Деон Мейер - Cobra

‘From the city, aunty,’ he said.

‘And where are you going to?’

‘Stellenbosch, aunty.’

‘You swotting there?’

‘No, aunty.’

‘Then what you doing there?’

‘Going to see my sister, aunty.’

‘So what’s she doing there?’

‘She’s swotting, aunty. B.Sc. Human Life. First year.’

‘That’s a grand course, nè ? What do you do with that?’

The train lurched, and pulled out of the station.

‘There’s lots you can do, but she wants to become a doctor. She didn’t make the selection last year, now she’s trying to get in like this.’

‘A medical doctor?’

‘ Ja , aunty. She’s a slim kind , very clever.’

‘I would say so. Medical doctor nogal . And you? What do you do?’

‘I’m a pickpocket, aunty.’

She gripped her handbag more tightly for a moment, but then she laughed. ‘ Ag , you,’ she said, and bumped her elbow in his ribs. ‘What do you do, really?’

‘I’m a painter. But not pictures. Houses.’

‘I didn’t take you for a manual labourer, but that’s good honest work,’ she said, ‘for a young lat like you.’

‘So where is aunty going to?’

‘Also to Stellenbosch. Also to my sister. She struggles with gout. It’s so bad she has to go and lie down . . .’ And Tyrone Kleinbooi , dark as full-roast coffee beans, and even-featured, nodded politely and listened attentively, because he really did enjoy it. He was only vaguely aware that the rain had stopped. And that was good. Rain was bad for his industry. Pickings had been slim this month.

The modern farmyard of La Petite Margaux was higher up the mountain, minimalist, stacked glass squares held in almost invisible frames of concrete and steel.

The German owner met Griessel and Cupido at the front door, clearly disturbed. A large, bald man with the neck and shoulders of a weightlifter, he introduced himself as Marcus Frank. ‘It is a great tragedy,’ he said, with just a hint of a Teutonic accent, as he led them to the sitting room. The ceiling was two storeys high. On both sides was a wide, impressive view over mountain and valley.

Two women stood up when they came in: one, young and attractive, the other, older – with an unusual, eccentric air about her.

‘Captain Cupido, Captain Griessel, this is Christel de Haan, our hospitality manager,’ said Frank, and touched the younger woman’s arm sympathetically. Her eyes were red-rimmed behind the trendy dark-framed glasses. She gripped a tissue in her left hand and just nodded, as if she couldn’t trust her voice.

‘And this is Ms Jeanette Louw,’ he said with an inflection that was just a tad too neutral, making Griessel focus more sharply, noticing the body language. There was something in the atmosphere here that didn’t quite fit.

Louw stepped forward and put out her hand. She was possibly around fifty, with big bottle-blonde hair, a chunky frame and a strong jaw. No make-up, and she wore a man’s black designer suit, with a white shirt and red-and-white striped tie. ‘Hello,’ she said sombrely in a deep smoker’s voice, her handshake firm as she greeted the detectives.

‘Christel and I will leave you now, at Ms Louw’s request,’ said Frank. ‘We will be in my office, when you need us.’

‘No,’ said Cupido, ‘we need to talk to you now.’

‘I want to talk with you alone first,’ said the blonde woman with an air of authority.

‘Please. My office is just here.’ Frank pointed down the passage.

‘No. We don’t have time for this,’ said Cupido.

‘Those were my people in the guesthouse,’ said Louw.

‘What do you mean “your people”?’

‘Vaughn, let’s hear what she has to say.’ Griessel didn’t have the energy for a confrontation as well. And he had picked up the atmosphere between these people. Along with the loss, there was friction, a certain tension. De Haan began to cry.

Cupido nodded reluctantly. With murmured words of consolation, Marcus Frank sent his hospitality manager down the passage.

‘Sit down, please,’ said Jeanette Louw, and took a seat herself on one of the angular couches.

Griessel sat down, but Cupido remained standing with his arms folded over his chest. ‘What’s going on here?’ he asked, clearly not happy with the state of affairs.

‘I am the managing director of Body Armour, a private security company in the Cape. We rented the guesthouse, and our contract with La Petite Margaux includes an NDA. They have no—’

‘A what?’ asked Cupido.

‘A non-disclosure agreement,’ she said as though maintaining her reasonable tone with some difficulty.

‘What for?’ asked Cupido.

‘If you give me a chance, I will explain—’

‘We are working against the clock, ma’am.’

‘I realise that but—’

‘We are the Hawks. We don’t have time for small talk and monkey business.’

‘Small talk?’ Griessel could see her control beginning to dissolve, and her expression altered to a mixture of anger and grief. She leaned forwards, thrust an accusing finger at Cupido. ‘You think I want to make small talk while some of my men are lying dead in that guesthouse? Drop your act, and sit down, so I can give you the information that you need. Or I will walk out of here, and you can come and find me if you like.’

‘I don’t take orders from a—’

‘Please,’ said Griessel curtly.

Louw sank back slowly into the couch. It took a while before Cupido reluctantly said, ‘OK,’ but he remained on his feet with his arms crossed.

It took Louw a minute to control her emotions, then she addressed herself to Griessel. ‘First of all, may I ask: how many bodies are there in the house?’

‘Two,’ said Griessel.

‘Only two?’

‘Yes.’

She nodded as though that’s what she had expected. ‘Can you describe them please?’

‘Mid-to late-thirties, short hair, lean, clean shaven, both were apparently carrying Glocks . . .’

Louw held up her hand, she had heard enough. Her eyes closed, then opened again. ‘They are both my men. B. J. Fikter and Barry Minnaar.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Griessel. And then: ‘You mean they worked for you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What sort of work, exactly?’ asked Cupido.

‘They were bodyguards.’

‘Who was the third person in the house?’ asked Griessel.

‘My client. Paul Anthony Morris.’

‘Who’s he, that he needs bodyguards?’ asked Cupido.

‘I . . . he’s a British citizen. That’s all . . .’

‘Shit,’ said Cupido, because he could see the complications already.

Louw misread his reaction. ‘Captain, that is all the information that he was willing to provide.’

‘Ma’am,’ said Griessel,‘at this stage we suspect that he . . . is missing. And he is a foreigner. That means . . .’ he searched for the right word.

‘Big trouble,’ said Cupido.

‘That’s right,’ said Griessel. ‘We need all the information we can get, as soon as possible.’

‘That’s why I am here,’ said Louw. ‘I will give you everything I have.’

‘But not in front of the farm people. Why?’ asked Cupido.

‘Because of the confidentiality clause, La Petite Margaux had no knowledge of who was in the guesthouse. And I have a discretionary duty towards my client. That is why I must talk to you alone.’

Cupido shrugged.

‘Tell us what you know,’ said Griessel.

She nodded, and took a deep breath, as if to gather her strength.

3

‘Last Wednesday, just before sixteen hundred hours, Morris contacted me by phone, and enquired about the nature of our services and the background of our personnel. With a . . . I suppose what they call an Oxford accent. I referred him to our website, but he said he had already studied it, and wanted to make sure it was not merely marketing. I assured him that everything was factually correct. He had a few questions about the training background of our personnel, which I answered—’