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back to the house with her, took his leave. He drove home and wondered why the number of trees in a suburb equaled the per capita income of the breadwinners living there.
It was past seven but the sun was still high above the horizon. Joggers were sweating in the traffic fumes at the side of the road. He lit a cigarette and wondered what he was going to do about his health. Perhaps he should exercise. Jogging was out. He hated jogging. He was too big to jog. Swimming maybe. It would be nice to swim again. Not competitively. Just for fun. Forgotten memories surfaced. The smell of the swimming pools changing rooms, the footbath with Dettol in it, the fatigue after hours of practice, the taste of chlorine in his mouth, the adrenaline when the starters pistol went off.
At home another letter had been pushed under his door.
Why dont you reply?
The discomfort was back in his belly. By now he recognized it. There was a lane in Goodwood, behind the cinema on Voortrekker Road. They said that was where motorcycle riders did stuff. He was eight or nine. And every Saturday night he stared down the dark of the lane with a curiosity that threatened to consume him. Run, his mind told him. Run down it like the wind, just once. But the fear, the uncertainty about his own bravery, lay like a weight in his stomach. He had never risked the lane. He drove to Blouberg, bought chicken at Kentucky, and ate it in the car while he stared at the wind-flattened sea. Then he drove home to read his book.
Late in the evening the telephone rang. He put William Gibson on the table next to the armchair, answered. It was Cloete of public relations.
Are you still working on the Yellow Peril or can I feed the newspapers something else tomorrow?
8.
C ape town Up to now the police have been unable to establish any connection between the Tokarev murder and Chinese drug syndicates.
De Wit read the report in a soft voice, a thin smile on his face. He put down the newspaper and looked at Joubert.
Must we differ about this case in public, Captain?
No, Colonel, said Joubert and saw that the no smoking sign had been moved from the coffee table in the corner to de Wits desk next to the family photograph.
Did you provide the information? De Wits voice was conversational, almost jolly.
Colonel, said Joubert tiredly, as investigating officer I reacted to a query from a colleague at public relations. Its in line with the procedures and regulations of the service. I gave him the information in the light of the way I see the murder investigation at this stage. Its my duty.
I see, said de Wit and again smiled slightly. He picked up the newspaper and slid his eyes over the report. You didnt deliberately make a fool of your commanding officer?
No, Colonel.
Well never really know, Captain Joubert. But in the long run it probably wont matter. Thank you for coming by.
Joubert realized he was being excused. He stood up, uncomfortable, uncertain about the other mans calmness, already aware that it meant something, predicted something.
Thanks, Colonel, Joubert mumbled at the door.
* * *
He was behind with his paperwork. He pulled the adjutants files toward him but found it difficult to concentrate. He lit a Winston and sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. He wondered whether hed deliberately made a fool of his commanding officer.
And he thought about the cunning of his subconscious and knew that he was not entirely innocent, Your Worship.
Dragging footsteps moved down the passage. Griessel walked past, his head bowed. There was something in his carriage that disturbed Joubert.
Benny?
The footsteps returned. Griessels face appeared around the door. He was pale.
Benny, is everything all right?
Im okay,
It was past seven but the sun was still high above the horizon. Joggers were sweating in the traffic fumes at the side of the road. He lit a cigarette and wondered what he was going to do about his health. Perhaps he should exercise. Jogging was out. He hated jogging. He was too big to jog. Swimming maybe. It would be nice to swim again. Not competitively. Just for fun. Forgotten memories surfaced. The smell of the swimming pools changing rooms, the footbath with Dettol in it, the fatigue after hours of practice, the taste of chlorine in his mouth, the adrenaline when the starters pistol went off.
At home another letter had been pushed under his door.
Why dont you reply?
The discomfort was back in his belly. By now he recognized it. There was a lane in Goodwood, behind the cinema on Voortrekker Road. They said that was where motorcycle riders did stuff. He was eight or nine. And every Saturday night he stared down the dark of the lane with a curiosity that threatened to consume him. Run, his mind told him. Run down it like the wind, just once. But the fear, the uncertainty about his own bravery, lay like a weight in his stomach. He had never risked the lane. He drove to Blouberg, bought chicken at Kentucky, and ate it in the car while he stared at the wind-flattened sea. Then he drove home to read his book.
Late in the evening the telephone rang. He put William Gibson on the table next to the armchair, answered. It was Cloete of public relations.
Are you still working on the Yellow Peril or can I feed the newspapers something else tomorrow?
8.
C ape town Up to now the police have been unable to establish any connection between the Tokarev murder and Chinese drug syndicates.
De Wit read the report in a soft voice, a thin smile on his face. He put down the newspaper and looked at Joubert.
Must we differ about this case in public, Captain?
No, Colonel, said Joubert and saw that the no smoking sign had been moved from the coffee table in the corner to de Wits desk next to the family photograph.
Did you provide the information? De Wits voice was conversational, almost jolly.
Colonel, said Joubert tiredly, as investigating officer I reacted to a query from a colleague at public relations. Its in line with the procedures and regulations of the service. I gave him the information in the light of the way I see the murder investigation at this stage. Its my duty.
I see, said de Wit and again smiled slightly. He picked up the newspaper and slid his eyes over the report. You didnt deliberately make a fool of your commanding officer?
No, Colonel.
Well never really know, Captain Joubert. But in the long run it probably wont matter. Thank you for coming by.
Joubert realized he was being excused. He stood up, uncomfortable, uncertain about the other mans calmness, already aware that it meant something, predicted something.
Thanks, Colonel, Joubert mumbled at the door.
* * *
He was behind with his paperwork. He pulled the adjutants files toward him but found it difficult to concentrate. He lit a Winston and sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. He wondered whether hed deliberately made a fool of his commanding officer.
And he thought about the cunning of his subconscious and knew that he was not entirely innocent, Your Worship.
Dragging footsteps moved down the passage. Griessel walked past, his head bowed. There was something in his carriage that disturbed Joubert.
Benny?
The footsteps returned. Griessels face appeared around the door. He was pale.
Benny, is everything all right?
Im okay,
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