Kobra. Deon Meyer

      “Die uitslae?”

      “Ja.”

      “Ek kan.”

      “Het sy gepass?”

      Haar gesig verklap niks.

      “Ag, please, sister,” sê hy.

      Sy kyk eers rond, dan sê sy sag en vinnig: “Sy’t goed gepass,” en sy vat die geld en begin tel.

      “Dankie, sister,” sê hy, en draai om.

      “Jy kan nie net loep nie, jy moet eers jou receipt vat.”

      “Sien jy, ek het geweet jy kan Flats gooi.”

      4

      Hulle voel die druk, die dringendheid van tyd wat wegglip.

      “Cyril was a friend to me,” sê Marcus Frank, die Duitse eienaar. “A valued employee.”

      Bennie Griessel weet die risiko is groot dat Cupido iets gaan vra soos “So why did you make him wear a slave uniform?” en daarom sê hy: “You have our condolences, mister Frank. Now, one of the …”

      “Our reputation is in tatters,” sê Frank. “The media is waiting at the gate.”

      “I understand. But one of the guests is missing, and we have to move as fast as possible. Can you tell us what mister January was doing at the guesthouse last night?”

      Frank maak ’n hulpelose handgebaar in die rigting van ’n steeds tranerige Christel de Haan.

      Die vrou sit haar bril op en sê. “He cleared the dinner table, and lit the fire.”

      “What time?” vra Cupido.

      “At exactly nine o’clock.”

      “How do you know that?”

      “That was our agreement with them.”

      “The bodyguards?”

      “Yes. Breakfast at exactly eight o’clock, house cleaning at nine, lunch at one, dinner at eight p.m. Final clearing and hospitality at nine. They are very strict, they have a lot of rules.”

      “Like what?”

      “They screened all our people. Only six were cleared to work when they rented the guesthouse, two for breakfast, two for house cleaning in the morning, and two for dinner and evening hospitality. It made things very difficult …”

      “Why?”

      “Because sometimes members of our staff are ill, or they want to take a vacation …”

      “So why did you rent the house to these people?”

      “They pay almost double the going rate.”

      Cupido skud weer sy kop in verwondering. “O.K. So Cyril January was one of the cleared people?”

      “Yes.”

      “How did it work? Did he have keys?”

      “No, no, if they wanted to enter, they had to call one of the guards when they were at the door.”

      “How?”

      “With a cell phone. They had to say a code word. They had to say ‘breakfast in the green room’ if it was safe, or ‘breakfast in the red room’ if they thought there was danger.”

      “Jissis. And then the guard unlocked the door?”

      “Yes.”

      “But you said there were two people serving dinner?”

      “Yes. Cyril’s daughter …” De Haan se oë verwater, en haar stem raak hees. “I’m sorry. His daughter, she’s only eighteen … She served dinner with him, and they cleared the table, and then she left with the trolley. Cyril was doing hospitality …”

      “What does that mean?”

      “Chocolates on the pillows, check the bathroom supplies, like soap and shampoo and shower gel and hand cream, and light the fireplace …”

      “Do you know what time he usually finished?”

      “Between nine and half past.”

      “And his wife thought he went to town last night?”

      “He did that sometimes.”

      “Where would he go?”

      “To friends.”

      “And he would stay out all night?”

      “Sometimes.”

      “What was the procedure when he left the house?” vra Griessel.

      “He just left, and they locked the door behind him.”

      “And this morning?”

      “One of our agricultural workers saw Cyril’s body. At about six thirty, on his way to report for work. And then he saw the front door of the guesthouse was open …”

      “O.K.,” sê Cupido, “we’ll have to speak to the daughter … We have to speak to all the staff in about …” hy kyk na sy horlosie, “in about an hour’s time. Can you assemble them for us?”

      * * *

      Cupido begin raas toe hulle na die kar toe loop, soos Griessel geweet het hy sou.

      “‘They pay almost double the going rate.’ Dis die probleem met hierdie land, Benna. Dis net naked greed, no fucking ethics. Almal wil net score, dis skep, pappie, skep, voor doomsday kom. Seventy thousand bucks vir ’n week se personal security? Ons is in die verkeerde jop, ek sê jou. Fokken daylight robbery. En daai lesbetariër wat vir mý wil kom bliksem? Vir wat? ’Cause I tell it like it is? Sy kan nie daai doen nie, ek meen, wat sê jy? There’s just no appropriate response vir ’n lessie, jy’s gefok as jy sê kom traai, jy’s gefok as jy jou bek hou. Da’ moet ’n law wees teen daai soort ding. Vir my kom bliksem, met seventy thousand in haar gatsak en haar Calvin Klein-suitjie en daai hare … En wat is dit dié? Duitse owner van ’n boereplaas met ’n Franse naam waar ’n Brit gekidnap is. Fucking United Nations of Crime, dis wat ons nou word. And why? ’Cause they bring their troubles here. Soos daai Franse by Sutherland, en die Dewani-ding, and who gets the rap? Suid-fokken-Afrika.”

      Hulle klim in die kar.

      “Ek sê jou nou, die perpetrator gaan ’n foreign citizen wees, ma’ dink jy die TV gaan daai sê? Not on your life, dan’s dit net weer ‘crime-ridden society’, al daai kak. It’s not right, Benna. Vir my kom bliksem. Ma’ hulle screen die volkies in slave uniforms en lat hulle agter die wittes se gatte skoonmaak tot tienuur in die aand. Chocolates op die kussinkies, I ask you, vir ’n Brit wat sy troubles saam met hom bring, chocolates op die kussinkies …”

      “Forensies is hier,” sê Griessel toe hy die wit bussie by die gastehuis sien staan, langs die SAPD-fotograaf se Corolla en die twee ambulanse.

      “Hulle sal moet gat roer – ons sal die Brit se kamer moet search.”

      “En Die Giraffe.” Want langs die groot Ford Territory van die Direktoraat vir Prioriteitsmisdaadondersoeke – die DPMO, of Valke – staan die lang, skraal kolonel Zola Nyathi, bevelvoerder van die Geweldsmisdaadgroep.

      * * *

      Griessel rapporteer so bondig as wat hy kan, want hy was die eerste Valk op die toneel. Hy is bewus van die kolonel se skerp oë op hom, met daardie stoïsynse, onleesbare uitdrukking wat nooit verander nie.

      Toe hy klaar is, sê Die Giraffe: “I see,” en staan kop onderstebo en nadink.

      Eindelik: “You’re JOC on this one, Bennie.”

      “Yes, sir.” Sy hart sink, want die laaste ding wat hy in sy huidige toestand nodig het, is die verantwoordelikheid van ’n gesamentlike operasionele