you’re certainly a survivor. I mean as a policeman.’
‘I don’t know about that. I’ve been a policeman a long time.’
‘Since when? When did you join up?’
‘After police college. I started in ’85.’
‘Right in the middle of it all – State of Emergency.’
Schalk grimaced.
‘And in ’86 you got yourself suspended. Why?’
Schalk tried to work out the agenda. Nkosi had access to his file and could easily find this out. Certainly already had and was now working up to taking him off the case. Why not just leave it to Colonel Zangwa?
He said, ‘I was suspended for stopping an interview – an interrogation.’
‘Petrus Pieterse and Brian de Jager doing the interrogating,’ said Nkosi. ‘And now Pieterse himself is killed. Any news?’
Schalk put down his whiskey, leaned forward. Here it came, the pre-handover briefing. Keep it simple. ‘Early days. A necklace – could be apartheid payback. Pieterse was alone, definitely expecting someone. But it looks like things are missing. His wife is away and we won’t know what was taken till she gets back. So maybe it was someone from the farm, a farm murder and a robbery. One of the servant’s boyfriends was hanging round. Although I don’t–’
‘You’ve got someone?’ Nkosi interrupted, startled. ‘The boyfriend?’
‘Only possibly. Pieterse was necklaced, so more than one person must be involved.’
Nkosi knocked back the rest of his drink, levered himself forward, set his glass down. ‘Lourens, you will be wondering why I’ve called you in. As you no doubt appreciate this case will attract massive media interest, here and overseas as well. When we had our Truth and Reconciliation Commission the world wanted to know how we could forgive criminals who caused such terrible suffering. Pieterse was one of those criminals. Now he’s been killed in a way that points to an apartheid-related execution. Think about it. If Pieterse was murdered because someone didn’t like the TRC’s decision then we fail in front of the whole world. Already people say we’re descending into chaos and if we’re going to prove them wrong we must show we’re on top of crime. With the election only a few months away it is vitally important – vitally important – that we deal with this as soon as possible. Understand?’
‘Yes.’
Nkosi rubbed his trousered thighs with his palms. ‘For that reason, Captain, I am putting you in charge of the case.’
Schalk blinked. Heard Joepie telling him to watch himself. ‘General, I thought you’d be doing the exact opposite. I was a cop with Pieterse, not Branch like him, but I was a cop. A white cop, during apartheid.’
‘That’s precisely the point. I want to show we can be even-handed. That we’ve put the past behind us. We don’t want to be accused of not doing our best to find Pieterse’s killer, no matter what the man himself did, or was.’
‘What about the Hawks?’
‘No. The Hawks are too politicised.’
‘So me, because for once I’m the right colour? I look right?’
Nkosi chuckled, surprised. ‘Yes, because you look right but also because you’re an excellent homicide detective. You’ve got experience, you’ve got runs on the board. And of course your career could benefit from a high-profile case like this, if the outcome is successful.’
Schalk heard Pieterse’s voice, advising. And if it’s not successful, if everything goes to hell in a bucket you’ll be Schalk Lourens, the white hangover from the old days. They’ll feed you to the lions. They’ll say we gave the umlungu a chance but what can you do?
Schalk knew what Nkosi’s flirting was for. Good move, though, you had to admire it.
Nkosi limped to his desk and wrote on the back of a card. ‘Here’s my private cell number. You report directly to me, nobody else. Directly to me, understand? I want a daily update, more if there’s something urgent. And as I said, keep this confidential.’
This wasn’t good news, not at all. Nkosi was up to something. ‘Why?’ Schalk asked, watching Nkosi raise his eyebrows. ‘Why does it have to be confidential?’
‘Why? Politics. The press will know you’re in charge but not about my involvement. I want to make sure this looks like – is – an independent investigation.’
Schalk was unconvinced. The whole thing stank but going along with Nkosi was his only choice. ‘What about Colonel Zangwa?’ he asked.
‘I’ve already spoken to Colonel Zangwa.’
‘I get to pick my team?’ But Nkosi was already at the door, hand outstretched.
‘Talk to Colonel Zangwa about that. There’s a press briefing at nine tomorrow. I want you there. And Lourens?’
‘Sir?’
‘Smarten yourself up.’
Home was Milnerton, flat and featureless. Schalk drove down Koeberg Road with its small businesses, grimy liquor stores and a hoarding telling him the Black Ministry Finger of God was coming. Against the pavement, bakkies on their last legs waited for the next working day.
Schalk and Elsa lived in Balaclava Road, in a grid of streets named after famous British battles. The streets were lined with small bungalows, one or two being fancied up with plastered pillars and porticos. Number 28 stood right at the end, on the corner. It showed good bones, its corrugated-iron roof sloping over a wide wooden stoep. A low brick wall separated garden from pavement. The wall was low because when the house was built, Milnerton was a white middle-class preserve, immune. Now the wall was topped with rolling spirals of razor wire.
They’d inherited the house from Elsa’s parents, who got it, along with the furniture, from her grandparents. Schalk felt like a visitor though he’d lived there for decades. Originally the plan was for him and Elsa to stay with the in-laws while they saved for their own place but then Stella came and the in-laws died and later there was no question of moving.
Schalk was getting out of his car when an armed response security van cruised slowly by. He flicked a hand at the driver and the driver tipped the edge of his baseball cap, gave him a thumbs-up and moved on. Schalk felt heat rise in him.
What the hell sort of protection is that? One smile and everything’s OK. Hopeless. Pieterse in his head told him Boykie, you must know, they can’t get any fucking thing right.
Elsa and Stella were in the kitchen, finishing supper. Elsa was dieting again, no-carb this time. ‘Oh no,’ she said when she saw him, ‘tell me you didn’t go out in that tie.’
‘Hey, Pa.’ Stella gave him a kiss. They exchanged glances. His glance asked how is she? Hers answered OK. ‘You stink of smoke,’ she said, moving away.
‘How’s work?’ Schalk asked.
‘Not bad.’ Stella was office manager in a law firm. ‘Mr Herron’s giving me
