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With his head on the pillow he could hear the beat of his heart. An increased rate. He had risen sometime after one and fetched the poem in the spare bedroom, under the William Gibson on a pile of paperbacks.

Taste me, touch me, take me . . .

He had to lie on his back and concentrate on other things. His work. De Wit. What was de Wit’s agenda? Eventually sleep had overtaken him.

But he felt the tiredness in the morning. After two lengths of breaststroke he was finished.

* * *

De Wit came to Joubert’s office, a green file in his hand. Joubert was on the phone to Pretoria.

De Wit knocked on the doorpost and waited outside. Joubert wondered why he didn't come in but finished his call. Then de Wit walked in. He had a smile on his face again. Uncomfortable, Joubert stood up.

“Sit down, Captain. I don’t want to keep you from your work. Is Pretoria giving you problems?”

“No, Colonel. I . . . They haven’t sent the ballistics report yet. About the Tokarev. I was chasing them.”

“May I sit down?”

“Of course, Colonel.” Why didn't he simply sit down?

“I want to discuss your physical health today, Captain.” Joubert understood the smile. It was one of triumph, he realized.

De Wit opened the green file. “I'’ve received your medical report.” He looked Joubert in the eye. “Captain, there are matters here you have to solve for yourself. I have no right to speak to you about your high cholesterol or your smoking habits. But I have the right to discuss your fitness. This report states that you’re fifteen kilograms overweight. You don’t have as many problems as some of your colleagues but it’s still fifteen kilos too many. And the doctor considers you to be seriously unfit.”

De Wit closed the green file.

“I don’t want to be unreasonable. The doctor says five kilograms every six months is not unreasonable. Shall we give you until this time next year, Captain? To monitor the progress? What do you think?”

Joubert was annoyed by the man’s superior tone of voice, by his attitude of feigned friendliness. “We can make it six months, Colonel.”

Because de Wit didn't know he had started swimming again. Joubert experienced a feeling of purpose. The long muscles of his legs and arms were pleasantly tired after the morning’s swim. He knew he could keep it up. He would rub old Two Nose’s face in it.

“We can make it six months. Definitely.”

De Wit was still wearing the small smile, almost a grimace. “It’s your choice, Captain. I’m impressed by your determination. We’ll make a note of it.”

He opened the green file again.

The day took on its usual shape. He drove out to Crossroads. The mutilated body of a baby. Ritual murder. The radio on his hip scratched and buzzed and called him to Simons Town. The owner of a shop selling military artifacts had been shot with an AK. The splashes of blood and brains looked depressingly apt on an American army steel helmet, a Japanese officer’s sword, and a captain’s cap from a sunken U-boat.

In the afternoon he was five minutes late for his appointment with the dietitian. He stopped in the parking area of the clinic. The woman was waiting for him.

She wasn'’t pretty but she was thin. Her fair hair curled about her head but her nose was crooked, her mouth small and humorless.

She shook her head in disbelief when Joubert told her about his eating habits. She used flash cards and posters to explain about fatty acids— saturated and unsaturated— about fiber and bran, animal fats and vegetable fats, calories, vitamins, minerals, and balance.

He shook his head and said that he lived alone. His stomach contracted when he thought about Yvonne Stoffberg, who would be waiting in his house that evening, but he told the dietitian that he couldn't cook, that he didn't have the time to maintain a healthy diet.

She asked him whether he had the time for a heart attack. She asked whether he realized what his cholesterol count meant. She asked how much time it would take to stop at a vegetable market, to put some fruit in his attaché case every morning.

Detectives don’t carry attaché cases, he wanted to say but didn't. He admitted that it wouldn't be difficult.

And sandwiches? she asked. How much time did it take to wrap a whole wheat sandwich in foil for the following day? And to swallow a plate of bran with skim milk in the morning? And to buy artificial sweeteners for all the tea and coffee in the office? How much time could it take?

Not much, he admitted.

Well then, she said, we can start working. She took out a form that read THE DIET OF . . .

Her pen poised above the open space, she was the epitome of efficiency. “First name?”

Joubert sighed. “Mat.”

“What?”

* * *

The entrance hall of the Bellville South Murder and Robbery Squad had an area where visitors could wait. The walls were bare, the floor was covered with cold gray tiles, and the chairs were civil-service issue, made to last and not necessarily for comfort.

Those who waited there were the family, friends, and relatives of murder or robbery suspects. So why offer such people comfort and amusement in a waiting area? After all, they were probably blood relatives of suspected criminals. This might well have been the thinking of the architects and administrators when the plans were being discussed.

But Mrs. Mavis Petersen didn't agree. The entrance hall was part of her kingdom, adjacent to the reception desk where she held sway. She was a Malay woman, slender and attractive and a beautiful shade of light brown. And she knew the pain of a criminal’s nearest and dearest. That’s why there were flowers on the reception desk of the Murder and Robbery building every day of the week. And a smile on her face.

But not now.

“Sergeant Griessel is missing,” she said when Joubert came in and walked to the steel gate that gave access to the rest of the building.

“Missing?”

“He didn't come in this morning, Captain. We phoned but there was no reply. I sent two constables from the station in the van, but his house is locked.”

“His wife?”

“She says she hasn’t seen him for weeks. And if we find him we might as well ask him where the alimony checks are.”

Joubert thought it over, his fingers drumming on the desk.

Mavis’s voice was suddenly low, disapproving. “The Colonel says we don’t have to look for him. He says it’s Adjutant Griessels’s way of answering him.”

Joubert said nothing.

“He’s very different to Colonel Theal, hey, Captain?” Her words were an invitation to form an alliance.

“Very different, Mavis. Are there any messages for me?”

“Nothing, Captain.”

“I’m going to try the Outspan. That’s where we found him the previous time. And then I’m going home. Tell radio I want to know immediately if they hear anything about Benny.”

“Very well, Captain.”

Joubert walked out.

“Such authority,” Mavis said with raised eyebrows to the empty entrance hall.