He was woken at about midnight by the thumping of a dance-band in the hotel, a gabble of voices from the beer garden below his window, and the roaring of motorcycles and screams of tyres in the street. He knew the type: the lower-class whites which this country protected with its Apartheid, the lekker ous with their leather lumberjackets and their zoot suits and gum-chewing chicks with their rums-an’-coke who called the blacks the bladdy kaffirs. Oh God, he wanted to get this over with and get out of this country back to Australia. Of course there were plenty of the same type in Australia but at least the law did not make white trash lords over the blacks, at least there were not many blacks in Australia to be white trash to. And where were the bloody police, with all this noise?
He lay awake, worrying about Inspector Dupreez.
At ten o’clock he arrived at Duncan’s Health Studio.
It was a large suburban house in the jacaranda-lined avenues. Interior walls had been knocked down to create a number of big rooms with exercise apparatus. There was a mirror-lined hall for aerobic classes, showers, lockers, a sauna room, two jacuzzi rooms, and a lounge with a health-bar. The place was very well-kept. A healthy girl in a sky-blue leotard directed him into the weight-lifting room to find Peter Duncan.
He was instructing a woman in the use of weights. He was in sky-blue ballet-tights that showed off bulging genitals. On the walls were glossy photographs of monstrously muscled, glistening winners of body-building contests. Duncan waved and led the way into his office. He went to his jacket, pulled out the list.
‘The name is marked with a tick.’
McQuade said with relief, ‘Thank you very much, Peter.’
‘As long as that’s the only detective work I do.’
‘It is. But was there any difficulty?’
‘I refuse to divulge the name of my informant on the grounds it may incriminate me. By the way, I presume you know who you’re dealing with? The Population Registration Office.’ He tapped the list. ‘Do tell Roger to be careful. There was a big scandal a few years ago, which doubtless accounts for why he wants you to do his dirty work for him.’ He twiddled his fingers in farewell. ‘Toodle-oo.’
‘Just one thing. Do you know him?’ He tapped the list.
Duncan said: ‘Her.’
McQuade blinked.
‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ Duncan said. ‘I didn’t know she was one of the girls, though. A closet case. She comes to the aerobics class most days after work.’
McQuade’s mind was racing. ‘If I come here this afternoon will you point her out to me?’
‘No. I’ve told you I’ll do no more.’ Duncan added airily: ‘But rather pretty. Long blonde hair, if you like that sort of thing. But I’m afraid she won’t much like you.’ He twiddled his fingers again.
McQuade slowly opened the list.
The name that was ticked was: Lisa van Rensburg.
He had checked out of the Assembly Hotel but his Landrover was still parked there. He walked back, feeling discouraged. And this whole notion of blackmail was distasteful. Repugnant. Especially blackmail over homosexuality. Especially blackmail of a woman.
He passed the Burgerspark Hotel, turned back and went in. It was gracious. Quiet. A good place to think in.
He sat in the lounge and ordered coffee, and tried to think.
Okay, blackmail was repugnant, but he would be doing it to find the most-wanted Nazi war-criminal of today. Systematic murder of millions of Jews was infinitely more repugnant, as well as murder of the whole crew of a submarine. He would only be blackmailing her to find out which Mr Strauss was Heinrich Muller. He wasn’t going to blackmail her for his personal gain.
Except the loot in that submarine.
Okay, but it was really Heinrich Muller he was trying to find now. The loot he’d find himself. He closed his mind to that uncomfortable distinction. And tried to weigh up the risks.
The only risk was that Lisa might denounce him to the police. Confess her homosexuality rather than be blackmailed. Then he was in very big trouble indeed. No Heinrich Muller, no loot, and a long time in jail.
But what was she likely to do? She was a closet gay. She would lose her job if this was found out. She was only going to make an extract from the computer of the details of a number of men of a certain age-group named H. Strauss – nothing more. Surely she was unlikely to sacrifice her job by confessing her homosexuality for such a small undertaking?
He stared across the lounge, trying to weigh the risk against the rest. And the rest was compelling. Get your priorities right!
You know he hasn’t died to date – or you’re almost sure.
You know the name he’s likely to be using.
You know that all his details are on a computer a few blocks away.
You know a lesbian has access to that computer and you know that she knows she’ll lose her job if her homosexuality becomes known.
And once you know the address of the right Mr H. Strauss, you become a multi-millionaire and you’ll bring the most-wanted Nazi war-criminal to justice.
How can you turn down odds like that?
He sighed deeply. Okay. That decision made.
It was eleven o’clock. The cocktail bar was open. And he needed a drink.
The bar was plush, with subdued lights. He ordered a beer. He drank a third of it down, down, down.
Okay, how? How do you blackmail a closet lesbian?
Obviously, by getting evidence of her homosexuality, then putting the hard word on her. And how? Obviously, by getting another woman to seduce her. An accomplice.
Obviously, a call-girl. A bisexual hooker. So, step one: meet the right hooker.
Step two: the hooker goes to Duncan’s, pals up with Lisa, takes her home to bed. That shouldn’t be hard: surely lesbians are usually on the lookout for sexual partners.
Step three … ? Well, you meet Lisa and tell her you’ll disclose her secret unless she gets to work on that computer.
Step four? Make yourself very scarce very fast if she refuses. And think again.
He drank the rest of his beer down in one long go, and ordered another.
He sat there. Trying to think about step three.
It was noon when he felt he had figured out all the possibilities: the what-ifs, the what-to-say-whens.
He went to the reception desk and bought a copy of the Pretoria News. He opened it to the classified advertisements, and was surprised at the number of advertisements for escort agencies and massage parlours. In Pretoria, the citadel of Calvinistic Afrikaner conservatism? There was Touch of Class, Discretion, Astor, Elegance, and umpteen others.
He went to the public telephones in the foyer, and dialled.
‘Taste of Sugar,’ a female voice crooned.
McQuade said, ‘Do you service couples?’
There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘What is your number, sir, I’ll call you back. And your name.’
‘My name is van Rensburg.’ He gave her the number of the public telephone and hung up.
He waited. The telephone rang. ‘Van Rensburg,’ he said.
‘Yes, Mr van Rensburg,’ the lady said. ‘That can be arranged. Where are you?’
‘My wife and I have just arrived in town. We’ll be finding a hotel shortly, we’ll call you. What are your charges, please?’
‘A hundred rand an hour. But the entire night would only be five hundred.’
McQuade decided to clarify it. ‘You do understand that my wife would want to be involved?’
‘I understand perfectly,’ the lady said.
‘I’ll call you back when we’ve settled down in a hotel.’ He thanked her and hung up.
He took a tense breath. He then telephoned Roger Wentland’s office. The secretary informed him that Roger had not called in, so nothing had been done about tracing the owner of the Toyota, but he would be in the office tomorrow. ‘Can’t you trace it for me?’ McQuade demanded.
‘No, Mr McQuade, the Vehicle Registration people only give that information to the police or to a lawyer because it’s relevant to a case.’
McQuade hung up, frustrated. Well, before he committed himself to the dangerous game of blackmail he had better get his telephone call to Inspector Dupreez over with, and find out if anything new had turned up. He rehearsed his lines, then dialled.
The telephone was answered by Detective Sergeant Bekker. ‘Inspector Dupreez is up in Khorixas assisting the Namibia police on the case, sir. Of course you know about Jakob’s family.’
‘Yes, I reported it. Terrible tragedy.’
‘The Namibia police thought it was a family row, then a suicide, but the Inspector’s convinced it’s murder, hey. The same guys who did Jakob in.’
This was no surprise. ‘Any clues?’
‘You remember Mr Potgieter went to your house and disturbed those two bastards beating up Jakob. He chased them, but lost them. Well, two men answering their description, wearing balaclavas, were seen by somebody a few minutes later, jumping into a Toyota four-wheel-drive and rushing away.’
‘A Toyota? What colour?’ McQuade demanded.
‘White or grey. The witness isn’t sure, but he got the number. We’ve checked it out at Vehicle Registration, but it doesn’t exist. So either it’s a false number plate or the witness got it wrong.’
‘And that number was?’
Bekker told him.
The same number as the Toyota which waylaid him, and he had just lost his best lead to the chief of Adolf Hitler’s Gestapo!
‘And how was your trip over, sir?’ asked Bekker.
McQuade’s pulse tripped. He was sure the question was loaded. ‘Uneventful.’
Bekker said conversationally, ‘Because the police in Windhoek received a report of reckless driving from a cattle-truck driver. He complained that two vehicles were approaching him, racing each other, and there was bladdy nearly a hell of a smash, hey. This second vehicle was also a white Toyota. The other was a green Landrover, like yours. I jus’ thought it might be those same bastards chasing you.’
‘No, nothing like that happened to me.’
There was a silence. ‘Oh, well. Where can Inspector Dupreez telephone you?’
‘I’m in a public phone box, I’ll have to call him.’
‘Well, please call him tomorrow, sir.’
McQuade said he would, and hung up. He leant against the cabin wall. Oh God. His best lead gone out the window – false number plates! That meant he had no option but to go the blackmail route. The other bad news was that Detective Sergeant Bekker clearly didn’t believe him, and he still had to deal with Inspector Dupreez later.
The next call was easy to make – to Roger Wentland’s office to tell the secretary not to bother about tracing that Toyota – but he hesitated over the next call to Sarah. It was going to be tricky telling her he was not going to make it to Johannesburg tonight, and staving off her questions. Put the call off until after he’s sussed out the Lisa van Rensburg route? No, that could be midnight. He stacked up his coins, and rehearsed his new lines.
‘Hullo, darling,’ Sarah cried. ‘Where the hell are you?’
‘Still in Pretoria, in a public box.’
‘What time do I see you? That double bed’s awful lonely!’
‘I don’t think I’m going to make it tonight. I’m busy until at least midnight but I promise I’ll be there tomorrow—’
‘Oh, Jim!’ she cried. ‘You can come after midnight …’
McQuade closed his eyes. ‘Darling, it’ll be awfully late and I don’t know my way around Johannesburg—’
‘Nor do I, but I love you, dammit!’
‘I love you too, but we’re about to get cut off …’ He broke the connection.
He stood there. God, he wished he were going to Johannesburg, not doing what he was about to do.
He went to the reception desk and took a double room. He was going to say his name was van Rensburg, then realized he’d have to use his bank card, and registered in his own name.
It was a nice room. He sat down to telephone the Taste of Sugar agency. He looked at his watch. Duncan’s aerobics class started at five o’clock.
He reminded the lady of their previous conversation. He arranged for the girl to present herself at room 503, Burgerspark Hotel at four o’clock. ‘And can you please ask her to bring a leotard or a tracksuit.’
The lady was accustomed to different requests, but she’d never heard this one. ‘A tracksuit?’
‘Yes, please.’