Dead Before Dying

40.

They found her at the river, at the same place as the others, and they went in and he pulled a gun and they shot him.” They were drinking his coffee— dark, strong, sweet coffee— and he looked at Margaret Wallace across the kitchen table.

“And you?” she asked.

“I don’t know, there’s a blank there. Somewhere. And then I was sitting on the beach and people were walking past and staring at me and I got up, went back to the private detective, and I threw his stuff at him and I hit him and I walked out and I kept on walking, down Voortrekker Road, and I walked home and then they came and they told me and I couldn't tell them that I knew. That was a bad part: I couldn't tell them . . . They stayed with me for the night.”

Coffee, cigarette.

“I didn't cry then. This is the first time.”

The truth of it came over him. “This is the first time I'’ve cried for her.”

So they sat in silence, in the late night, until the coffee was finished and she got up.

“The children . . .”

He nodded and saw her to her car. She looked at him but found no words. She switched on the engine and the lights, touched his hand once, and then drove down the road. He watched the rear lights disappearing and stood on the pavement, empty. The abscess had been lanced; the wound was bleeding, scarlet, clean. The blood ran in a stream, a flowing stream, through him, and he looked up at the stars, now burning brightly. He went into his house, switched off the lights, walked to his room in the dark, took off his shirt and tie, his shoes and socks and his trousers, and lay down on the bed and thought about Lara, all the doors in his head open. Lara, Lara, Lara. Until daylight glowed behind the curtains.

Then he got up, drew a deep, hot bath, got in, and waited for the cold to be driven out. He washed every inch and crevice of his big body with great seriousness, using a great deal of sudsy lather. Then he rinsed off and dried himself until his skin was red. He put on clean, freshly ironed clothes— white shirt, gray flannels, striped tie, navy blazer. He walked to the kitchen, took out brush and polish, shined his shoes, and put them on. He locked the front door, got into the car, and switched on the windshield wipers to remove the dew. He drove his usual route.

At Murder and Robbery Mavis greeted him as he walked past. He smiled vaguely, walked up the steps, down the passage to his office, sat down. Reality was unreal, slightly out of focus.

His fingers massaged his temples, rubbed his eyes.

Mauser.

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. The palms of his hands pressed against his eyes, his tired eyes. He looked for concentration, looked for focus. Basie Louw. When was he going to phone?

There was nothing more he could do. Only wait. No, he must do something. Had to do something.

Wallace, Wilson, Ferreira, MacDonald, Nienaber, Coetzee.

And Oberholzer.

Phone her parents about Coetzee, the church.

Slow, almost subconscious movements.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Oberholzer, it’s Joubert here from Murder and Robbery in the Cape.”

“Good morning.”

“I still have a few questions, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

“It’s about the Mauser murders.”

“Yes, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

“We recognized the names, the next day.”

He felt guilty. He should’ve told them.

“You must be phoning about the man yesterday. The minister.”

“Yes, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

“I looked through her letters. There’s nothing.”

“Nothing about his church?”

“No.”

Dead-end street. “Thank you, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

“It was an accident. The whole thing. We know it was an accident.”

“Yes, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

“Very well then.”

“Thank you,” he said, and then he remembered the other question that he’d tucked into his head somewhere and not asked yet. Leave it, maybe it was a dead end, too. He asked it in any case, dutifully, in passing.

“Just one more thing. Where did she work before Petrogas?”

“Sea, sea, sea.”

He didn't catch it.

“A college.”

“CCC?” Grasping.

“Cape Commercial College. They offered business courses. I don’t know whether they’re still in existence. Carrie said they were too stingy, so she left.”

Cape Commercial College. He tasted the name, wanted to slot it in somewhere, somewhere it wanted to fit, but he couldn't identify the space.

“Thank you, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

“Good-bye.” Stiff, as the whole conversation had been. They were inimical toward him, the disbeliever who wanted to change their perspective of accident and tragedy.

Cape Commercial College.

His thoughts darted in all directions looking for a connection. He said the name again, aloud, rolled his shoulders a few times to loosen the stiffness. His thoughts were a jumble, he lit a cigarette, sank back into his chair, tried to organize his thoughts. Start from the beginning. Think through Wallace, Wilson, Ferreira, MacDonald, Nienaber, Coetzee. He found nothing. He was making a mistake. He was tired. There was nothing, it was his imagination.

A bright moment of insight— it was there. Desperately he took out his notebook, paged through it. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

He got up, stretched, killed the Winston, and walked down the quiet passage, still too early for the others. He wanted to go to the tearoom for something hot and sweet— and remembered, in the passage. He halted, breath held, too frightened to hope, too scared to think. There had been certificates against the wall of James J. Wallace’s office but— idiot— he hadn't looked at them properly. He turned and hurried to his office and before he could pick up the telephone he remembered what Gail Ferreira had said about her husband, Ferdy: “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 . . .”

His heart knocked against his chest wall, almost daunted.

In Nienaber’s study, against the walclass="underline" CAPE COMMERCIAL COLLEGE BUSINESS SCHOOL—

This is to certify that O. S. Nienaber completed the course in Small Business Management.

He put out his hand for the telephone. It rang.

“Joubert,” he said, but he was barely listening. His thoughts were a maelstrom.

“This is Margaret Wallace.”

He was astonished by the coincidence. “Why did you call?” he asked excitedly, tactlessly.

“To say I’m dreadfully sorry.” Her voice still bore the night’s scars.

“I'’ve found something,” he said because he didn't want to discuss that now. “Your husband. Did he do a course? A business course, at Cape Commercial College?”

She was quiet for three heartbeats. “It was a long time ago,” she said and he heard how tired she was. “Six or seven years. Eight?”