Read Deon Meyer for Free Online

was after the pathologist had mumbled over the body. And before Bart de Wit had turned up and called a media conference about a murder on which they had no information. He and Benny had fled to Oxford Street just after it started.
     
     
“The man is a clown,” Benny had said on the way. “He won’t last.” Joubert wondered if the OC had called in the NCOs one by one as well. And if de Wit was aware of Griessel’s drinking problem.
     
     
“Basie wants me,” he said, breaking the depressing silence, and got up. He walked to the room from where Margaret Wallace had earlier made a call. He heard the maid clinking china in the kitchen.
     
     
It looked like a study. A desk with a computer and telephone stood in the center. Against the back wall was a bookcase with hardcover files, a few books on business practice, and a handful of Readers’ Digest condensed books in their overdone mock leather bindings. The wall next to the door was covered in photographs and certificates. There was also a large cartoon by a local cartoonist. It depicted James Wallace— thick black hair, luxuriant mustache, slightly bulging cheeks. The caricature wore a neat suit of clothes. One hand held a briefcase with the logo WALLACE QUICKMAIL. The other arm clutched a cricket bat; the hand held a flag with WP CRICKET on it.
     
     
Joubert dialed the number. It was the hotel’s. He asked to speak to Basie and waited a few moments.
     
     
“Captain?”
     
     
“Yo, Basie.”
     
     
“We’ve found someone, Captain. Female, blond. She says Wallace was with her in the room. But we didn’t question her further. We’re waiting for you.”
     
     
“Can you stay with her? Benny and I are going to be here for a while.”
     
     
“No problem, Captain.” Louw sounded keen. “Oh, and there was another spent cartridge. Under the body.”
     
     
When Joubert walked out of the study, he glanced at the cartoon against the wall again. And knew that the insignificance of life was just as sad as the finality of death.
     
     
    * * *
“He started business on his own,” said Margaret Wallace. She sat on the edge of the big, comfortable chair, her hands in her lap, her voice even, without inflection, controlled.
     
     
“He was awarded the contract to deliver the municipal accounts. It was tough at first. He had to import an Addressograph and a computer from the United States, but in those days every letter had to be inserted into the envelopes by hand, then sealed. I helped him. We worked through the night. Often. He sold seventy percent of the shares to Promail International two years ago, but they stuck to the original name. He’s still on the board and acts as a consultant.”
     
     
Joubert noted that she was still speaking about her husband in the present tense. But he knew that would change on the following day, after the night.
     
     
“Was your husband involved in politics?”
     
     
“Politics?” Margaret Wallace said, wholly uncomprehending.
     
     
“Was Mr. Wallace a member of a political party?” Griessel asked.
     
     
“No, he . . .” Her voice cracked. They waited.
     
     
“He was . . . apolitical. He didn’t even vote. He says all politicians are the same. They only want power. They don’t really care about people.” The frown on her forehead deepened.
     
     
“Was he involved in the townships? Welfare work?”
     
     
“No.”
     
     
“His company?”
     
     
“No.”
     
     
Joubert tried another tack. “Were you aware of any tension at work recently?”
     
     
She shook her head slightly and the auburn hair moved. “No.”
     
     
The unmatched pair of eyes blinked. She was fighting for control, Joubert knew. He helped her: “We’re sure there must be a logical explanation for this terrible thing, Mrs. Wallace.”
     
     
“Who could’ve done such a thing? Haven’t we had enough death and destruction in this country already? James wasn’t perfect but . . .”
     
     
“It could’ve been an accident, Mrs. Wallace. Or a robbery. The motive for this