His enthusiasm for the task was great. He opened the garage door and chose the tools. Everything, except a few screwdrivers and the lawnmower, was covered in a thick layer of dust.
Some of the tools had belonged to his father. His father, who had used them hastily but with precision and impatience. No, they must teach you at school how to use these things. Here youll just get hurt. And your mother will be cross with me.
Joubert walked to the second bedroom again to use his new tape measure. He made a new sketch on paper. He fetched another apple in the kitchen and went to fetch the drill and the metal strips. The electric drill had no plug. He put on the new one with a feeling of deep satisfaction. He measured where the holes for the screws had to be made. Then it occurred to him that he needed a spirit level.
No, he wasnt going to drive out again. He would measure carefully, using the corner of the room as a guideline. He started working.
When he had drilled all the holes, he fetched the portable radio out of Laras nightstand. There were always new batteries in her drawer. He looked. They were still there. He slotted them into the radio and switched it on. He turned the tuner past a few music stations until he found RSG, the Afrikaans station. Two men were delivering a cricket commentary. He carried the radio to the garage because he had to do the sawing.
The radio played a cut of pumping concertina, the rhythms of
boeremusiek.
It recalled memories. His father never listened to cricket. But in the time before television he listened to rugby commentaries on a Saturday afternoon. And swore at the commentators and the players and the referee when Western Province lost. After the game, before they switched to other stadiums for summaries, there was always a snatch of boeremusiek or a band. That was the signal for his father to go and have his Saturday-evening drink in the bar of the Royal. And Joubert had to lay the fire because on Saturday evenings they had a barbecue. Sometimes he had to keep feeding the fire with rooikrans logs until late at night because his father allowed no one else to barbecue the meat. Its a mans job.
At the start he had enjoyed fetching his father in the bar. He had liked the warmth of the place, the camaraderie, the good-natured friendship, the respect the people there had for his father.
He started sawing. The sweat ran down his forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and left a dirty mark on his face.
Over the sound of the saw he heard the commentator say: Zeelie from the opposite side. Hes at the wicket now. And Loxton plays that one defensively back to the bowler . . .
Zeelie, the great white hope as suspect. He had never asked Gail Ferreira whether her husband had known Zeelie. But he was reasonably certain what the answer would be.
Three inexplicable murders. With nothing in common. A family man, a gay, and a cripple. A promiscuous heterosexual, a conservative homosexual, and a blue movies addict. Married, unmarried, married. Businessman, goldsmith, unemployed.
There was no connection.
There was one connection the bare fact that there was no connection.
A murderer who without any pattern, without rhyme or reason, in the late afternoon, early morning, or middle of the night, pulled the trigger and took a life. How did he choose his victims? Eeny, meeny, miny, mo . . . Or did he see someone in the street and follow him home because he didnt like his face or clothes?
It had happened before. Here. Overseas. It drove the media crazy because people wanted to read about it. It woke a primitive fear: death without reason, the most fearful of all fates. And the police were powerless because there was no pattern. The great crime prevention machines fuel was the observable pattern, like an established modus operandi or a comprehensible motive. Like sex. Or avarice. But if the observable pattern was missing, or its octane too low, the great machine came to a sighing halt. Its tank empty. It had trouble in restarting.
And if the driver was Captain Mat Joubert to boot . . .
All he needed was one small lead that didnt disappear like mist before the sun when you gave it a sharp look. Just one. A small one.
He picked up a plank to take to the spare room to fit it. Before he was out of the garage he heard Zeelie bowling Loxton for a duck.
22.
T
he news editor of the
Weekend Argus
paged through the Saturday edition. He was looking for follow-ups for the Sunday edition news that hadnt had the last bit of blood squeezed out of it. So that he could assign reporters to do just that.
He paged from the back to the front, past the copy on page six under the small headline SEA POINT WOMAN DIES IN FALL.
He didnt read the details because he knew the contents. He had, after all, checked the new reporters work.
A 32-year-old Sea Point secretary, Ms. Carina Oberholzer, sustained fatal injuries when she fell from her thirteenth-story flat in Yates Road.
Ms. Oberholzer, an employee of Petrogas in Rondebosch, was alone in her flat at the time.
According to a police spokesman, foul play is not suspected. We believe it was a tragic accident.
The news editor turned to page two, where there were a few run-on stories about the Mauser murder. Tucked into the unattractive nonmodular page makeup, there was a half-column photo of Captain Mat Joubert.
And, as he told the crime reporter of the
Argus
sometime later, it rang a bell somewhere. He picked up the receiver next to him and dialed an internal number, waited until someone answered.
Hi, Brenda. I need a file, pronto, please. M.A.T. Joubert. Captain, Murder and Robbery. He thanked her and rang off. Eight minutes later the brown file landed on his desk. He shifted the telexes in front of him out of the way, opened the file, and quickly paged through the contents as if he was looking for something. Then he gave a sigh of relief and extracted a somewhat yellowing
Argus
report and read it.
He got up, the copy in his hand, and walked to the crime reporters desk in the general news office. Did you know that this guys wife died in the line of duty? he asked and handed over the evidence.
No, said Genevieve Cromwell, who despite her name was an unprepossessing, unattractive woman. She shifted her glasses.
Could be a nice story. Human interest angle. Two years after, still pursuing justice, still wearing the tragedy, that sort of shit.
Genevieves face brightened. Yeah, she said. He might have a new girlfriend.
Dont go starry-eyed on me, the news editor said. Lets do something so comprehensive that theres nothing left for the others. Talk to him, his boss, his friends, his neighbors. Hit the files, dig a little.
Hes a nice man, you know.
Ive never met him.
Hes a nice man. Sort of shy.
Get that fucking romantic look off your face, dear, and get going.
And handsome, too, in a big cuddly bear kind of way.
Jesus, he said, shook his head in disgust, and walked back to his office. But Genevieve didnt hear her boss blaspheming. She stared at the ceiling, seeing nothing.
* * *
Joubert made his second little error when he was putting a screw through the metal strip into the wall.
When it still had a quarter way to go, the screw refused to budge. He decided to give the screw a little help with a few taps of the hammer. This was a wrong decision, because the hole he had drilled earlier simply wasnt deep enough.
When he tapped the screw with the hammer it broke, plastic anchor and all, together with a hefty piece of plaster.
Joubert, who wasnt in Gerbrand Voss league, said something that wouldve cheered his colleagues heart. Emily, ironing in the kitchen, heard it. She smiled and put her hand in front of her mouth.
* * *
Cloete of public relations phoned just after a quarter past five on the Saturday afternoon.
Bart de Wit was playing chess with Bart Junior. But he didnt mind the invasion of his time because he was losing.
Sorry to bother you at home, Colonel, but the
Argus
has just phoned me. They want to do a major story on Captain Joubert. Because hes investigating the murders and the bank robberies. Interview with you, with members of his team, with him, his previous cases, the whole tutti.
De Wits first thought was that the newspaper knew something.
It could happen. He thought. Reporters dug up information in impossible places. And now they were suspicious.
No, de Wit said.
Colonel?
No. Under no circumstances. Over my dead body.
Cloetes heart sank. He waited for the colonel to offer some explanation. But Bart de Wit said nothing. Eventually Cloete said he would inform the
Argus
and said good-bye. Why had he ever accepted this post? It was impossible to keep every officer and every member of the press happy at the same time.
He sighed and phoned the reporter.
* * *
Joubert had all four screws secured to the wall.
He stood back and had a look. The hole where the plaster had fallen off the wall was unsightly. He saw that not all the strips were level. His eye, without the spirit level, had not been all that accurate.
You are not a handyman, he acknowledged resignedly. But once the books were on the shelves they would virtually cover the strips. But right now he needed a cigarette. And a Castle . . . No, not a Castle. A pear?
Whats happening to you? he said loudly.
Mr. Mat? Emily asked in the kitchen.
* * *
Bart de Wit Junior won the game easily because his fathers thoughts were not on chess.
His fathers mind was working at top speed. The big question was whether the newspapers knew about Jouberts psychological treatment and the black marks on his record. And if they knew, how did they know?
But if he presumed that they might not know, what were the chances of their finding out?
Theyre like hyenas, he thought. They would gnaw and bite at the bone until it snapped and they could get to the juicy marrow of the story, which they would then suck with a great noise.
Whether they knew or not, he was going to take Captain Mat Joubert off the investigations. On Monday morning.
Not a pleasant task but it was part of a leaders work. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made so that the law could take its course.
Rather give the cases to Gerbrand Vos.
It was like a weight off his shoulders. He felt relieved. He applied his concentration to the board in front of him.
Checkmate, said Bart Junior and rubbed his finger alongside his nose. There was no mole there.
* * *
He took Mrs. Nofomela to the bus terminus at Bellville station by car and drove home. He was physically tired, he felt dirty and sweaty, and he was hungry. The more he thought about his hunger, the more it grew.
He decided that he needed a good meal. Not junk food. He would go to a decent restaurant. For a steak, thick and brown and juicy, a fillet that melted in the mouth, with . . .
No, he would have to stick to fish. For the diet. Kingklip. A large, fat slice of kingklip with lemon butter sauce. No, sole, the way they prepared it at the Lobster Pot grilled, with a cheese and mushroom sauce.
His mouth filled with saliva. His stomach growled like far-off thunder. When last had he been this hungry? Really hungry, with that slight light-headedness, that sharp readiness for the taste of food, the pleasure of satiety? He couldnt remember.
He bathed and dressed and drove to the restaurant. When he sat down he knew it had been the wrong thing to do.
It wasnt the eyes staring at the big man sitting alone that upset him. It was the sudden realization, when he looked at the couples who sat at tables talking softly and intimately, that he was alone.
He gobbled his sole because he wanted to get away. Then he drove home. He heard the telephone at the door. He walked quickly, with a heavy tread, and picked up the receiver.
Hello, Captain Joubert?
He recognized the voice. Hello, Dr. Nortier.
Do you remember that I spoke about social groups?
Yes.
Tomorrow morning were going to the Friends of the Operas preview of
The Barber
. Its at eleven oclock in the orchestras practice room at the Nico. Youre very welcome to join us.
Her voice sang and danced over the electronic distance between them. He saw her features in his minds eye.
I . . . er . . .
You dont have to decide now. Think about it.
