Деон Мейер - Cobra

‘You’ll have to talk to the bodyguard people. They will have to cooperate.’

‘I agree.’

Cloete sighed. ‘I will say the investigation is in a sensitive stage, we will release more information when we’re sure it will not hinder the process. That should cover us, but they’ll know we’re hiding something.’

‘Thank you, John.’

‘Wait until the Giraffe approves it.’

Just after one, Christel de Haan and two restaurant workers brought them food – steaming plates of waterblommetjie stew. Griessel thanked her, and phoned Vusi Ndabeni and Frankie Fillander to tell them to come and eat.

Then he explained the dilemma over the kidnapping and the media to de Haan.

‘Can you request that no one talks to the press?’

‘We would have asked them anyway. Marcus is very concerned about our brand and reputation. All our wine goes to Europe.’

He thanked her, and called Cupido.

‘I have the Gmail address, Benna. Paul underscore Morris, one five. Helps us fokkol . And there’s nothing in the contract that says who Morris is, no next of kin. I don’t understand how these people do business. And you should see that Body Armour office. Grand, pappie, big bucks.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘N1, at Century City, I’m on my way to you. Found anything?’

‘Nothing. We’re nearly done, Vaughn, you can go straight to the office. Give IMC the cellphone numbers of the two bodyguards, so they can identify the cell tower and begin checking all the calls from Friday.’

‘That’s smart, Benna . . .’

‘It was Ulinda’s idea.’

‘That darkie, hey. Nobody’s fool, despite the battering.’ Radebe was a light heavyweight who had lost all four of his professional fights on points before he left the sport. It was his capacity to absorb blows that earned him his nickname of ‘ Ulinda ’, the hardy honey badger.

‘See you at the office,’ said Griessel, and rang off.

Just after dinner, he, Liebenberg, Ndabeni, Radebe, and Fillander went walking along the remainder of the farm boundary, but they found nothing. If there were tracks, the rain had washed them all away in the interim.

Just after three, when the state pathologist had come and gone, and the last ambulance had driven away, they sealed the crime scene. His colleagues went back to the office, and Griessel drove into the city to go and negotiate with Jeanette Louw of Body Armour.

He turned on the heater in the car to banish the cold and damp. The pressure of being JOC leader made him uncomfortable, so that he thought through it all, slowly and with extreme concentration. Because his head was not clear. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself. Not after all the odd looks his appearance had drawn.

He swore out loud over the stupidity of last night. Because JOC leader was an opportunity to be relevant again. He had worked so hard over the last six months to catch up, to fit in with the Hawks, to accept the whole team thing and become an efficient cog in the Hawks’ wheel. Despite the fact that he was the oldest detective in the Violent Crimes group, steeped in the traditional way of doing things.

And now he looked like this .

He would have to keep his head.

He focused on the case, ran through everything that he had seen and heard that morning. He came to the same conclusion: first they must know who Morris was.

Fuck knew, tonight he would have to get some sleep, he couldn’t look and feel like this tomorrow as well.

What worried him most, was that he had begun lying again. This time to Alexa, to Nyathi, to his colleagues. And the déjà vu that brought back all the old, bad memories of ten, eleven years ago. Anna, at that time still his wife: ‘Where have you been, Benny?’

‘At work.’ Breath reeking of alcohol, drunken eyes, swaying on his feet.

‘You’re lying, Benny,’ she would say, with fear in her voice. That is what he remembered – the fear. What was going to happen to her husband, what was going to happen to her and the children?

It had been so easy to lie to Alexa this weekend, and to Cupido this morning. The old, slippery habit was like a comfortable garment, you just slipped back into it.

In those days he could justify it. Rationalise. The stress, the trauma of inhuman violence and what that did to his head, the impossible hours, the sleeplessness, dreams, and his own phobias, that something like that could happen to his loved ones.

But no more.

He didn’t want to lie any more.

9

When he emerged from the lift on the sixteenth floor of the office building in Riebeeck Street, he saw what Vaughn meant by ‘grand, pappie, big bucks’. Bold masculine letters on the double glass doors announced BODY ARMOUR. Below that, in slim sans serif: Personal Executive Security.

He pushed open the door. The walls and luxury carpets were grey, the minimalist furniture was of blackwood, only here and there a splash of verdant green and chrome. Behind a black desk, with only a silver Apple laptop computer, a slim green telephone, and a small aluminium name-plate that said Jolene Freylinck , sat a beautiful woman – long dark hair, deep red lipstick, black blouse and skirt, elegant legs ending in black high heels.

‘You must be one of the detectives,’ she said, her voice serious, muted.

He was all too aware of how she might know this.

He nodded. ‘Benny Griessel.’

She reached out a manicured hand for the telephone, pressed a button, waited a second. ‘Detective Benny Griessel is here.’

She listened, glancing at him with a slight frown. ‘You may go in,’ she said and pointed at the black doors with the chrome handles.

He could see how upset she was. ‘Thank you.’

Jeanette Louw sat behind her blackwood desk. The jacket hung from a stand in the corner, her striped tie was loosened. She seemed older and more weary than this morning.

‘Captain,’ she greeted him. ‘Come inside. Please take a seat.’

He could hear the suppressed antagonism. He sat down in a black leather chair.

‘I understand from your colleague that you still have no leads.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘You know he’s an arsehole. And that has nothing to do with race.’

Griessel sighed. ‘He’s a very good detective.’

Louw just stared at him. He was unsure how to address her. ‘Were you in the Service?’ he asked.

‘The police?’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’ With distaste.

He was too tired to react.

‘I was the Regimental Sergeant Major of the Women’s Army College in George,’ said Louw.

He merely nodded. It would have been easier if she were a former officer. ‘It seems as though Morris has been kidnapped,’ he said.

‘So I understand.’

‘It makes things awkward with the media.’

‘Oh?’

‘The trouble is . . . We assume he’s a rich man . . .’

She grasped the point instantly. ‘Because he can afford my services.’

‘That’s right. It may be that they want ransom . . . And we don’t know whether his next of kin have been contacted by the kidnappers yet. Usually they demand that nothing appears in the press, and the police may not be contacted, or they will kill their victim.’

‘I understand.’

‘If we tell the media that there were two bodyguards, they’ll want to know who was being guarded.’

‘And who they were working for?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t want to reveal anything for now.’

She was smart. ‘Is it possible to . . . Would the families of your men understand? If we keep the names out of the media? For now?’

Louw leaned back in her chair. She rubbed a hand over her strong jaw, then said: ‘As much as it will be best for the reputation of my company not to have publicity, I would have to leave that up to the families. I owe them that at least.’