Dead Before Dying

“It was quite awful. Sickening,” said Merryck. “But one has to do one’s duty.”

Griessel patted him on the shoulder. “You can go now. If we need you, we know where to find you,” he said in his faultless English. He and Joubert walked to the body. “Photographer is on his way. I'’ve asked for the pathologist, forensic, and the fingerprint guys. And most of the others on standby. He’s white,” said Griessel and pulled away the blanket.

Between two staring eyes lay the blood-filled lake of a bullet wound, gaping, mocking, in flawless symmetry.

“But take a look at this,” said Griessel and pulled the blanket down further. Joubert saw another wound, a bloody blackish-red hole in the chest, in the center of a stylish suit, shirt, and tie.

“Jesus,” Mat Joubert said and knew why Merryck had vomited.

“Large caliber.”

“Yip,” said Griessel. “A cannon.”

“Check his pockets,” said Joubert.

“wasn'’t robbery,” they said virtually in unison when they saw the gold Rolex on the arm. And they both knew that this complicated the case infinitely.

Joubert’s hand moved quickly over the lifeless eyes, smoothing down the eyelids. He saw the defenselessness of the dead, the way in which all bodies lay, unmistakable, vulnerable, the hands and arms finally folded never again to defend that showcase of life, the face. He forced himself to keep his mind on his work.

Voices behind them, saying hi. More detectives from the backup team. Joubert rose. They were coming to look at the body. Griessel chased them away when they blocked out the pale light of the streetlamps.

“Start there. Walk the whole area. Every centimeter.”

The usual moan started, but they obeyed, knew how important the first search was. Griessel carefully went through the deceased’s pockets. Then he got up with a checkbook holder and car keys in his hand. He threw the keys to Adjutant Basie Louw.

“They’re for a BMW. Try this one.”

Griessel opened the gray leather checkbook holder. “We have a name,” he said. “J. J. Wallace. And an address. Ninety-six Oxford Street, Constantia.”

“The key fits,” said Louw and took it out carefully, so as not to leave his fingerprints in the car.

“A rich bugger,” said Griessel. “We’ll hit the headlines again.”

It was a young detective constable, Gerrit Snyman, who found the cartridge case halfway under a nearby car. “Captain,” he called, still inexperienced enough to get excited immediately. Joubert and Griessel walked toward him. Snyman lit the empty cartridge case with his flashlight. Joubert picked it up, held it against the light. Griessel came closer, read the numbers on the back.

“Seven point six three.”

“Impossible. It’s short. Pistol case.”

“There. You read it. Seven point six . . . three. It seems. Might be badly printed.”

“Probably six two.”

Benny Griessel looked at Joubert. “Must be. And that means only one thing.”

“Tokarev.” Joubert sighed.

“APLA.” Benny sighed. “Fuckin’ politics.”

Joubert walked toward his service vehicle. “I’m going to radio the Colonel.”

“De Wit? All he’ll do is to puke his fuckin’ heart out.” Benny’s grin shone silver in the streetlight.

For the moment Joubert had forgotten that Willy Theal would never visit a murder scene again. He felt gloom rising like damp.

* * *

The house at 96 Oxford Street was a large single story set in huge grounds. The garden was a controlled lushness, impressive even in the semidarkness.

Somewhere deep in the house the doorbell sounded, briefly overriding the sound of a television program. The seconds ticked past. Inside, their carefree time was decreasing, Joubert thought. The angels of death were at the front door. The tiding, like a parasite, was going to suck life, joy, and peace out of their lives.

A woman opened the door, irritated, a frown of small wrinkles. Long, thick auburn hair hung over one shoulder, covered part of the yellow-patterned apron, and guided their gaze away from her eyes.

Her voice was melodious and annoyed. “Can I help you?”

“Mrs. Wallace?” he asked. Then he saw the eyes. So did Griessel. A mismatched pair, the one pale blue and bright, the other in shades of brown, somewhere between light and dark. Joubert tried not to stare.

“Yes,” she said and knew it wasn'’t a sales ploy. Fear moved like a shadow over her face.

“It’s James, isn’t it.”

A boy of about ten appeared behind her. “What is it, Mom?”

She looked round, worried. “Jeremy, please go to your room.” Her voice was soft but urgent. The boy turned away. She looked back at the detectives.

“We’re from the police,” Joubert said.

“You’d better come in,” she said, opening the door wide and taking off her apron.

Mrs. Margaret Wallace wept with the total abandon of helpless grief, hands in her lap, shoulders slightly bowed. Tears stuck to the yellow wool of her summer sweater and glistened in the bright light of her living room’s candelabra.

Joubert and Griessel stared at the carpet.

Joubert focused on the ball and claw of the coffee table’s leg. He wanted to be in his chair in his own home, the paperback on his lap and a beer in his hand.

The boy came down the passage. Behind him was a girl somewhere between eight and ten.

“Mom?” His voice was small and scared.

Margaret Wallace straightened her shoulders, wiped the palm of her hand over her face. She got up with dignity. “Excuse me.” She took the children’s hands and led them down the passage. A door closed. The silence was deafening. A cry sounded. Then there was silence again.

They didn't look at each other because that would be an admission.

Eventually she came back. Her shoulders were still gallantly erect, as though she could contain her emotions physically. But they knew.

“I must call my mother. She lives in Tokai. She can help with the kids. I’m sure you have many questions.” Her voice was neutral, like a sleepwalker’s.

Joubert wanted to tell her that they would come back later, that they would leave her with her pain. But he couldn't.

She came back within minutes. “My mother is coming over. She’s strong. My dad . . . I'’ve asked the maid to make us some tea. I take it you drink tea?”

“Thank you, but . . .” Joubert’s voice was slightly hoarse. He cleared his throat.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll stay with the kids until she arrives.” She didn't wait for an answer and walked down the semilit passage.

Joubert’s pocket radio beeped. He looked at the LCD message on his screen: RING ADJ LOUW. There was a phone number attached.

He’d sent Louw and three other detectives to the hotel because the rooms overlooked the parking area. This was after the pathologist had mumbled over the body. And before Bart de Wit had turned up and called a media conference about a murder on which they had no information. He and Benny had fled to Oxford Street just after it started.