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Annamari jumped out of the Kibbutz Steynspruit minibus and slammed the door. She ran up to the house, wrenched the back door open, stormed into the kitchen and tripped over Steyn’s yellow and red aeroplane, sending it skidding into the wall. Steyn looked up from mashing his toast soldiers into his highchair tray, and howled. Pretty jumped up and hurriedly retrieved the toy. Steyn grasped the plastic plane in his chubby, buttery fingers and beamed at his mother.
Annamari drew in a deep breath and leaned over to kiss his blond curls. ‘Thanks Pretty,’ she said. ‘Sorry Steyntjie – but jislaaik, men can be so bloody stupid and stubborn. Don’t you get like that, you hear?’
Steyn gurgled and tried to feed a toast soldier to the toy. Annamari left Pretty to deal with the mess, went into the lounge, flung herself down on the couch and fumed. She went over it all again. She’d been so sure, so certain. Well almost. She’d had it all planned. How she’d show Wynand the evidence she’d so painstakingly compiled; how he’d praise her for her exemplary detective work. How he’d get on the phone and call for backup. How he’d swoop out of the police station and, sirens blaring, would go off to catch the effing murderer. He wouldn’t have been able to do anything else. Because it was all there in the neat brown folder: the photocopies of the newspaper clippings Ian had faxed through again; the photograph that had been published in Die Transvaler. And there was the caption which stated that the man in the photograph was Fanie Strydom who escaped from the attack that had killed Wilhelmina Botha and her daughter, with nothing more serious than a badly cut leg from catching it on the barbed wire fence he’d crawled through to get away from the terrorists. The newspaper clipping was dated Friday, 6 May, 1983. There was absolutely no question about it... even someone as dof as Wynand would be able to see that Fanie Strydom was Stefan Smit.
But it was clear that time hadn’t improved Wynand Vorster’s capacity to see past his bulbous nose. He’d been leaning back in his chair in the Bethlehem Central Police Station, his size fourteens propped up on the desk, eating a koeksuster when she walked in. His office was tiny: there was scarcely any room for the two desks and four chairs. Captain James Motaung – according to the sign on the door – had eased his considerable bulk out from behind one desk, nodded at her and left after she asked ‘Wynand, can I speak to you?’
Wynand hauled his boots off the desk and noisily sucked the sticky syrup from his fingers. He gestured to Annamari to sit in the cracked red plastic chair on the other side of his desk. ‘Good riddance,’ he said. ‘Can you believe it that that k... oke outranks me? He says he was in the Qwa Qwa police but I don’t believe him. He was a terrorist – APLA or more probably MK – Umkhonto we Sizwe. That’s why he’s a captain already and I’m... I’ve heard none of us from the old South African Police Force can expect promotion anymore because they’re bringing in these toy cops from the homelands and, even worse, the terrorist armies, and putting them in charge. It’s f...bloody crazy. But ja, what can we do? So, what’s up, Annamari? Been years, hasn’t it? How’s Thys?’
Pleasantries over – Wynand was married with three laaities now; his wife was also a police officer – Annamari handed Wynand what Thys had teasingly called her dossier. He put it down on the desk without looking at it.
‘What’s this?’
She swallowed. ‘You remember when my parents were killed?’
‘Ja, of course. We never got the terrs that did it. But once De Klerk took over and released Mandela, catching terrs wasn’t a priority anymore.’
Annamari bit back an angry retort. ‘Wynand, why were you so sure it was terrorists? Did you ever consider that maybe it wasn’t?’ She was proud of how she managed to keep her voice steady, and calm.
Wynand rocked back in his chair and stared at her. He was silent for a while and then he barked out a laugh.
‘You are kidding, right? Of course it was terrs. They cut through the fence, killed the dogs, made their way to the house and shot up your family with an AK47. Then they took your father’s shotgun and left. That’s it. We tried to follow their tracks but...’
‘Did you find any tracks? Where did they go?’
‘What is this, Annamari? We investigated but the terrs were gone. It’s not far to the Lesotho border, as you know.’
‘Wynand please. Listen to me. I don’t think it was terrorists. I think Stefan Smit had something to do with it.’
This time Wynand snorted. Loudly. ‘Jissie, Annamari, you’ll get yourself into deep shit with accusations like that. I know you never liked Smit – I mean you even accused him of raping that kaffir girl – but really! Kill your family? That’s really crazy.’
So she showed him the photograph of Stefan Smit with the woman and girl he’d always claimed were his wife and daughter who had been killed in the Pretoria bombing but were not listed as victims of that attack.
‘Ja, so what? That proves nothing,’ Wynand said, his left leg jiggling under the desk.
She showed him the story about terrorists attacking Wilhelmina Botha’s smallholding and killing her and her daughter a couple of weeks before the Pretoria attack. She showed him the newspaper photograph of Fanie Strydom. The photograph that looked exactly like Stefan Smit.
For a second, Wynand hesitated. Then he shook his head and leaned back in his chair again, so far that Annamari expected it to topple. ‘Ja, okay. It looks like Smit. But so what?’
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence that two lots of people he’s been close to have all been killed in terrorist attacks? And both times he barely got a scratch on him.’
‘Annamari, he wasn’t even on Steynspruit when the attack happened. You know that.’
‘He was. Petrus and the others saw him.’
Wynand slammed his chair down and glared at her. ‘The kaffirs will say anything to protect themselves. They helped the terrs – no wait,’ Wynand held up his hand as Annamari tried to protest. ‘I know you don’t think they did, but it’s obvious. They may not have wanted to, but farmworkers always helped the terrs. They had to, even if they didn’t want to. That’s what terrorists did. They terrorised the farmworkers and forced them to work with them.’
Annamari shook her head. She had to make him see the truth.
So she told him about the train and bus service between Driespruitfontein and Pretoria – or rather, the lack of public transport that day. And her conclusion that Stefan couldn’t possibly have gone anywhere beyond Driespruitfontein, let alone all the way to Pretoria as he’d claimed. And he hadn’t been in Driespruitfontein either. He’d been on Steynspruit.
Annamari watched, fascinated, as a blue vein popped out on Wynand’s temple, and his ruddy face darkened. ‘Annamari, are you accusing me of not doing my job? What do you expect me to do about all this?’ He swept his arm over the desk and some of the papers fluttered to the floor.
‘Investigate! Find Stefan Smit or Fanie Strydom or whatever his real name is. Ask him questions, find out what really happened. Get hold of the Warmbaths police... ’
‘You’re nuts. We can barely cope with all the murders and farm attacks now. Do you have any idea how many farm murders there have been this year alone? This is an old case. They are both old cases. And they have nothing to do with each other.’
‘They do. You’ll see. If you’d just investigate...’
‘I told you. We don’t even have enough real cops to cope with current cases anymore. Dozens, hell no, hundreds of white cops – real cops with proper experience – have left the Force. The rest of us can’t cope with the workload and the dark side of the Force is worse than useless. Forget it Annamari. Just go home and forget it.’
She retrieved the papers and – hands shaking – put them back in the brown folder. She clutched it to her chest and started towards the door, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over. Why had she been so damned stupid to think Wynand ... anyone ... would believe her?
‘Hang on. Where’d you think you’re going with that?’ Wynand snapped. ‘That’s police evidence. Give it to me.’
Annamari stared at him, shocked. ‘But you said... you said it was nothing...’
‘I’m not going to let you go around stirring up more shit. You’ve done enough already. Give it to me.’ Wynand held out his hand.
Annamari stared at his dirty fingernails for a moment and then slowly put the folder on the desk and stalked out of the office. She squeezed past Captain Motaung who had obviously witnessed her humiliation, and forced herself to walk, head held high, down the corridor – the thunk of her dossier as it landed in Wynand’s file thirteen echoing in her ears.
***
She barely remembered the drive back to Steynspruit. She couldn’t believe Stefan Smit/Fanie Strydom was going to be allowed to get away with murder – five murders, if her suspicions were correct. But what could she do?
She walked back into the kitchen and slammed some utensils on the dresser. Pretty had cleaned up and taken Steyn out to play with the other Steynspruit toddlers. Annamari switched on the kettle and just before it boiled, poured a little water into her ouma’s ceramic mixing bowl. Then she added yeast and stirred. In went the salt, sugar, margarine and milk. She didn’t have to measure the ingredients anymore. She knew exactly how much to use. Then she added the flour. Impatient, she forced herself to breathe, to go slowly, adding flour a little at a time. She poked the dough. Too gooey. She added more flour, poked at the dough again. It sprang back at her. It was ready. She turned it out onto the floured table top and punched it. And punched it again. She turned it over and hit it again, and again, and again and again...
‘Ma, are you planning to kill that bread?’
Annamari’s head jerked up and she looked at her oldest son. His blue eyes were twinkling. ‘Jissie, Ma. What’s got you so riled up that you need your bread therapy again?’
‘Arno! What are you doing here? How did you get here? What’s wrong?’
‘No, Ma. Everything’s fine. We’ve finished the syllabus so they gave us the rest of the day off. I thought you could take me back in the morning.’
Annamari pushed back a tendril of her hair with a floury hand. ‘I suppose so. But why have you come home? How did you get here?’
‘I got a lift with Jacobus. He was going to Viljoenspruit. I need to ask Bootie something.’
Annamari shivered. She had hoped, prayed, that as Arno and Beauty grew up, they’d stop being such good friends. But it hadn’t happened. They still spent every waking minute together when Arno was home. Arno claimed he was helping Beauty with her schoolwork. Annamari insisted that these extra lessons take place at the kitchen table where she could ensure that the only lessons that were being taught and learned were those that were included in the school curriculum. She was not going to allow history to repeat itself. Only this time it would be a thousand, a million times worse.
‘What’s so important that you had to come all the way to speak to Beauty? Why couldn’t it wait for your next weekend home?’
‘Because I need to ask Bootie to go to the matric dance with me and I’ve already left it much too late and...’
‘What!’ The mixing bowl clattered to the floor and shattered. ‘You can’t. You can’t take Beauty to your matric dance. Absolutely not. No!’