Capture (21 page)

Exley stares at Vernon. “And you’d support that version of events?”

“Hey, if you drop the ball I gotta look out for number one, Nick. Plea-bargain for all my ass is worth. Nothing personal, understand?”

“Yes, I understand.” And Exley does understand. Understands that his fear has trumped his morality. He manages a hollow laugh. “Okay, Vernon’s version it is, then.”

The big man laughs, too. “Vernon’s version. Hey, I like that! So, we okay, you and me?”

“Yes, we’re okay.”

“Good. You just need a couple of days, Nick, to get over the shock. Then things will calm down and you’ll be thinking clearer. Ready for your new life. You know what I mean?”

Exley shrugs. They sit in silence, Vernon jiggling his good leg, shaking some change in his pocket, his loud breath washing the room.

A trilling sound announces a Skype call and Exley, relieved at the interruption, wheels himself to his computer and sees the name “Alberto” displayed in the little orange and white window. Normally he’d ignore this—Alberto Pereira is a dilettante, a Brazilian playboy who bought Life in a Box on a whim—but right now any voice from outside this madness is welcome.

Exley clicks the red button to accept the call and Pereira’s tanned face appears on the monitor, all white teeth and dark hair, like a South American racing driver.

“Al,” Exley says, keeping his webcam disabled, unwilling to let the eyes of the world in.

“Nick, where the hell you been? I been trying you on your cell and sending you emails, man.” Pereira’s Americanized drawl booms from the speakers.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Listen, dude, you gotta help me. I’m doing this music video and I need to capture a girl dancing but your system, man, it’s giving me hassles.”

“It’s not the system,” Exley says, “it’s you.”

“Whatever. I’m emailing you the music right now, kinda of an updated Astrid Gilberto, samba thing. Just get some girl out there in Cape Town to shake her ass nicely and send me the motion stream. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Can’t do it, Alberto. Sorry.”

“Nick, I’m not taking no for an answer,” the Brazilian says, smiling irresistibly, shaking his curly locks. “Just listen to it, okay?”

Alberto ends the call and disappears. In a moment a ping announces the arrival of an email.

“That the music coming through?” Vernon asks.

“Yeah.”

“So play it.”

“No. Not now.”

“Come on, Nick. For me, buddy. I’m a music lover.”

It’s the last thing Exley’s in the mood for, but he clicks on the MP3 and brassy salsa fills the studio. Staccato drumbeats and absurd Brazilian love calls. Vernon gets a little groove going in his seat, moving his massive shoulders, clicking his fingers. Disturbing to witness. Exley mutes the music.

“I’m feeling it, Nick,” Vernon says, drumming fingers on his knee. “Where’s he, this guy?”

“Rio.”

“So you gonna do it for him?”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“Jesus, Vernon, at a time like this?”

“Do you good, get your mind off all this crazy shit.”

Exley shakes his head. “No. And where the hell would I find a dancer, anyway?”

Vernon taps himself on the chest. “Me.”

Exley stares him, shaking his head. “He wants a girl, Vernon.”

“No, man, don’t be an asshole. I can get you the perfect girl. Professional. Even looks Brazilian.”

Exley waves his hands, killing this at source. “No ways. Forget it, Vernon. You hearing me?”

Vernon says, “Ja, ja” but what he’s hearing is his cell phone bleating in his pocket. He clicks it open and says, “Vernon Saul.” Gets to his feet, grimacing, shaking blood into his withered leg. “Okay, gimme fifteen minutes.” He closes the phone and pockets it. “That’s the cops, down in Hout Bay. They wanna go over a few things with me. Don’t worry, Nick, just routine shit.”

“Okay,” Exley says, uneasy in the knowledge that his fate rests in this lunatic’s hands.

Vernon looms over him. “So, I’ll speak to you later, buddy, maybe pop in for a beer,” he says, and jolts his way out the door and down the passageway, shouting something in Afrikaans to the guys in the kitchen, leaving Exley to wonder exactly what karmic wind blew Vernon Saul into his once neat little world.

Chapter 32

Vernon walks into Hout Bay cop shop like he owns the place, still high on what happened the night before—that black captain almost ready to kiss his ass he was so pleased at closing the case. Vernon gives the door to the captain’s office a half-knock and enters without waiting for a reply, expecting the darkie to be behind his desk, ready to treat him like he’s God’s gift.

The captain’s behind his nice wooden desk, okay, but there’s somebody else in the room: Dino Erasmus stands by the window. Erasmus turns and gives Vernon a smile that stretches his nostrils even wider. 

“Vernon.”

“This is a surprise, Dino.”

“No, the Boogie thing was a surprise. This one I asked for.”

“Ja? Why?”

“Because it stinks worse than those cunts at that club of yours.”

Vernon keeps himself cool, gives the captain a glance. The black man looks troubled. He outranks Erasmus, but there’s no doubt who’s driving this session. Still, Vernon plays to the darkie. “Mind if I sit, Captain?”

The cop shakes his head. “No, no, Mr. Saul.”

Vernon sits, consciously relaxing, his body language talking chilled and in control. “Okay, Captain, so what’s up?”

“What’s
up
, Vernon,” Erasmus says, “is the shit you pulled last night in Llandudno is all too familiar, man. Dead body. Murder weapon. No witnesses. How many times you done it out on the Flats when you a cop? Plant
tik
and a weapon on some fucker who crossed you, say he drew on you?”

Vernon, not looking at Erasmus, says, “Captain, if the detective has any proof of these allegations I’d like to hear it.”

“Fuck proof,” Erasmus says, leaning on the desk, getting in Vernon’s face, snot hanging like tree bananas from the hairs in his gaping nostrils.

“Maybe you got away with that bullshit when you wasted
tik
dealers and gangsters. Who the fuck cared? But now we got a foreigner dead and you’re covering up for her murderer.”

Vernon tries to make eye contact with the darkie, who watches a meat fly banging up against the closed window. “Captain, you got my statement. If you got any questions, please put them to me.”

The captain skids his heavy-lidded eyes across to Vernon and shrugs. “This is in the hands of Special Investigations now.”

Vernon stands. “I got things to do.”

“Sit the fuck down, Saul,” Erasmus says.

Vernon looks at him. “Dino, you want me to stay, arrest me. Otherwise I’m out of here.” He heads for the door, tension making his left leg even heavier.

“I’m going to check forensics with a fine-tooth comb,” Erasmus says. “And I’m going to talk to your little friend, Nicholas Exley.”

Vernon closes the door—making an effort not to slam it—already scrolling his phone for Exley’s number as he walks through the charge office, past a blonde housewife moaning about a break-in and a drunken Xhosa wrapped in a tribal blanket passed out on a bench. By the time he’s outside in the sun he’s hearing Exley’s voicemail.

“Call me,” Vernon says, pocketing the phone.

He lights a smoke as he stares up at the darkie shacks of Mandela Park tumbling down the mountainside like a landslide of shit, spoiling this nice white suburb.

The toxic smell of the solvents used by the two clean-up men drives Exley upstairs. He is operating on the vague understanding that there are people who need to know about Caroline’s death and that it is important to behave as normally as possible. So he should search her laptop and send out a bulk email to all her contacts, and call her loathsome sister, Kate.

Exley enters the marital bedroom for the first time since he left for Johannesburg the previous morning. The bed is unmade and discarded clothes litter the room. When she was well Caroline was anally neat.

During her episodes her slovenly twin took over and it wasn’t uncommon for Exley to find used tampons, the blood gone black and hard, among the cigarette butts in overflowing ashtrays beside the bed.

The curtains are closed, evidence of Caroline’s oversensitivity to light, a by-product of her condition. Exley pulls them open, letting the sun in. He’d once joked that he’d have to drive a stake through her heart to get rid of her.

A knife had done the trick.

And just like that he’s back in the kitchen, the blade sliding into her, blood welling from her mouth. Exley feels dizzy and has to sit down on the roiled sheets. His mouth is full of hot, acid puke and he is up again, dashing for the bathroom. Something cuts into the soles of his stockinged feet but he has no time to investigate, reaching the basin in time to spew.

It goes on for a long time, this expiation, Exley gripping the ornate chrome faucets, gasping, sweat dripping from his forehead, his abdominal muscles in agony from the heaving. At last he spits and rinses his mouth and splashes his face. He sinks down on the toilet and sits with his eyes closed until he feels stronger.

As he crosses back into the bedroom, he checks the carpet and sees a sprawl of electronic components and a shattered casing and realizes that he’s looking at the carcass of Caroline’s Mac. Deep gouges in the wall vouch for how the laptop met its end.

She was always her own sternest critic, he says aloud, as if he’s delivering a eulogy. This makes him laugh, in a way that sounds unhinged and manic.

He gathers up the wreckage and dumps it in the wicker trash basket that sits beside the bed, letting the computer parts join a pile of Kleenex.

The pathetic man-in-his-underwear thing is getting tired, so he finds a pair of Diesels in the closet and pulls them on under his T-shirt.

Removes the socks and replaces them with a pair of Havaianas. He takes the garbage down to the kitchen.

The trauma cleaners are finishing up, wadding bloody cloths and paper towels into black bags. Except for the carbolic fumes in the air, there is no sign of what happened last night. Even the carpet is restored to its original color.

One of the men takes the basket from Exley and empties it. “There you go, sir,” he says, tying off the top of the bag.

“Thank you,” Exley says. “This looks great.”

“What we do, sir,” the man says, lifting the bulging garbage bag and following his colleague out the door.

“What do I owe you?” asks Exley.

“Nothing. You’re a friend of Vernon’s.” The guy is trying a smile but it’s not quite taking and Exley wonders what Vernon has over these men. “Well, I appreciate it,” he says.

They’re gone and he’s alone with the rest of his life, clueless as to what he’s going to do with it.

The gate buzzer jams his thoughts and he heads for the intercom, sure that it’s Vernon Saul, ready to invade again, but it’s Gladys the maid, and Exley lets her in. She wears a beret, dark skirt, blouse and formal shoes with gold buckles, despite the molten heat.

She stands in the doorway and stares at him, her eyes wet with grief.

“Mr. Nick, I have heard what is happening.”

“Yes,” he says.

“This man, he is coming in here and doing this thing? To Miss Caroline?”

“Yes. I returned from the airport and I disturbed him.” Exley unconsciously mirroring her formal speech patterns.

“Ay, my gawd, it is too terrible, this.”

She comes up to him and embraces him and again he loses himself in the warmth of this ample ocean of flesh. She releases him and walks through to the kitchen, her heels smacking the tiles, still clucking softly to herself.

Gladys stops exactly where Caroline fell and died. Stands with her   hands hanging at her sides and looks around the room. She closes her eyes and stays unmoving for what seems like hours. When she opens her eyes and looks at Exley her expression has hardened. She crosses herself quickly and kisses her fingertips, never taking her eyes from Exley’s, her sadness replaced by something else. Something accusatory.

“Mr. Nick, Mr. Nick, Mr. Nick,” she says, shaking her head. “No, no, no.”

“What?” he asks, wilting under her gaze.

“I can’t work here no more,” she says and brushes past him, moving with surprising speed for such a large woman.

“Gladys?” he says, but he doesn’t try to stop her as she flees the house.

Relieved that she has gone, this woman who can see the mark of corruption on him.

Chapter 33

Vernon’s mood darkens as he drives his Honda across Paradise Park. Being needed—the way Dawn and Nick Exley need him—gives him something, sure, something that goes some way toward filling that big hole that eats away at his innards. But it comes with a price tag.

Means that demands and pressures and responsibilities burden him. Stress him. Depress him.

He feels it all the more out here, deep in the Cape Flats with its cramped houses and rust-bucket cars and no-hope people blown every which way by the hot wind crashing in off the faraway ocean like a curse. If he didn’t have so much to do, so many things to manage, he’d set course for Doc’s place and have a shot of his magic juice and just disappear into blankness for the rest of the day, where all his strife and the image of Dino Erasmus’s nostrils sniffing after him would just fade to zero.

But no. He has his tasks.

He tries Exley’s cell again. That same not-quite-American voice saying he’s not available. Vernon leaves no message. He went by the house and rang the bell, knowing he was making himself conspicuous by doing it. Sure that Exley was home. The fucker is hiding from him, and that’s a worry. A loose end.

In an attempt to lighten his mood he gets a bit of Motown going on the sound system, Ike and Tina doing “River Deep, Mountain High.” Always been a sucker for duets. The music helps, him joining in the chorus, fingers tapping on the steering, and by the time he gets to the social worker’s office he is ready to do what must be done. He takes the little gift-wrapped parcel from the seat beside him and walks down the pathway, even finding a joke and a cigarette, just like the last time, for the broken old ex-con who works the garden.