“It’s a black mamba. Awesome animal,” sê Dick vir Emma, asof die slang aan hóm behoort. Hy is haar tipe en hy weet dit – ’n wit Orlando Bloom-kloon in sy dertigs, bruingebrand, welsprekend. Sedert hy gesnap het dat Emma alleen agter slot en grendel in die dubbelbedkamer was toe die ding met die slang gebeur het, gee hy al sy aandag aan haar.
Ek en die swart wildwagter, Rick. Game Ranger, kyk na die dooie dier. Die oggend is al klaar warm. Ek het nie veel geslaap nie. Ek hou nie van Dick nie.
“You don’t have to move us,” sê Emma vir Greg.
“Most feared snake in Africa, neurotoxic venom, lung failure within eight hours if you don’t get the anti-venom. Very active, especially this time of year, before the rains. Very aggressive when confronted, the best thing is to step back …” sê Dick vir Emma.
Wat dink hy het ek gedoen – die ding probeer omhels?
“Then we’ll have it fixed. As good as new by lunchtime. I’m so sorry,” sê Greg.
Dick kyk vir die eerste keer na my. “You should have called us.” Ek kyk net vir hom.
“I don’t think that was an option,” sê Emma.
Greg gee vir Dick ’n streng kyk. “Of course it wasn’t.”
Dick probeer verlore aansien terugwen. “Just a pity it had to be killed, such an awesome animal. They are very territorial, you know, and they usually avoid contact with humans, unless they are cornered. Hunts by day, mostly. Unusual, very unusual … never happened before. How the hell did it get in? They’re so damn agile, can get through the smallest of holes or gaps or pipes, who knows. Rick, do you remember that one we found in the ant hill last month? Huge female, maybe four metres, the one minute she was there, the next she was gone, just slipped away somewhere.”
“We have to go to breakfast,” sê Emma.
“And that will be on the house too,” sê Greg. “Please, if there is anything …”
“Mamba in the bedroom,” sê Dick kopskuddend. “It’s a first for us, but hey, it’s the bush, right? Africa isn’t a place for sissies … I suppose it had to happen some time or other. Just such a pity …”
* * *
Inspekteur Jack Phatudi is ’n blok agter die lessenaar, ’n liggaamsbouer wat die versoeking weerstaan om te spog, want die spierwit hemp sit los. Hy het ’n permanente frons op sy breë voorkop, onvriendelike kerwe wat die blinkheid van sy kaalgeskeerde kop onderbreek, sy vel ’n laaste diepbruin skakering net duskant swart, soos ’n gepoleerde, eksotiese Afrika-houtsoort. Hy is die enigste een wat nie sweet in die drukkoker-kantoor nie.
Hy hou die 20 jaar oue foto van Jacobus le Roux in dik, sterk vingers en sê: “This is not him.” Hy skuif die foto nukkerig terug oor die blad van ’n staatsdienstafel.
“Are you absolutely sure?” vra Emma. Ek en sy sit oorkant Phatudi. Sy laat die foto op die tafel lê.
“You cannot ask me that. Who can say they are absolutely sure? I do not know what he looked like twenty years ago.”
“Of course, Inspector, I …”
“How will this help me?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The suspect has killed four people last week. Now he is gone. Nobody knows where he is. You bring me this photograph from twenty years ago. How will it help me find this man? I don’t understand that.”
“Oh …” Sy is vir ’n oomblik afgehaal, asof sy swig voor die aanslag. “Well, Inspector, I don’t know,” sê sy gemoedelik. “Perhaps it won’t help you. And I don’t want to waste your time, I have too much respect for the role of the police … but I was hoping that you might be able to help me.”
“How?”
“I saw the picture of the man on television, just for a few seconds. Would it be at all possible to see it again, to put it next to this one …”
“No. I cannot do that. It is a murder docket.”
“I understand.”
“That is good.”
“May I ask you one or two questions?”
“You can ask.”
“The television news said the man, Jacobus de Villiers, worked at an animal hospital …”
“The TV people, they don’t listen. It is not a hospital, it is a rehabilitation centre.”
“May I ask what its name is?”
Hy is nie lus om te sê nie. Hy skuif aan sy heldergeel das, die groot skouers wat rol onder die wit materiaal. “Mogale. Now you will go show your photograph there?”
“If it is O.K. with you.”
“You will make trouble.”
“Inspector, I assure you …”
“You do not understand. You think I do not want to help you. You think this policeman is difficult …”
“No, Inspector …”
Hy hou ’n hand in die lug. “I know you think that. But you do not know the problems. There are big problems here. Between your people and the black people.”
“My people?”
“Whites.”
“But I don’t know anybody here.”
“It does not matter. There are big problems. The people, they fight all the time. There is much tension. The black people, they say the whites are hiding this Cobie de Villiers. They say the whites, they care only for the animals. These men who died, they have families. These families are very angry. The animals are wild animals. They belong to the people. It is not the animals of the whites.”
“I understand …”
“So when you go and ask questions, you will just make trouble.”
“Inspector, I give you my word that I will not make trouble. I am not here about the killings. I feel truly sorry for the families of those men. I have lost my whole family too. I just need to talk to the people who worked with this man. I will show them the photograph, and if they say it isn’t the person I am looking for, I will go home, and I will never bother you again.”
Hy kyk stip en fronsend na haar, intens, asof hy haar met wilskrag wil ontmoedig. Emma kyk terug na hom met ’n ontwapenende, byna kinderlike erns.
Phatudi is die een was bes gee. Hy sug diep, trek ’n dossier nader, slaan dit oop en haal ’n foto uit wat hy vies oor die tafel skuif tot langs die een wat Emma gebring het, die twee netjies langs mekaar.
Emma leun vorentoe en bestudeer die foto’s. Die inspekteur kyk na haar. Ek sweet en kyk vir die plakkaat teen die muur wat mense afraai om misdaad te pleeg.
Hulle sit só vir ’n minuut of twee, die klein Emma en die rots van ’n speurder, in doodse stilte.
“Dis Jacobus,” sê Emma, maar vir haarself.
Phatudi sug.
Emma tel al twee die foto’s op en hou dit na my uit. “Wat dink jy, Lemmer?”
Die foto van Jacobus le Roux is swart-wit, ’n jong soldaat in ’n boshoed wat vir die kamera glimlag. Dieselfde hoë wangbene as Emma, dieselfde effens prominente oogtande. Daar is ’n intensiteit, ’n dringendheid, hy wil die fotosessie afgehandel hê, want daar is ’n wêreld wat wag. ’n Gemaklikheid, ’n selfvertroue, hy hou van die kamera en wat dit sal vasvang. My pa is ryk en my lewe lê oop voor my soos ’n ryp granaat.
Op Phatudi se foto is Cobie de Villiers, in kleur maar kleurloos, ’n vergroting van wat net ’n identiteitsboekfoto kan