Dead Before Dying

“But he did.”

“Yes.”

“I need a date. And an address and names. Anything.”

“Why? I mean, it was so long ago.”

“I think it’s the connection. I think it might lead to what we’re after.”

For the first time she was aware of his urgency, the vitality in his voice. “I’ll have a look. I’ll call you.”

“Thank you,” he said but she had already hung up.

He looked up the number in the directory.

Cape Commercial College, 195 Protea Rd. Woodstock. Box 214962, Cape Town.

He dialed. It rang for a long time. He checked the time. Twenty past seven. Too early, he would have to wait. He phoned Gail Ferreira, but there was no reply, either. She must be between her home and work. Why was his timing always so terrible?

No one to send to Wilson’s house and MacDonald’s boat, no people anywhere to answer telephones. He knew he had it, still didn't know what it meant, but he was right— there was a connection. He was right, ladies and gentlemen, Mat Joubert wasn'’t stupid, only storm damage, a little storm damage— okay, okay, a great deal of storm damage, but it could be repaired. The gray matter was still in working order, ladies and gentlemen, and he was going to end this thing today and tonight he was taking Hanna Nortier to

The Barber

and, ladies and gentlemen, the repair work would begin in all seriousness. Because he was free— the wound was bleeding but it was free of pus.

He wanted coffee and a Wimpy breakfast with eggs and bacon and sausage and fried tomatoes and toast with butter and coffee, and a Winston— life wasn'’t so bad— and then he would return to his diet and he would get very thin and fit and become a nonsmoker. He got up, the tiredness thrown off his shoulders like a useless garment. When he went to fetch coffee, he was in the passage when he heard his telephone ringing and ran back.

“It was in 1989,” said Margaret Wallace. “Three months in 1989— August, September, and October. I remember now. He took evening classes and then the whole group went away, at the end, for a few days. There’s a certificate on the wall, and I found a curriculum and a prospectus. They’re on Protea Road, in Woodstock. The man who signed the letters of confirmation was Slabbert, W. O. Slabbert, the registrar. It was seven or eight years ago, Captain . . . What on earth could it mean?”

“I’ll let you know before the day is over.”

* * *

Petersen was the first to reach the office. Joubert sent him to Hout Bay to MacDonald’s boat. Then O’Grady arrived and also got an immediate order. Snyman was late. “I recall something like that in Drew Wilson’s wardrobe, Captain, a certificate, among the other stuff, at the back, behind the photo albums, but I didn't think it was important.”

“I wouldn't have, either,” Joubert said. “Fetch it for me.” De Wit was pacing to and fro in Joubert’s office, finger nervously next to the nose. Vos was drinking tea, then said calmly: “Now you’re going to nail him, partner.”

The telephone rang. O’Grady calling from Nienaber’s house. “Certificate’s date is 1989, Captain. This is it.”

They waited, talked, speculated. Half past eight. He phoned Gail Ferreira’s work number. “Yes, it was in 1989, Captain. Late in the year. Late in Ferdy’s life. He was useless by then.”

“Seven years,” said de Wit. “It’s a long time.”

“Indeed,” said Joubert.

Telephone again. “This is Basie Louw, Captain.” His voice was weak, like an old man’s.

“What’s the matter, Basie?”

“Jeez, Captain, I had to go out in a boat to find them.”

“And?”

“Seasick, Captain. I get horribly seasick.”

“Is Mrs. Coetzee with you, Basie?”

“Yes, Captain, but she says she doesn’t know the others. She’s never heard of . . .”

“Basie, ask her if Coetzee did a course in small business management in 1989 at the Cape Commercial College.”

“A course in what, Captain?”

“Just ask her whether he was at the Cape Commercial College in 1989.” He said the name slowly, pronouncing each word clearly and distinctly. He heard Louw putting his hand over the mouthpiece, and waited.

Louw replied, surprised: “He did, Captain. He—” Joubert heard the woman interrupting Louw but couldn't make out what she was saying. He heard Louw saying impatiently, “Yes, yes, yes.” Then Louw spoke into the receiver again. “She said it was that Christmas that he became so involved with the church, Captain. Christmas of ’89. She says that’s when all the trouble started.”

“He said nothing about the course? About the people who were with him?”

Again an indistinct conversation with the woman. “No, Captain, he didn't say anything.”

“Thanks, Basie.”

“Is that all, Captain?”

“That’s all, Basie. You can . . .”

“The college, Captain . . . is it a new thing?”

“It seems they were all there, Basie.”

“Fuck my duck.”

“You can come back, Basie. Take the boat.”

“Captain?”

“Joke, Basie.”

“Hu, hu.” Louw laughed without humor.

Leon Petersen came back from Hout Bay. “There’s nothing. Not a certificate, nothing.”

“His men?”

“They say they don’t remember anything like that.”

“It doesn’t matter. MacDonald is already involved, through Nienaber.”

“What now?”

“Now we’re going to the Cape Commercial College.”

41.

W. O. Slabbert, the registrar, principal, and only shareholder of the Cape Commercial College, was a bullfrog of a man with multiple double chins, a wide, flat nose, a broad, open forehead, and big, fleshy ears. He had a crew cut. He looked pleased with the deputation from Murder and Robbery who came into his office in single file— Joubert leading, then O’Grady and de Wit, with Petersen bringing up the rear.

“Call me W. O. You probably want to take a course,” he said, pen in hand, after they had introduced themselves and found a seat. He sniffed and his nose made a little curve just above the left corner of his mouth.

“No,” Joubert said.

“You don’t want to take a course?” Sniff. Again the strange movement of the one nostril.

“We’re investigating a series of murders that were committed in the Peninsula in the past fortnight, Mr. Slabbert.”

“Oh.” Disappointment.

“We’ve been informed that Miss Carina Oberholzer worked for you.”

“Yes?” Tentative.

“Tell us about her.”

“Is she dead?”

“She is.”

“Carina dead,” he said as if he couldn't believe it and sniffed again. Joubert wished the man would blow his nose.

“How long did she work for you?”