CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

I struggled to fall asleep. It was a cool night, but with my windows closed it felt stuffy. Sometimes I’d hear the sound of an engine and think it might be a car, a black Golf maybe, heading down my dirt road, but then the sound would fade and I’d realise it was just a truck on Route 62. When I did finally fall asleep, I was woken by my chickens making a helluva noise. I opened the window a tiny bit and shouted ‘Voetsek,’ in case it was a jackal or a rooikat bothering them.

I felt nervous to go outside and check on them. An animal would run away from me, but what if there was a person?

Ag, this is nonsense, I thought. One of the wonderful things about the Klein Karoo is you can sleep at night, knowing you are safe in your bed. Nick Olivier was probably asleep in his own bed in Oudtshoorn and didn’t even know my name. I turned on the lights and made myself a cup of hot milk with cinnamon and honey, and drank it at my kitchen table in the company of a small slice of cake.

I went back to bed and ended up sleeping a bit late that Sunday morning. The sun was bright, and the phone was ringing. I didn’t move very fast, so I was not surprised the phone had stopped ringing by the time I got there. I put on my dressing gown and went to check on my chickens. They were fine. There were paw prints in the sand around their hok, but no sign of shoes. I let them out, and they fussed and flapped. The phone rang again, but there was no hope I’d get there in time, so I just left it.

‘Kik kik kik,’ I called to my hens, and they followed me to the stoep where I threw them two handfuls of crushed mielies. They raced to gobble up the food, and then they wandered about the lawn, scratching in the grass. It made me feel peaceful to watch them.

I opened my kitchen windows and went to have a quick shower. While I was in the shower, I thought I heard a car heading my way. I turned off the water and listened, but it was quiet. I wished I’d locked the front door. But the Karoo is not the kind of place you remember to lock doors. I turned the shower back on, and then I thought I heard something slamming, feet on the gravel. Ag, you are just being jumpy, I told myself. But I quickly finished washing and reached for a towel.

Then I heard what were definitely footsteps. Inside my house.

There was a little bolt on the inside of the bathroom door, and the footsteps were coming closer. My heart was hammering like a woodpecker. I dropped the towel, and with wet fingers I struggled to push the bolt closed. I wanted to do it silently, so he didn’t hear me, but my fingers were shaking and it made a clicking sound as it went into place.

The feet stopped just outside the door.

I could hear my heart in my ears.

‘Maria?’ said a voice.

‘Henk?’

I picked up the towel and wrapped it around me, but did not open the door.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine. I just got a fright. I’m coming now.’

His footsteps went down the corridor back to the kitchen. I popped across to my bedroom and put on underwear and my brown cotton dress, and went barefoot to the kitchen where Henk was making coffee. He wore beige trousers and a cream long-sleeved shirt. His moustache was unwaxed, and he looked a little tired.

‘I called twice,’ he said.

‘Sorry, I was in bed and then outside.’

‘I knocked and knocked.’

‘I didn’t hear you; I was in the shower.’

‘The door was unlocked.’

‘I just went to feed the chickens . . .’

‘I was worried about you. Olivier got away, we lost him; he was heading towards Ladismith.’ He handed me my coffee.

‘You are shaking,’ said Henk.

‘I got a fright when I heard footsteps in the house.’

‘You should lock your doors.’

‘Ja.’

‘Nick Olivier has an ostrich farm in Oudtshoorn.’

‘Ja?’

‘He is one of seven children brought up by a single dad. Mother died giving birth to him.’

‘He told you this?’

‘No. We did a background check. His father died a few months ago. Heart attack. He was struggling to keep the ostrich business going. Apparently Nick didn’t handle the death so well.’

‘You spoke to him? To Nick?’

‘Yes.’

Henk took a small sip of his coffee. It was hot. I offered him the tin of rusks, and he dipped one in and chewed on it and looked at me.

‘I’m glad you are okay,’ he said.

‘Ja,’ I said.

‘We went to his place. He stays in a small wooden house at the bottom of the farm. His car was there. That Golf. He has no alibi for the night of the murder. Says he drove around a bit, came home late. Admits to being angry with Ricus for not having time for him.’ He finished his rusk and reached for another. ‘Haven’t had supper or breakfast.’

‘Can I make you some eggs?’

‘This is fine.’

‘Did you find anything at his house? A gun?’

‘No gun. Yet. He opened the door holding a brick; there was blood on his hand. On his kitchen table were a whole lot of crushed toy cars. He had been smashing them.’ Henk looked towards the window. A robin was calling outside. ‘He showed us this small room full of old stuff. Books and photographs. Old footstools made of ostrich leather, ostrich feathers and eggs. Photographs of ladies in horse buggies with ostrich-feather hats. Medals. He’s proud of all this old stuff. “Memorabilia of the Glory Days”, he calls it.’

‘He’s a collector,’ I said.

‘He’s not right in the head, I tell you. Next to his bed is a row of dried-out paws of dead animals. Rabbits, mongooses, rooikat. Jinne. And a photograph of Ricus, and of his father. And an old black-and-white photo of his mother.’

I helped myself to a rusk.

‘The worst of it comes when we look behind his house. There is a whole cemetery of little crosses. Names and dates on each one. There are places where the soil is freshly dug, and we tell him we need to look there in case a weapon is buried.’

Henk shook his head. ‘He starts crying when we dig them up, saying their funeral was only a few days ago, they must rest in peace.’

‘Ag, shame.’

‘Shame for the animals. Small wild animals. Their heads or bodies crushed, like they have been smashed with a brick.’

‘Jinne.’

‘Looks like he kills them and then has a little burial and funeral for each one. The guy’s crazy.’

‘Did you arrest him?’

‘We found no evidence linking him to the murder. Just Ricus’s photo, but he says Ricus was his counsellor and like a father to him.’

‘But the smashed animal bodies? What did he say about them?’

‘He wouldn’t talk about it. Killing animals isn’t murder – but we’ll put Nature Conservation on to him.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘We don’t have grounds for an arrest. Yet. He was going to call a lawyer and come in for questioning this morning. We left someone to keep an eye on him. This morning Olivier jumps in his car, and our guy follows him, holding back a little. He heads towards Ladismith along Route 62, and they are going through the Huisrivier Pass when Olivier just disappears. He was not that far ahead, but suddenly he’s gone. He must have a turbo engine or something, because the cop car can’t catch him.’

‘Or he’s hidden in some bushes somehow.’

‘Maybe. They are covering the route again to see what they might’ve missed. But we thought he was racing to Ladismith. Which is why I got so worried when you didn’t answer your phone and then didn’t come to the door.’

‘Why would he come after me?’

‘He’s crazy. Like you said – he wanted Ricus to himself. One of seven kids and a single dad. He doesn’t want to share Daddy’s attention.’

‘Jislaaik. Sad story.’

‘Bad story. And now Olivier has disappeared. I wonder if he might pitch up at Ricus’s. My guys are there, finishing off at the crime scene, so Ricus won’t be able to hide Olivier like he’s hiding Geraldine . . . It’s time I collected Kosie too.’

Henk’s cell phone rang, and he stood up and pulled it from his belt.

‘Kannemeyer.’ He walked towards the window. ‘Ja . . . Nee. Really? Wragtig? Fok . . . Sjoe. Ja. Okay . . . So is the Oudtshoorn team on the way? And their guys will tell the family? Okay . . . Hell. Maybe it is for the best . . . Later.’

As he spoke, I closed up the rusk tin, washed the coffee cups and wiped the crumbs off the table. Henk didn’t often swear, and it got me worried.

He hung up and looked at me. The edges of his moustache were wilted. Outside, the bokmakierie was singing a song of joy, but I could tell Henk’s news wasn’t happy, even if it was ‘maybe for the best’.

‘They found Olivier’s Golf; he drove off a cliff. It’s a burnt wreck at the bottom of the valley.’

‘Oh. Jirre.’

I sighed and felt a wave of something running through me and out of my bare feet. Relief maybe. Henk gave me a peck on the cheek. He smelt like the bark of a tree after the rain.

‘I’m going to see Ricus,’ he said.

I breathed in, and another wave of something came up through my feet and into my heart.

‘I am coming with you,’ I said.