Murderous David Hickson (best thriller novels of all time TXT) 📖

Jacques Smuts, the lawyer whose rise to infamy had been sparked by his defence of the high-profile boxer who had murdered his pop star girlfriend several years before, was on camera. He looked serious and well-oiled in a green silk tie and handwoven silk shirt that caused the television screen to jump and shiver. He told the reporter in a voice rendered hoarse by injustice that the police had made a grave error, and that his client was innocent of this heinous crime.

The name of the suspect was not revealed, nor was his picture released, except in pixellated parody of a popular computer game. We were treated to the same loop of footage again and again, like a memory game, picking up new details with each pass. The shackled hands with interlaced fingers as if the suspect had been interrupted in prayer. The wristwatch that hung loosely over the wrist and looked expensive, the neat blue trousers, and the matching jacket with brass buttons. There was something incongruous about these snippets of information, something that left us all puzzled. It was as if the man was already dressed for his court appearance. Surely the monster who had killed thirty-three people should have been wearing runaway clothes? Jeans and a hooded top to hide from the cameras, not the smart attire of an upwardly mobile aspirant with expensive accessories? And the brother that the police were seeking was a man of the church, a pastor. That detail also seemed out of place in the context of the murder of thirty-three churchgoers. But aside from these anomalies, and despite the pixellation, there was one thing clear to us all: the man was not white.

Jacques came on air again and said the same thing. It was all a big mistake. The police had no evidence, his client was innocent until proven guilty. But if my fellow imbibers at Charlie’s were anything to go by, the South African public had already accepted his guilt. The man with the square blocks in place of a face was not the man they had expected, but with each repeat of his walk of shame the evidence built up in their minds, and he looked more like the man who bore the guilt beyond a shadow of doubt. I could see it in the tightening of their mouths as the policeman accompanying him on his walk to the van applied a little more force than was necessary to help him into it, the looks of satisfaction as the van drove away, and the looks of contempt as Jacques’ refrain started losing its credibility.

Then a file picture of Piet van Rensburg accompanied text describing the suspect as a well-respected member of the development program that he was proud to support. Piet van Rensburg was going to provide extensive resources to help us all discover the truth. I thought I could detect Roelof’s careful mind behind the statement. None of the outright denials that were expected from the notorious Jacques Smuts. Some indignation, of course, but weren’t we all indignant? And a gentle separation from the development program that in better days had been described as the brainchild of this brilliant, concerned man. Roelof was pushing at the jetty with an oar, and the Van Rensburg boat was floating away from the trouble. If things did not go well with Jacques Smuts’ quest, I guessed that we would lose sight of them as they disappeared silently over the horizon.

“It’s going to work in our favour,” said Chandler after we’d watched the fifth repeat.

“Why is that?”

“That Afrikaans man is going to be wanting his weapons even more now.”

Chandler considered me, his grey eyes serious.

“You need to play this carefully, corporal,” he said. “Trying to be two people at the same time is a dangerous game to play. Fat-Boy is not entirely wrong when he raises the issue of trust. If this little caper of ours goes awry and we’re dangling from a thin rope with our pants down, we need to know whose side you’re on. Which person you are.”

“There is only one of me, colonel, you know that. Two names maybe, but one man.”

Chandler’s grey eyes studied me. I gave him an innocent, steady gaze in return. He nodded.

“Very well,” he said. His eyes sparkled a little, and he laid a hand on my shoulder. “It helps to repeat the vows now and then.”

He was right. There was something Chandler like to call ‘the line’. The division between what normal society considered respectable behaviour and what they didn’t. There would come a time when I would have to settle on one side of that line. I knew that. Straddling two worlds was taking its strain.

Robyn was sitting on one of my deckchairs when I returned to the warehouse. She had her feet up on the rim of the seat so she was curled into a ball, her arms hugging her knees tight to her chest. Beyond her the sea shifted restlessly, dribbling bits of the moon between the inky black swells.

“Don’t say anything,” she said to the sea as I approached her. “I’m staying. But we’re not going to talk about it.”

There were dark circles under her bloodshot eyes. I found another deckchair with enough material left to support me and sat down beside her. She didn’t look at me. I lit a cigarette, and then one for her.

“I’ve made the right decision, Ben,” she said.

“What decision?”

“I need time to sort myself out. And you need to find Sandy.”

“Sandy chose to disappear,” I said. “The last thing she wants is for me to find her.”

“But what do you want? You need closure, Ben. You cannot go through life not knowing what happened to her.”

“She made a phone call,” I said, then immediately regretted it.

“A phone call?”

“Weeks after she disappeared.”

“Who did she call?”

“I don’t know. Not yet. My ex-employers have the number.”

Robyn blew smoke at the sea.

“That’s why you’re back