Devil's Peak (29 page)

* * *

Pagel phoned him before eight to say indications were that the Uniondale assegai was the same blade, but he would have to wait for the tissue samples being brought by car from Oudtshoorn. Griessel thanked the prof and called his team together in the task team room.
“There have been a few interesting developments,” he told them.
“Uniondale?” asked Vaughn Cupido with a know-it-all smirk.
“It was on Kfm news,” said Bushy Bezuidenhout, just to spoil Cupido’s moment.
“What did they say?”
“It’s all Artemis, Artemis, Artemis,” said Cupido. “Why must the media always give them a name?”
“It sells newspapers,” said Bezuidenhout.
“But this is radio . . .”
“What did they say?” asked Griessel louder.
“They said there is a suspicion that it is Artemis but that it can’t be confirmed,” said Keyter piously.
“Our assegai man is black,” said Griessel. That shut them up. He described what they knew of the sitting-room battle in the small town. “Then there is the question of the tire tracks from yesterday. Forensics says he drives a pickup, probably a two-by-four. Not yet a breakthrough, but it helps. It can help us focus . . .” He saw Helena Louw shaking her head. “Captain, you don’t agree?”
“I don’t know, Inspector.” She got up and crossed over to the notice board on the wall. There were newspaper clippings in tidy rows, separated into sections by pinned strands of different colored knitting wool.
“We researched the publicity surrounding each of the victims,” she said and pointed at the board. “The first three were in all the papers, and probably on the local radio too. But when we heard about Uniondale this morning we had a look.”
She tapped a finger on the single report in a red-wool section. “It was only in
Rapport.
”
“So what’s your point, sister?” asked Cupido.
“Afrikaans, genius,” said Bushy Bezuidenhout. “
Rapport
is Afrikaans. Blacks don’t read that paper.”
“I get it,” said Jamie Keyter, followed by: “Sorry, Benny.”
“Colored,” said Griessel. “Maybe he’s colored.”
“We colored chaps are always handy with a blade,” said Cupido proudly.
“Or it could just have been very dark in that house,” said Griessel.
Joubert appeared at the door with a somber face and beckoned Griessel to come out. “Excuse me,” he said and left. He shut the door behind him.
“You’ve got four days, Benny,” said the senior superintendent.
“The commissioner?”
Joubert nodded. “It’s just the political pressure. He sees the same dangers I do. But you have till Friday.”
“Right.”
“Jesus, Benny, I don’t like it. The risks are too high. If it goes bad . . . If you want to get the assegai man you will have to use the media. Organized Crime is highly pissed. The child is still missing. There’s just too much—”
“Matt, I will
make
it work.”
They looked each other in the eyes.
“I will make it work.”

* * *

He took ten of the uniformed members of the task team along with Bezuidenhout, Cupido and Keyter and they drove in four cars to the house in Shanklin Crescent, Camps Bay to investigate the lay of the land.
He knew the problem was the rear of the castle-like dwelling. It was built against the mountain, with a plastered wall to keep trespassers out, but it was less than two meters tall—and it was a large area.
“If he comes here and spots us, he’ll disappear—we won’t find him in the bushes. So the men lying here must not be seen, but must be able to see everything. If you see him, you must allow him to get over the wall. Everyone understand?”
They nodded solemnly.
“If I were him, I would come down the mountain. That’s where the cover is. The street is too problematic, too open. Only two entry points and it’s practically impossible to get into the house from that side. So we will deploy most of our people on the mountain.”
He checked his street map. “Kloof Nek runs up above, on the way to Clifton. If he doesn’t park there, he will at least drive up and down a few times. Which of you can handle a camera?”
Keyter raised his hand like a keen prep-school boy.
“Only Jamie?”
“I can try,” said a black constable with alert eyes.
“What’s your name?”
“Johnson Madaka, Inspector.”
“Johnson, you and Jamie must find a spot where you can watch the road. I want photos of every pickup that passes. Jamie, talk to the photography guys about cameras. If you have trouble, phone me.”
“Okay, Benny,” said Keyter, pleased with his task.
He divided them into two teams—one for day and one for night. He determined every point on the street and against the mountain that would be manned. He asked Bezuidenhout to find out if any house in the street was empty, and whether they could use it. “I’m going to talk to Cloete. The media should start humming by tonight. All of you go home and rest, but at six I want the night shift in place.

* * *

He walked into Joubert’s office and found Cloete and the senior superintendent wearing graveyard faces. Cloete said: “I want you to know that I had nothing to do with this, Benny.”
“With what?” he asked and Cloete handed him the
Argus.

COP SCRAP OVER ARTEMIS

Front page.
“They haven’t got news, that’s the fucking problem,” said Cloete.
He read the article.

* * *

Senior police officials are up in arms over the appointment of a confirmed alcoholic as leader of the task team investigating the Artemis vigilante murders in the Peninsula. A source within the senior ranks of the SAPS called it “a huge blunder” and “a mess-up just waiting to happen.”
The top cop in the firing line is veteran Serious and Violent Crimes Unit Detective Inspector Bennie Griessel, who was reportedly admitted to Tygerberg Hospital just a fortnight ago after an alleged drinking binge. A hospital spokesperson confirmed that Griessel had been admitted, but declined to comment on his illness.

* * *

“Fuck,” said Griessel, and all he could think about were his children.
“Benny . . .” said Joubert and Griessel knew what was coming and said: “You’re not taking me off this case, Sup.”
“Benny . . .”
“Not a fock, Matt. Not a fock, you won’t take me off.”
“Just give me a chance . . .”
“Who are these cunts?” he asked Cloete. “Who gave them this?”
“Benny, I swear I don’t know.”
“Benny,” said Joubert. “This is not my call. You know I wouldn’t take you off if it was my call.”
“Then I’m coming along to the commissioner.”
“No. You have enough to do. You have to get the media sorted. Go. Let me talk to the commissioner.”
“Don’t take me off, Matt. I’m telling you.”
“I will do my best.” But Griessel could read his body language.

* * *

He struggled to concentrate on his strategy with Cloete. He wanted to know who the shits were who had sold him out to the press. His eyes strayed back to the copy of the
Argus
lying on Cloete’s desk.
Jamie Keyter, the well-known newspaper informant? He would kill him, the little shit. But he had his doubts: it was too political for Keyter, too sophisticated. It was interdepartmental. Organized Crime must have got wind of his plans. That was what he suspected. He had four people from Domestic Violence in his task team. And Domestic Violence fell under OC in the new structure, God knows why. Was Captain Helena Louw the tattle tale? Perhaps not her. One of the other three?
When he had finished with Cloete, he drove into the city. He bought a newspaper at a streetlight and parked in a loading zone in Caledon Street. The SAPS Unit for Organized Crime was located in an old office building just around the corner from Caledon Square. He had to take the lift up to the third floor and he could feel the pressure of rage inside him and he knew he must slow down or he would stuff up everything. But what did it matter, they were going to pull him anyway.
He walked in and asked the black woman at reception where he could find Boef Beukes and she asked, “Is he expecting you?”
“For sure,” he said with emphasis, newspaper in hand.
“I’ll find out if he can see you.” She reached out for the telephone and he thought what shit this was, policemen hiding behind secretaries like bank managers, and he slapped his ID card down in front of her and said, “Just show me where his office is.”
With wide-open eyes that clearly showed her disapproval, she said, “Second door on the left,” and he walked out down the corridor. The door was open. Beukes sat there with his fucking ridiculous little Western Province hat. There was another detective present, seated, collar-and-fucking-tied, and Griessel threw the newspaper down in front of him and said: “Was it your people, Boef?”
Beukes looked up at Griessel and then down at the paper. Griessel stood with his hands on the desk. Beukes read. The detective in the suit just sat and looked at Griessel.
“Ouch,” said Beukes after the second paragraph. But not terribly surprised.
“Fuck ouch, Boef. I want to know.”
Beukes pushed the newspaper calmly back to him and said: “Why don’t you sit down a moment, Benny?”
“I don’t want to sit.”
“Was I ever a backstabber?”
“Boef, just tell me—do you guys have anything to do with this?”
“Benny, you insult me. There are only ten or twelve of us left from the old days. Why would I nail you? You should look for traitors at Violent Crimes. I hear you are one big happy family there after all the affirmative action.”
“You are pissed, Boef, about Sangrenegra. You have the motive.” He glanced at the other detective sitting there with a taut face.
“Motive?” Beukes queried. “Do you think we really care if you keep Sangrenegra busy for a few days? Do you think it makes a difference to us . . . ?”
“Look me in the eyes, Boef. Look me in the eyes and tell me it wasn’t you.”
“I understand that you’re upset. I would have been too. But just calm down so you can think straight; was I ever a backstabber?”
Griessel examined him. He saw the mileage on Beukes’s face. Police miles. He had them too. They had been together in the dark days of the eighties. Copped the same deal, ate the same shit. And Beukes had never been a backstabber.

* * *

Griessel sat in the back of the courtroom and waited for the moment when the state prosecutor said, “The state does not oppose bail
per se,
your honor.” He watched Sangrenegra and saw his surprise, how he stiffened beside his lawyer.
“But we do ask that it be set at the highest possible figure, at least two million rand. And that the defendant’s passport be held. We also ask the court to rule that the defendant reports to the Camps Bay Police Station every day before twelve noon. That is all, Your Honor.”
The magistrate shuffled papers around, made some notes, and then he set bail at two million rand. Lawyer and client conferred under their breath and he wished he knew what was said. Just before Sangrenegra left the court, his eyes searched the public benches. Griessel waited until the Colombian spotted him. And then he grinned at him.
Sangrenegra’s shoulders sagged, as if a great burden had come to rest on them.

* * *

He was on the way to Faizal’s pawnshop in Maitland when Tim Ngubane phoned him.
“The blood in Sangrenegra’s BMW belongs to the kid. The DNA matches,” he said.
“Fuck,” said Griessel.
“So you’ll have to watch him very carefully, Benny.”
“We will,” he said and he wanted to add: if I am still on the case by tonight. He thought better of it.
“Tim, I have a suspicion Organized Crime have been after Sangrenegra longer than they let on. Just a feeling. I have just come from Beukes. He knows something. He’s hiding something.”
“What are you saying, Benny?”
“I wonder more and more whether they were following Sangrenegra before he abducted the child.”
Ngubane paused before he answered. “Are you saying they know something? About the kid?”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m just wondering. Perhaps you can try and find out. Talk to Captain Louw. She’s from Domestic Violence, but she’s working on my task team. Maybe her loyalty will be to the child. Maybe she can find out.”
“Benny, if they do know something . . . I can’t believe it.”
“I know. I’m also having trouble with it. But see it from their point of view. They are messing about with Nigerian syndicates distributing crack in Sea Point when suddenly they come across something a hundred times bigger. Something that makes them look like real policemen. Colombia. The Holy Grail. There was a shithouse full of drugs in that storeroom. If it were me, I would have gone to the national commissioner and made a stink about jurisdiction. But they just sit there. Why? They know something. They’re busy with something. And I think they have been busy with it for quite some time.”
“Geeeeez,” said Ngubane.
“But we’ll have to see.”
“I’ll go talk to the captain.”
“Tim, the number of that shrink . . . do you still have it?” asked Griessel.
“The one who was down here from Pretoria? The profiler?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll text it.”

35.

F
aizal said the bass guitar was not in the market; the rapper from Blackheath had paid up and collected it. Griessel said what he was looking for now was a CD player, nothing fancy, just something for listening to music at home.
“Car, portable, or hi-fi component?” asked Faizal.
Griessel thought about it and said portable, but with good bass.
“Portable with speakers or portable with headphones?”
Headphones would be better in the flat. Faizal took a Sony Walkman out and said: “This is the D-NE seven-ten, it can also play MP threes, sixty-four-track programmable, but the most important thing is, it has an equalizer and bass boost, the sound quality is awesome, Sarge. Great headphones. And just in case you are chilling in the bath and it falls off the soap dish, it’s waterproof too.”
“How much?”
“Four hundred, Sarge.”
“Jissis, L.L., that’s robbery. Forget it.”
“Sarge, this is brand new, slightly shop-soiled, no previous owner. Three fifty.”
Griessel took out his wallet and held two hundred-rand notes out to Faizal.
“Think of my children, Sarge,” groaned the shopkeeper. “They must eat too.”

* * *

He stood in the street beside his car with his new CD player in his hand and felt like going home, locking the door and listening to the music his son had lent him.
Because they
were
going to pull him off the case. He knew it. It was too political to keep an alky in charge. Too much pressure. The image of the Service. Even though he and the other dinosaurs like Matt Joubert talked about the Force, it was the Service now. The politically correct, criminal-procedures-regulated, emasculated and disempowered Service, where an alcoholic could not be the leader of a task team. Don’t even talk about the fucking constitutional protection of criminals’ rights. So let them pull him, let them give the whole fucking caboodle to someone else, one of the Young Turks, and he would watch from the sidelines as chaos descended.
He unlocked his car and got in. He opened the box of the CD player, shifted the plastic flap and pushed in the batteries. He leaned across and took the CD out of the cubbyhole. He scanned the titles on the back of the jewel case. Various artists performing Anton Goosen’s songs. He knew almost none of them.
“Waterblommetjies.”
Lord, that took you back. Twenty years? No. Thirty! Thirty years ago, Sonja Herholdt sang
“Waterblommetjies”
and the whole country sang along. He had a crush on her, then. A vague teenage desire. I will cherish-and-protect-and-regularly-service-you. She was so . . . pure. And innocent. Darling of the people, the Princess Di of the Afrikaners before the world knew Princess Di. With those big eyes and that sweet voice and the blonde hair that was so . . . he didn’t know what the style was called, but it was seventies cool, if anything could be “cool” back then.
He had been sixteen. Puberty in Parow. All he could think about in those days was sex. Not always about the deed itself, but how to get some. With the girls in Parow in the seventies it was well nigh impossible. Middle-class Afrikaners, the iron grip of the Dutch Reformed Church and girls who didn’t want to make the same mistakes as their mothers, so that the best a guy could do was perhaps some heavy petting in the back of the bioscope. If you were lucky. If you could draw the attention of one. So he began to play bass guitar to get their attention, since he was no athlete or academic giant, he was just another little fucker with a sprinkling of pimples and an ongoing battle with school rules to grow his hair long.
In Standard Nine at a garage party there was this four-man band, guys of his age from Rondebosch. English-speaking
Souties,
not very good, the drummer was so-so and the rhythm guitarist knew only six chords. But the girls didn’t care. He saw how they looked at the band members. And he wanted to be looked at like that. So he talked to the leader when the band took a break. He told him he played a bit of acoustic and a bit of piano by ear, but the guy said get a bass guitar, china, because everyone played six-string and drums, but bass guitarists were hard to find.
So he began to look into it and he bought a bass for a knockdown price from an army guy in Goodwood whose Ford Cortina needed new rings. He taught himself in his room, with the help of a book that he bought in Bothners in Voortrekker Road. He dreamed dreams and he kept his ear to the ground until he heard of a band in Bellville that was looking for a bass. Five-piece: lead, rhythm, drums, organ and bass. Before he knew what happened he was on the stage of an English-medium primary-school hall laying down a foundation of Uriah Heep’s “Stealin” and he sang the fucking song—he, Benny fucking Griessel, stood in front of the teen girls in an undersized T-shirt and his Afrikaans haircut and he sang, “Take me across the water, ’cause I got no place to hide, I done the rancher’s daughter and it sure did hurt his pride,” and they all looked at him, the girls looked at him with those eyes.
It only brought him one sexual experience while he was at school. What he hadn’t known was that while the band played, the guys who were dancing had the advantage. By the time the party broke up, all the girls had to go home. But it had given him the music. The deep notes he picked off the strings and via the amplifier, resonating through his whole body. The knowledge that his bass was the basis of every song, the substructure, the defining foundation from which the lead guitarist could deviate or the organist could drift away, always to return to the steadfast form that Benny laid down. Even though he knew he would never be good enough to go pro.
Unlike the police work. He knew from the start that was his thing. That was the place where all the connections came together, that was how his brain was wired.
Now they were going to pull him off the assegai case and he put the CD down and took out his phone, because he wanted to talk to the psychologist before they posted him. He wanted to test a few of his theories before they took him off.