Devil's Peak by Deon Meyer Page A

that the Serious and Violent Crimes Unit (SVC) was involved in the killing.

HIV-positive Davids, who was freed on charges of murder and child rape three days after the SVC had misplaced DNA evidence pertinent to the case, was found stabbed to death on a Kraaifontein street early this morning.

Senior Superintendent Matt Joubert, head of the SVC, vigorously denied the allegation, calling the claim that two of his detectives tracked down Davids and killed him “malicious, spurious and devoid of all truth.” He admits that the unit was upset and frustrated after a judge sharply criticized their management of the case and then dismissed it . . .

The woman shook her head.

She would have to do something. This morning when she went into her dark kitchen to get the bottle of Vicks for her child’s chest she could see the movement from her window. She had been a witness to the awful dance on the pavement. She had recognized Davids’s face in the streetlight. Of one thing she was absolutely sure. The man with the short assegai was not a policeman. She knew the police; she could spot a policeman a mile away. She had had plenty of them on her doorstep. Like this morning when they had come to ask if she had seen anything and she had denied any knowledge.

She looked up the telephone number of the Argus on their front page and dialed it. She asked for the journalist who had written the article.

“It wasn’t the police who killed Enver Davids,” she said without introduction.

“To whom am I speaking?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“And how do you know this, madam?”

She had been expecting the question. But she could not say or they would get her. They would track her down if she gave too much information.

“You might say I have first-hand knowledge.”

“Are you saying you were involved in this killing, madam?”

“All I want to say is that it wasn’t the police. Definitely not.”

“Are you a member of Pagad?”

“No, I’m not. It wasn’t a group. It was one person.”

“Are you that person?”

“I am going to put the phone down now.”

“Wait, please. How can I believe you, madam? How do I know you are not a crank?”

She thought for a moment. Then she said: “It was a spear that killed him. An assegai. You can go and check that.”

She put the phone down.

That is how the Artemis story began.
    * * *
    Joubert and his English wife came to visit him that evening. All he could see was the way they kept touching each other, the big senior superintendent and his red-headed wife with the gentle eyes. Married four years and still touching like a honeymoon couple.

Joubert told him about the allegation that the unit was responsible for Davids’ death. Margaret Joubert brought him magazines. They talked about everything but his problem. When they left Joubert gripped his shoulder with a big hand and said, “Hang in there, Benny.” After they had gone he wondered how long it had been since he and Anna had touched each other. Like that.

He could not recall.

Fuck, when last had they had sex? When last did he even want to? Sometimes, in the semi-drunken state of his day, something would prompt him to think about it, but by the time he got home the alcohol would long since have melted the lead in his pencil.

And what of Anna? Did she feel the need? She didn’t drink. She had been keen in the days before he began drinking seriously. Always game when he was, sometimes twice a week, folding her delicate fingers around his erection and playing their ritual game that had begun spontaneously and they had never dropped. “Where did you get this thing, Benny?”

“Sale at Checkers, so I took four.”

Or: “I traded with a Jew for nine inches of boere sausages. Don’t be afraid, he’s bald.” He would think of something new every time and even when he was less ingenious and more banal she would laugh. Every time. Their sex was always joyous, cheerful, until her orgasm made her serious. Afterwards they would hold each other and she would say, “I love