The First Rule Of Survival (29 page)

‘Well, you should,’ Classon says. ‘You have no firm, criminal evidence against this man. Everything is hearsay or coincidence. If he sees you have nothing, it will look very bad to the public, and it will serve to strengthen his position.’

Du Toit says: ‘What has the Crime Lab determined?’

‘Nothing. No prints from Nicholas Steinhauer found, so far, at the bunker site.’

‘No direct link to Nicholas Steinhauer,’ Classon says. ‘He has alibis for the times of abduction and killing. No link to the property or to the victims. This is why we have to be careful.’

‘Careful.’ De Vries takes a deep breath, checks himself, aware of the other people in the room.

He says, with forced calmness, ‘For seven years, anyone connected to this case has misled us, delayed us, diverted us. Steinhauer has the family background. His father was an abuser and he groomed his eldest son to follow him. There are textbook indicators: bullying, arson, work with children, superiority complex. Anyone discussing him says that he is a controller: his younger brother was in awe of him. Everything he said on television turns out to be wrong. He said the boys were certainly abroad and, if not, they were dead. Both possibilities were designed to discourage us to hope that they were still alive. We have to wrest control from him, put him under pressure.’

Du Toit looks to Classon, who nods, saying, ‘Clearly, there is circumstantial evidence to warrant deeper investigation.’

‘Don’t ever forget,’ du Toit says, ‘I led the abduction investigation. We’ve got Marc Steinhauer for the murders of Steven and Toby, and we’ll catch who took them, held them and killed Robert Eames. But, be completely clear: it doesn’t matter what we think, even what we know. If we can’t prove it, if we can’t explain it so that the correct information is disseminated to the media, then it is useless.’

‘I am resigned to that,’ de Vries says, trying to seem casual. ‘But sometimes you have to push to find those answers. It feels like we are being straitjacketed.’

‘That’s because the world has changed,’ du Toit says. ‘We are being scrutinized every centimetre of the way: by the media, by public opinion online, by our own people – David Wertner’s bureau is reviewing the original inquiry and our actions now. It makes no difference what I say to Thulani; he and Wertner are tight.’

‘Ironic, isn’t it? Just when you want racial tension, there is none.’

‘That isn’t helpful. Wertner and Thulani know what’s good for them. And I know what I have to produce.’

‘The truth.’

‘This is what you have to learn,Vaughn. Sometimes that is not a quantifiable concept.’

‘The more I learn,’ de Vries says sadly, ‘the more helpless I feel.’

Don February sits typing, cellphone jammed between shoulder and ear.

‘Robert Ledham had warned him to expect a visit from us. Admitted it straight away. Max Dearman is a very self-confident man. Ran off all the facts. According to him, Ledham didn’t leave Knysna for ten days; gave me a list of witnesses who saw him in restaurants and at socials at Dearman’s house, but it’s seven years ago and even if I could find these people, I don’t think it will help.’

‘Did you believe him?’

‘I didn’t like him, Don. Everything he said, he’d rehearsed. I don’t know though, I got the feeling he was basically telling the truth.’

‘And, what about the ninth of March 2007 specifically?’

‘He wasn’t expecting that. He said he didn’t remember, but Ledham couldn’t have been in town because he never left Knysna. It was his holiday.’

‘Is Max Dearman married?’

‘I wouldn’t think so. I got the feeling that he and Ledham hung out with the boys . . .’ He stutters. ‘I – I didn’t mean like young boys, kids. Just that they were part of the Knysna old-homosexual network.’

‘What, both of them?’

‘I don’t know. All the friends he talked about were male. I just assumed.’

Don thanks him, opens a new file on his desktop, taps in the information he has received. He has covered what he wanted, yet it is not resolved.

De Vries changes gear roughly as the road banks sideways and up. He has been here often enough to know the road, but each time, he almost stalls. He pulls up at the end of the cul-de-sac.

‘Stop looking at my beautiful face and open the fucking gate, boykie.’

The voice on the video intercom says: ‘Boykie?’ The gate buzzes and de Vries pushes his way through.

At the bottom of his stairs, as de Vries opens the front door above him, John Marantz says, ‘Good evening,Vaughn.’

De Vries clomps down the stairs, pushes past Marantz, stands in the middle of his living room.

‘How old are you?’ he demands.

‘I told you,’ Marantz tells him. ‘I’m forty-two.’

‘I have four years on you; therefore you are, officially, a boykie.’

Marantz stares at him.

‘The information you got for me,’ de Vries says, ‘on Steinhauer: can you do it again?’

‘Possibly.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘That I would have to consider it.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Because every time I do that, I compromise myself.’

‘Quid Pro Quo.’

Marantz frowns. ‘I didn’t know we were keeping score.’

De Vries goes into the kitchen, opens Marantz’s fridge and extracts a beer.

‘You need to realize something. This case is fucking me up and I either give in and go under, or I fight. I will do anything to get these men. They’ve pissed on me for the last seven years and it’s stopping now. So, you owe me – you just want to help me – you want me in your debt? Whatever it takes.’

Marantz nods. Says, ‘I’ve already established a contact.’

‘Who?’

Marantz laughs. ‘You know I can’t tell you that. I’ll help you, Vaughn, but you have to protect me. Nothing comes from me. You understand?’

They sit down facing each other across the wide coffee table.

‘You already established a contact?’ de Vries says.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘To help you, if I can.’

‘Why?’

Marantz recoils. ‘Because you are my friend,Vaughn. Because I
want
to help you.’

‘This doesn’t have anything to do with your former employers?’

‘I told you. I am no longer employed by Her Majesty’s Government.’

De Vries studies Marantz, feels uneasy.

‘Don’t think you can recruit me, John.’

Marantz shakes his head.

‘Why would you think that?’

‘Because a confidence trickster doesn’t just take you into his confidence . . .’ He returns the stare. ‘He gives you his confidence. Didn’t you teach me that, Johnnie?’

Marantz turns away.

‘No good deed goes unpunished.’

De Vries stares at him until he turns back to face him.

‘What I do,’Vaughn says, ‘trust doesn’t come easily.’

Marantz meets his eye. Says, ‘Vaughn, I’m not playing you. If I were, you wouldn’t know it.’

De Vries sees all three men facing him yawn simultaneously.

‘The funeral,’ de Vries says, raising his voice, ‘is this morning at ten.’

‘That’s quick.’

‘I want someone who can handle a camera outside the crematorium. Pick a white officer, Don. He won’t stand out. Tell him: if he’s challenged, he’s press. I want a record of everyone who attends that Steinhauer service; from the media, the family and friends. Brief him carefully. I don’t want the Steinhauers, or Hopkins, knowing we’re there.’

‘You think someone might show up?’

‘It’s possible. But maybe we’ll see who doesn’t turn up.’

Don frowns. ‘Why?’

‘Think about it. Your friend, colleague, relative, is accused of double murder, with links to abduction and paedophilia. Would you go to the funeral?’

Don smiles.

‘Samples from Johannes Dyk?’ de Vries asks.

‘That is my next call.’

‘Good. Don’t go yourself. I want new information for Steinhauer, stuff he’s not expecting. Did Dyk ever work with Steinhauer, Nicholas or Hubert?’

‘I will check just now.’

‘Because, Don . . . all of you. Make no mistake. We need more.’

Perplexed, de Vries meets her at the elevators, leads her past the squad room to his office, offers her tea.

Mary Steinhauer says, ‘You told me that you would not forget me, Colonel.’

‘I did.’

‘You seem to have done so already. My father hid the newspapers from my daughters, but I saw the headlines. You promised that you would warn me.’

‘You’re right, Mrs Steinhauer. I did just that. What can I say to you? Everything has moved so quickly; I am not in charge of what is said to the press. The fact is: I forgot to contact you. I apologize.’

‘At least,’ she concedes, ‘you seem a straightforward man. Tell me this: did Marc . . . hurt those children?’

De Vries opens his hands. ‘We don’t know. There’s nothing to say that he did but, on the other hand, he knew where the boys were held and he visited them regularly.’

Mary Steinhauer shuts her eyes.

‘It’s not just a lost husband, an absent father. It’s everything we’ve worked for. The Fineberg Estate . . .’ She looks up at him. ‘How can devotion turn to resentment so quickly? May God forgive me, but I hate him. I hate him for betraying everything he knew I believed in, for destroying my daughters’ lives. He could have spoken to me. He could have sought help.’

De Vries sits silently.

She says: ‘Have you spoken to Nicholas yet?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you should. Marc was in thrall to that man. If he met him so often at their aunt’s house, surely Nicholas would have known about those boys?’

‘We are due to speak to him shortly.’

‘Good.’

De Vries clears his throat. Says, ‘The funeral for your husband. It . . .’ He trails off, feels that asking if it went well perhaps sounds wrong.

Mary Steinhauer sits up in her chair.

‘It was for public appearances only. At least, for my daughters. And then we are staying in Cape Town tonight. Tomorrow, I am consulting my lawyers. I want them to sell that olive farm, to sell the Fineberg Estate. I want nothing more to do with any of it.’

‘You’re not represented by Ralph Hopkins?’

‘My family use another firm. I think Hopkins was retained by the Steinhauer family.’

‘Your father commented that he didn’t like him. Is that your view too?’

‘I have no view on Ralph Hopkins, except perhaps that he should have protected Marc.’

‘Protected him? In what way?’

‘He was at our house the morning Marc . . . the morning he died. What did he say to him?’

‘I don’t know. I asked him but he maintained that it was client–attorney privilege.’

‘How ridiculous.’

‘Yes. Did you ask him?’

She looks down. ‘No.’

‘The farm outside Riebeek-Kasteel – it’s in your name?’

‘It would be. I dealt with financial matters. Marc and I had discussed the possibility of cultivating olives, adding bottled preserves and so forth to our range. About a year later he told me he had found some land already planted with olives, ideal for a small farm unit, outside Riebeek-Kasteel. He said that he’d seen it when he was visiting his aunt.’

‘You didn’t see the land before you bought it?’

‘I should have done, but I was pregnant with Sarah, my younger daughter, and I wanted Marc to make the decision. He was always a follower, never a leader. I wanted to show him that I trusted him. I think about it now and I realize that everything I did controlled him, yet that was never my intention. I tried to make him independent, answerable for his own decisions.’ She shakes her head mournfully. ‘Perhaps some people cannot cope. Perhaps I should have been less trusting and more diligent.’ She looks back up at de Vries. ‘I arranged the bank transfer; he did everything else. When the farm buildings had been restored, I visited it then. I thought that he’d done a good job. I was proud of him.’ She freezes. ‘You think he knew that underground building was there?’

‘I don’t know. If he didn’t abduct those children – and you assure me that he didn’t leave your estate on those days – then we know that there are others, possibly many others, involved.’

‘That’s horrifying.’

De Vries nods. Then he asks, ‘Did you know that your husband could shoot?’

‘I would have said no, but then I thought about what Marc had told me when we were first married: how his father had ensured that his sons did not go into the Army. Instead, he took them into the countryside and taught them how to hunt; how to survive. I think Marc hated it. The only reason he allowed me to keep goats and hens was because we never had to slaughter them.’

‘Did you ever meet his father?’

‘No. Marc told me he had died before we met. Both his parents. I think his mother died when Marc was only quite young. That is why Nicholas has such an influence over him.’

De Vries hesitates, confused. Asks: ‘Did he ever talk about Michael?’

‘Michael who?’

‘His brother, Michael.’

‘No.’ Her expression changes slowly as she realizes what this question means. She asks warily, ‘His brother?’

‘You were not aware that Marc had two brothers?’

‘No.’

‘This is what I understand from your sister-in-law, Caroline Montague.’

Mary Steinhauer tilts her head. She seems afraid to ask.

‘What happened to Michael?’

‘We understand he fell during a mountain hike with Nicholas. He was killed.’

She opens her mouth; closes it again. Struggles to comprehend.

‘Who else was with them?’

‘Only his brother, Nicholas.’

Her expression is one of shock. De Vries says, ‘I’m afraid it sounds as if there are more secrets. We confirmed that your father-in-law, Hubert Steinhauer, died in December 2006, not eight years ago. We think it is possible that this was a trigger for what followed.’

He looks up at her, sees her cheeks drain of colour. She slumps back in the chair, empty.

‘I’m sorry,’ de Vries repeats.

‘The problem,’ Steve Ulton tells Don, ‘is that our computers don’t work like they do on TV. There’s none of that flashing through a database, the screen freezing with a match. It kind of crawls through what we have. And the beeping! Have you ever heard a real-life computer make those noises?