We must move on.’
Vaughn sighs, begins to nod slowly; an acknowledgement that it is over for all but the families of Steven, Bobby and Toby. He wonders whether he can bear their sorrow.
2014
‘The guys checked out all BMW 530 models, grey, silver, variations of the above, registered in the last five years. There are a lot of them. We have cross-checked with criminal records and nothing stands out.’
Don February jogs to keep up with de Vries. Finally, they reach his office.
‘What is the matter, sir?’
De Vries curses. ‘Too much traffic, too many people, too many BMWs, sanctimonious journalists and the public. I fucking hate the public. And you, Don, always telling me “nothing”.’
‘Sorry I asked.’
‘I’m aware,’ de Vries says, collapsing into his chair, ‘that you are not personally responsible for “nothing”. But once, just once . . .’ His hands make fists. ‘I want one break on this. Seven fucking years it’s been “nothing”. Now, for Christ’s sake:
something
!’
‘I will extend the search. We will go to six years out, then seven. I can contact the main dealers if necessary. We both think this is a solid lead. I will work it.’
De Vries says: ‘Good, Don. You try to solve problems with work.’
‘It is the only way.’
De Vries looks at his watch.
‘Call me, anytime.’ He sighs. ‘I won’t be sleeping.’
2009
For fourteen months he lived in isolation while his house was being built. Neighbours and acquaintances tried to lure him out, but he rejected them until, one by one, they gave up. Just before Christmas, his closest friend in town, a Capetonian he’d met at university, Simon Van Wyk, asked him to escort his new wife to a grand party, he being sick.
‘You don’t have to do much, man. These media types talk a lot but they don’t say anything. Jane needs to network, but she can’t arrive alone. The food will be good and the bar is free all night.’
John Marantz looked into his kitchen, saw staleness and, on a whim, agreed. He was sober enough to drive; the shaking had subsided sufficiently for him to be able to shave. For the first time, the thought of standing up in public, being seen, being spoken to, did not terrify him. He liked Jane Van Wyk – a prominent young architect; she and Simon had helped him with his house, and they never asked questions of him.
His car was valet parked, and they walked, arm in arm, to the main entrance of the grand Bishopscourt mansion. They stood in line to meet their hosts, and looked beyond them, through the huge triple-height chandeliered lounge to the vast terraces of the candlelit garden, full of South Africa’s beautiful elite.
Perhaps she sensed his fear. She took his hand in hers and whispered, ‘You don’t have to stay, Johnnie.’
‘I’ll be in the garden.’
‘If you want to go, that’s fine. They’ll have cars to take guests home. If you stay, I won’t be long.’
He forced a smile, and they parted; partied.
* * *
On a far terrace, low down beneath tall Camphor trees, almost beyond earshot of the lively jazz band, a long wooden dining table boasts a single candelabra, candles dripping wax in the light summer breeze. Marantz sits alone with a bottle of fine Cabernet Sauvignon, sipping slowly, admiring the view of almost complete darkness, broken only by pinpoints of lights from houses across the valley, up where he would soon be living. He thinks that the darkness is like a cloak to him and for a moment he feels safe, unthreatened. Then he hears a wheezing, a stumble, and another guest appears from a smoky dimness, clutching his own bottle, talking, it seems, to himself and then, seeing Marantz, to him.
‘Another man who travels with his own supply.’
Marantz looks up to see a tall, thin, middle-aged man, curly salt and pepper hair whitening at the temples, pockmarked skin, and a creased suit the wrong side of good taste. He looks tired and his eye seems jaundiced.
The man gestures
Vaughn sighs, begins to nod slowly; an acknowledgement that it is over for all but the families of Steven, Bobby and Toby. He wonders whether he can bear their sorrow.
2014
‘The guys checked out all BMW 530 models, grey, silver, variations of the above, registered in the last five years. There are a lot of them. We have cross-checked with criminal records and nothing stands out.’
Don February jogs to keep up with de Vries. Finally, they reach his office.
‘What is the matter, sir?’
De Vries curses. ‘Too much traffic, too many people, too many BMWs, sanctimonious journalists and the public. I fucking hate the public. And you, Don, always telling me “nothing”.’
‘Sorry I asked.’
‘I’m aware,’ de Vries says, collapsing into his chair, ‘that you are not personally responsible for “nothing”. But once, just once . . .’ His hands make fists. ‘I want one break on this. Seven fucking years it’s been “nothing”. Now, for Christ’s sake:
something
!’
‘I will extend the search. We will go to six years out, then seven. I can contact the main dealers if necessary. We both think this is a solid lead. I will work it.’
De Vries says: ‘Good, Don. You try to solve problems with work.’
‘It is the only way.’
De Vries looks at his watch.
‘Call me, anytime.’ He sighs. ‘I won’t be sleeping.’
2009
For fourteen months he lived in isolation while his house was being built. Neighbours and acquaintances tried to lure him out, but he rejected them until, one by one, they gave up. Just before Christmas, his closest friend in town, a Capetonian he’d met at university, Simon Van Wyk, asked him to escort his new wife to a grand party, he being sick.
‘You don’t have to do much, man. These media types talk a lot but they don’t say anything. Jane needs to network, but she can’t arrive alone. The food will be good and the bar is free all night.’
John Marantz looked into his kitchen, saw staleness and, on a whim, agreed. He was sober enough to drive; the shaking had subsided sufficiently for him to be able to shave. For the first time, the thought of standing up in public, being seen, being spoken to, did not terrify him. He liked Jane Van Wyk – a prominent young architect; she and Simon had helped him with his house, and they never asked questions of him.
His car was valet parked, and they walked, arm in arm, to the main entrance of the grand Bishopscourt mansion. They stood in line to meet their hosts, and looked beyond them, through the huge triple-height chandeliered lounge to the vast terraces of the candlelit garden, full of South Africa’s beautiful elite.
Perhaps she sensed his fear. She took his hand in hers and whispered, ‘You don’t have to stay, Johnnie.’
‘I’ll be in the garden.’
‘If you want to go, that’s fine. They’ll have cars to take guests home. If you stay, I won’t be long.’
He forced a smile, and they parted; partied.
* * *
On a far terrace, low down beneath tall Camphor trees, almost beyond earshot of the lively jazz band, a long wooden dining table boasts a single candelabra, candles dripping wax in the light summer breeze. Marantz sits alone with a bottle of fine Cabernet Sauvignon, sipping slowly, admiring the view of almost complete darkness, broken only by pinpoints of lights from houses across the valley, up where he would soon be living. He thinks that the darkness is like a cloak to him and for a moment he feels safe, unthreatened. Then he hears a wheezing, a stumble, and another guest appears from a smoky dimness, clutching his own bottle, talking, it seems, to himself and then, seeing Marantz, to him.
‘Another man who travels with his own supply.’
Marantz looks up to see a tall, thin, middle-aged man, curly salt and pepper hair whitening at the temples, pockmarked skin, and a creased suit the wrong side of good taste. He looks tired and his eye seems jaundiced.
The man gestures
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