Blue Sunday. Irma Venter
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It took a while to get it all together.” Ranna sounds uncertain.
“R25 000?”
There was R20 000 in Martina’s case. I nod.
“Yes,” Ranna says.
“I’ll meet you at Jambula in Yeoville. It’s around the corner from Rocky Street, in Bulwer. Eleven o’clock tomorrow night.”
“Okay,” says Ranna.
She’s doing well. Long answers would reveal she’s not Martina Buitendag.
“No police,” the man warns.
“Promise.”
The phone dies.
Ranna looks at me, amazed. “Well, that was interesting.”
“We’re R5 000 short.”
She hands my phone back. “Is that all you’re worried about? We can’t go to Yeoville if we don’t know who we’re looking for.”
“Someone might be angry if Martina doesn’t show up. Let’s see if we can find out who it is.”
“And what do we do then?”
I shrug. “Then we make a new plan.”
She laughs: “That sounds like something I’d do.”
“So? Sometimes reckless and unpredictable is good. Even I’ll concede that.”
She doesn’t want to give in too easily. “What if we’re putting Martina’s life in danger?”
“We don’t have any other leads and the police aren’t interested. What else do we do? Just abandon her?”
“You’re probably right. But we’re definitely going to Stilfontein before we go barging into Jambula. We know way too little about this girl to even guess what the hell we’re doing.”
AJ
1
Thursday, 8 February, 19:33
Weak light from the streetlamp filters thinly through the curtains in Willem’s bedroom. I sit down on his bed. There’s a photo on the back of the door of the winning 1995 Springbok Rugby World Cup team, hidden behind his dressing gown. On the wall, there’s a Fast & Furious poster and a photo of some or other blonde film star I don’t know. She’s in a bikini, with her backside pushed out and her index finger in her mouth as though she is six and hungry.
The boy will soon learn that no woman actually ever stands like that. And if she does, she’s going to ride you hard, and not in the way you want her to.
Everything feels right in Willem’s room, like things are as they should be. And yet, also not quite. It’s almost too typical of a well-off, first-year student who just last year was driving around in his father’s BMW and playing rugby for the Tuks first team, with the Blue Bulls poised to tap him to open for their Curry Cup side.
Talented family.
What if their secrets are as big as their talents?
I gauge the light falling through the thin curtains. In the glow of the streetlamps you can see the outline of almost everything in this room without switching on the light.
I stand in the doorway, survey the bed that looks as though someone is sleeping in it. Yep, no need to come in and check whether Willem’s in bed.
But why sneak out when you’re twenty? Alex Derksen makes a good point.
I open Willem’s cupboard. Dirty training clothes lie in a pile on top of an untidy zigzag of shoes. I unfold the shirt. It smells of old sweat and too much aftershave, as though Willem went to meet someone after practice but didn’t have time to shower. Somewhere in the bundle of clothes there’s also the vague smell of a sweet, heavy perfume.
Underneath the clothes is a pair of running shoes with a stray jacaranda blossom stuck in one of the soles. Apparently, Willem went for a run after every gym session. That’s what his friends say. A good ten, fifteen kilometres at a time.
As far as Sydney could establish, Willem went to gym on the Sunday morning before the break-in. On his way to Planet Fitness, he dropped Cath at the dance studio where she goes for ballet lessons. She had the key and went to practise on her own. Evidently, she did this often. After gym, Willem went for a beer with his friends while he waited for her to finish.
I close the cupboard. Sit down at the desk. Nothing funny here either. Textbooks for accounting, economics and business management, pens, notebooks.
Where did you go that night, Willem? Did you and your father have words? You failed a subject. Lafras wouldn’t have been happy about that, especially in his current financial position, because he was the one paying for your studies.
No, I realise, that fight would have happened long before, when the exam results came out, not on Christmas Eve.
Willem’s laptop and iPad didn’t yield much. His e-mails are more or less innocent. He was much more active on social media, apparently, and these accounts haven’t shown any activity since his disappearance. There are, however, links to porn videos in his history. Which probably explains why only two days’ history reflected on his computer: he wiped it regularly, but didn’t get around to it the last time he used the computer.
The single pornographic video he downloaded was hidden in a folder with the name Accounting 101, under Asset Management. I’ve watched it, as well as the videos in the web links. Some are pretty violent, but luckily they’re in the minority. The videos aren’t a surprise. Many men watch pornography. Some women, too.
I look up at the ceiling. I didn’t lie to Alex about the cameras, but I wasn’t entirely honest either. The one in Willem’s room is a useless piece of plastic, just like the rest in the house. Only the one in Cath’s room is real. The company that did the installation says the images were recorded in 24-hour loops and sent to Katerien’s phone and computer.
According to Sydney’s notes, Willem and Cath’s friends say the cameras appeared last year. They were ostensibly part of a new alarm system their parents had installed. Willem’s buddies say he knew this was false. Cath was very upset about the camera in her room, even though her mother lied and said they only worked when the family was away and the alarm was on.
I get up and walk to the window, push the curtains aside. Willem’s room looks out onto the garage roof. It’s about two metres below the window and quite an easy jump, especially if you’re a tall man. This is how Sydney reckons Willem slipped out.
I agree. Willem jumps onto the roof, walks to the carport where his BMW is parked, slides down the steel upright, and goes out the side gate. Comes back later, but is then forced to flee.
Pity I can’t talk to Sydney. His head is somewhere else, his thoughts in a place his wife can only just reach on a good day.
The other information I kept from Alex was that we’re pretty sure about when the break-in happened. Lafras’s watch broke during the attack and stopped at 12.53. Which means Willem was back home at the time of the attack or shortly after it, and that he drove away without phoning the ambulance or the police.
This makes him look very guilty.
I push the window open, listen to the sounds of people settling in for the evening. Televisions, people walking their dogs. Far off, the hollow thuds of electronic shots being fired in a computer game, then fading again.
Are we even right about how Willem slipped out that night?
I turn away from the window and take a penlight out of my sports bag on the bed. Take off my shoes and swing one leg over the windowsill. How would I do this if I were Willem? If I were the super-fit first-team lock who wanted to sneak away quietly?
I swing both legs out of the window. Where can I get a foothold? Do I stand on the windowsill and jump?
Wait