“Your Stephen is de la mierda!” Fina had screamed.
“You’re sacrificing yourself for nothing,” Dido had said, going one step further.
Who should she be crying for?
In fact, should she be crying?
It was Dido who interrupted all these thoughts with her tray of coffee and the Cape Tribune. On the front page, Fiela, who was en route to the high-security prison in Pretoria, once reserved for the most recalcitrant political prisoners, had been replaced by another woman, white this time, united in the same madness and wickedness. Once again the righteous would be scandalized. This woman had drowned all five of her children, the youngest being only a few months old, in the family bathtub.
Rosélie cut short Dido’s fulminations with a wave of the hand, drew a cup to her lips, drank a sip of the scalding liquid, then asked, very quietly:
“You knew, didn’t you?”
Immediately Dido’s expression clouded over. As if she had been waiting for this question for days. Like a night moth imprisoned by mistake in an attic, her gaze frantically fluttered around the room, then came and settled on Rosélie.
“What did I know?” she asked.
“Stephen,” Rosélie simply murmured.
All Dido’s affection welled up in her eyes, which suddenly sparkled with tears. She hesitated, then stammered:
“Yes, I knew. Like everyone else. But what about you? When did you know?”
Thereupon Rosélie burst out crying, sobbing noisily.
“You never mentioned it,” Dido went on vehemently. “So I never dared bring it up. It was beyond me. I was in agony. I said to myself she must know. So she accepts it? Can one accept something like that?”
Rosélie poured herself a second cup and very slowly said:
“Deep down, I knew. From the very beginning. Accept it? I don’t know whether I accepted it. I refused to admit the truth so that I wouldn’t have to make up my mind.”
There! I’ve said it.
Halfway through that gloomy morning, Rosélie sitting on the patio, shattered, mulling over every moment of her life in a new light, Dido rattling her pans in the kitchen as if to allay any suspicions, Inspector Lewis Sithole walked in, obviously finished with mourning his wife and back to his usual workaday face. He was accompanied by two white officers, bundled up in their uniforms, a juvenile version of Laurel and Hardy. Rosélie said how sorry she was. But he shrugged his shoulders.
“We didn’t live together. She lived near Pietermaritzburg with our two sons since she could never get used to Cape Town. We never got on together during or after apartheid.”
He went on without blinking.
“I have a search warrant. We would like to search your husband’s study.”
Rosélie couldn’t believe her ears. It was something straight out of a detective story. Agathie Christie or Chester Himes? The Murder of Roger Ackroyd or A Rage in Harlem? He motioned to his stooges.
“Go ahead, guys!”
Without further ado, Laurel and Hardy dived into the study.
Am I dreaming? A Spanish writer wrote: “Life is a dream.” So yes, I think I am dreaming. I’m going to wake up nestled against Rose’s ample breasts, the taste of her milk in my mouth, the warm smell of her skin in my nostrils. I can’t believe this is happening to me. What have I done to deserve such agony? What am I paying for?
The same crime again and again. There is no forgiveness for daughterly assassins.
Underneath his professional countenance, Inspector Lewis Sithole was ill at ease. His wily-tomcat mask was cracked in places and an embarrassed compassion showed through. By force of circumstance he had become Rosélie’s friend and suffered in his role as tormentor.
“Everything is falling into place,” he said. “Yesterday we arrested Bishupal Limbu for the burglary of the Threepenny Opera last February, a week after your husband was murdered. However hard Mrs. Hillster swore blind he was innocent, we didn’t believe her. Ever since, we have had him under surveillance. We knew that sooner or later he’d make a wrong move. And we were right. Not only did he quit his job and begin living it up, but he bought two plane tickets to London, two round-trips as required by the immigration authorities, one for himself, one for his friend, a certain Archie Kronje, and he paid for them in cash. South African Airways informed us immediately. He was unable to explain where the money came from. He said it came from his savings. From what he earned! We checked it out.”
Here he stopped so that Rosélie could no doubt compliment him on his flair. As she remained stunned, motionless, almost devoid of thought, he went on.
“We know that your husband got him a visa for the U.K. This was not the case for Mr. Kronje, who has never left the country. Mr. Limbu sent a telegram, then another, to a certain Andrew Spire, who had changed his phone number for some unknown reason, to ask him to vouch for his friend’s visa. The post office sent us copies both times.”
“Andrew!” Rosélie exclaimed, aghast, the tournure of a diabolical coalition suddenly emerging in front of her eyes.
“Do you know him?”
The tone was unmistakably that of an affirmation and not a question.
“Yes!” she stammered. “He’s…he was my husband’s best friend. We spent every summer for almost twenty years with him in Wimbledon.”
Inspector Lewis Sithole leaned forward, closer, almost touching, and Rosélie could smell his wholesome breath, a mixture of tobacco and breath freshener.
“And that’s where the plot thickens, and we have to deal with the second case, much more serious, concerning your husband’s murder. You can help us by answering two questions. First of all, in your opinion, how did Bishupal Limbu come to know Mr. Spire?”
Rosélie’s heart had slowed down to such a point she thought it had died. She managed to stammer out:
“Stephen had enrolled Bishupal in a correspondence course in London. Perhaps he had asked Andrew to help him.”
“Perhaps. Secondly, do you know whether Mr. Spire was thinking of giving him a room in the event Bishupal emigrated to England?”
“I have no idea,” Rosélie replied in agony.
Inspector Lewis Sithole thought for a while, then resumed his account.
“Despite Mr. Limbu’s insistence, reassuring him that Archie Kronje was a protégé of your late husband’s, like himself, Mr. Spire seemed to have got suspicious. He did not answer either of the telegrams. So Mr. Limbu went to the cybercafé on Strand Street and sent him a series of urgent emails, of which we have a copy. Still no answer. In your opinion, why did Mr. Spire choose to remain silent?”
I have absolutely no idea. Once again, Inspector, who is leading the investigation? You or me?
“Since we have no authority to interrogate Mr. Spire, we have asked our colleagues at Scotland Yard to do it for us, and we are waiting for their answer. We want to know the exact relationship between Mr. Limbu and Mr. Spire, how they came to know each other, and whether there had been a prior agreement between the two that Mr. Spire had finally broken.”
What agreement?
“It is possible that on the advice of your husband, Mr. Spire had promised to put Mr. Limbu up, and even help him financially to settle in England.”
All that didn’t make sense. Stephen was far from being naive. How could he possibly advise an individual with no qualifications whatsoever to emigrate to England? At that moment, one of the officers, Laurel, emerged in the study doorway and declared in a whining tone:
“Boss, there’s over a hundred videos here!”