stap sommer op.”
“Ek kan dit nie glo nie.”
Hy stap verby haar toonbank, in die buik van die gebou in, die herinneringe wat aan die deur van sy geheue hamer. Hy moes nie gekom het nie, dink hy. Hy moes vir O’Grady iewers ontmoet het. Speurders sit in kantore, stap verby hom, vreemde gesigte wat hy nooit geken het nie. Hy neem die trappe tot bo, loop verby die teekamer, sien daar is lewe en vra vir aanwysings. Dan kom hy by O’Grady se kantoor.
Die vet man agter die lessenaar kyk op as hy die klop teen die kosyn hoor.
“Hi, Nougat.”
O’Grady se oë vernou. “Jesus.”
“Nee. Maar dankie.”
Hy stap tot by die lessenaar en steek sy hand uit. O’Grady staan halforent, neem dit, gaan sit dan weer, sy mond steeds effens oop. Van Heerden haal ’n staaf ingevoerde lekkergoed uit sy baadjiesak. “You still eat this?”
O’Grady kyk nie eens daarna nie. “Where the fuck have you been?”
Hy plaas die nougat op die lessenaar.
“Here and there.”
“Jesus, Van Heerden, it’s been years. It’s like seeing a ghost.”
Hy gaan sit op een van die grys staalstoele.
“But I suppose ghosts don’t get black eyes,” sê O’Grady en neem die nougat. “What is this? A bribe?”
“Jy kan seker so sê.”
Die vet man begin pluk aan die plastiekomhulsel van die staaf. “Where have you been? You know, we’ve even stopped talking about you.”
“Ek was in Gauteng vir ’n ruk,” fabriseer hy.
“Not on the Force again?”
“No.”
“Jeez, wait till I tell the others. So what happened to the eye?”
Hy maak ’n handgebaar. “Ongelukkie. Ek het jou hulp nodig, Tony.” Hy wil die gesprek beperk.
O’Grady hap aan die nougat. “You sure know how to get it.”
“Jy het die Smit-saak gedoen. Verlede September. Johannes Jacobus Smit. In sy huis vermoor. Instapkluis …”
“So you’re a private eye now?”
“So iets.”
“Jeez, Van Heerden, that’s not a fucking living. Why don’t you come back?”
Hy haal diep asem. Hy moet al die vrees en woede onderdruk.
“Do you remember the case?”
O’Grady kyk lank na hom, die kake wat aan die nougat werk, die oë klein getrek. Hy lyk nog dieselfde, dink Van Heerden. Nie vetter nie, nie maerder nie. Dieselfde plompe polisieman wat sy skerp brein agter die rojale persoonlikheid en dik lyf wegsteek.
“So what’s your interest?”
“Sy houvrou is op soek na ’n testament wat in die kluis was.”
“And you must find it?”
“Ja.”
Hy skud sy kop. “Private dick. Shit. You used to be good.”
Van Heerden haal diep asem. “Die testament,” sê hy.
O’Grady loer oor die nougat vir hom. “Ah. The will.” Hy skuif die lekkergoed eenkant toe. “You know, that was the one thing that never really figured.” Hy leun terug, vou sy arms oor sy maag. “That fucking will. Because, at first, I was sure she did him. Or hired somebody. It fitted the whole damn case. Smit had no friends, no business associates, no other staff, but they got in, tortured him until he gave them the combination, cleaned out the safe and killed him. Took nothing else. It was an inside job. And she was the only one on the inside. Or so she says.”
“Tortured him?”
“Burned him with a fucking blowtorch. Arms, shoulders, chest, balls. It must have been murder, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
“Did she know that?”
“We didn’t tell her or the press. I played it close to the chest, tried to see if I could trick her.”
“Sy sê sy het die kombinasie geken, Nougat.”
“The blowtorch could have been for effect. To take suspicion away from her.”
“Wat van die moordwapen?”
“Now there’s another strange one. Ballistics say it was an M16. The Yankee army model. Not too many of those around here, are there?”
Van Heerden skud sy kop, stadig. “Net een skoot?”
“Yep. Execution style, back of the head.”
“Omdat hy hulle gesien het? Of geken het?”
“Who knows, these days? Maybe they shot him just for the fun of it.”
“Hoeveel dink jy was daar?”
“We don’t know. No fingerprints, no footprints outside, no neighbourhood witnesses. But Smit was a big man, in reasonable shape. It must have been more than one perp.”
“Forensies?”
O’Grady leun vooroor, trek weer die nougat nader. “Sweet Fanny Adams. No prints, no hair, no fibres. Just a fucking piece of paper. In the safe. Found a piece of paper, about the size of two match boxes. Clever guys in Pretoria say it was part of a wrapper. For wrapping little stacks of money. You know, ten thousand in fifties, that sort of thing …”
Van Heerden lig sy wenkbroue.
“But the funny thing is, they say, according to the type and all that shit, they are pretty sure it was dollars. US dollars.”
“Fok,” sê Van Heerden.
“My sentiments exactly. But the plot thickens. It was the only thing I had to go on, so I put a lot of pressure on Pretoria through the Colonel. Forensics has a money expert, Claassen or something. He went back to his books and his microscope and came back and said the paper indicates that it is old money. The Americans don’t wrap their money like that any more. But they used to. In the seventies and early eigthies.”
Van Heerden verteer die inligting vir ’n oomblik. “En jy het vir Wilna van As daaroor uitgevra?”
“Yep. And got the usual answer. She doesn’t know anything. She never took dollars as payment for that old fart furniture, never paid with it. Doesn’t even know what a fucking dollar looks like. I mean, shit, this woman lived with the deceased for a fucking decade or more, but she’s like the three little monkeys – hear, see and speak no evil. And that little sexpot lawyer of hers is all over me like a
