Deon Meyer - Dead at Daybreak

But perhaps…

At 9:27 she opened the door. There was something different in her eyes. Worry?

Two men followed her into the room – dark suits, short hair, broad shoulders. One black, one white. The white one was older, in his late forties, early fifties. The black man was younger, bigger.

“This is Van Heerden,” said Hope.

“Can I help you?”

“We’ve come to terminate the investigation,” said White.

“Who are you?”

“A messenger.”

“From whom?”

“Won’t you sit down?” asked Hope. Her frown deepened.

“No.”

Van Heerden got up. The black man was taller. “This investigation is not terminable,” Van Heerden said, his temper flaming.

“It is,” said Black. “National security.”

“Bullshit,” said Van Heerden.

“Easy does it,” said White. “We come in peace.” There was a calm in him, authority.

The telephone rang. They all stared at the instrument.

“Do you have identification?” Hope asked.

“You mean one of those little plastic cards?” Black asked with a small smile.

The telephone rang.

“Yes,” Hope said.

“That’s only for people in the movies, miss,” said White.

“You have five minutes to leave this room…” said Van Heerden.

“Before you do what, boy?”

“Before I ask the police to arrest you for trespassing.”

The telephone rang.

“We don’t want any trouble.”

“Bring a court order.”

“We came to ask nicely first.”

“You’ve asked. Now get out.”

“He’s right,” Hope said uncertainly.

“If you cooperate now you can avoid a great deal of trouble,” said Black.

The telephone was still ringing. Van Heerden looked at his watch. “Four minutes and thirty seconds. And don’t threaten me.”

White sighed. “You don’t know what you’re into.”

Black sighed. “You’re out of your depth.”

“You must leave now,” Hope said more decisively.

Van Heerden picked up the phone. “Hallo.”

Silence.

“Hallo.”

Something at the other end. A sound.

He looked up. Black and White were still standing there. He tapped his watch with a forefinger, pointed at the door.

“Hallo,” he said again.

“It…” said a woman’s voice at the other end, and he identified the sounds. Sobs. A woman crying.

“It…”

Van Heerden sat down slowly. “I’m listening,” he said quietly, his heart hammering.

“It was…” Sobs. “It was…my son.”

The door opened. It was Marie, the receptionist. “There are policemen here, Hope. At reception.”

“So fast,” White said to Black. “Our five minutes aren’t even up.”

“I’m listening,” Van Heerden said softly into the receiver.

“The man in the photo…” said the woman’s voice, faint and faraway.

“Such SAPS efficiency. Makes me feel so safe,” said Black.

“You have to leave now,” Hope said firmly.

Marie: “The police, Hope…”

The red tide rose, overwhelming Van Heerden. He got up, put his hand violently over the mouthpiece. “Fuck off, all of you. Now!”

Marie’s eyes huge, her mouth round in a shocked Oh , Black and White with small smiles, unintimidated.

“Please,” Hope said, and tugged at Black’s jacket. Unwillingly, they walked out, Hope ahead, a locomotive pulling reluctant railcars, and eventually the door closed.

“Forgive me,” he said into the receiver, striving to calm his voice. “I wanted to get silence in the room.”

Sobs at the other end.

“I just…want to know what’s going on.”

“I understand, madam.”

“Is that the detective?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Van Heerden?”

“Yes, madam.”

“They told me he was dead.”

“He is…” He struggled with the words; he would have to play this neatly. “Deceased, madam.”

“No,” she said. “In ’seventy-six. They told me he was dead in ’seventy-six.”

“Who are ‘they,’ madam?”

“The government, the Defence Force. They said he died in Angola. They brought me a medal.”

“Forgive me for asking, madam, but are you sure that photo is of your son?”

He listened to the electronic sounds on the line, the crackle and hum, wondered where she was, where she was phoning from. Another sound, high, heartbreakingly sad. The woman weeping. “It’s him. I still see Rupert’s face every day. In my heart. Against my wall. I see it every day. Every day.”

♦

He walked to the reception area of the firm of attorneys. Hope was there, with Black and White, Senior Superintendent Bart de Wit, Superintendent Mat Joubert, and Inspector Tony O’Grady, all three from Murder and Robbery.

“I’m sorry, Colonel,” Bart de Wit said to White, “but you’ll simply have to work through the official channels. This is our case.”

“We don’t have channels, boy,” said White. Black nodded in agreement.

“Hope, will you please answer the telephone in the meanwhile?” asked Van Heerden. She looked at him, looked at the men scrumming in her reception area, nodded, relieved, and walked down the passage.

“Morning, Van Heerden,” said Bart de Wit.

“Morning, Van Heerden,” said Mat Joubert.

Nougat O’Grady said nothing.

“Reunion,” said Black. “Charming.”

“Sweet,” said White.

“You possess information that can help us in the investigation of an active case, Van Heerden,” said Bart de Wit, and he rubbed the large mole on the side of his prominent nose.

“We came to get it,” said O’Grady.

Mat Joubert smiled. “How are you, Van Heerden?”

“Rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic ,” said White.

“And not a DiCaprio in sight,” said Black.

“Our friends from Military Intelligence were on the point of leaving,” said Van Heerden.

“A shot in the dark,” said Black.

“A little knowledge can be dangerous,” said White.

“’Seventy-six,” said Van Heerden.

White’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

“Seventy-six reasons why you have to leave now.”

There they stood, two large men with short hair and broad shoulders, looking at each other, suddenly silent and without witticisms.

Van Heerden walked to the glass front door, held it open. “Go and give someone a medal,” he said.

White’s mouth opened and shut.

“Good-bye,” said Van Heerden.

“We’ll be back,” said Black.

“Sooner than you think,” said White. Then they walked out.

“You abused the inspector’s trust, Van Heerden,” said Senior Superintendent Bart de Wit, officer in command of the Cape Town Murder and Robbery Unit.

“You owe me big-time, Van Heerden,” said O’Grady.

“Not forgetting the irreparable damage you have done to the good name of the SAPS,” said Bart de Wit.

Mat Joubert smiled.

“Come,” said Van Heerden. “I’ll find a place where we can talk.”

♦

The telephone rang and its shrill noise in the quiet room startled Hope.

“Hallo,” she said.

A moment’s silence. “Who’s speaking?” A man’s voice.

“Hope Beneke.”

“The attorney?”

“Yes, may I help you?”

“The deceased’s name was Rupert de Jager.”

Another silence, as if he expected a reaction.

“Yes?” she said uncertainly.

“Before he changed his name. Did you already know that?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and sent up a silent prayer that she was telling the right lie, wrote on the paper in front of her: “ Rupert de Jager (???) .”

“Do you know who the murderer is?”

How did she reply to that question? “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t give you that information over the phone.”