Dead Before Dying

Joubert sighed, put on his jacket, and walked down the passage.

Colonel Bart de Wit had taken over Willy Theal’s office and made it his own, Joubert saw when he knocked and was invited in.

The team pictures against the wall were gone. The dirty green carpet on the floor was gone, the sickly pot plant in the corner had disappeared. Three certificates of degrees conferred now hung against the newly painted white wall. The floor was covered in a police-blue carpet and in the corner was a coffee table on which a small plaque announced I PREFER NOT TO SMOKE. On the desk was a holder with four photographs— a smiling woman in glasses with heavy frames, a teenage boy with his father’s nose, a teenage girl in glasses with heavy frames. The other pictures showed de Wit and the minister of law and order.

“Do sit down, Captain,” said de Wit and gestured at the blue-gray chair. He also sat down. A small smile instantly hovered.

Then he straightened the thick personnel file in front of him and opened it. “What did you say? That they called you Max?”

“Mat.”

“Mat?”

“They’re my initials, Colonel. I was christened Marcus Andreas Tobias. M.A.T. My father called me that.” Joubert’s voice was soft, patient.

“Aaah. Your father. I see he was a member, too.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Never an officer?”

“No, Colonel.”

“Aaah.”

A moment’s uncomfortable silence. Then de Wit picked up the staff file.

“I don’t play my cards close to the chest, Captain. Not about my political views then and not about my work now. So I’m going to be painfully honest with you. Things haven’t been going well. Since your wife’s death.”

The smile on de Wit’s face didn't match the seriousness of his voice. It confused Mat Joubert.

“She was also a member, wasn'’t she?”

Joubert nodded. And wondered what the man across the desk knew. His stomach muscles contracted and doors closed in his mind as a precaution.

“She died in the course of duty?”

Again Joubert nodded, and his pulse rate increased.

“A tragedy. But with respect, Captain, since then things have gone badly for you . . .” He looked at the file again. “One serious disciplinary warning and two petitions from seven NCOs. A decrease in the solving of crimes . . .”

Joubert stared at the photograph of de Wit and the minister. The minister was a half meter taller. Both were smiling broadly. It was a clear picture. One could see the mole.

“Do you want to comment, Captain?”

The curious smile on de Wit’s face unnerved Joubert.

“It’s all in the file, Colonel.”

“The disciplinary action.” De Wit read the document in front of him. “The Wasserman case. You refused to make a statement . . .” He waited for Joubert to react. The silence grew.

“It’s all in the file, Colonel. I didn't make a statement because Adjutant Potgieter’s statement was correct.”

“So you were guilty of unbecoming conduct.”

“According to the definition, I was, Colonel.”

“And the two petitions from the seven NCOs that they didn't want to be with you on standby again?”

“I don’t blame them, Colonel.”

De Wit leaned back in his chair, a magnate. “I like your honesty, Captain.”

Joubert was astonished at the way the man could smile and talk at the same time.

“But I don’t know whether it’s going to be enough to save you. You see, Captain, this is the New South Africa. We’ve all got to make a contribution. Shape up or ship out. There are people in disadvantaged communities who have to be uplifted. In the police service as well. We can’t keep deadwood in officers’ posts for sentimental reasons. Do you understand?”

Joubert nodded.

“Then there’s the question of my appointment. The pressure is heavy. Not just on me— on the new government. Everybody’s waiting for the mistakes. The whites would love the black government to make mistakes so that they can say we told you so.”

De Wit leaned forward. The smile grew.

“Here there are going to be no mistakes. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Shape up or ship out.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Ask yourself, Captain: Am I a winner? Then you’ll always be welcome here.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

De Wit sighed deeply, the smile in place.

“Your first medical examination is at fourteen hundred hours, day after tomorrow. And a last point: The service contracted two clinical psychologists for members who need it. I referred your file. They’ll let you know. Perhaps by tomorrow. Have a good day, Captain.”

4.

Premier Bank started out as a building society seventy-five years ago, but this kind of financial institution had become unfashionable.

So, like most other financial institutions, it broadened its scope a little. Now, in addition to home loans, its clients could also drown in overdrawn accounts, installment plans, and every other conceivable method of squeezing interest from modern man.

For the average client there was the Ruby Plan with the pale mauve-and-gray checkbook and its imprint of a red precious stone. Those with a higher income and more debt qualified for the Emerald Plan— and a green gem. But, above all, the Premier wanted all its clients to aim for the Diamond Plan.

On Wednesday, January 2, Susan Ploos van Amstel saw the attractive man with the gold-framed glasses, the blond hair, the deep tan, and the steel-gray suit walking toward her teller cubicle and knew he was a Diamond Plan client.

Susan was plump, thirty-four years old, with three children who spent their afternoons in a play school and a husband who spent his evenings in the garage tinkering with his 1962 Anglia. When the blond man smiled, she felt young. His teeth were a flawless, gleaming white. His face was finely made but strong. He looked like a film star. A forty-year-old film star.

“Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?” Susan gave him her best smile.

“Hi,” he said, and his voice was deep and rich. “I heard that this branch has the prettiest tellers in the Cape. And I see it’s true.”

Susan blushed, looked down. She was enjoying every moment.

“Sweetheart, won’t you do me a great favor?”

Susan looked up again. Not an indecent proposal, surely? “Certainly, sir. Anything.”

“Oh, dangerous words, sweetheart, dangerous words,” his voice loaded with meaning. Susan giggled and blushed a deeper red.

“But I’ll leave that for another occasion. Don’t you want to get one of those large old bank bags and fill it with notes— fifties and higher? I'’ve got this large old gun here under my jacket . . .”

He opened his jacket slightly. Susan saw the grip of a weapon.

“. . . and I don’t want to use it. But you look like a pretty and sensible girl. If you help me quickly, I’ll be gone before anything nasty can happen.” His voice remained calm, the tone conversational.