The next morning George Field called Calder at his hotel with the addresses of Daniel Havenga, Andries Visser and Libby Wiseman. Since Professor Havenga lived in Stellenbosch, less than an hour’s drive from Cape Town, Calder decided to start there. But first he wanted to see Hondehoek, Martha’s house.
He drove out of the city past Mitchell’s Plain and the teeming township of Guguletu towards the Hottentots Holland mountains. His head throbbed vaguely from the whisky he had drunk the night before. He was still angry, angry with his father for accusing him of gambling, angry with his sister for blaming him for what happened to her, angry with Edwin for threatening Kim, and above all angry with himself. He had made mistakes over the last few weeks, but he was going to atone for them. He was sure that he had made real progress with George. There was more to be done, but the anger made him more determined to do it.
He left the highway and soon he was in wine country: rolling hills and acre upon acre of vines, russet and yellow. Many of these were watched over by low white farmhouses whose central gables proclaimed their Dutch ancestry. He skirted the town of Stellenbosch and followed a winding road up into a valley. The valley floor was lush: oaks, vines, pasture, a river, but on either side rocky mountain crags rose up into black clouds. It had just been raining, water dripped from the trees and glistened on the vines.
He rounded a corner and came to two white gateposts, one of which bore the name Hondehoek. The other had the usual series of badges threatening armed response and vicious dogs. He drove up the driveway, bordered by golden-leaved oak trees, to the farmhouse, proudly bearing the figures 1815 on the gable. In front of it was the garden: moist, luxuriant, mysterious.
He rang the bell. The door was answered by a tall grey-haired man, dressed neatly in Ralph Lauren shirt and chinos. Calder explained that he was a friend of the van Zyl family, and the man smiled broadly and offered to show him round. It turned out that he was a German who had bought the house and land from Cornelius in 1989. The house and garden were in immaculate condition, and the German said he had taken back the management of the vineyards on the estate.
Calder asked about Doris and Finneas. The German knew them, and had kept them on when he had taken over the property. Finneas had left a few years later, weakened by AIDS, and was now dead. Doris too had died, of a stroke three years before. The new owner remembered Martha’s desk. It had been left behind by Cornelius, but he had sold it when he had moved in. As far as he could remember the desk had been empty; if there were any papers in it, they would have been thrown away. No diary.
As they wandered round the garden, Calder imagined Martha van Zyl working there. It was a beautiful place. Although only a few miles from Stellenbosch, the house seemed much more remote, wrapped in the mists and the valley. Everything was pristine, more pristine than Calder imagined it with Martha in charge. He was standing by a bell suspended from two white posts, when he heard a bird whooping loudly in the tree behind him.
His host swore in German.
‘What was that?’ Calder asked.
‘They call it a bokmakierie,’ the German replied. ‘The South Africans love them, but I think they’re a pest, especially in the summer, when they wake up at five o’clock in the morning and start yelling. There are two of them. I thought they’d gone a couple of years ago, but they seem to have returned.’
Calder thanked him and left, the call of the bokmakierie ringing in his ears.
Calder was aware that the theory he and George Field had hatched about the Laagerbond funding Zyl News was just that, a theory. There could be all kinds of innocent explanations for Havenga and Visser’s visit to Cornelius that day. If there was an innocent explanation, then Daniel Havenga would probably give it, so Calder decided the direct approach would be the best way to test the hypothesis.
Stellenbosch was a quiet town, where imposing modern university buildings shared the streets with much older residences. Havenga lived on Dorp Street, an oak-lined road of white Cape Dutch houses with black painted railings and window-frames, many of which had been turned into art galleries. Peaceful, wealthy, old, it felt more like New England than Africa. A gap-toothed woman with wild black hair enthusiastically ushered Calder’s car into a space outside an ancient-looking general store named Oom Samie’s: she would demand a small tip later for watching over it. Calder walked a few yards along the street to Havenga’s house and rang the bell. The professor answered the door himself. Calder could see what Caroline meant about the ears. He was a small man with white hair, a beard and a mischievous monkey face. He raised his eyebrows in puzzlement when he saw Calder, but he also smiled in tentative welcome.
‘Professor Havenga?’
‘Yes?’
‘My name’s Alex Calder. I’m a friend of Todd van Zyl. I know you knew his parents. He has some questions he would like me to ask you.’
‘About what?’
‘About his mother.’
‘I see. Come in.’
Calder almost tripped over a compact suitcase that was lying in the hallway.
‘Sorry about that,’ said the professor. ‘I’ve only just got in from Pretoria this morning. Through here.’ He showed Calder into a cramped living room, made even more cramped by the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that covered every wall. An attractive woman of about forty appeared, whom Havenga introduced as his partner and sent off to make coffee.
‘Do I detect a Scottish accent?’ Havenga said.
‘You do,’ Calder admitted.
‘Well, you’ve come a long way. How can I help?’ The professor’s eyes were bright, and his smile was friendly, but he was leaning forward nervously in his armchair.
‘I understand you were a friend of Martha’s?’
‘Oh, yes, a great friend. I thought it was a breath of fresh air to have an American around. It’s much better now, but in those days the university was very inward-looking, very insular.’
‘Do you have any idea who killed her?’
The professor’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Wasn’t it ANC guerrillas somewhere in the north? Near the Mozambique border?’
‘That’s what the police said.’
‘I see. And Todd doesn’t believe them?’
‘No.’
Havenga shrugged. ‘He may be right. All kinds of awful things were covered up by the authorities in those days. I suppose Martha’s death might be one of them. It’s very hard to unravel those mysteries now. It was what, fifteen years ago?’
‘Eighteen,’ Calder said. ‘And it is difficult. Which is why I am here.’
The woman arrived with a cafetière of coffee and two mugs. Havenga gave her a meaningful look and she withdrew. Havenga poured the coffee and swore as he spilled some. Definitely nervous.
‘I was very fond of Martha,’ Havenga said as he passed Calder his mug. ‘But I didn’t know her that well. If she had personal problems, I wouldn’t know about them. There were rumours of some difficulties with her husband, but there are always those kinds of rumours in Stellenbosch. The town is notorious for it.’
‘I wonder if you could tell me about a meeting you had with Cornelius van Zyl a short time before Martha was killed.’
Havenga sat up straight. ‘Meeting? I don’t follow.’
‘Yes. With Andries Visser, from the Finance Ministry.’
Havenga looked nonplussed. He didn’t say anything.
‘You do know Andries Visser?’
‘Um... We served on some committees together, I think. A long time ago.’
‘Right,’ Calder said. ‘And one day you and he paid a visit to Cornelius.’