later at Silbersteins. The alleged affair with the older, married man early in her career could as easily be attributed to compensation for a weak father figure as to the desire for advancement.
This was the territory that roused his instincts: the forbidden affair, the sensual photos, the breast enlargement, the pornographic movies, the bizarre vibrator. Therein lay a pattern, and he believed absolutely in patterns of behaviour – you always find one if you look long and acutely enough. Add to that the fact that eight out of ten women were murdered by the husband, the fiancé, the lover, the hopeful suitor, the sex partner …
15
He could find nothing. No spare key, no new insights or clues.
In the sitting room, out of desperation, he examined the telescope and decided it was ornamental, the magnification unimpressive, the interesting peeping tom possibilities outside the window just too far away.
Griessel walked to the door, stopping in frustration and indecision beside the pool of dry blood. He understood why Nxesi’s investigation had yielded nothing, because there were only shadows of possibilities, vague spectres that evaporated when you looked more closely. Communists? The shooter had the wrong end of the stick – there were no communists in her life, just a Big Boy vibrator in the bedside cupboard. A whole day wasted and he had made no progress, and tomorrow the bastard would blow another policeman’s leg away.
He bit off the F-word with considerable effort.
He would phone Cupido and tell him he was leaving the case files at the DPCI office, see if
you
can find something. He reached out to turn off the light and suddenly came to a realisation, the thing that had been in his subconscious since his visit to Villette: the contrast between the two apartments. Villette’s was personal, with obvious signs of life – the framed photographs of fruit on the wall, the coffee table in the sitting room strewn with books and magazines and newspapers … But Sloet’s was too bare, too neat, too impersonal.
Before he could consider the meaning of this, his cellphone rang – the DPCI office number.
He answered.
‘Benny, can you come down here?’ asked Brigadier Manie, and Griessel knew this spelled trouble.
He said he was in the city, he could be there in fifteen minutes. He hastily locked the apartment, waited impatiently for the lift, jogged to the BMW and drove with sirens and lights flashing through the sparse Sunday traffic. It took him twenty minutes anyway, because Durban Road was, as usual, a traffic light mess.
He found them in the brigadier’s office. Manie, Nyathi, du Preez, Mbali Kaleni, and Cloete, the liaison officer. No John Afrika.
‘The bastard sent emails to the papers,’ said Manie.
‘The sniper?’ Griessel asked, and sat down in a vacant chair.
‘Yes. And now there are two stories. One about how he is going to shoot policemen until the Sloet case is solved, the other about how the SAPS tried to keep it quiet.’
‘Three,’ said Cloete. ‘They are asking if we only reopened the Sloet case because someone was shooting at us.’
‘It’s a mess,’ said Nyathi.
Manie shoved the email towards Griessel. ‘How are you getting on, Benny?’
‘Badly, Brigadier,’ he answered, because he had learned to stick to the truth. It didn’t help to say what your boss wanted to hear.
Manie’s granite face revealed nothing. He merely nodded, as if it was what he had expected.
Griessel read.
[email protected]
Sent: Sunday 27 February. 16.07
To: [email protected]
Re: Why haven’t SAPS told the media about wounded policemen? Yesterday at 18.45 I shot a policeman yetserday at Claremont police station. This morning at 11.50 I shot a policeman at Green Point police station. Why haven’t the SASP told the media about that? Becuase they are hiding something. They know who the murderers of Hanneke Sloet are. Why has no one been arrested yet? I will keep on shooting
This was the territory that roused his instincts: the forbidden affair, the sensual photos, the breast enlargement, the pornographic movies, the bizarre vibrator. Therein lay a pattern, and he believed absolutely in patterns of behaviour – you always find one if you look long and acutely enough. Add to that the fact that eight out of ten women were murdered by the husband, the fiancé, the lover, the hopeful suitor, the sex partner …
15
He could find nothing. No spare key, no new insights or clues.
In the sitting room, out of desperation, he examined the telescope and decided it was ornamental, the magnification unimpressive, the interesting peeping tom possibilities outside the window just too far away.
Griessel walked to the door, stopping in frustration and indecision beside the pool of dry blood. He understood why Nxesi’s investigation had yielded nothing, because there were only shadows of possibilities, vague spectres that evaporated when you looked more closely. Communists? The shooter had the wrong end of the stick – there were no communists in her life, just a Big Boy vibrator in the bedside cupboard. A whole day wasted and he had made no progress, and tomorrow the bastard would blow another policeman’s leg away.
He bit off the F-word with considerable effort.
He would phone Cupido and tell him he was leaving the case files at the DPCI office, see if
you
can find something. He reached out to turn off the light and suddenly came to a realisation, the thing that had been in his subconscious since his visit to Villette: the contrast between the two apartments. Villette’s was personal, with obvious signs of life – the framed photographs of fruit on the wall, the coffee table in the sitting room strewn with books and magazines and newspapers … But Sloet’s was too bare, too neat, too impersonal.
Before he could consider the meaning of this, his cellphone rang – the DPCI office number.
He answered.
‘Benny, can you come down here?’ asked Brigadier Manie, and Griessel knew this spelled trouble.
He said he was in the city, he could be there in fifteen minutes. He hastily locked the apartment, waited impatiently for the lift, jogged to the BMW and drove with sirens and lights flashing through the sparse Sunday traffic. It took him twenty minutes anyway, because Durban Road was, as usual, a traffic light mess.
He found them in the brigadier’s office. Manie, Nyathi, du Preez, Mbali Kaleni, and Cloete, the liaison officer. No John Afrika.
‘The bastard sent emails to the papers,’ said Manie.
‘The sniper?’ Griessel asked, and sat down in a vacant chair.
‘Yes. And now there are two stories. One about how he is going to shoot policemen until the Sloet case is solved, the other about how the SAPS tried to keep it quiet.’
‘Three,’ said Cloete. ‘They are asking if we only reopened the Sloet case because someone was shooting at us.’
‘It’s a mess,’ said Nyathi.
Manie shoved the email towards Griessel. ‘How are you getting on, Benny?’
‘Badly, Brigadier,’ he answered, because he had learned to stick to the truth. It didn’t help to say what your boss wanted to hear.
Manie’s granite face revealed nothing. He merely nodded, as if it was what he had expected.
Griessel read.
[email protected]
Sent: Sunday 27 February. 16.07
To: [email protected]
Re: Why haven’t SAPS told the media about wounded policemen? Yesterday at 18.45 I shot a policeman yetserday at Claremont police station. This morning at 11.50 I shot a policeman at Green Point police station. Why haven’t the SASP told the media about that? Becuase they are hiding something. They know who the murderers of Hanneke Sloet are. Why has no one been arrested yet? I will keep on shooting
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