Dead Before Dying

“Any drugs?” de Wit asked, assuming a hurt expression in advance.

Joubert thought how odd it was that his concentration was always better after a heavy drinking session. Possibly because only then did the mind have the ability to concentrate on only one thing at a time. He took a deep breath and kept his voice calm and even: “I’m going through Wilson’s house with a team now, Colonel. We’ll look for drugs as well.”

“But that’s not all.”

He heard the barely concealed reproach in the other man’s voice. Overdone patience crept into his voice. “Colonel, I don’t know how matters stand at Scotland Yard, but white murders in the Cape are few and far between. And six or seven times out of ten male homosexuals are involved. We’ll have to investigate that in depth.”

De Wit’s smile broadened slightly. “I’m not sure that I understand you rightly. Wallace, you told me recently, played around with women, and now you tell me Wilson did the same thing with men. Are you telling me there are two different murderers?”

Joubert’s mind searched for cross-references. De Wit’s smile was different from anything he’d ever encountered. It was the man’s way of handling conflict, his way of releasing tension. But it confused the person on the receiving end. Maybe it was meant to do just that.

“No, Colonel, I don’t know. It could be a copycat. If a murder gets a lot of publicity . . .”

“I’m aware of the phenomenon, Captain.” The smile.

“But I think it’s too soon for that.”

“Did the victims know one another?”

“I’ll check on that.”

“Very well, Captain.”

Joubert rose halfway out of his chair. “Colonel . . .”

De Wit waited.

“There’s one other matter. The article in the

Argus

about the bank robber . . .”

“I see your friends at public relations think highly of you, Captain.” De Wit leaned forward and added softly: “Keep it that way.”

14.

It was the first time that Detective Constable Gerrit Snyman had had to search a house without the knowledge of the owner. It made him feel uncomfortable, like an intruder.

In Drew Wilson’s bedroom, at the bottom of the built-in closet next to a neat row of shoes, he found a thick photograph album with a brown cover. He knelt in front of the closet and opened it. Photographs were pasted in neat rows, each one with a caption— some witty, some nostalgic. The feeling of discomfort grew because here Drew Wilson was still alive in timeless moments of happiness, birthdays and awards, parental love, friendship. Detective Constable Gerrit Snyman didn't consider the symbolism of the photo album for a single second, nor, for the same brief space of time, did it occur to him that everyone left only the happy moments for future generations and took the grief and the pain, the heartbreak and the failures, to their graves.

This was because the life of Drew Wilson as illustrated by the photographs changed in a way that upset the young policeman. Then he recognized someone in a photo and an involuntary whistle escaped him. He got up in one smooth movement and hurried to where Captain Mat Joubert was going through a chest of drawers in another room.

“Captain, I think I might have something here,” Snyman said modestly. But his face betrayed his shock and excitement.

Joubert looked at the pictures. “Isn’t that . . .” and he tapped a finger on a photo.

“It is, Captain, it is,” Snyman said enthusiastically.

“Shit,” Joubert said. Snyman nodded as if he agreed.

“Well done,” said Joubert. He tapped Snyman on the shoulder with a clenched fist.

Snyman saw the shine in Joubert’s eyes and smiled because he saw it as his reward.

“We must cover all the bases,” Joubert said thoughtfully. “But first of all you must fetch him.”

* * *

Mat Joubert knew it was impossible to be sure from the start whether a suspect was lying. Some wore the signs of guilt like beacons on their faces, others could hide it with the greatest of ease.

He looked at the man opposite him clad in a multicolored V-necked tracksuit and expensive running shoes. The man was big and broad-shouldered. He was attractive, with a square jaw and black hair that curled at the nape of his neck. At the neckline of the tracksuit curly hair was clearly visible. A gold cross on a thin chain nestled in the hair. There was a serious expression on his face, a controlled frown between the heavy black eyebrows, an expression of grave cooperation. Joubert had seen it before. It could mean anything, because all this suspect had been asked to do was to accompany Snyman to Murder and Robbery because he “might be able to help us with an investigation.” Who knew what thoughts were churning behind that attractive frown?

Snyman sat next to the suspect, his place there earned by his good work. Bart de Wit sat somewhat behind the suspect, against the wall, an observer by personal request.

Joubert pressed the button of the tape recorder. “Mr. Zeelie, you’re aware of the fact that we’re recording this conversation?”

“Yes.” A small muscle next to the mouth twitched the upper lip.

“Have you any objection?”

“No.” His voice was deep and masculine.

“Please give us your full name for the record.”

“Charles Theodore Zeelie.”

“Your profession?”

“Professional cricketer.”

“You regularly play for the Western Province senior team?”

“Yes.”

“As a Province cricketer you must’ve known the late Mr. James Wallace well?”

“I did.”

Joubert watched him closely. Sometimes precisely the exaggerated ease was a sign, the forced lack of concern a mask for guilt. But Zeelie kept to the exact opposite— the tense frown, the serious helpfulness.

“Tell us about your relationship with Mr. Wallace.”

“Well . . . er . . . acquaintances, I’d say. We saw one another from time to time, generally at the get-togethers after the match. We chatted. I liked him. He was a . . . flamboyant man. Acquaintances. We were no more than acquaintances.”

“Are you positive?”

“Yes.”

“You never discussed your personal life with Mr. Wallace?”

“Er . . . no . . .”

“You had no reason to dislike Mr. Wallace?”

“No. I liked him.” The seriousness of the issue deepened the frown on Zeelie’s forehead.

“Never got annoyed with him?”

“No . . . not that I can remember.”

Joubert leaned forward slightly and stared straight at the man in front of him. “Are or were you ever acquainted with a Mr. Drew Joseph Wilson of 64 Clarence Street, Boston?”

Shock spread like a veld fire over Zeelie’s face— his jaw clenched, the eyes narrowed. The left hand on the arm of the chair trembled.

“Yes.” Barely audible.

“Would you please speak more clearly for the sake of the tape recorder.” Mat Joubert’s voice carried the civility of the victor. “Would you like to tell us about your relationship with him?”