no other reason?”
“No.”
“In your car there was an attaché case with gloves, a balaclava and a torch.”
She does not answer.
“Miss Bruwer, please explain to me why you took the trouble to pack all these things but did not use them.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Your purpose was to come here and to murder him.”
She does not answer.
“Was your plan to do this unseen and without making a sound?”
“I wanted to make it look like a robbery,” she admits.
“Why didn’t you?”
“All of a sudden I no longer saw the use.”
“Why a silencer?”
“So that the shots would not be heard.”
He fixes his eyes on her, stretches his long legs out in front of him. “Why did you give yourself up?”
“Because I shot someone dead and you would have caught me anyway.”
“That’s true.”
For a moment there is silence in the room, with only the rumble of early-morning traffic coming through the open windows. Very strange, Bulldog thinks to himself, usually suspects immediately try to exonerate themselves. She just sits there, resigned and frightened. Very frightened. Her shaking hands and the fact that she regularly has to swallow give away her state of mind.
He leans over. “Why, Miss Bruwer? Why did you shoot him?”
“I had to. For Carli. And for myself.”
“Who is Carli?”
“My sister.”
“Where is she?”
“She is dead. He murdered her.”
“He murdered her?”
“She committed suicide, but he might just as well have put the rope around her neck. I did not have a choice, I had to do it.”
“Is the murder weapon, the pistol, your own?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Uncle Retief bought it for me, some years ago already. So that I could protect myself, if necessary.”
“Have you had any training in the use of weapons?”
“Yes. I’m tired, Superintendent, please?”
He ignores her plea. “In other words, you know how to use a weapon. Would you describe yourself as a good shot?”
“Yes. I am really tired, Superintendent.”
He nods slowly. “Explain to me, Miss Bruwer, why it was necessary for you first to shoot the vases behind Mr Du Toit to smithereens?”
She does not answer.
“Let me explain to you how I see it. You can correct me anytime. You ring the bell, Du Toit opens the door. You stand there, without your balaclava, without your gloves, weapon in hand. A good shot. You first shoot the vases behind him to pieces. He dives to the ground, lies on his stomach, his arms trying to protect his head. You watch him wet himself out of fear, only then do you come closer. By that time he must have tried to get up, perhaps onto his knees?”
When she does not respond, he continues: “Only then do you shoot. And one shot, from someone trained to use a firearm, from close up with a 9 mill, won’t do the job. You shoot him twice, through the head.”
Joubert van Heerden leans forward. “Superintendent.”
Bulldog hears the cautioning tone in the lawyer’s voice, but ignores it. “Why was this necessary, Miss Bruwer?”
Silence.
“Why was this necessary, Miss Bruwer?” he repeats. “This . . . drama beforehand?”
She just looks down at her hands, fumbles with the piece of paper she is holding.
“Miss Bruwer, are you prepared to make a confession in front of a magistrate that you are responsible for the death of Danie du Toit?”
Joubert stands up. “Supe, if you think I’m going to allow you to drag her out of here to a magistrate for a confession, you are making a mistake. The question – as you should know – is whether she is accountable. And that can only be decided – as you should also know full well – by a psychologist. In other words, the only place where Anna Bruwer is going to now is to the cells, until I can get her to a psychologist or psychiatrist. And you,” he turns to Anna, “you don’t say another word.”
This is the reason he dislikes lawyers, Bulldog thinks to himself, and switches off the machine.
Only then does she look up. “Sometimes, Superintendent, you don’t have a choice. It was my fate – I was destined to shoot him.”
Suddenly Bulldog feels the energy drain out of him. He feels exhausted and it’s only morning, the whole day still lies ahead.
“One always has a choice, Miss Bruwer.” He reaches for the telephone, dials a number and says curtly: “Come fetch her.”
3
The constable who comes to fetch me is a large woman. Her stockings make an irritating sheesh-sheesh sound with every step that she takes. I want to scream, out of irritation, exhaustion.
We walk down a different passage, through a side door leading onto a veranda. Thank goodness they did not handcuff me. Was that because I gave myself up?
On the left, a pathway with neatly trimmed lawn on both sides leads to a row of doors all looking exactly alike. Cheerful-looking flowers in the garden. On the right is another building, with blankets thrown over the fence. Wet blankets: I can smell them.
The constable calls someone and a man in uniform appears, walking behind us. She takes a bunch of keys out of her pocket, unlocks the first door. Then a gate.
These are the cells, I realise, and every fibre of my being protests. I halt abruptly, but the constable pushes me hard between my shoulder blades. The man waits behind her in the doorway.
It’s a fairly large room. Empty, thank goodness. An open shower in the corner. I look up. No ceiling or roof, just a trellis covered with wire netting. What if it rains?
The constable pushes me forwards, unlocks another door, a thick steel door, and a barred gate. The smell coming from the room is almost tangible. I turn my head away.
Voices start to protest.
“How
