The First Rule Of Survival (37 page)

‘Get in the car.’

Thambo hesitates.

‘Bring those files with you, but get in the car.’

Thambo pulls open the door, ducks inside.

‘You have talked to everyone around here, in the town, in Riebeek West?’

‘Yes, sir. There are only three of us, but teams have worked through both towns twice. We have no new information.’

‘Around the bunker, there are farms, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘I want you to tell me who is there and who you have talked to.’

‘It’s all in the report.’

‘We don’t have time for reports. Whoever held those boys lived within the vicinity, must be known to people. This man has spent seven years living this life and he may not have anywhere else to go. If he took Joe Pienaar, he could bring him back here, because no one knows who he is. Take me to the farm or farms which back onto the Fineberg olive farm.’

‘Yes, I can show you.’

‘You were sent the picture of this new boy who has been taken? Joe Pienaar?’

Thambo produces the crudely printed emailed photograph of a smiling young boy.

‘Show me.’ De Vries grabs the picture from Thambo’s hand and flattens it against the centre of the steering wheel.

‘No one will have seen this boy except for those involved, but you study that, because we are going to be meeting him again, Thambo. I’m not leaving till we do.’

They drive for twenty-five kilometres, deeper into farming country, only tin-roofed workers’ shacks and the occasional derelict farmstead blighting the near-perfect view of pastoral life. Thambo indicates the first of the two farms adjoining the Fineberg olive farm, and de Vries takes the turn too quickly; he skids on the dusty red gravel and accelerates down the dirt-path, its surface rutted with tiny waves, like the hard sand by the water’s edge on the beach. The Toyota jiggles and weaves; a plastic fitting from a maplight above his head falls into Thambo’s lap.

‘How far is this place?’

Thambo looks up. ‘About four kilometres down this track. Thuissen’s farm adjoins the Fineberg farm on the western side.’

‘Was this the guy we couldn’t get hold of originally?’

‘Ja. He says he had trouble with his bakkie; spent three days in Riebeek West with a friend while it was being repaired. I spoke with him last week and he said he hadn’t seen anything at the Fineberg farm. Had never had any dealings with them there, didn’t even know who owned it.’

‘You search his farm buildings?’

Thambo looks across to de Vries.

‘No, sir. You had found the bunker. I just talked to the guy, that’s all.’

De Vries jerks the steering wheel sideways to avoid a deep rut, throws both of them to the right and then jolts them back again. It does not occur to him to slow down.

‘What about his workers? You get a list of them?’

‘Ja. It’s in the file.’

‘Any of them white?’

‘No. They are either black workers from the camp down there, or his managers are coloured guys.’

‘They live on site?’

Thambo looks at the vibrating notes in his lap.

‘Two couples. Farm manager, his deputy and their wives. One of them is a domestic worker at the farmhouse, the other helps with the farm shop.’

‘This Thuissen . . . he married?’

‘His wife left, he says. He is a bad-tempered man.’

‘Been married myself,’ De Vries grunts. ‘Can’t blame him.’

Thuissen snaps open the farmhouse door, steps out and stands right up to Thambo and de Vries.

‘I’ve already spoken with this guy,’ he tells them, pointing his chin at Thambo.

‘I know. We want to talk to you again,’ de Vries tells him.

‘Why?’

‘
I
want to talk to you, Mr Thuissen.’

Thuissen examines de Vries, head to toe.

‘All right. Come in then.’

He looks back at Thambo, but de Vries says, ‘Just take a look around, Sergeant.’

Thuissen frowns.

‘Look around? Why?’

De Vries gestures for Thuissen to enter his own front door, follows him in.

De Vries says, ‘There’s been another abduction. We have to check everywhere for a fugitive.’

De Vries looks around at the big kitchen, taken aback by the mess: filthy dishes in and by the sink, blackened pans around the stove, one upturned on the quarry-tiled floor, plates and boards on the worktops. The smell is of sweating old cheese. The kitchen table is covered in papers, half a dozen odd-coloured mugs, pieces of bread and the remains of a leg of lamb. Everywhere is the low, insistent hysteria of flies feeding, fighting for the finest detritus. De Vries recoils.

Thuissen notices his reaction.

‘My maid is sick,’ he says. ‘I don’t have time. Come through.’ He leads de Vries into a similarly untidy, but relatively fly-free lounge. Two Labradors wag their tails wanly as they enter, but do not move from their beds in the corner.

Thuissen sits down and de Vries chooses the frayed arm of a chair to face him; he watches Thuissen in silence, watches him murmuring to himself, looking from side to side, refusing to meet de Vries’ eye.

Finally, the man looks up, licks his lips, says, ‘What do you want?’

‘I told you, Mr Thuissen. Another child has been abducted and, since the others were held here in the Riebeek Valley, just off your land, we have to check everywhere again.’

Thuissen nods slowly.

‘You’ve seen anyone or anything unusual in the last forty-eight hours?’

‘No.’

‘A tall white guy and a boy, aged about eight?’

‘I’ve been here – around the farm. I don’t have a vehicle, except for that little car. My bakkie is still in the garage.’

‘Did you know about that government building, that bunker? You know it was over there, just off your land?’

Thuissen shakes his head.

‘You have any white workers on your farm?’

‘No.’

‘See any white guys on Fineberg farm up there?’

‘No. I’m up by that boundary maybe two or three days a year, checking the fences, nothing else. Never seen anyone there.’

De Vries stares at him.

‘What?’ Thuissen asks him.

‘You okay?’ de Vries says blankly.

Thuissen smiles sourly.

De Vries waits, saying nothing, feeling that Thuissen is contemplating, meditating on something, wondering whether it is something he might tell him. After another minute, Thuissen has said nothing.

De Vries says, ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’m okay. You?’

‘You have something to tell me?’

‘No.’

‘You sure?’

‘Are you finished now, with your questions? I have to work.’

Thuissen doesn’t move and de Vries stays where he is, aware of the silence, but for the breathing of the sleeping dogs.

‘My wife,’Thuissen starts. ‘My wife fucked off six months ago, emptied our bank account, took all our savings – not that there was much. I have no money to pay the guys, the harvest won’t even pay my debts and the guy at the garage won’t give me back my bakkie, so no, man, I’m not all right. I feel like shit.’

He keeps his head down, but de Vries rises. The pressure has been released, and de Vries believes him, but he will not be distracted.

‘I’m sorry.’

De Vries walks back through the rancid kitchen, out into the muddy courtyard. Thambo is waiting for him.

‘Come see this, sir.’

‘What?’

‘Look at this barn.’

De Vries follows Thambo around the back of the farmstead towards a long, low modern shed with a corrugated-iron roof. He pulls open the door and ushers de Vries inside.

The room is dimly lit by a string of low-voltage bulbs in tin pendants in a row down the length of the room, and at first de Vries discerns only a storeroom of old furniture. As his eyes adjust, he observes order: a selection of old white goods – fridges, stoves, freezers – some with their doors open, against the walls, a line of trestle tables covered in blankets and six narrow iron beds in a row at the far side. Every other bed has a large knitted soft toy on it: a giraffe, a zebra and an elephant.

De Vries walks in further, considers the scene. Through an internal door to the left is a scruffy tack room with saddles and horse blankets hanging from a horizontal beam, horse-feed, brushes and reins arranged reasonably neatly on shelves. He turns back into the main body of the barn. It makes no sense. He exits the building, finding Thuissen at the corner of the courtyard.

‘I thought you were leaving,’ Thuissen says quietly.

De Vries gestures him towards them with the tips of his fingers. As Thuissen approaches, he points at the door to the barn.

‘What do you use this room for, Mr Thuissen?’

Thuissen looks up glumly and studies the open door of his own barn. ‘War games.’

‘What?’

‘They come the last weekend of every month. Fifteen, sixteen of them. Bring their computers, wire them up, plug ’em in, sit there all night Friday through to Sunday afternoon. Sleep in shifts, eat in shifts. Some of them don’t see daylight all weekend. Then they get in their cars and go home. All I know is, they pay me, and right now, I need every cent I can get.’

‘Who is this?’

‘Men. All men. From Bellville. It’s a club. Men in their twenties, some in their sixties. Pale as ghosts, some of them, never take their coats off. Looked in once, but they don’t look up. All they want is power for their computers and a couple of heaters in the winter. My wife offered to make them a braai once, but they said they couldn’t stop, couldn’t leave the war.’

De Vries trances for a moment.

‘They stay there all the time?’

‘Ja.’

‘They don’t go out, wander around?’

‘No. They just sit and play and sleep in shifts.’

De Vries ponders.

‘All right, we’re leaving. Goodbye, Mr Thuissen.’

Thuissen follows de Vries across the yard, blurts out, ‘I heard shots.’

De Vries spins around. ‘What? When?’

‘Fortnight ago, Sunday. Could have come from that bunker place. Wasn’t sure. The bakkie had broken down. I was walking home. Thought they were shots.’

‘The officer who came here to talk to you – you tell him this?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

Thuissen looks at Ben Thambo, back at de Vries. Mumbles, ‘I don’t know.’

‘You didn’t report it?’

‘Could have been hunting.’

De Vries stares at Thuissen’s face. ‘But you knew it wasn’t. What else did you hear?’

‘I don’t know,’ Thuissen says firmly.

De Vries shakes his head.

‘I think you heard the murder of two young boys.’ He moves towards the car, and then turns back again. ‘And you did nothing, said nothing.’

De Vries gestures to Thambo, marches away from the man, gets into the driver’s seat of the car. Slams the door.

Thuissen raises a hand, leaves it there unmoving, staring at them.

‘These people,’ de Vries sighs. He says to Thambo, ‘The other farm: get us there as quick as you can.’ He sets off at a pace back onto the dirt track.

Thambo says: ‘You think he would not speak to me because of my colour?’

De Vries thinks exactly that.

‘I think he has no one and nothing in his head but himself.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why be sorry? What’s the name of this other place?’

‘It’s owned by an Ernest Caldwell. He came from England twenty years ago. He was away when the teams first came, but I spoke to him later. We have to drive around Thuissen’s place and rejoin the Riebeek West road.’

They approach the Caldwell farm down a narrow track lined with gnarled bottlebrush trees. To his right, de Vries can see grain fields, blackened by fire where the stubble has been burnt to the ground after harvesting. He powers down the track, ignoring the sound of the underside of the car being caught on the raised grassy centre of the lane. His stomach rumbles from having eaten almost nothing all day, but he disregards it, presses on, stopping the car in front of the farmhouse. A middle-aged woman opens the front door while they are still getting out of the car. She has her arms open, smiling warmly. She registers them and the smile evaporates.

‘This is a private farm,’ she tells them. ‘Private land.’

De Vries shows her a badge. ‘We’re police.’

‘Oh. I was expecting a friend. How can I help you?’

‘Who are you?’ de Vries asks.

‘Who am I? I live here.’

De Vries opens his mouth and closes it again, takes a breath.

‘It’s not an accusation. I just need to know your identity.’

The woman laughs. ‘Sorry. I’m . . . . what would you call me? I guess I’m Ernest’s girlfriend.’

‘Do you live here?’

‘Yes,’ she replies firmly. ‘For the last two years.’

‘Mr Caldwell did not mention you when I spoke to him last week,’ Thambo says.

She stands at the front door, nonplussed.

‘I’m sorry,’ de Vries says. ‘We’re in the middle of a very important investigation. We thought we knew everybody who was living in the vicinity. What is your name?’

‘Deirdre. Deirdre Trott.’

‘Miss Trott, I need to speak to Mr Caldwell. Is he inside?’

‘No. I mean . . . no. He’ll be out by the perimeter barns. He’ll be checking the feed harvest is safely away for the winter. You want me to show you?’

De Vries hesitates. ‘No, thank you. Just tell me where to go, then speak to my Sergeant here.’

‘All right.’

He looks at his watch. ‘Hang on a moment.’ He turns Thambo away from her and walks him towards the car.

‘Sergeant, call your guys in Riebeek-Kasteel and get one of them to pick you up. Speak to Miss . . .Trott here, and just check she doesn’t know anything. Maybe take a look inside. Make copies of the picture you’ve been emailed, get out and about and see if, by some freak chance, anyone has seen this child and a tall white guy. I’ll meet you back at the guest-house later.’ He has an afterthought. ‘And Thambo – tell no one I am here, except for Don February, and even then make sure it’s on his cellphone and not on landlines. Do it for your own sake as well as mine. You haven’t seen me, okay?’

Thambo nods, calls his team while de Vries gets instructions to the barns from Deirdre Trott. When he has the route, he takes the Toyota and finds the track which leads around the farm. He opens his cellphone and checks reception. It seems good enough. He calls Don February.