Deon Meyer Read Online Free PDF

first to reach the scene. He was of medium height with a Slav face, a broken nose, and black hair worn rather long. He wore a creased blue suit.
     
     
Joubert pushed his way through the crowd of curious onlookers, bent under the yellow plastic band with which the uniformed men had cordoned off the scene, and walked to Griessel, who was standing over to one side talking to a young blond man. The uniforms had thrown a blanket over the body. It lay shapelessly in the shadow of a steel-blue BMW.
     
     
“Captain,” Griessel greeted him. “Mr. Merryck here found the body and called the station. From hotel reception.” Joubert smelled the liquor on Griessel’s breath. He looked at Merryck, saw the gold-framed glasses, the sparse mustache. A fleck of vomit still clung to his chin. The body couldn’t be a pretty sight.
     
     
“Mr. Merryck is a hotel guest. He parked over there and was on his way to the entrance when he saw the body.”
     
     
“It was quite awful. Sickening,” said Merryck. “But one has to do one’s duty.”
     
     
Griessel patted him on the shoulder. “You can go now. If we need you, we know where to find you,” he said in his faultless English. He and Joubert walked to the body. “Photographer is on his way. I’ve asked for the pathologist, forensic, and the fingerprint guys. And most of the others on standby. He’s white,” said Griessel and pulled away the blanket.
     
     
Between two staring eyes lay the blood-filled lake of a bullet wound, gaping, mocking, in flawless symmetry.
     
     
“But take a look at this,” said Griessel and pulled the blanket down further. Joubert saw another wound, a bloody blackish-red hole in the chest, in the center of a stylish suit, shirt, and tie.
     
     
“Jesus,” Mat Joubert said and knew why Merryck had vomited.
     
     
“Large caliber.”
     
     
“Yip,” said Griessel. “A cannon.”
     
     
“Check his pockets,” said Joubert.
     
     
“Wasn’t robbery,” they said virtually in unison when they saw the gold Rolex on the arm. And they both knew that this complicated the case infinitely.
     
     
Joubert’s hand moved quickly over the lifeless eyes, smoothing down the eyelids. He saw the defenselessness of the dead, the way in which all bodies lay, unmistakable, vulnerable, the hands and arms finally folded never again to defend that showcase of life, the face. He forced himself to keep his mind on his work.
     
     
Voices behind them, saying hi. More detectives from the backup team. Joubert rose. They were coming to look at the body. Griessel chased them away when they blocked out the pale light of the streetlamps.
     
     
“Start there. Walk the whole area. Every centimeter.”
     
     
The usual moan started, but they obeyed, knew how important the first search was. Griessel carefully went through the deceased’s pockets. Then he got up with a checkbook holder and car keys in his hand. He threw the keys to Adjutant Basie Louw.
     
     
“They’re for a BMW. Try this one.”
     
     
Griessel opened the gray leather checkbook holder. “We have a name,” he said. “J. J. Wallace. And an address. Ninety-six Oxford Street, Constantia.”
     
     
“The key fits,” said Louw and took it out carefully, so as not to leave his fingerprints in the car.
     
     
“A rich bugger,” said Griessel. “We’ll hit the headlines again.”
     
     
It was a young detective constable, Gerrit Snyman, who found the cartridge case halfway under a nearby car. “Captain,” he called, still inexperienced enough to get excited immediately. Joubert and Griessel walked toward him. Snyman lit the empty cartridge case with his flashlight. Joubert picked it up, held it against the light. Griessel came closer, read the numbers on the back.
     
     
“Seven point six three.”
     
     
“Impossible. It’s short. Pistol case.”
     
     
“There. You read it. Seven point six . . . three. It seems. Might be badly printed.”
     
     
“Probably six two.”
     
     
Benny Griessel looked at Joubert. “Must be. And that