‘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 Zangwa must have briefed him. ‘On my way back.’
‘We need to meet.’ Nkosi’s voice was beautiful, rounded and deep.
‘Now?’
‘My office. Soon as you can get here. I’ll wait for you.’
‘We’ll be there in a couple of hours.’
‘We?’
‘Captain Fortune’s here with me.’
‘No Lourens, just you.’ The line went dead.
Schalk stared at the phone. ‘Nkosi wants to see me.’
‘True? Why?’
‘Who knows? I bet he wants to take me off the case. Makes sense, I’m white, old-school, etcetera, etcetera.’
‘What about Zangwa?’ Sisi Zangwa wasn’t called pocket rocket for nothing. Small but steely, not advisable to upset her.
‘I’ll phone on the way. Come, we got to get cracking.’
Joepie called for the bill. He drank the last of his sparkling water. ‘You must look out, my bru, you got to watch how you go these days.’
Schalk screwed up his face. ‘I’m just going to see him, I’m not doing business with him.’ He knew what Joepie meant. A new corruption scandal every day. Commissioners in prison, generals on trial. Not counting the ones getting away with it.
‘Even so,’ said Joepie, ‘keep yourself nice, hey?’
Schalk slid into the passenger seat. Long-standing arrangement, Joepie preferred to drive. No smoking in his car.
On the way back Schalk tried Colonel Zangwa but the call went to voicemail. He rang Elsa to tell her he’d be late home. She reminded him Stella was coming for supper, told him if he got home too late he’d miss her. A jab of spite in her voice, Stella the daughter, daddy’s girl.
After that Schalk sat looking at the road. Once upon a time you could see the ocean but now high-rises blocked the view. A large truck cut in front of them, its back entirely covered by a poster of a middle-aged black man. Above the man’s head were the words VOTE RADEBE and below his tie, THE PEOPLE’S CHOICE. The whole thing was framed in black, yellow and green, colours of the African National Congress. The letters ANC and a small logo sat in the bottom right-hand corner.
‘Look,’ said Schalk, ‘that’s exactly the same as the old Mandela poster, the one from 1994.’
‘That’s because Radebe’s the new Mandela,’ said Joepie, waiting for a break in the fast lane. ‘Or at least that’s what they want us to think. The whole country’s counting on him to save us. You reckon he will?’
They zoomed past the truck, slid in front of it. The driver blasted them with a sound like a foghorn. When Joepie was clear, he spoke again. ‘If Radebe doesn’t make it, the ANC’s down the plughole. And if the ANC goes, we all go with it. Think about it. We’ve had enough presidents who don’t give a shit whether people live or die as long as they get rich. The rest of the government, well, half of them should be in jail and the other half – someone should…you listening, man?’
Schalk wasn’t. He was watching beggars and peddlers, a couple on every corner. They sold piles of wooden lions, whirling plastic fans, big bags of insulation. Who did they work for? Was there one shadowy organisation holding the rights?
Joepie persisted. ‘So, Oom, come on, you going to vote for the ANC?’
‘Ag, Joep, you know I hate politicians, all of them. They’re as bad as each other.’ Schalk pretended to think, tried to keep the grin out of his voice. ‘But if I had to choose – I think I’ll go for the EFF.’
Joepie