Deon Meyer - Dead at Daybreak

6. Regular/ big clients?

7. Bank?

That was all he had. He chewed the end of his pen, swallowed another mouthful of coffee, put the pen down, leaned back, closed his eyes.

It hadn’t been so bad. He could keep Nagel out.

He listened to the music.

♦

He saw the sides of the large trucks, just before the Polkadraai crossing. MMT in huge, exaggerated dark purple letters pierced by an arrow, to suggest speed. He turned off and drove through pools of water and mud to the small building with the sign reading OFFICE/RECEPTION. The clouds were dark and low. It would start raining soon. He got out of the car. The wind was even colder today. Snow on the mountains, probably.

A woman sat behind a computer, speaking on the telephone.

“The truck should’ve been there by now, Dennis. They left here on time, but you know what it’s like at the tunnel, or a damn traffic cop pulled him…”

Blond and overweight, she smiled at Van Heerden, a smear of scarlet lipstick on her front teeth. She listened for a moment, spoke again. “Okay, Dennis, phone me if he isn’t there by twelve. Okay. Bye.”

She turned to Van Heerden. “Did you walk into a door or did her husband come home early?”

“Is Manie here?”

“If he is, I’d be extremely worried.” She rolled her eyes heavenward.

He waited.

“Manie was my father-in-law, doll. Been in his grave for three years, bless his soul. You’re looking for my husband, Danie – or is there something I can do to help you?” The underlying suggestion casual, like an old habit.

“I’m investigating Jan Smit’s murder. I want to speak to someone who knew him.”

She looked him up and down. “You look too thin for a policeman.” Then she turned and shouted through the open door to the back. “Danieeeee…” Then back to Van Heerden. “Have you found anything yet?”

“No, I’m not – ”

“What?” said Danie Meiring when he walked in, annoyed. Then he saw Van Heerden.

“Police,” said the woman, and pointed at him with a red-painted fingernail. “It’s about Jan Smit.”

Meiring was short and sturdy, with a thick neck trying to escape from the collar of his clean overall. He stuck out his hand. “Meiring.”

“Van Heerden. I’d like to ask a few questions.”

“Did that fat Mick fuck up?” The small eyes were set close together beneath an aggressive frown.

Van Heerden shook his head, uncomprehending.

“That Irish cop, O’Hagan or something. Couldn’t he manage?”

Light dawned. “O’Grady.”

“That’s the one.”

“I’m not from the police. This is a private investigation for Smit’s friend, Miss van As.”

“Oh.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Badly.”

“What kind of contact did you have?”

“None, actually. They faxed the orders through to Valerie and every Christmas I delivered a bottle of whiskey to his shop. Never got as much as a cup of tea. He wasn’t exactly a chatterbox.”

“For how long did you do business?”

“I don’t know. Valerie?”

The woman had listened to the conversation attentively. “Oh, for years. Many years. He was a client of Pa Manie’s for a long time.”

“Five years? Ten?”

“Yes, ten, easily. Maybe more.”

“You don’t keep records?”

“Not from so long ago.” Apologetically.

“Was there anything odd about his business at any time?”

“The Mick asked that as well,” said Danie Meiring. “Wanted to know whether Smit didn’t perhaps smuggle grass in his old cupboards. Or diamonds. But how would we know? We tucked ’em and trucked ’em. It’s our job.”

“Any regular clients or destinations?”

“No, we collected all over. And the off-loading as well, except for the big antique shops in Durban and the Transvaal.”

“How did he pay?”

“What do you mean, ‘How did he pay?’ ”

“By check? Cash?”

“Monthly account by check,” said Valerie Meiring.

“What the hell does that have to do with it?” her husband asked.

He kept his voice neutral. “There may have been American dollars in the safe.”

“How about that,” said Meiring.

“Were his payments up to date? Regular?”

“Always,” said Valerie. “If only everyone paid like that.”

Van Heerden sighed. “Thank you,” he said, and walked to the door.

♦

He stood in the inquiry line for a long time at the Home Affairs office in Bellville until his turn came and the colored woman looked up tiredly to listen to his question. He told her he was from a firm of attorneys, Beneke, Olivier, and Partners. He urgently needed a full birth certificate for Johannes Jacobus Smit, identity number…

“You must pay thirty rand at counter C, sir, and fill in the form. It’ll take six to eight weeks for Pretoria to process the form.”

“I don’t have six weeks. The Master of the Supreme Court meets in six days to decide about Smit’s will.”

“Special cases are on the second floor, sir. They must make representations if you want it more quickly. Room 209.”

“But it can be done?”

“If it’s a special case.”

“Thank you.”

He completed the form, stood in the queue at counter C for forty-five minutes, paid the thirty rand, and walked up the stairs to the second floor with the form and the receipt. A black man sat behind the desk of room 209. His desk was stacked with folders in neat piles.

“Can I help?” Hoping that the answer would be in the negative.

He told the story.

“Mmm,” said the man.

Van Heerden waited.

“Pretoria is very busy,” the man said.

“This is an emergency,” said Van Heerden.

“There are many emergencies,” said the man.

“Is there anything I can do? Someone I can telephone?”

“No. Only me.”

“How long will it take?”

“A week. Ten days.”

“I don’t have that long.”

“Generally, sir, it takes six to eight weeks…”

“I heard that. Downstairs.”

Then the man gave a deep sigh. “It would help if you got a court order. Or a judicial inquiry.”

“Then how long would it take?”

“A day. Even less. Pretoria takes court orders very seriously.”

“Oh.”

The man sighed again. “Give me the details in the meantime. I’ll see what I can do.”

♦

Hope Beneke wasn’t in her office.

“She’s at a business lunch,” the receptionist said.

“Where?” he asked.

“I don’t think she’ll want to be disturbed, sir.”

He looked at the beautifully groomed middle-aged woman. “I’m Van Heerden.”

No reaction.

“When she comes back, tell her I was here. Tell her I wanted to see her urgently about the Smit case, for which we have only six days left, but you wouldn’t tell me where she was. Tell her I’m having lunch and I don’t know when I’ll be back, but if her employees want to piss away the Smit case, I’ll add my little stream gladly.”

The woman slowly drew a diary toward her. “She’s in the Long Street Café.”

He walked out. It was raining. He swore softly. There wouldn’t be any parking on Long Street. Sooner or later he would have to buy an umbrella.

♦

“Table for one?” the woman asked when he walked in.

“No,” he said, and cast his eyes over the crowd looking for Hope Beneke. He saw her sitting at the back, against the wall, and went forward, his wet shoes leaving a trail on the floor. She was with another woman, both leaning forward, heads together, deep in conversation.

“Hope.”

She looked up, disturbed, her eyes widening slightly. “Van Heerden?”

“We must get a court order.”

“I…” she said. “You…” She looked at the woman opposite her. Van Heerden looked at her. She was stunningly beautiful. “This is Kara-An Rousseau. She’s a client.”