Dead Before Dying

* * *

The woman who opened the door had to be Margaret Wallace’s sister. Her hair was short and redder, her skin lightly sprinkled with freckles, her eyes pale blue, but the resemblance was unmistakable.

Joubert asked to see her sister.

“This isn’t a good time.”

“I know,” he said and waited, uncomfortable, an intruder. The woman gave an annoyed sigh and invited him in.

There were people in the living room speaking in hushed voices that stopped when he stood in the entrance hall. They looked at him, recognized the Law by his clothes, his size, and his style. Margaret Wallace sat with her back toward him but followed the others’ eyes. She got up. He saw that she had traveled a long way on her road. Her eyes were sunken and dark. There were lines around her mouth.

“I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said, made uncomfortable by the silence in the large room and the reproachful looks of all those present.

“Let’s go out into the garden,” she said softly and opened the front door.

The southeaster was ruffling the tops of the big trees but down below it was almost still. Margaret Wallace walked with her arms folded tightly across her breasts, her shoulders bowed. He knew the body language so well, the label of the widow, universally recognizable.

“Don’t feel bad. I know you have a job to do,” she said and tried to smile.

“Did you see the newspaper?”

She shook her head. “They hide it from me.”

“My superior . . . There’s a theory . . .” His mind sought desperately for euphemisms, looked for gentle synonyms for death. He wished Benny Griessel were there.

“In Taiwan organized crime uses the same methods . . . in their . . . work. I have to pursue the possibility.”

She looked at him and the wind blew her hair over her face. She wiped it away with a hand, folded her arms again. She waited.

“Your husband might have done business with them, perhaps indirectly . . . With the Chinese. Would you know?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Wallace, I know this is difficult. But if there could be some explanation . . .”

“Haven’t you found anything?” she asked, no reproach in her voice, as if she already knew the answer. Her hair blew over her face again but she let it be.

“Nothing,” he said and wondered whether she would ever find out about Lizzie van der Merwe and the other women with whom James J. had shared a night or two.

“It was a mistake,” she said. “An accident.” Her arms unfolded, a hand comforted his upper arm. “You’ll see. It has to be.” Then she folded the hand away again.

He walked back to the house with her, took his leave. He drove home and wondered why the number of trees in a suburb equaled the per capita income of the breadwinners living there.

It was past seven but the sun was still high above the horizon. Joggers were sweating in the traffic fumes at the side of the road. He lit a cigarette and wondered what he was going to do about his health. Perhaps he should exercise. Jogging was out. He hated jogging. He was too big to jog. Swimming maybe. It would be nice to swim again. Not competitively. Just for fun. Forgotten memories surfaced. The smell of the swimming pool’s changing rooms, the footbath with Dettol in it, the fatigue after hours of practice, the taste of chlorine in his mouth, the adrenaline when the starter’s pistol went off.

At home another letter had been pushed under his door.

Why don’t you reply?

The discomfort was back in his belly. By now he recognized it. There was a lane in Goodwood, behind the cinema on Voortrekker Road. They said that was where motorcycle riders did stuff. He was eight or nine. And every Saturday night he stared down the dark of the lane with a curiosity that threatened to consume him. Run, his mind told him. Run down it like the wind, just once. But the fear, the uncertainty about his own bravery, lay like a weight in his stomach. He had never risked the lane. He drove to Blouberg, bought chicken at Kentucky, and ate it in the car while he stared at the wind-flattened sea. Then he drove home to read his book.

Late in the evening the telephone rang. He put William Gibson on the table next to the armchair, answered. It was Cloete of public relations.

“Are you still working on the Yellow Peril or can I feed the newspapers something else tomorrow?”

8.

Cape town— Up to now the police have been unable to establish any connection between the Tokarev murder and Chinese drug syndicates.

De Wit read the report in a soft voice, a thin smile on his face. He put down the newspaper and looked at Joubert.

“Must we differ about this case in public, Captain?”

“No, Colonel,” said Joubert and saw that the no smoking sign had been moved from the coffee table in the corner to de Wit’s desk next to the family photograph.

“Did you provide the information?” De Wit’s voice was conversational, almost jolly.

“Colonel,” said Joubert tiredly, “as investigating officer I reacted to a query from a colleague at public relations. It’s in line with the procedures and regulations of the service. I gave him the information in the light of the way I see the murder investigation at this stage. It’s my duty.”

“I see,” said de Wit and again smiled slightly. He picked up the newspaper and slid his eyes over the report. “You didn't deliberately make a fool of your commanding officer?”

“No, Colonel.”

“We’ll never really know, Captain Joubert. But in the long run it probably won’t matter. Thank you for coming by.”

Joubert realized he was being excused. He stood up, uncomfortable, uncertain about the other man’s calmness, already aware that it meant something, predicted something.

“Thanks, Colonel,” Joubert mumbled at the door.

* * *

He was behind with his paperwork. He pulled the adjutants’ files toward him but found it difficult to concentrate. He lit a Winston and sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. He wondered whether he’d deliberately made a fool of his commanding officer.

And he thought about the cunning of his subconscious and knew that he was not entirely innocent, Your Worship.

Dragging footsteps moved down the passage. Griessel walked past, his head bowed. There was something in his carriage that disturbed Joubert.

“Benny?”

The footsteps returned. Griessel’s face appeared around the door. He was pale.

“Benny, is everything all right?”

“I’m okay, Captain.” The voice was remote.

“What’s the matter, Benny?”

“I’m okay, Captain.” Slightly more expression. “Probably something I ate.”

Or drank, Joubert thought but said nothing.