The man is a clown, Benny had said on the way. He wont last. Joubert wondered if the OC had called in the NCOs one by one as well. And if de Wit was aware of Griessels drinking problem.
Basie wants me, he said, breaking the depressing silence, and got up. He walked to the room from where Margaret Wallace had earlier made a call. He heard the maid clinking china in the kitchen.
It looked like a study. A desk with a computer and telephone stood in the center. Against the back wall was a bookcase with hardcover files, a few books on business practice, and a handful of
Readers Digest
condensed books in their overdone mock leather bindings. The wall next to the door was covered in photographs and certificates. There was also a large cartoon by a local cartoonist. It depicted James Wallace thick black hair, luxuriant mustache, slightly bulging cheeks. The caricature wore a neat suit of clothes. One hand held a briefcase with the logo WALLACE QUICKMAIL. The other arm clutched a cricket bat; the hand held a flag with WP CRICKET on it.
Joubert dialed the number. It was the hotels. He asked to speak to Basie and waited a few moments.
Captain?
Yo, Basie.
Weve found someone, Captain. Female, blond. She says Wallace was with her in the room. But we didn't question her further. Were waiting for you.
Can you stay with her? Benny and I are going to be here for a while.
No problem, Captain. Louw sounded keen. Oh, and there was another spent cartridge. Under the body.
When Joubert walked out of the study, he glanced at the cartoon against the wall again. And knew that the insignificance of life was just as sad as the finality of death.
He started business on his own, said Margaret Wallace. She sat on the edge of the big, comfortable chair, her hands in her lap, her voice even, without inflection, controlled.
He was awarded the contract to deliver the municipal accounts. It was tough at first. He had to import an Addressograph and a computer from the United States, but in those days every letter had to be inserted into the envelopes by hand, then sealed. I helped him. We worked through the night. Often. He sold seventy percent of the shares to Promail International two years ago, but they stuck to the original name. Hes still on the board and acts as a consultant.
Joubert noted that she was still speaking about her husband in the present tense. But he knew that would change on the following day, after the night.
Was your husband involved in politics?
Politics? Margaret Wallace said, wholly uncomprehending.
Was Mr. Wallace a member of a political party? Griessel asked.
No, he . . . Her voice cracked. They waited.
He was . . . apolitical. He didn't even vote. He says all politicians are the same. They only want power. They dont really care about people. The frown on her forehead deepened.
Was he involved in the townships? Welfare work?
No.
His company?
No.
Joubert tried another tack. Were you aware of any tension at work recently?
She shook her head slightly and the auburn hair moved. No.
The unmatched pair of eyes blinked. She was fighting for control, Joubert knew. He helped her: Were sure there must be a logical explanation for this terrible thing, Mrs. Wallace.
Who couldve done such a thing? Havent we had enough death and destruction in this country already? James wasn't perfect but . . .
It couldve been an accident, Mrs. Wallace. Or a robbery. The motive for this sort of thing is usually money, Griessel said.
Or sex, Joubert thought. But that would have to wait.
Do you know if anyone owed your husband money? Any other business ventures, transactions . . .
She shook her head again. James was so responsible with money. He didn't even gamble. We went to Sun City last year, with the people from Promail. He took along five thousand rand and said that when that was gone, he would stop. And he did. The house doesnt have a mortgage, thank the good Lord . . .
Griessel cleared his throat. You were happily married. A statement.
Margaret Wallace looked at Griessel and frowned. Yes, I would like to think so. We had the usual little squabbles. James loves cricket. And sometimes he comes home a bit tipsy after a night out with the boys. And sometimes Im too sensitive about it. I can be moody, I suppose. But our marriage works, in its strange way. The kids . . . our existence revolves around the kids these days. She looked in the direction of the bedroom, where her mother had to be the comforter now.
The silence grew. Then Joubert spoke. He thought his voice sounded artificial and overly sympathetic. Mrs. Wallace, according to law you have to identify your husband at the morgue . . .
I cant do it. Her voice was muffled, and the tears were about to fall.
Is there someone else who could?
Someone at work will have to. Walter Schutte. The managing director. She gave a telephone number, and Joubert wrote it down.
Ill give him a call.
They got up. She did, too, but reluctantly, because she knew the night lay ahead.
If theres anything we can do . . . Griessel said and he sounded sincere.
Well be fine, said Margaret Wallace and started crying bitterly again.
The blonde sat on one of the hotels bedroom chairs. Her name was Elizabeth Daphne van der Merwe.
Joubert sat in the other chair. Griessel, Louw, and OGrady were perched on the edge of the big double bed, arms folded, like judges.
Her hair was straw-colored out of a bottle. Her face was long and thin, the eyes big and brown with long lashes, the nose small and delicate. Tears had drawn mascara tracks down her cheeks. But Lizzie van der Merwe had missed true beauty with a mouth that didn't match. Her front teeth were a bit rabbity, the bottom lip was small, too near the weakness of her jaw. Her body was tall and slender with small, high breasts under the white blouse. She had angular hip bones and wore a black skirt that showed too much of her legs in cream-colored stockings ending in elegant high heels.
Where did you meet the deceased? Jouberts voice was wholly without sympathy now, his choice of words deliberate.
I met him this afternoon. She hesitated, looked up. The detectives all stared at her, their faces impassive. The long lashes danced across her cheeks. But no one reacted.
I work for Zeus Computers. In Johannesburg. I phoned last week. We have new products . . . James . . . er . . . Mr. Wallace . . . They referred me to him. He is their consultant on computers. And so I flew down this morning. I had an eleven oclock appointment. Then he took me to lunch . . . Her eyes moved from face to face, looking for one that showed sympathy.
They waited in silence. Her lashes danced again. The lower lip quivered and placed more emphasis on the two front teeth she tried to hide. Joubert felt sorry for her.