Dead Before Dying

“Bob, you’ll have to trim the hedge, my darling.” Bob gave a low grumble and Joubert didn't know whether it implied assent or not. They were standing in the kitchen among the unwashed dishes and the laundry surrounded by the smell of fried bacon. Joubert leaned against a kitchen cupboard, Basie Louw sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee.

“In any case, then I saw the lights on the garage door but I went on making the coffee and put the percolator on the stove and put out the cups. Bob doesn’t get up until he’s had one cup in bed. And I put in the washing and then I looked out of the window again and the car’s lights were still shining on the garage. Then I thought, no, something’s wrong. So I went to tell Bob and he said I must leave the neighbors alone but I said Bob, everything’s not all right, a car doesn’t stand in front of a closed garage for ten minutes. So Bob went to have a look. I still said he must take a stick or something because one never knows but he just walked out. He still played prop forward for Parow until he was forty-three, didn't you, darling?”

Bob made a noise again.

“And then he found him there and there was blood all over the place and Bob said he thinks the car was still idling until early this morning because that was why the lights were still so bright. And then he came to tell me and I let the Flying Squad know. One nought triple one. I keep the number next to the telephone since that

911

was on the TV. Shame, we were so shocked. What a way to go.”

Her voice was a knife scraping Joubert’s frayed nerves. He looked longingly at Basie Louw’s coffee. Basie had arrived before he did. When evidently there had been something left in the percolator.

“You didn't hear the shots? Noises, voices, cars racing away?” He looked at Bob Venter in the hope that he would reply.

“There are always cars here backfiring, not like the old times when it was a quiet decent suburb. But now Bob and I keep ourselves to ourselves, mind our own business. And we sleep well. Only the rich have time to lie awake at night,” the woman replied.

Joubert accepted it as a negative response to his question. “Mr. Venter, did you notice nothing odd when you went out?”

Bob Venter growled again and moved his head a few millimeters from side to side.

“What do you know about the deceased?”

It was as if Shirley Venter had been waiting for the question. “Drew Wilson was a lovely boy. And so artistic. You must see the inside of that house, it’s nicer than mine. And quiet. You never heard a sound from there. He always greeted me and smiled and worked so hard, especially lately . . .”

“What did he do, Mrs. Venter?”

“He makes those little bits of jewelry, you know. In any case, when he moved in here I took a tray over and when I came back I said to Bob what a nice boy . . .”

“Do you know where he worked?”

“Benjamin Goldberg’s in Adderley Street. It’s a very fancy place and the stuff is so expensive. I went there once when I was in town just to go and say hello to him but it was just highbrows and credit cards. In any case, when he moved in I took a tray over and came and told Bob that he was such a nice boy and you know, first impressions are what usually count because it was true. Quiet and friendly.”

“Was he unmarried? Divorced?”

“Unmarried. I always said Drew doesn’t need a wife. You just go and have a look inside. It’s nicer than my house.”

Bob Venter growled something unintelligible.

“Bob, you can’t say that,” she said. “Don’t take any notice of Bob. Drew was only arty. In any case . . .”

“What did you say, Mr. Venter?”

“Bob, drop that story.”

The man growled again. Joubert watched his lips. He deciphered the words. “He was a queer,” said Bob.

“Bob thinks anybody who hasn’t played rugby for thirty years is queer. He was just arty. He was given other talents. Don’t take any notice of Bob.”

“He was a queer,” Bob said with finality and folded his thick arms across his chest.

“He was just arty,” Shirley said and fished a tissue from inside the neckline of her dress.

* * *

He went to fetch Griessel at the Edgemead police station. The constable who unlocked the door looked uncomfortable and turned his gaze away. Griessel walked out to the car in silence.

Joubert drove. “How do I get you into the sanatorium that helped you before, Benny?”

“Drop me at the front door.”

“Will you go?”

Griessel rubbed a dirty hand over the stubble on his face. His voice sounded tired. “Will it help, Mat? When I come out I’m dry, but they can do nothing about the . . . about the work.”

Joubert said nothing. Griessel interpreted it incorrectly. “God, Mat, I dream in the night. I dream that it’s my children lying dead. And my wife. And me. With blood against the walls and AK shots through the head or guts spilling out onto the floor. They can’t take it away, Mat. I dream even when I’m sober. Even if I don’t drink a drop.”

“De Wit forced me to see a psychologist.”

Griessel sighed as if the burden had become too heavy.

“Perhaps she can help you too, Benny. Take away the dreams.”

“Perhaps.”

“But we have to let you dry out first.”

They drove in silence on the M5 to Muizenberg, where the sanatorium was situated. Joubert took out the Winstons, offered one to Griessel, and pressed in the Sierra’s lighter. They smoked in silence for a while.

“A Tokarev again?”

“Yes. Two shots. Two empty cartridges. But the thing has changed. Victim was possibly homosexual.”

Griessel audibly expelled smoke. “Could make it easier.”

“If it’s the same murderer. I'’ve got a feeling about this thing, Benny.”

“Copycat?”

“Perhaps. And perhaps it’s the start of bigger things.”

“A serial?”

“I'’ve got that feeling.”

“Maybe,” said Benny Griessel. “Maybe.”

* * *

Joubert explained about Griessel’s dreams. He said that his colleague was also willing to undergo psychological treatment.

“But he’ll dry out first?”

Joubert nodded. De Wit rubbed the mole and stared at the ceiling. Then he agreed.

Joubert thanked him and reported the second Tokarev murder. De Wit listened without interrupting. Joubert told him about Drew Wilson’s neighbors, who suspected that he was homosexual. Wilson’s employer and colleagues had verified this.

They had all sat or stood among the worktables of the goldsmiths— Benjamin Goldberg, three other men, and a woman. They were sincerely shocked. The woman cried. They couldn't think who would’ve done a thing like that to Drew Wilson. Yes, he was gay, but he hadn't had a relationship with another man for the past five or six years. He really tried, occasionally even taking out a woman. Why? Because Drew Wilson’s mother had threatened suicide.

Joubert wiped the sweat off his upper lip.