Деон Мейер - Cobra

‘I think they now have what they want, sir,’ said Griessel. ‘All we can do is to try and apprehend them if they attempt to leave the country through a major border post. If we can get a bulletin to Customs Admin. We have at least one possible passport we can track.’

‘I’ll do it myself, Benny.’ A brief silence, and then a deep sigh. ‘The question is, will they now kill Adair?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He knew they were thinking the same thing: if Adair’s body was found somewhere in the Cape, there’d be hell to pay with the media. And if they started digging, and found out about the SSA’s bullying tactics, and the Hawks’ attempts to suppress evidence, everyone’s name would be stinking mud, at home and abroad, all over again. And it always came out, because when there were slip-ups, there were always scapegoats and blame, to save other arses and reputations and careers.

‘Thanks, Benny. I’ll be here when you get back.’

They looked for a quiet corner in the lounge, on the modern sofas and chairs, and asked Lillian if she would like something to drink.

‘Oh God, yes, a whisky, please.’

Cupido beckoned a waiter nearer, and ordered the drink for her, and coffee for them.

‘We know you’ve been through a lot, Miss Alvarez,’ Cupido said sympathetically, as he took his notebook and pen out of his inside pocket.‘We know what happened this morning at the Waterfront. We know you work for David Adair, at the university. And we know he has gone missing. But we would like you to tell us . . .’

‘He’s gone missing? I mean, I know something’s not right, but I thought . . .’

She appeared agitated and looked to Cupido for an explanation.

‘If we can hear your side of the story, we might be able to explain,’ he said. ‘Could you tell us, please?’

‘You don’t know where he is?’

‘Not at this time. But perhaps you can help us find him. Please. Tell us what happened.’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘I . . . Professor Adair called me on Monday morning, very early . . .’

‘Ma’am, sorry, could you start with your . . . you work for him, is that right?’

‘Yes. I’m his assistant.’

‘Like a secretary?’

‘No, no, I’m his research assistant. I’m doing my Masters Degree in Applied and Computational Analysis. I’m a research fellow at the Department of Applied Mathematics and Theoretical Physics, where Professor Adair teaches. He’s my supervisor. But I also do research for him on some of his projects.’

Cupido noticed her leaning forward, focused and serious. And a little bit tense. And he thought, she keeps referring to the man as ‘Professor Adair’ in such a pointed way, every time the inflection just a little bit over-emphasised and forced. Or was that his imagination?

‘You don’t sound British at all,’ said Bones.

‘Oh, no, I’m from the United States.’

‘Where in the US?’

‘Kingsville in Texas. Small town, nobody’s ever heard of it. It’s near San Antonio.’

‘I ran the Rock ’n’ Roll Marathon in San Antonio,’ said Bones. ‘Pretty place. But the heat . . .’

‘You know it?’

Cupido knew Bones was going to use the opportunity to bring up his studies again. He pre-empted him, ‘If we can get back to Professor Adair?’

‘Sure. Where were we?’

‘How long have you worked for him?’

‘Since the beginning of the Lent term.’

‘When was that?’

‘This past January.’

‘And you see him every day?’

‘Well, not every day. He is a very busy man. Maybe two or three times a week, at the department.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘On the Thursday of the week before last.’

‘Where?’

‘At DAMTP.’

‘On campus?’

‘Well . . . yes, at his office.’

In his eleven years as a detective,Vaughn Cupido had questioned hundreds of people – first at the Mitchells Plain police station, later with the Organised Crime Task Force in Bellville South, and over the last few years with the Hawks. Thanks to this experience, and the many lectures and courses with the SAPS Forensic Psychology section, he had learned a great deal about the art of lying. He knew the ability to tell an untruth varied radically from person to person. Some did it so naturally, skilfully, and smoothly that you couldn’t help but admire them, even after you had arrested them. Others telegraphed all the predictable signs of lying with an astounding clarity and awkwardness, but so totally oblivious to what they were doing, that they were still highly indignant if you confronted them about it. And then there were those who fell somewhere on the sliding scale between the two extremes. Lillian Alvarez was not an accomplished liar, but for an amateur she wasn’t doing badly. It was not her eyes, her body language, or gestures that betrayed her, but the timing and tone of her words. That over-eagerness to be helpful, to please, that touch too much obvious sincerity: ‘Look, see how honest I am.’

The way to handle people like this was to pretend you believed them, give them more rein, let them paint themselves into a corner.

‘And he was . . . Did you notice anything different?’

‘Not at all. He was his usual witty self. He can be very funny – he’s always making mathematical puns . . .’

‘I see,’ said Cupido, as if he understood. ‘And he didn’t mention that he was going to travel?’

‘No.’

‘So, the next thing you hear from him, is the call yesterday morning?’

‘No, Monday ... Yes, yesterday! It seems longer ... Well, I had an appointment with him last week, Tuesday, for a progress report, but he wasn’t at the office, and nobody seemed to know where he was. But it’s not all that unusual. Because of all the work he does for the financial industry, and the fight against terrorism, you know . . .’

‘You mean his algorithm.’

‘Exactly. Usually he’ll send me a text or an email to cancel. But still, I didn’t worry too much.’

The waiter brought the whisky and coffee. Bones reached for his wallet, but Cupido was faster. ‘Keep the change,’ he said.

When the man had gone, Cupido said, ‘OK. And before his call yesterday morning, nobody contacted you about him?’

‘No.’

‘OK. Now, yesterday morning . . . You said it was very early. Can you remember the time?’

‘It was around three o’clock in the morning. Maybe that’s why it feels so long ago . . .’

‘UK time?’ Bones asked.

‘Yes.’

‘About five o’clock South African time?’ said Bones.

‘I suppose . . .’

‘The call, was it from his own phone?’ asked Cupido.

‘How do you . . . ? Oh, you mean, did it show on my phone that it was him?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a good . . . I can’t remember. I don’t think I looked. It was . . . He woke me up, so I was a bit sleepy.’

‘Could you take a look now? On your phone?’

‘Sure, I should have thought of that.’ She opened her handbag and took out the phone. Her deft fingertips managed the screen with practised finesse, till she found what she was looking for.

‘No,’ she said in surprise. ‘It’s from a different number . . . And it was at seven minutes past three in the morning.’

‘Could you read the number to me?’

She read out the number, which began with a +44. Cupido scribbled in his notebook.

‘Do you recognise the number?’

‘Not at all.’

‘OK. So what did he say?’

‘He apologised for the time of the call, and I said it’s not a problem. Then he asked me if I could do him a big favour . . .’

‘How did he sound?’

‘Apologetic.’

‘Not stressed?’

‘No, I wouldn’t say he was stressed out . . . He’s very calm, always, so I . . . No, not stressed out.’