a lot of media attention, Mrs Pieterse. We’ll meet you at the airport.’
‘No, my car’s at the airport. I’m – it’ll take me a day to reach Windhoek.’
‘You need to get back to Cape Town as soon as possible. Also…it looks like things have been taken.’
‘Taken?’
‘Stolen.’
‘Stolen? A robbery?’
‘Yes.’
When he hung up, he told Joepie. ‘She’s not alone over there.’
Afternoon, country-still. roads and sky empty. Schalk was hungry but Bheki had rounded up labourers, six men sitting in the sun in their dusty clothes. A girl in a housecoat stood with Valentine against the garage wall.
Schalk offered Bheki a Lucky, told him to do a tour of pawnshops in case some of the stolen goods turned up. Then he looked for a place to talk to the staff. In the old barn, an ancient oak dining table and a few vinyl-backed kitchen chairs sat under a window overlooking a force field of tar and ash.
Pieterse himself was gone, in the back of a van on its way to Salt River morgue.
They brought the men in one by one but all of them sang the same song. They got Sundays off. They lived in farm housing, there by the Robertsvlei Road. They spent the night with their families and they hadn’t seen anything, no smoke in the dark, no smell, nothing. Why would they kill Baas Piet? For what? They or their fathers had been with the farm since they couldn’t remember when. There used to be more of them when the farm pressed its own grapes but when the young master Piet took over he decided to send the grapes somewhere else. Now they didn’t know what would happen, what would the madam do? Would she sell the farm, where would they go? Schalk believed them. He’d still get Bheki to check it out.
Valentine was last, his arm round the young woman, holding her up because she was shaking too hard to stand. He saluted them with his free hand.
‘This here’s Belinda Kuilsman. She works with us in the house. She asked me to come with her.’
He deposited the girl in one of the chairs and leaned against the wall. Belinda had big grey eyes, tight-curled hair streaked blonde, and brown skin that could have passed for white in times gone by.
Schalk left the questions to Joepie, reckoning Belinda would be less intimidated by a coloured cop. ‘What have you got to tell us?’ Joepie asked.
Belinda opened her mouth but nothing came out. Valentine patted her shoulder. ‘Kom, meisie, tell them. They not interested in you, they just want to know what happened.’
Belinda swallowed. ‘Mr Pieterse told me to take Sunday night off. But I stayed here.’
‘Oh ja?’ Joepie took it softly. ‘Why?’
‘I was waiting for my boyfriend. But my boyfriend, he’s late and then Mister Pieterse, he saw me and he told me I must go, I mustn’t be there on my night off. So I went, I had to walk to Robertsvlei, I was too late for the bus.’ She calmed down as she spoke.
‘What time was this?’
‘It was dark already, maybe nine o’clock.’
‘Did you see anything? Or anybody?’ She shook her head.
Joepie smiled. ‘Your boyfriend, hey? What’s his name?’
Belinda looked to Valentine for the go-ahead. Then, ‘My boyfriend, his name is Trevor Malgas.’
Schalk had to think for a second. ‘Trevor Malgas? The one Florence was talking about?’ He turned to Valentine. ‘Your son?’ Valentine hung his neck, nodded.
‘Why was Trevor late?’ No answer. Belinda’s eyes were on her feet and Valentine worked his tongue inside his mouth, checking the teeth he had left.
‘Did he tell you why he was late? Where’s he now?’ Joepie asked.
Valentine waggled his head. ‘Nay, we haven’t seen Trevor, baas. Trevor–’ he shrugged.
‘Where does he live?’
‘Swellendam?’ A guess.
Joepie tried Belinda again. ‘So Trevor could have come here after Mr Pieterse told you to go away?’
Belinda looked confused. Schalk asked, ‘Did Pieter – Mr Pieterse, was there any problem between him and Trevor?’
Belinda turned her grey eyes to Valentine, who spoke for her. ‘That Trevor, trouble just follows him. The master, he finds him here one time, and Trevor’s a bit, you know…’ Valentine rolled his eyes, mimed someone pulling on a pipe.
‘Tik?’ Joepie asked.
Valentine nodded, miserably. ‘And some of the master’s money’s missing…so he says if he sees Trevor again he’s going to fix him…’ Valentine ran out of steam, shrugged helplessly, you know how it goes.
Schalk got out business cards, one for Valentine, one for Belinda. ‘You see Trevor or hear from him, you phone me. You phone me the minute that happens.’ They nodded hard, walked away. Valentine reached the door, turned, came back, squeezed his hat between his hands. He bent from the waist, forcing words out.
‘If the baas doesn’t mind – if the police doesn’t mind, if you speak to my wife Florence again…please if you don’t tell her about our little chat? She just loves that Trevor, she doesn’t like to hear anything bad about him.’
‘We’ll do what we can.’
Valentine gave them a gummy grin, bowed a few times, exited bowing. ‘Dankie, dankie, my baas.’
It was late in the season but in Franschhoek the main street bulged with tourists, pram-pushers and retirees, all enjoying afternoon tea. Schalk and Joepie found a shaded table and ordered ham and salad sandwiches and cool drinks. Joepie’s choice, he liked his greens. They made an odd couple, Joepie the player in his sharp outfit and a head shorter than Schalk in his crumpled no-brand shirt, ironed this morning courtesy of Elsa but all over the place now.
Schalk’s phone rang. ‘Lourens.’
‘Hi, good afternoon, this is Steve du Toit from News24…’
Schalk interrupted. ‘Nothing to say. Talk to Captain Isaaks, he handles comms.’ He clicked off. So much for Colonel Zangwa keeping a lid on things. How did they get his number? It rang again immediately.
‘Not interested.’
A different voice. ‘Captain Lourens? Nkosi here.’
‘Who?’
‘General Nkosi.’ Schalk showed Joepie wide blue eyes. Lieutenant General Nkosi was senior; police commissioner for the Cape Province. Schalk could count on his fingers the times he’d spoken to Nkosi.
‘The Pieterse murder. You still there?’
Colonel
