The First Rule Of Survival (28 page)

‘Abroad, apparently in Argentina. We have made no contact with him.’

‘You think he’s involved?’

‘Based on circumstantial and historical evidence: definitely. However, until we hear from the Crime Scene guys, we won’t know if we can place him here.’

Du Toit turns to Thulani. ‘My God, sir. If it turns out that he is behind this, the media will go crazy.’

Thulani nods, very grave.

‘What else?’ du Toit says.

De Vries straightens his hands outwards.

‘Nothing I can tell you for certain, but everything fits. Ulton’s team found that damn cheese in the entrance, along with what looked like a basket of packed lunch, and there’s masses of stuff which may, in time, be traceable. In terms of what we know right now, that’s what we have. We don’t know whether it was just one, or both Steinhauer brothers. We don’t know if others were involved. That’ll come when we start getting test results. We’ve tied up the shootings of Steven and Toby, but we don’t know how Bobby Eames died. Dr Kleinman says we might know in due course, but there are no obvious signs as to cause of death.’

‘All right,’ du Toit says. ‘We have something to give the press. What are you doing next?’

‘I’m going back to Cape Town. There is information coming in all the time, and we’ll put it together. This isn’t over yet.’

‘What do you mean?’ du Toit asks.

De Vries regrets saying that, regrets revealing anything; puts it down to sedatives and too much coffee. He knows that this is where their paths diverge. Thulani and du Toit want closure – his hated phrase – neat and packaged and closed to challenge. He wants the truth, the explanation, however complicated, however messy. He knows that he will have to fight for it.

He says, casually, ‘Either Nicholas Steinhauer was involved, or there will be others. This wasn’t organized by Marc Steinhauer alone.’

‘Based on what?’

De Vries turns to du Toit, annoyed that he seems to be allied with Thulani and against him but, mostly, frustrated that he has trapped himself.

‘I met him. I spoke to him. I’m telling you: he is
not
the brains behind this. Besides, think about it: this is a substantial operation and it would have taken more than one man to sustain it. It wouldn’t surprise me if he came to rescue those boys while his brother was away, and it all went wrong. He was a puppet.’

Du Toit nods. ‘We’ll keep that to ourselves for the moment, I think.’ He looks over at Thulani, but he gets no reaction.

‘So,’Vaughn says, ‘if you don’t need me, I’ll get back to Cape Town.’ He looks first at du Toit, and then at Thulani.

His voice low and calm, General Simphiwe Thulani says, ‘We don’t need you, Colonel.’

De Vries wakes in the middle of the night; finds himself slumped over his kitchen table. His day is blurred, already, in his memory. The drive back: Don February at the wheel, braking suddenly on the fast narrow highway, jolting him awake. Pathologist Harry Kleinman, in his office, telling him he has nothing more on the means or date of Bobby Eames’ death; urging him to go home. He cannot recall the journey to his house, wonders if he has his car, or whether he was driven. He looks at his watch, sees that it is 2 a.m. He fights to stay awake, unsteadily walking through to his bedroom; considers brushing his teeth, but instead sits on the edge of his bed. He takes off his shirt, fumbles with his socks, struggles out of his trousers, and gingerly swings his legs up and lies down. He groans loudly, is asleep within moments, yet in his head, he feels awake, afraid.

‘Tell me about the aunt.’

Ben Thambo looks around the table, at Director du Toit, de Vries and Don February. He says, ‘Herself, she is no help, but her carer said that Marc Steinhauer did not stay there on March the fourth.’

‘So,’ de Vries says, ‘we assume he stayed at the olive farm after he killed the boys. Marc Steinhauer was there perhaps once a fortnight. That doesn’t sound enough to sustain three boys. So, who else was visiting it? Assuming that the reason these boys were taken and held was for some kind of sexual abuse, there must have been others.’

Ben Thambo looks at his notes.

‘The evidence from the workers at the olive farm is not clear. When we showed them the pictures of Nicholas Steinhauer, two of them claimed to have seen him, but neither could tell me when, only that it was some time before. They did say that other cars sometimes parked briefly at the barn and processing area, but they couldn’t specify any makes of cars, or whether or not they had seen the occupants.’

Don February says: ‘In any case, if people were visiting the bunker, they would not park there. They would drive around the property on the perimeter road as we did.’

‘Did these workers say they had seen cars driving there?’ de Vries asks.

‘I didn’t ask them that specifically, sir, but I did ask if they had seen cars or people on the property generally, and they said that there were always a few people around.’

‘Are we certain,’ du Toit asks, ‘that the road on which we approached this bunker is the only access to it?’

Don says: ‘There is no road access from the other farm. An off-road vehicle could probably reach it, but the team found no tracks to suggest that option was taken, certainly not recently. It looks like the only access was from the Fineberg olive farm, along the track we took.’

De Vries asks: ‘Have the owners of this other farm, where the site actually lies, been questioned?’

‘Two members of the team visited the farmhouse,’ Don February replies. ‘The owners are away, but there are farmworkers. They told us that they were employed by an Ernest Caldwell, who bought the farm eleven years ago. They had never been to that area of the farm, since the cultivated fields end almost a kilometre from the site. Because of the sloping nature of the land, it seems to have been left untouched.’

‘We need to talk to the owner,’ de Vries says.

‘He is due back tomorrow.’

‘I don’t like this,’ du Toit announces. ‘Any number of people could have visited that site without drawing attention. Without suspects, it’s going to be almost impossible to identify them.’

De Vries says, ‘We have a possible interest in Dr Johannes Dyk. He was the consulting psychologist on the original abductions.’

‘In what regard?’ du Toit asks.

‘He is sick and old now, but we believe that he knew the two Steinhauer brothers professionally, even socially. There are coincidental links to a known paedophile, and . . .’ de Vries tries to frame the sentence ‘. . . in the light of what we now suspect about the abductions, the information he provided to the investigation now looks misleading.’

‘Deliberately so?’

‘I stress,’ de Vries says, ‘he is a person of interest, and we will be talking to him again.’

‘That would be bad,Vaughn.’

De Vries looks at du Toit, thinks: that would be complicated. He does not care how du Toit feels. He will have these men now, every one of them.

Du Toit turns to Don February.

‘What has Steve Ulton come up with regarding prints and DNA?’

‘Nothing yet, sir. He says there is a mountain of potential evidence. His team focused first on the weapon recovered and, as you know, matched the prints found on the butt to Marc Steinhauer, similarly with the plastic wrapping. Marc Steinhauer’s prints have been found inside the building, in the anteroom and in the cell area.’

‘So,’ du Toit continues, ‘if we find other prints, they are meaningless to us unless the owners are in the system.’

De Vries says, ‘This evidence is always the same: if we apprehend a suspect, it will confirm his, or her presence, but it won’t help us to identify that suspect. We’re working backwards again.’

‘Nonetheless,’ du Toit says, ‘we are working, and we have discovered answers.’ He stands up. ‘Your team has done well, but we need this wrapped up. The moment CSL Steve Ulton finds a match to someone we have in the system, let me know. We find one, maybe we’ll find all the others too.’ He nods at each man in turn, leaves the room.

De Vries shakes his head. ‘He just doesn’t get it,’ he mutters.

Ben Thambo and Don February catch each other’s eye, then both stare straight ahead.

Don February reviews the notes he took of their informal interview with Robert Ledham. He confirms that Ledham had told them that he had been away during that week, in Knysna. He checks the address and contact number of Max Dearman, the friend with whom Ledham said he stayed. He calls a former colleague of his at Knysna SAPS, arranges that he interview Max Dearman as soon as possible; to report back to him personally. He is disobeying de Vries, but he is also fulfilling his brief: the truth, however messy.

De Vries walks from the labs back up the staircase to his office, worrying. The squad room is almost dark, empty, officers exhausted from the enormous workload on top of their unending schedule of investigating death. He sits back in his office chair, steadies himself, and considers what he will have to do. After a few moments, he gets up, locks his desk drawer and reaches to switch off the desk lamp. His telephone rings. He answers and listens:

‘Send him up, then.’

De Vries adjusts his tie, puts on his suit jacket, brushes down the lapels. He opens the door to his office, and sits back down. He hears the faint ‘ting’ of the elevator and sees Ralph Hopkins enter the corridor. De Vries frowns. Behind him is another man. He sees him only as a dark male form but, as they approach, the figures turn from silhouettes to three-dimensional beings. As the stranger’s face appears, albeit older, more tanned and more lined, even the beginnings of loose skin at his neck, de Vries suddenly recognizes him. He stands, walks to his door.

Ralph Hopkins says, ‘Colonel. I am here to represent Dr Nicholas Steinhauer.’

Steinhauer looks down at de Vries.

‘I am here,’ he says, ‘to bury my brother.’

‘I still do not understand,’ Don February says, without looking away from the road, ‘why Steinhauer gets forty-eight hours when he could hold the key to this?’

‘Politics. We’re not seen as victimizing him. Nicholas Steinhauer attends his brother’s funeral, is seen mourning, then we take our chance with him.’

De Vries unwraps a chocolate bar, bites into it. He has eaten one for breakfast also; not shopped in over a week.

‘Besides,’ he continues, ‘this gives us time to work up everything else.’

They pull up outside the big house in Rondebosch, push the bell, and are let in. As they walk through the garden, de Vries looks towards the stoep, but there is no sign of Johannes Dyk.

Nancy Maitland meets them, shakes their hands formally.

‘I’m sorry to tell you,’ she announces, ‘but Dr Dyk isn’t well enough to speak with you today.’

‘Why not?’ de Vries says.

‘Johannes is extremely ill. I explained to you last time the nature of his condition. This morning, he told me that he could not speak with anyone, that he was too confused.’

‘I see,’ de Vries says, ‘but not too confused to tell you that.’

She bridles. ‘For you to bully a very sick, elderly man would be immoral.’

‘Who suggested bullying?’

‘You know precisely what I mean. He is not well. That’s all there is to it.’

De Vries says: ‘Did you tell Dr Dyk that we were coming this morning?’

‘Of course. I told him yesterday afternoon after you called. And then I told him again this morning.’

‘And is this when he decided he was too ill to speak to us?’

Nancy Maitland folds her arms.

‘Colonel de Vries, you talk to any doctor, any expert in the field of dementia, and he will tell you that Dr Dyk does not know what he is saying. If he didn’t want to speak with you, perhaps it is because he is afraid that he will mis-speak and you will then misinterpret him.’

‘Mrs Maitland,’ de Vries says, ‘even if Dr Dyk “mis-speaks”, and incriminates himself—’

‘Incriminates?’

‘Even if he were to incriminate himself – which is, I think, what you fear – the SAPS have no time to pursue a man who is, as you say, very sick and elderly.’

‘I do not fear that. I am afraid that you will upset him. That you will frighten him to death.’

They stand facing each other, intransigent.

‘Perhaps,’ Don February suggests, ‘
I
could see him. I spoke to him last time and Dr Dyk was quite calm.’

‘I’ve made my position clear,’ Nancy Maitland says.

Don exchanges a glance with de Vries. Then he says, ‘Well, madam, you must hold your position here, with Colonel de Vries, but I am going to see Dr Dyk. He does not have to say anything.’

He begins to walk towards the front door. De Vries watches Nancy Maitland watch him go, smiles to himself.

Don pushes open the heavy door, retraces his route to Johannes Dyk’s room. His door is closed, so Don gently turns the large brass handle and goes inside. Dyk is lying on his bed, eyes closed. Don sees them flicker for a second as he turns to look at him, knows that he is actually awake.

He moves to the bedside, speaks quietly. ‘Dr Dyk?’ Dyk does not move; does not alter his breathing.

‘Dr Dyk, this is Don – Don February. We spoke a few days ago. Do you remember?’

Don sighs, looks down at the inert figure, the shrunken form under the white sheet, rising and falling, almost imperceptibly. He turns but, as he reaches the door, he says: ‘You are acting like a child. I know you can hear me, Doctor.’

De Vries sees a thick copper smog hang over the city, two thirds of the way up the ABSA building. He glances at Advocate Norman Classon, resplendent in a broad chalk-stripe black suit and blood-red bow-tie; watches du Toit pouring tea from the pot. Thinks, This is all the man does now.

Du Toit says: ‘Ten a.m. Monday. Steinhauer agrees to be interviewed.’

‘Good.’

‘Be careful,Vaughn,’ Classon booms. ‘He’s already contacted the media, and his plan is clear: parlay this into a big drama, with him at the centre, seemingly in control. He’s going to dig up the failed investigation seven years ago, and try to put the blame for everything onto the SAPS. Be aware that what is said will not remain secret.’

‘I don’t care.’