Dead Before Dying

* * *

“If anyone had a motive for killing Ferdy it was me,” said Gail Ferreira.

She sat in an armchair in the Plettenberg’s sitting room. Gerbrand Vos sat opposite her on a two-seater couch. He was on backup duty that week. Joubert sat next to him, the two large detectives squashed together on a couch that was too small. But there was no other seating.

Each one held a cup of tea.

“What do you mean, Mrs. Ferreira?” Vos asked and lifted his cup to his mouth.

“Because Ferdy was bad news.” She said it forcibly and stressed the last two words. She sat up straight, with her knees together, her teacup held on her lap. Joubert noticed that she wasn'’t a pretty woman. Her black hair was liberally laced with gray. It was short and curly. Traces of a skin complaint in youth were still visible under the makeup. The corners of her mouth turned down naturally, which gave her a permanently surly expression.

“Why do you say that?” Vos asked.

“Because he could never keep a job. Because he was lazy. Because he felt too sorry for himself. You see, Captain, Ferdy had polio, and his left foot was slightly affected. But there was nothing wrong with him. Only in his head. He thought the world owed him a living.”

She brought the cup to her lips.

“What kind of work did he do?” Joubert asked.

“He was a carpenter when he worked at all. He was clever with his hands. But according to him, his bosses were never good enough. He always said he had to work for himself. But he was useless. He went on a course once to learn to start his own business but nothing came of it. Then they advertised for carpenters for the factories in Atlantis and we moved here, but it didn't last long. He complained that the black carpenters got the best jobs and preferential treatment and he couldn't work under bosses like that. Now he sits at home every day, in front of the television, and he and that worthless George Walmer of the club watch blue movies the moment my back is turned.”

Vos put his cup down on the little table in the middle of the room.

“But you didn't kill him, ma’am. Therefore there must be someone else who had reason to . . .”

“Captain, Ferdy was too useless to make enemies,” Gail Ferreira said with finality.

“Have you ever heard the name James Wallace, Mrs. Ferreira?”

“No.”

“Jimmy Wallace?”

“No.”

“Drew Wilson?”

“No. Should I have?”

“The same murder weapon was probably used in their murders, ma’am. We’re looking for a connection.”

“Were they also bad news?” she asked seriously.

The detectives didn't reply— Gerry Vos because he saw the question as rhetorical and Joubert because he was wondering whether the wife of Ferdy Ferreira didn't have something there. Both James J. Wallace and Drew Wilson had been bad news. Each in his own way.

But then Gail Ferreira showed that she wasn'’t wholly without feeling. “The house is going to be empty,” she sighed and put her cup on the table.

The detectives looked up, faintly surprised.

“Who’s going to bark at me when I get home?”

19.

The television news team was too late to shoot, in their somewhat tactless parlance, the gruesome remains of Ferdy Ferreira. They were too late at the murder scene to record the police ballistics team, laboratory team, video unit, photographer, and dog unit.

However, the cameraman found a blotch of blood in the sand where Ferdy’s head had rested after the pistol had punched a hole through it. He made a recording of it. He also held the camera low over the white sand and walked through the gap in the dune in an attempt to get dramatic material of Ferdy Ferreira’s last steps this side of the grave.

Then he and the reporter drove to the Old Ship Caravan Park and waited with the newspaper reporters in front of the Plettenberg. The television team didn't like that. They usually got preferential treatment at news events. The cameraman set up his tripod, screwed the Sony Betacam SP onto it, and focused on the front door of the Plettenberg.

Joubert and Vos came out. Gail Ferreira said good-bye to them at the front door. The policemen walked to their cars. The reporters hurried after them.

The camera lens followed the procession. The microphone on the camera didn't pick up Vos’s words, however. “Fuckit, now the TV’s here as well. You can keep the case, partner. The going’s getting rough.”

The reporters reached them and asked for information.

“You know you must work through PR,” Joubert said.

“Just the basics, Captain, please.”

* * *

“The Brigadier wants to know what we’re doing,” said Colonel Bart de Wit and nervously rubbed his mole. His smile was very vague. “He heard from PR that the television was there as well.”

Joubert and Vos were sitting opposite him.

“Whether it’s a new government or not, everything remains the same. Isn’t it amazing the way the entire force shits its pants every time the TV covers something,” said Vos and shook his head sadly.

De Wit’s smile disappeared and Joubert’s heart swelled with pride in his colleague.

“Captain, that was totally unnecessary. The service’s image is at stake here.”

“With respect, Colonel, it’s the minister and the commissioner and the Brigadier’s image. Because when the newspapers write something, it’s fuckall. But just let the TV guys show an interest . . .”

“Captain Vos, your language does not become an officer. And we aren’t here to do the work of PR. The Brigadier wants to know what we’re going to do.”

Joubert saw that de Wit had regained his self-possession and his voice was heavy with that sarcastic intonation. “We’re investigating the case, Colonel.”

“But not well enough, Captain. This is the third murder and you don’t even have a clue. Every theory bombs out. First the man who sleeps around. Then the homosexual. What’s it this time? Lesbians?”

He knew de Wit was trying to humiliate him in front of Vos. He wanted to say something, retain his dignity, but his mind refused to formulate the words.

“That’s unfair, Colonel. With a serial there never are any clues.” Vos defended his colleague.

“Do you know something about the murders we don’t know, Captain?”

“One doesn’t have to be psychic to know that it’s a serial, Colonel.”

“There was a gun of a different caliber involved in the Melkbos murder. Doesn’t sound like the same modus operandi to me.”

Joubert found words. “He knows his Mauser and his ammunition are not a hundred percent dependable. One jamming and you’re in trouble . . .”

“That’s for fucking sure,” Gerbrand Vos helped.

“And there was a jamming this morning. Only one 7.63 cartridge case.”

De Wit said nothing.

“We’ll know if it’s the same murderer tomorrow, Colonel.”