Deon Meyer Read Online Free PDF Page B

means only one thing.”
     
     
“Tokarev.” Joubert sighed.
     
     
“APLA.” Benny sighed. “Fuckin’ politics.”
     
     
Joubert walked toward his service vehicle. “I’m going to radio the Colonel.”
     
     
“De Wit? All he’ll do is to puke his fuckin’ heart out.” Benny’s grin shone silver in the streetlight.
     
     
For the moment Joubert had forgotten that Willy Theal would never visit a murder scene again. He felt gloom rising like damp.
     
     
    * * *
The house at 96 Oxford Street was a large single story set in huge grounds. The garden was a controlled lushness, impressive even in the semidarkness.
     
     
Somewhere deep in the house the doorbell sounded, briefly overriding the sound of a television program. The seconds ticked past. Inside, their carefree time was decreasing, Joubert thought. The angels of death were at the front door. The tiding, like a parasite, was going to suck life, joy, and peace out of their lives.
     
     
A woman opened the door, irritated, a frown of small wrinkles. Long, thick auburn hair hung over one shoulder, covered part of the yellow-patterned apron, and guided their gaze away from her eyes.
     
     
Her voice was melodious and annoyed. “Can I help you?”
     
     
“Mrs. Wallace?” he asked. Then he saw the eyes. So did Griessel. A mismatched pair, the one pale blue and bright, the other in shades of brown, somewhere between light and dark. Joubert tried not to stare.
     
     
“Yes,” she said and knew it wasn’t a sales ploy. Fear moved like a shadow over her face.
     
     
“It’s James, isn’t it.”
     
     
A boy of about ten appeared behind her. “What is it, Mom?”
     
     
She looked round, worried. “Jeremy, please go to your room.” Her voice was soft but urgent. The boy turned away. She looked back at the detectives.
     
     
“We’re from the police,” Joubert said.
     
     
“You’d better come in,” she said, opening the door wide and taking off her apron.
     
     
Mrs. Margaret Wallace wept with the total abandon of helpless grief, hands in her lap, shoulders slightly bowed. Tears stuck to the yellow wool of her summer sweater and glistened in the bright light of her living room’s candelabra.
     
     
Joubert and Griessel stared at the carpet.
     
     
Joubert focused on the ball and claw of the coffee table’s leg. He wanted to be in his chair in his own home, the paperback on his lap and a beer in his hand.
     
     
The boy came down the passage. Behind him was a girl somewhere between eight and ten.
     
     
“Mom?” His voice was small and scared.
     
     
Margaret Wallace straightened her shoulders, wiped the palm of her hand over her face. She got up with dignity. “Excuse me.” She took the children’s hands and led them down the passage. A door closed. The silence was deafening. A cry sounded. Then there was silence again.
     
     
They didn’t look at each other because that would be an admission.
     
     
Eventually she came back. Her shoulders were still gallantly erect, as though she could contain her emotions physically. But they knew.
     
     
“I must call my mother. She lives in Tokai. She can help with the kids. I’m sure you have many questions.” Her voice was neutral, like a sleepwalker’s.
     
     
Joubert wanted to tell her that they would come back later, that they would leave her with her pain. But he couldn’t.
     
     
She came back within minutes. “My mother is coming over. She’s strong. My dad . . . I’ve asked the maid to make us some tea. I take it you drink tea?”
     
     
“Thank you, but . . .” Joubert’s voice was slightly hoarse. He cleared his throat.
     
     
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll stay with the kids until she arrives.” She didn’t wait for an answer and walked down the semilit passage.
     
     
Joubert’s pocket radio beeped. He looked at the LCD message on his screen: RING ADJ LOUW. There was a phone number attached.
     
     
He’d sent Louw and three other detectives to the hotel because the rooms overlooked the parking area. This