The First Rule Of Survival (25 page)

De Vries snorts. ‘You are so far behind the arc, it’s unreal. Read my report when this is over, then you can investigate me as much as you like.’

David Wertner sniffs the air; the aroma of whiskey fills the room. ‘Sundowner?’

‘Fuck off out of my office.’ De Vries stands up, comes around his desk to Wertner, who also rises, stands, bulldog-like, head low.

‘Don’t lose your cool, Colonel,’ Wertner sneers.

‘When you wake up and remember what it is to be a policeman, I’ll talk to you, Wertner. Right now, you’re just in the way; another fucking politician. You want to fuck around with your little schemes, do it in your own time, and don’t waste mine.’ De Vries opens his door, stands by it expectantly. Wertner moves slowly towards it.

‘And who do you think is planting evidence in your old cases, de Vries? Me?’ He smiles. ‘I don’t need to do that. You make it too easy for me as it is.’

‘Goodnight,’Vaughn says forcefully.

Wertner pauses at the doorway.

‘Enjoy your last case, Colonel.’

At 7 a.m., de Vries is sitting up in bed, feeling behind him for a glass of water. His chest is heavy, head throbbing. His cellphone trills and he snatches it up, puts it to his ear.

‘Good morning, sir.’

‘Don.’

‘Dr Matimba called me. She’s ready to meet us this morning – 9 a.m.’

De Vries tries to shake his head free of the vice, grimaces as a flash of pain shoots through his sinuses.

‘Where does she want to meet?’

‘A café, near her hospital.’

‘A café?’

‘I thought it was odd too, but then she told me that it was at Oude Molen Lifestyle Village.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Just opposite Pinelands station.’

De Vries can hear drums; their low pulsations reverberate through him.

‘What’s Oude Molen?’

‘It is a cooperative venture: farming and crafts, next to Vincent Pallotti Hospital where Yvonne Matimba works. What’s interesting is what it used to be. Until the mid-90s, it was a hospital too: a mental asylum.’

De Vries feels sick, physically sick.

‘Eight-thirty, Don. Have to go.’

He throws his phone on the bed, runs for the bathroom, vomits into the sink.

Oude Molen is very quiet at 8.45 a.m. They drive through the main gates, past a long, seemingly derelict building billed as a backpackers’ hostel, and around towards the café. Don has to brake and swerve to avoid the tail of a snoozing blond dog in the road and, when they reach the car park by the horse paddocks, there are more sleeping dogs on the scuffed grassy verges, in the parking spaces, catching the first rays of the morning sun. As they exit the car, a group of small hens hurry up to them, and Vaughn has to watch his step.

He grumbles, ‘You’ve brought me to a fucking menagerie.’

In front of them, under a long green corrugated-iron stoep, a young black man is playing a guitar, a cigarette in his mouth, his eyes closed. At the other end, a slim, fit, young black woman is standing against an old cart. Her hair is tied up in a bun, encrusted with beadwork. She is watching them get out of their car and approach her. She has a smile in the corners of her mouth and dimples in her cheeks. She gets up and holds out her hand to de Vries.

‘I am Yvonne Matimba.’

‘This,’ Don says, stepping forward, ‘is my boss, Colonel de Vries.’

She shakes his hand firmly, steps forward and kisses Don on the cheek.

‘You know each other?’Vaughn says, looking sideways at Don.

‘Yes,’ Don says blankly.

She gestures them through to the little garden at the side of the building, which looks onto market gardens, beyond to the Black River and Devil’s Peak.

‘They’ve only just opened. I ordered coffee and muffins. Is that okay?’

The men nod, take their seats. Yvonne Matimba focuses on de Vries.

‘Don said that you don’t have much time, so I prepared what I found. Some is fact, and some is stories, but I will tell you it all.’

They watch in silence as the coffee and cakes arrive. An exceptionally fat pink pig waddles over the lawn and sits itself down under their table in the sun. Don leans down to stroke it, and it rolls over onto its back in slow motion, batting its long eyelashes, resting its weight on Don’s right foot. De Vries shakes his head gently, grabs a muffin and then remembers to offer the plate to Yvonne Matimba. She takes one, but sets it aside.

‘Back in the nineteenth century, they sent psychiatric patients to Robben Island . . .’

De Vries opens his mouth to object to the history lesson, but his mouth is full of muffin.

‘Don told me about this with you,’ she says, ‘but, like I say, you get it all.’

De Vries swallows; nods.

‘Even you, Colonel, must appreciate that the history of Robben Island – and the effect on the human mind of being incarcerated there – might be of interest to a wide number of South Africans.’ Her tone is scolding, but friendly. ‘After a short time, it was found that the patients’ condition deteriorated rapidly, and many took their own lives. The government belatedly bought this estate and set up an asylum here. Then, later, they built a huge psychiatric hospital either side of the river. The other side they closed long ago, but Valkenberg East – this side – they kept open until 1992.’ She pauses, checks her notes. ‘When I was studying for my PhD, because I am really doctor, Dr Matimba,’ she winks at Don, ‘my thesis concerned psychiatric provision in Cape Town – and that was when I read about Hubert Steinhauer.’

‘That’s the father,’ de Vries tells Don. He smiles at Matimba, nods. ‘Sorry.’

She continues in her low, clipped voice, the words racing from her mouth.

‘Hubert Steinhauer joined Valkenberg East in 1978 and stayed there until September 1984. He specialized in paediatric care: child cases of serious mental illness. Steinhauer’s work, which seems to be a proactive intervention, combining strong anti-psychotic medication and psychiatric role-play, did not seem either in keeping with the palliative style of Valkenberg East, nor did it meet favour with the authorities. More significantly, a number of complaints were lodged against Steinhauer – I assume by relatives of his patients – and, in this report, there are additional complaints indicated by fellow members of medical staff. I looked at the staff records and there are several requests from staff to be transferred from Steinhauer’s department.’ She looks up at De Vries. ‘You can infer that his work was considered controversial. Not necessarily improper in itself, but certainly unwelcome to the hospital authorities.’ She looks down again at her notes, her pace still not slowing.

‘Early 1984, there is a record of the suspension of Steinhauer, pending a full inquiry by senior hospital authorities. Steinhauer resigned in September, a few weeks before the report was made public.’

‘What did it say?’

Matimba smiles bitterly.

‘Guess what? No report. I’m sure one was filed, but it has been lost, or more likely, removed.’

‘So we don’t know what he was accused of, or whether the authorities found him guilty?’

‘As I said, we can’t know. But later, there is mention of the “damning report into the work of Dr Hubert Steinhauer”. This was written in an internal report regarding the likely closure of the hospital.’ She looks up at both men.

‘I think it’s clear: this man Steinhauer behaved inappropriately with his child patients, was about to be found guilty of malpractice and was warned by someone who knew the contents of the report. So, he resigns in advance and the report is hushed up to protect the reputation of the hospital in the light of a threat against its future.’

‘Is there any mention of Hubert Steinhauer’s son, Nicholas Steinhauer?’

Matimba smiles. ‘I thought you might ask me that.’

De Vries looks at her curiously.

‘Nicholas Steinhauer was not registered as working here, but it is possible that he visited the hospital with his father.’

De Vries nods absentmindedly; focuses, asks: ‘Would a family life with a dominating, possibly abusive father, and a passive, maybe bullied mother – would that be a breeding ground for further abusive tendencies amongst the children?’

Matimba puts down her coffee mug.

‘That is a quite different matter,’ she tells him. ‘I am not an expert in that field.’

‘But what do you know, Doctor?’

She contemplates a moment and then says: ‘It is well established that abused children carry a higher likelihood of becoming abusers themselves than those who come from a stable background. Abuse is about power, and a child who is abused is disempowered until he himself abuses.’

‘And what about,’ de Vries asks, ‘children who have been kept in very controlled conditions, who do not get to socialize? Is this a factor that would lead to a desire for them to control children themselves?’

Matimba replies: ‘Many abusers are sociopaths. I think I know why you are asking, because those boys were kidnapped and then held – at least, that is what we read in the newspapers – but I cannot tell you whether what you ask is true. I do not know.’

‘I’m sorry,’ de Vries says. ‘I know what I want to ask, but it is difficult.’

Don February’s phone vibrates and then rings stridently. De Vries shoots him a stare.

‘I have to take this.’ He walks away from the table, starts wandering towards the field of horses. Suddenly he turns back.

‘We need to go.’

Don looks up at Yvonne Matimba, smiles at her. ‘Sorry.’

She smiles back: ‘Go on, then.’ She watches them trot off towards their car.

‘What is it?’ de Vries asks, panting.

‘We began a detailed search of the land surrounding the Steinhauer olive farm. Joleen Knox went through the Riebeek Valley Registry and she has found something; it could be the hideout.’

‘What? What is it? Where is it?’

‘I have the grid reference, but she says it is on land adjoining the Steinhauer olive farm.’

De Vries starts the car, while Don switches on the SatNav.

‘What is it?’ de Vries asks again. ‘What has she found?’

‘You will not believe it. What do you suppose is built deep in the Swartland countryside, thirty kilometres from Riebeek West?’

‘Just fucking tell me, Don.’

‘A nuclear bunker. Government building: Emergency Control Centre. Decommissioned. It is underground, a few hundred metres off the land owned by Marc Steinhauer, next to a farm owned by a family called Caldwell. Must be a leftover from the nineteen fifties, sixties.’

‘We’re going now.’ De Vries accelerates out of the complex and onto the side road leading to the freeway. ‘I am heading for Riebeek, yes.’

‘Go for Malmesbury, and I’ll plot a route from there. Cross the freeway to the M5, then onto the N1 and then onto the N7. You want me to call back-up?’

‘Ja. Give me a minute to think.’ He glances at Don, and then back to the road. ‘This is it, Don. I can feel it. This is the beginning of the end.’

‘If the information is good. If the place is still there.’

‘Why wouldn’t it be? Those things were built to protect the great and the good in the event of a nuclear explosion. It’ll still be standing after fifty, sixty years.’

‘Underground. No wonder no one saw or heard them.’

De Vries pulls out his cellphone, speed-dials his own department, listens to the phone ring and ring.

‘Has Knox told anyone else?’

‘I told her only to report to me and no one else.’

‘Good.’

Still the phone rings: ‘Will someone fucking answer!’

After negotiating the roadworks on the M5 link road, de Vries accelerates onto the N1 freeway and prepares to stay left at the Century City road division. Once he has found the N7, he settles down to a steady 140kph.

‘How do you know the industrious Doctor Yvonne?’ he asks Don.

‘We went out together for a while; became friends.’

‘That doesn’t sound good.’

‘She was out of my league – we both knew it. At least now, my wife, it is only she who thinks she is out of my league.’

Vaughn chuckles, glances at the speedometer, presses his foot down hard to build up speed as the road dips before rising ahead of him. De Vries focuses on the furthest point he can see and imagines that soon he will be driving over it, wills the time to pass.

They reach the Fineberg olive farm and drive straight to the barns, but no one is there.

Don says, ‘We have to find the perimeter road. Thambo says we follow that to the far left corner, take the right turn and we are only a kilometre or so from the building.’

‘He’s been there?’

‘No. He has just cross-checked with his detailed map back in Riebeek-Kasteel.’

Vaughn circles the large gravelled courtyard by the processing buildings, then spots a track leading off into the distance, heads for the gate that guards it. Don is out of the car even before it has stopped, opens the gate, runs after the creeping car with de Vries urging him in. As soon as Don is seated and before he shuts his door,Vaughn puts his foot down.

‘I left it open for the others,’ Don says. ‘Do you think that is safe?’

‘I don’t care.’

The track is a rutted dirt road, bumpy, but perfectly passable for any vehicle. In the wing mirror, de Vries sees the car send plumes of orange dust into the air, blown across the fields. At the far point of the farm, they find a small barn, the shelter for the workers. Then they turn ninety degrees, tracing the perimeter of the Steinhauer property. De Vries’ cellphone rings; a voice tells him that the back-up squads are twenty minutes away. He tells them to hurry, snaps shut the phone, stares up at the SatNav GPS in the windscreen, tries to calculate the distance from his current point to the detailed grid reference. Ahead of him, there is only the orange track, wheatfields stretching into the distance, and to his left, a low wooden fence, beyond which there is a wide band of overgrown, rocky land. Other than a small copse of low trees further ahead, the entire vista is featureless.

A few moments later, de Vries sees the end of the track. As they reach it, there is a left turn just before the corner, and a new track laid through a break in the fence, towards a steeply rolling field. They edge onto the track and begin to drive down into a little valley. De Vries studies the GPS and his own reference.