Blue Sunday. Irma Venter
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At least the day’s heat has been broken.
Farr is pissed off with me. She sent a text saying she’s gone to follow up a lead at the cyber unit.
I take a chance. “Say the investigation is progressing. That’s all.”
“Not going to work.”
I pretend I’m giving it some thought, then drip-feed him the words as if reluctantly offering him a gift. “Fine. Say a new team has taken over the case. That we’re working hard to find the family.”
“And that you still don’t have any new leads?”
“I suppose so. If you must.”
“What am I allowed to write about what I saw inside?”
“Nothing. This was just for you to see how complicated this case is. That the police aren’t sitting around wasting time.”
“Nothing?” The sarcasm is palpable.
“Well, okay. If you want, you can write that we are looking for people who know where Willem was that Sunday night. From 9 pm until one in the morning. Who knows, maybe someone’s seen him since but hasn’t realised it. Maybe they need to remember what he looks like. How important this case is.”
He writes something in his notebook that I can’t decipher. I swear he’s laughing.
“Don’t give too much detail about the Sunday,” I warn him. “Don’t say Willem slipped out. Just say that he might have been out and that we want to know where he was.”
Alex nods. “And what must I say about Captain Sydney Mthembu?”
Colonel Ndlovu and I discussed this. “He’s on leave following the shooting at the charge office. Please don’t ask his family for comment.”
“I have no choice.”
I’m instantly cross. “I hate it when you people do that.”
“I don’t like it either.” He shrugs. Hooks the pen into his shirt pocket again and puts the notebook away. “But no job is perfect.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “How is Captain Mthembu?”
His question surprises me. Why would he be interested? “Not for the story?”
“No.”
“Not good. His wife is worried he’s going to hurt himself.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Really?” The single, sarcastic word slips past my guarded tongue.
He doesn’t answer, nods towards the house. “The cameras in the living room and the bedrooms, do they record?”
Did he really see those? “They record in 24-hour cycles, that’s it. The footage is stored online and then wiped.”
“So that doesn’t help you at all. The attack was on the 24th, Lafras was found on the 26th.”
“Exactly.”
“Who can see the footage? The security company? Wait, you said the service was suspended six months ago.”
I sigh, a little tired. It’s bloody exhausting talking to this man. “The cameras weren’t part of the security contract. It was a private installation. It was mostly Katerien who logged in to watch.”
“What was she looking for?”
“That and hundreds of other things are questions that still need answers.”
I’m lying.
He smiles as though he knows I am. “When can we talk again?”
“Day after tomorrow. Maybe.”
“Here?”
“I’ll let you know.”
He walks to the Land Rover, parked on the pavement, then turns back as though he’s just thought of something. “May I see the garage? It’ll help to have a picture of the whole house in my head.”
I look at my watch. I’ve already given Alex Derksen too much of my time, but I don’t suppose showing him the garage will do any harm.
“Come.”
I press the button on the remote control dangling from the house keys. The double door opens first, then the single door.
Alex Derksen probably doesn’t like fast cars, because he doesn’t say anything. I love the red Ferrari convertible in front of us, much more than the Ducati motorbike near the wall.
“Who drove what?”
A man who doesn’t make assumptions. I like that.
“The Ferrari is Lafras’s and the Fortuner is Katerien’s. It was packed for the holiday.” I indicate the third garage. “The BMW M also belongs to Lafras, says Annabel. The motorbike was sold on the 23rd of December. The new owner never had time to come and collect it.”
Alex takes two steps back, looks at the empty carport next to the garage, and the gate through which a car could slip away.
“That’s where Willem parked his car,” I say. “The one he left in at about one o’clock. Lafras’s old wheels.”
“Old” is an exaggeration. The red 5-Series BMW the police found in Menlyn is hardly four years old.
“And you can’t get from the garage into the house?”
“Funnily enough, no. There’s no door. Some safety experts say it’s better that way.”
He stares at the cars for a long time, then nods slowly. “Thank you.”
I close the garage doors.
He shakes my hand. “Good luck. I hope you find the Van Zyls. Alive.” He looks at me directly, the way I stared at him earlier – as though he’s gauging my intent.
“You’ll let me know if there’s news, right?”
“Of course.”
“First.”
“It’s a deal.”
He lifts his eyebrows, à la Farr.
“Promise.”
He opens the Land Rover’s door and gets in, stretches to fish his phone out of his jeans pocket. The seat next to him is pushed far back, as though a tall woman regularly sits there, and there are two takeaway Seattle Coffee cups between the seats, one with earthy lipstick on the rim.
He looks at me, traces my eyes to the cups. Switches on the four-wheel drive.
I step back when he moves to close the door. “Tell Ranna I say hi.”
He picks his sunglasses up off the passenger seat and puts the car into first.
“Her name is Francis Beekman. We all have to move on at some point.” The engine growls under his right foot. “We’ll talk soon.”
ALEX
1
Thursday, 8 February, 17:15
I should never have agreed to take over the story from Janet, maternity leave or not. Ranna was right, Captain Averil Joan Williams doesn’t know how to let go. But it doesn’t matter. I am sick of hiding my relationship, my life. Ranna Abramson is dead. Gone. Only Francis Beekman remains, and Frankie has her very own birth certificate, passport and ID card.
AJ can try to make trouble if she wants to.
And maybe she should, then this circus could finally pack up and leave town. And we could finally find out for sure whether there are any traces of Ranna left at the SAPS.
I drive towards the Stables’ exit, turn right and then right again. I hide the Land Rover in front