CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Jessie went off on her scooter, and I headed home. The late-afternoon sun gave my bakkie a tall shadow that moved across the veld. My dust-brown hens came running up the garden path towards me, and when I got to the stoep I threw them a handful of mielies before I went inside.

I was about to call Henk but decided to phone Ricus first.

‘It’s Maria van Harten.’

‘Maria! How are you?’ he said in that rich deep voice.

‘Fine, fine.’

‘I was going to call you. We are postponing our group meetings for a little while. But if you need to talk or come and see me, please call me. Any time.’

‘That man who was driving the black Golf last night, his name is Nick, isn’t it? Was he coming to see you?’

‘Yes. Nick Olivier. He used to be in therapy with me.’

‘In Oudtshoorn.’

‘You know him?’

‘I met him with Annemarie one time.’

‘Ah, Annemarie . . . Ja, Olivier wanted to meet with me. We were about to have a group meeting, and I said he was welcome to join us, even though he doesn’t have PTSD. Nick has other problems. But he wanted me alone.’

‘Was he upset about that?’ I asked.

‘I told him we could meet another time.’

‘I drove past him on the way out. He looked angry.’

‘He is a troubled soul.’

‘He looked angry when I first met him.’

‘He has been through a lot.’

‘Is he a very . . . disturbed man?’

‘We are all disturbed in some way, that is what makes us human. But yes, he has more than his fair share of troubles.’

‘Might he be . . . dangerous?’

‘To himself, definitely. To others . . . possibly. Are you thinking that he might have had something to do with the murder?’

‘I know it sounds crazy, but maybe he wants to get rid of the other members of the group so he can have you to himself . . .’ I twisted the phone cord around my finger. ‘Or maybe he was trying to shoot you, but in the smoke, he missed.’

‘The police are after Ousies and my ex-girlfriend . . .’

‘I think she has an alibi.’

‘Hmm. Satanists enjoy lying.’

‘Is Ousies still missing?’ I asked.

‘They haven’t found her.’

‘Thank you, Ricus.’

‘Any time, Maria. Any time.’

I got myself a cup of coffee and a muesli rusk and sat down to call Henk.

Luckily he was in his office. I told him the truth (but not the whole truth) about Georgie; the idea that it could be any one of us that the murderer wanted to kill; and the story about Nick Olivier, the black mamba man.

Detective Lieutenant Kannemeyer was polite and proper, as if I was a member of the public. ‘Thank you for the information,’ he said.

‘Um, I was thinking of making a cottage pie tonight, with sweet potato mash. And I have a pear and ginger cake. In fact, that’s what got Georgie talking. I made her a vegan one.’

‘I am working late tonight.’

‘Okay.’

‘Keep your doors and windows locked. Excuse me, there’s another call I must take. Goodbye.’

‘Bye, Henk,’ I said, to an empty phone line.

* * *

I wasn’t in the mood to make cottage pie any more. And there was all that cake that needed eating. I settled the hens into the chicken hok, then I sat and drank coffee and ate cake on the stoep, and watched the birds settling in to the gwarrie tree, and the sky bleed from blue to orange to red.

Henk hadn’t exactly been rude to me, but the way he was polite made him seem very far away. I understood that he was upset about the murder. It got me thinking how upset he’d be if he ever learnt about what I had done to Fanie. He might go so far away that he’d never come back.

As it got darker, what Henk said about the doors and windows did not seem like such a bad idea. What if mamba man decided to knock off all the people in our group so he could have Ricus to himself? Did he know where I lived? In small towns, it’s easy to find out.

I locked up the house, got into my nighty and was ready to go to bed early. The phone rang, and I jumped.

‘Hope it’s not too late, Tannie M?’ said Jessie.

‘I’m still up.’

‘I didn’t want to wait till tomorrow.’

‘You’ve found out something.’

‘The Somalians are not popular,’ she said.

‘Fatima seems so nice.’

‘Well, their clients have no complaints. They do a good business. Too good. That’s the problem. Some of the other shop owners are unhappy.’

‘That’s unfair.’

‘Yes. But it’s not as simple as xenophobia. Some of the Somalian shops are selling basic food items at cost price.’

‘Maybe they buy in bulk somewhere?’

‘I’ve spent all afternoon researching it; it’s just not possible to make a profit at the prices they are charging.’

‘So how do they keep in business?’

‘It’s quite a story. The one thing in their shops that is at the standard price is cigarettes. I’ve spent the last few hours tracking down some leads. Tonight I found someone willing to talk off the record. His story seems solid.’

‘Ja?’

‘Some shop owners buy their cigarettes direct from Zimbabwe. They are not declared and no import taxes are paid. Cigarette taxes are huge. Which means they get them at really reduced prices. So they attract people to their shops with low prices on food and stuff and make all their profit on cigarettes.’

‘Jirre. It’s smuggling. That must be illegal.’

‘Ja, but it’s hard to prove. It’s happening all over the country, but no one will testify. It’s how some of the refugees are surviving when everything else turns against them.’

I thought of the knife Fatima kept in her hair.

‘It must be a dangerous business,’ I said.

‘Not as dangerous as some of the other stuff these poor people have been through.’

‘You don’t think it’s bad what they are doing?’

‘There are lots of different kinds of bad, and I don’t think this is the worst. But I do think there could be a motive for murder there. Other shop owners. Or maybe something went bad in the smuggling ring . . .’

‘I spoke to Ricus about Nick, the mamba guy.’

I told her what Ricus had said, and also about my conversation with Henk.

‘He says I should lock my doors and windows,’ I said.

‘You’re alone there tonight?’

‘He’s working late.’

‘Shall I come and sleep there, Tannie M?’

‘Ag, no. I’m fine.’