Dead Before Dying

“Four, five years. Who . . . How did she die?”

“What kind of work did she do here, Mr. Slabbert?”

“She was in administration. Received the applications and the registrations, sent out the lectures, saw to it that the lecturers received their subject matter. We don’t have lecturers here— they’re part-time, do other work as well.”

“And that’s all she did, the administration?”

“She was only the third or the fourth person I’d appointed. You can imagine, we were very small. Carina grew with the place— bit of this, bit of that, admin, secretarial, answering the phone, doing a little typing.”

“And then she resigned?”

“Yes, she left to join some petrol concern.”

“Why?”

“With Carina it was always money. She was a pretty little thing and a good worker but she was always talking about money. I said: ‘You must be patient, Carrie.’ But she always said that life costs money. She was such a pretty little thing, always laughing and talking. And I had to take her off the switchboard because of the endless personal calls.” Sniff.

“She was working for you in 1989?”

“Yes, I . . . Yes, she was, from ’87. Shame, her parents farm in the Northwest. I met them once or twice . . . They must be taking it badly.”

“Does the name James J. Wallace mean anything to you?”

“No, I can’t say . . .”

“Drew Wilson?”

“I can’t . . .”

“Ferdy Ferreira?”

“Aren’t these the Mauser . . . ?”

“Alexander MacDonald?”

“If it’s the Mauser people, why didn't I read anything about little Carina?”

“Do the names mean anything to you, Mr. Slabbert?”

“Yes, I'’ve heard of them. That hair salon chap as well— what’s his name?”

“Nienaber.”

“That’s him, and the one yesterday, the reverend . . .”

“Pastor.”

“Yes, the pastor. But . . . was there another one today? Little Carina?”

“No, not today. How do you know about the Mauser, Mr. Slabbert?”

Sniff, curve. “One could hardly avoid it. The newspapers are full of it.”

“You only heard the names in the media?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know a Hester Clarke, Mr. Slabbert?”

“Yes, I know Hester Clarke. Don’t tell me she . . .”

“Hester Clarke from Fish Hoek? The Christmas card designer?”

“No, I don’t know whether she designed Christmas cards.”

“Fifty-year-old spinster?”

“No, not our Hester— she was a small little thing, young. Young girl.”

“She was?”

“Yes, we don’t know what became of her. Had simply disappeared when we looked for her again. Changed her telephone number or something. Never heard from her again.”

“What was your connection with her?”

“She gave our self-actualization courses. Cute girl, just out of university. We advertised and she came to see me almost immediately. Clever girl, full of bright ideas . . .”

“Your self-actualization?”

“We started the business school for the small businessmen, you know”— sniff—“evening classes. We’d started the evening classes by then but only in the Cape— the correspondence courses for the other stuff, evening classes for creative courses and the business school. First, how to start your own business, the legal aspects, the ways and means, the books, the stock . . . all those small things. Then we saw we needed a last rounding off to send them out into the world. Self-actualization. Norman Vincent Peale, Dale Carnegie— how to make friends and think positively, that kind of stuff.” He sniffed again and Joubert wondered whether he should offer the man a handkerchief.

“She gave a course in self-actualization in 1989.”

“Yes.”

“With evening classes.”

“No, it was little Hester’s idea to take them away for two days, Friday and Saturday, to the Berg River. There’s a little guest farm between Paarl and Franschhoek. It was her idea— she said they were too tired in the evenings during the week. They had to get away, be fresh, out of the usual surroundings. She was full of plans. We still do it in the last part of the course. There are usually ten or twelve in the group and then they finish and we hand out certificates on the Saturday evening.”

“How often did you go away like that?”

“Oh, just once a year. Look, the course is three months of theory in the evening classes because people work during the day. You can’t get them to class every evening— they don’t want it.”

“And that’s all that Hester Clarke did? Two evenings in a year?”

“No, she wrote lectures as well for the creative sections. We still use them. All the introductory lectures about what creativity is, and she checked the little projects set and drew up the little exam papers.”

“Here, in the office?”

“No, I don’t have the money to keep lecturers here. She worked from home.”

“Where did she live?”

“Stellenbosch. I think she was studying part-time as well.”

“And then she disappeared?”

“I won’t say disappeared. But it was very strange. When we tried to find her in the new year, her telephone wasn'’t working or someone else answered the phone . . . I can’t remember any longer. We sent letters and telegrams but she was simply gone. I had to find someone else in a hurry. I thought she would probably come back— on holiday or something like that. But later we gave up.”

“Who gives the self-actualization now?”

“Zeb van den Berg. He was in the navy for years and it’s his retirement job. But little Hester’s stuff . . . We’re still using it.”

“Carina Oberholzer? Did she have anything to do with it?”

“She organized the stuff, the accommodation and the lecture hall and the prize giving. She went to the guest farm on the Saturday.”

They chewed on this until Joubert asked: “What year did Hester Clarke disappear, Mr. Slabbert?”

“I’ll have to think.” Sniff. The nose performed its impossible action again, a small muscle spasm. “Let me see . . .” He counted, using his fingers. “’Seventy-eight, ’eighty-eight, ’eighty-nine . . . Yes, ’ninety because we got someone from the Mutual who was doing their training just for a month. But it didn't work— they wanted too much money.”

“So Hester Clarke did her last self-actualization in 1989.”

“Got to be.”

“Mr. Slabbert, we’re reasonably sure that all the victims of the Mauser murderer were in the 1989 group of your small business course. Have you—”

“No!”

“Have you records of that year’s students?”

“Were they students?”

“Do you still have the records?”

“All students?”