Read Deon Meyer for Free Online Page A

sort of thing is usually money,” Griessel said.
     
     
Or sex, Joubert thought. But that would have to wait.
     
     
“Do you know if anyone owed your husband money? Any other business ventures, transactions . . .”
     
     
She shook her head again. “James was so responsible with money. He didn’t even gamble. We went to Sun City last year, with the people from Promail. He took along five thousand rand and said that when that was gone, he would stop. And he did. The house doesn’t have a mortgage, thank the good Lord . . .”
     
     
Griessel cleared his throat. “You were happily married.” A statement.
     
     
Margaret Wallace looked at Griessel and frowned. “Yes, I would like to think so. We had the usual little squabbles. James loves cricket. And sometimes he comes home a bit tipsy after a night out with the boys. And sometimes I’m too sensitive about it. I can be moody, I suppose. But our marriage works, in its strange way. The kids . . . our existence revolves around the kids these days.” She looked in the direction of the bedroom, where her mother had to be the comforter now.
     
     
The silence grew. Then Joubert spoke. He thought his voice sounded artificial and overly sympathetic. “Mrs. Wallace, according to law you have to identify your husband at the morgue . . .”
     
     
“I can’t do it.” Her voice was muffled, and the tears were about to fall.
     
     
“Is there someone else who could?”
     
     
“Someone at work will have to. Walter Schutte. The managing director.” She gave a telephone number, and Joubert wrote it down.
     
     
“I’ll give him a call.”
     
     
They got up. She did, too, but reluctantly, because she knew the night lay ahead.
     
     
“If there’s anything we can do . . .” Griessel said and he sounded sincere.
     
     
“We’ll be fine,” said Margaret Wallace and started crying bitterly again.
     
     
    * * *
The blonde sat on one of the hotel’s bedroom chairs. Her name was Elizabeth Daphne van der Merwe.
     
     
Joubert sat in the other chair. Griessel, Louw, and O’Grady were perched on the edge of the big double bed, arms folded, like judges.
     
     
Her hair was straw-colored out of a bottle. Her face was long and thin, the eyes big and brown with long lashes, the nose small and delicate. Tears had drawn mascara tracks down her cheeks. But Lizzie van der Merwe had missed true beauty with a mouth that didn’t match. Her front teeth were a bit rabbity, the bottom lip was small, too near the weakness of her jaw. Her body was tall and slender with small, high breasts under the white blouse. She had angular hip bones and wore a black skirt that showed too much of her legs in cream-colored stockings ending in elegant high heels.
     
     
“Where did you meet the deceased?” Joubert’s voice was wholly without sympathy now, his choice of words deliberate.
     
     
“I met him this afternoon.” She hesitated, looked up. The detectives all stared at her, their faces impassive. The long lashes danced across her cheeks. But no one reacted.
     
     
“I work for Zeus Computers. In Johannesburg. I phoned last week. We have new products . . . James . . . er . . . Mr. Wallace . . . They referred me to him. He is their consultant on computers. And so I flew down this morning. I had an eleven o’clock appointment. Then he took me to lunch . . .” Her eyes moved from face to face, looking for one that showed sympathy.
     
     
They waited in silence. Her lashes danced again. The lower lip quivered and placed more emphasis on the two front teeth she tried to hide. Joubert felt sorry for her.
     
     
“And then?” he asked softly. She embraced his tone of voice and focused the big eyes on him.
     
     
“He . . . We had wine. A great deal of wine. And we talked. He said he was very unhappy in his marriage . . . His wife doesn’t understand him. There was something between us. He understood me so well. He’s a Ram. I’m Virgo.”
     
     
Joubert frowned.
     
     
“Star