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

the sea and provide giddying views across the Atlantic, while keeping the troubled African continent hidden from view.

“At six there will still be enough light to enjoy sundowners,” said Roelof, and I assured him we’d be on time. We wouldn’t want to end up drinking in the dark.

“Couldn’t have done this two days ago,” said Piet van Rensburg as he held up his rum and made the ice clink. He indicated the vast stretch of ocean and a sky so full of clouds it looked like an amateur painter had been trying out a whole new book of sky painting tricks. There were layers of dark jagged clouds like mountain peaks against orange puffy ones in the distance, and beneath them the grey clouds that trailed tendrils of rain across the ocean. But on our balcony on the fourth floor of the Van Rensburgs’ chrome and glass pied-à-terre we were dry and kept comfortably warm by the hot air piped up from the boiler in the basement. “Weather has changed over the last week,” he said. “Have you noticed that?”

“Looks like all the trouble is moving out to sea,” I said. Piet was not a Capetonian, but like many South Africans he assumed the mantle of one when in the Cape and expressed it in an obsession with the weather.

“They said on the radio,” said Melissa, resplendent this evening in an ankle-length, blue chiffon number with real fur on top, “they said that it was because they arrested that man. That the weather, like the country, is breathing a sigh of relief.”

Piet’s face hardened. “They talk a lot of shit in the Cape,” he said. “Smoke too much of that green stuff.”

“I think it’s a relief he’s locked up,” said Melissa and she pouted a little because no one was agreeing with her.

“Not much of a relief,” said Colonel Colchester. “Not yet.” He was standing with his back to us at the glass balcony edge with his sparkling mineral water, admiring the sunset. He turned and faced us. “For a start, they haven’t proved it was him.”

“They won’t,” said Piet determinedly, “because it wasn’t. They arrested someone we know. Bloody fools. Man called Q. It wasn’t him.”

“It’s one thing if it turns out to have been a lone madman,” said the colonel. “That might bring some relief. Quite another if it wasn’t.”

“They haven’t proved it,” said Hendrik, as if he had tuned into a delayed broadcast of the conversation. Melissa laid a calming hand on his chest and gave him a smile. Hendrik was looking as if his mother had just finished scrubbing him in the hot tub. His face was pink and his blond hair was wet and combed back. He was wearing a freshly washed rugby shirt with shorts and long socks. Afrikaners like him did not feel the cold.

“There has been no relief,” said Piet. “You gauge the mood of the people by listening to the conspiracy theories, and when they start making headlines, you’d better know we’re feeling anxious.”

“Conspiracy theories?” asked Roelof. He stood a little outside the circle with his fruit juice, as if he’d been sent in as a silent observer.

“You’ve seen the headlines: The End is Nigh … Time to Get Out …White Genocide is Real. Load of bullshit.” Piet spilt some of his rum as he waved his glass at us in dismissal of the bullshit. “Hogwash, all of it. Thirty-three people died from gunshot wounds. That’s not genocide.”

A small silence settled over us, and we sipped our drinks.

“You going to the game tomorrow?” asked Hendrik. He was looking at me.

“I’m not,” I said regretfully.

“It’s going to be a big one. Us against the Lions.”

“Gosh,” I said, and dried up.

“It’s Pa’s team, you know that?”

“I didn’t.”

Hendrik nodded and drank more of his beer. I guessed that he was speaking about rugby, a sport that was often considered a second religion of the white people of South Africa. When sanctions were imposed during the apartheid years, the passion for the sport built to a fever pitch. In those days, even the sports were divided upon racial grounds; rugby for the white people and soccer for the black.

“Ja,” said Hendrik. “Die Streeptruie are ours. They’ve got a good chance at the Currie Cup this year.”

“Striped jerseys,” said Melissa for the foreigners, and she rubbed Hendrik’s striped blue and white chest to demonstrate.

“You were a rugby player yourself?” I asked.

“Played at Newlands once,” said Hendrik.

“Almost twenty years ago,” said Roelof, the pedant. “It was a warm-up match. School teams.”

Hendrik finished his beer and nodded. But he wasn’t going to let Roelof diminish the memory.

“I took the tunnel with my team,” he said, and his face turned a little pinker.

“You’ll have to explain about the tunnel,” said Piet. “These are Engelse mense we’re talking to.”

“The tunnel is the corridor that connects the changing rooms with the field,” explained Roelof. “The players run through the tunnel and are greeted by the crowd as they come onto the field.”

“It’s a good feeling. I’m going to do it again,” said Hendrik, and his eyes looked as if they were filling with tears. “One day I’m going to do it again.”

“You’ll need to lose some of that flab,” pointed out Roelof. “Or the closest you’ll get to the tunnel is that bar in the Railway stand where you meet your friends.”

“We play every Saturday. Training.”

“I didn’t know it was a sports club,” scoffed Roelof. “Aren’t the White Africans a political group?”

“We do social things. Cultural things. As well as political.”

Hendrik looked at Roelof and tried to drink more beer out of his empty glass in a defiant way.

“Let’s go inside, shall we?” suggested Piet to cover his son’s embarrassment. There was a large open fireplace with a hearty blaze inside, and despite the relieved weather it was getting cold on the balcony as the golden clouds lost the sun. “You must forgive the boys. Hendrik might be my only son, but Roelof is like a son to me.