‘Not here. I didn’t ask yet. I waited for you. There’s labourers too, none of them were here last night.’
‘What about security?’
‘The whole place got a high fence around it and the fence got barbed wire on top. But the front gate was open and the alarms were off.’
‘CCTV?’
‘The camera at the front is the only one. It’s off. He had dogs too, down there.’ Bheki took them round the back of the slave quarters where, in a caged run at the end of a dirt clearing, two honeyed Rhodesian Ridgebacks lay humped against the wire. Not a lot of blood.
Schalk sent Bheki and his boys to check the perimeter and keep reporters out. He and Joepie took the buildings. Nothing in the garage except cars. The old slave quarters had become a barn and inside it was dim, smelling of earth and oil. The end wall was lined with apparatus of a working farm: a tractor, wheelbarrows, barrels, spades, containers stacked neatly on shelves. Another wall supported high stacks of wooden crates. In the corner between them sat three Dunlop tyres piled one on another. Joepie pointed and Schalk nodded in agreement, said, ‘Knew where to find them.’
They walked out in time to see the techs pull up, two women, one in a bright red hijab. Schalk stared. This was the first time he’d seen one female forensic technician, never mind two. Not surprising really, given the turnover. The moment people got trained they left. State- of-the-art equipment and nobody to use it, no wonder the cops couldn’t win a case.
The hijabi was in charge. She was soft-cheeked and older, looked like someone’s mother. ‘Captain Lourens?’
‘Ja.’
‘Zeinab Gamsien.’
Schalk shook a plump hand, pointed at the sky. ‘Get going before the choppers arrive.’
Zeinab Gamsien didn’t answer. She was considering the body. She pulled on her overalls, covering her hijab with the hood. Seemed like she knew what she was doing, which was a change because the last lot had contaminated the crime scene all by themselves.
Meanwhile her offsider, young and slender, twisted long black hair into a rubber band. She looked at Joepie, more than speculatively. He was past 50 but had that effect. He looked back.
‘Jiss,’ he said. ‘She looks exactly like that one, you know, that actress. That Bollywood one.’
‘Give up, man. She’s too young for you.’
‘What? You jealous? I’m Trevor Noah, my bru, only better looking.’
‘Try Trevor Noah’s father. Come on.’
Joepie followed him, returning the offsider’s smile as he went by.
Inside it was cool, light filtering onto flagstones worn smooth by 300 years of feet. Schalk was surprised by the sophistication; not what he remembered about Pieterse. Persian rugs under riempie chairs, toffee-coloured leather couches, stinkwood tables. White walls showed off rough wooden sculptures, African masks, huge photographs of what could have been sand formations. Perfect, and at the same time as impersonal as a high-end hotel.
The house was T-shaped. They were in the lounge, the original voorkamer. The rest of the vertical arm held a kitchen and dining room. Two longer arms spread out horizontally, three rooms each side and here at last were signs of life. On the right a study. Then two bedrooms, each leading to an en-suite, both new. In the end bedroom a cupboard full of men’s clothes, shoes, a pair of glasses on a side- table with its top drawer open, empty.
In the left wing, a home theatre with a massive screen, and then another bedroom, this time female. The cupboard door swung wide, a drawer ajar presented a muddled pile of jewellery.
The last room had been turned into a professional-looking photographic studio. Computers on counters, all sorts of gadgets. Joepie got there first, whistled. ‘Come, take a look. Cost a fortune. Must belong to the wife, her side of the house.’
‘Second wife,’ said Schalk, ‘gotta be special for Pieterse to spend like this.’
‘Extra-special, if they aren’t even sleeping together. Maybe he’s past it, hey?’
‘Maybe he just snores. Or she does.’
‘You tell me,’ said Joepie, ‘you’re the married one.’
Schalk lifted a framed photo from one of the shelves. Head and shoulders of Pieterse in a bow tie, face sweaty with delight. He was looking at the woman next to him, pulling her close. The woman let herself be pulled.
Schalk remembered Lorraine, the first wife, peroxide and nails. This one was different. She was smiling slightly, directly at the camera, her light wavy hair brushing her shoulder. One strap of her dress had slipped down her arm.
He replaced the picture and checked out the room. Every inch of wall was covered by poster-sized photos taken in or against township shacks. They were all portraits of black faces, worn and battered, grimly confronting a world beating them down. Was the new Mrs Pieterse the type who liked townships because they were real; who drove in, took pictures, drove out again and came home to a place like this? People like her should live in a township for a couple of days. He moved to a shelf of cameras. Some were out of line, there were gaps.
Joepie raised a chin at an empty space. ‘What do you think? Robbery?’
‘Could be. But why not take more?’
‘Couldn’t carry it? Knew what they were looking for?’
‘Ja, must have been more than one,’ said Schalk, ‘to organise a necklace. Pieterse wouldn’t sit still while they put a tyre round his neck. What bothers me is why they necklaced him at all. They had a gun to shoot the dogs, but they necklaced Pieterse. That’s a message, right there, and not the sort of message that goes with a robbery. Also, if the killers came from the farm, why shoot the dogs? Dogs don’t kick up a row for people they know.’
Time for the servants, Florence Malgas and her spidery husband Valentine, sitting like Jack Spratt and his wife at the kitchen table. Florence, in a heaving black top, scoured her eyes with a shredded tissue. Valentine had shrunk into his clothes as much as possible, aware trouble at the house meant trouble for him.
‘Yes,’ Florence said, ‘yes, we live here, our rooms are there, behind the tennis court. We get every Friday afternoon off, every second Sunday. This wasn’t our usual Sunday but the master sometimes gives us extra. So the other day, Wednesday, he told us we could have last night off as well.’
‘Where did you go?’ asked Schalk.
‘My daughter, Rina, she lives now in Paarl, in the new part. She came in her car to fetch us to her house. Her own car. Then she brought us back in the morning because she must work. She’s a nurse.’
‘Does Mr Pieterse know you stay with Rina?’
‘Oh, yes, the master knows Rina since Rina’s a little girl. And he knows Trevor too, my son. Trevor’s a good boy, a good boy.’
She was trying too hard. Joepie said, ‘What did you see this morning, when you came back?’
