood Orlando Arendse’s “soldiers,” all their weapons concealed under their clothing, self-conscious and uncomfortable about the proximity of the squadron of blue police uniforms that had formed a line close to his house – and on the other side stood the cream of the SANDF, the pick of the Urban Anti-Terrorist Unit. The fourth group, the soldiers of the media, was now depleted – only the patient crime reporters who had made the connection between art and Joan van Heerden remained.
Opposite, in his house, Nougat O’Grady was questioning Carolina de Jager. Behind him, in his mother’s living room, one of the main bosses of organized crime in the Western Cape was talking to Joan van Heerden about the merits of postmodern art in South Africa while in another room a doctor was treating Wilna van As for shock.
He shook his head.
This thing.
He needed silence now, thinking time. He wanted to read the letters again, comb them for information about Venter and Vergottini. He wanted everyone to go on their way. But he would have to wait.
Orlando had come back from the hospital, said Billy was in intensive care and it didn’t look good.
