But it is his face which intrigues De Vries; it is slender, with angular cheekbones, a narrow beak of a nose and thin lips. He strikes De Vries as an unattractive man; he makes him wonder what he gave to Taryn Holt.
Taryn Holt leaves him her property, millions of rand in her will. He is her prime beneficiary yet, by his own admission, he seems little more than a regular lover. De Vries ponders whether their relationship was more intense than Martin lets on, or whether her gifts illustrate that there is no one closer in her life than this unassuming man.
He observes their conversation, unable to hear more than an occasional word, and wonders whether Martin is capable of murder and then able to perform innocence so completely. He studies him again, follows the tattoos down his arms, which are stretched out over the table, to clenched hands. At each wrist, he sees a band of barbed wire in blue-green ink and, yet, there is something more. He stands, strolls around the venue and positions himself more closely, leans against a stone pillar. He squints at Martin, studies the marks, sees that around the tattoos, over them somehow, are bruises. He wonders whether to ask him about them, whether they could possibly be relevant, and decides not to.
When Don concludes his procedure, he and Lee Martin stand. Martin proffers his hand again. De Vries watches Don hesitate, and then shake. For a policeman, shaking a hand is to show respect to a suspect, and De Vries does not know whether this is Lee Martin’s character or whether it is a ploy. Yet, both he and Don have shaken his hand. He wonders what this reveals about Martin, reveals about them.
* * *
When they are back in the car, attempting to join the gridlocked traffic at the Church Street junction, De Vries says: ‘You’ll make sure that’s checked? The housemate?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What did you make of him?’
Don February lays down his notebook in his lap.
‘I think that he was telling us the truth. You, sir?’
‘Pretty much . . . When he said “we”, he really meant “she”.’
Don glances at him.
‘“We” did what “we” wanted; “we” were a couple when “we” liked. I don’t think that’s how it was.’
‘She was in control?’
‘It seems that way. If she had other boyfriends, we need to know who they were. Call Sergeant Frazer and get her to check her e-mail, her cell-phone.’
‘He said that he had not seen her much in the past few months. Does that suggest that she was in a relationship with someone else?’
‘Possibly. Or she was just tired of him. He didn’t go to her gallery; she didn’t go to his concerts. What did they have in common?’
‘Enough for her to leave him a lot of money in her will.’
‘Yes . . .’ They move off, negotiate two more sets of traffic lights before they are stopped again. Why, De Vries wonders, does an illicit affair within a marriage seem commonplace, almost normal, whereas a mutually agreed open relationship strikes him as peculiar?
Don February says: ‘We can eliminate Lee Martin?’
‘No.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘You see his wrists?’
‘The tattoos?’
‘No. Not the tattoos. Bruises. Like his wrists had been tied.’
Don turns to him.
‘I did not see that. The wounds were fresh?’
‘Not wounds. Not recent. Almost like shadows. On both wrists. It made me curious.’
‘You did not ask him?’
‘No . . . What matters now is we tie down what time the housemate saw him and whether that leaves enough time for him to travel to Oranjezicht and back to be relevant.’
‘You think he knew he would be in her will?’
‘Fifty million is a motive right there. He’s living in a shared house, has no money. But, if he did kill her, then he’s very good.’
‘Good?’
‘I was watching him when you were talking to him. He seemed genuinely dazed.’
De Vries jams on the brakes behind a taxi-van which stops without warning. He then sits, indicator on, arm outstretched
Taryn Holt leaves him her property, millions of rand in her will. He is her prime beneficiary yet, by his own admission, he seems little more than a regular lover. De Vries ponders whether their relationship was more intense than Martin lets on, or whether her gifts illustrate that there is no one closer in her life than this unassuming man.
He observes their conversation, unable to hear more than an occasional word, and wonders whether Martin is capable of murder and then able to perform innocence so completely. He studies him again, follows the tattoos down his arms, which are stretched out over the table, to clenched hands. At each wrist, he sees a band of barbed wire in blue-green ink and, yet, there is something more. He stands, strolls around the venue and positions himself more closely, leans against a stone pillar. He squints at Martin, studies the marks, sees that around the tattoos, over them somehow, are bruises. He wonders whether to ask him about them, whether they could possibly be relevant, and decides not to.
When Don concludes his procedure, he and Lee Martin stand. Martin proffers his hand again. De Vries watches Don hesitate, and then shake. For a policeman, shaking a hand is to show respect to a suspect, and De Vries does not know whether this is Lee Martin’s character or whether it is a ploy. Yet, both he and Don have shaken his hand. He wonders what this reveals about Martin, reveals about them.
* * *
When they are back in the car, attempting to join the gridlocked traffic at the Church Street junction, De Vries says: ‘You’ll make sure that’s checked? The housemate?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What did you make of him?’
Don February lays down his notebook in his lap.
‘I think that he was telling us the truth. You, sir?’
‘Pretty much . . . When he said “we”, he really meant “she”.’
Don glances at him.
‘“We” did what “we” wanted; “we” were a couple when “we” liked. I don’t think that’s how it was.’
‘She was in control?’
‘It seems that way. If she had other boyfriends, we need to know who they were. Call Sergeant Frazer and get her to check her e-mail, her cell-phone.’
‘He said that he had not seen her much in the past few months. Does that suggest that she was in a relationship with someone else?’
‘Possibly. Or she was just tired of him. He didn’t go to her gallery; she didn’t go to his concerts. What did they have in common?’
‘Enough for her to leave him a lot of money in her will.’
‘Yes . . .’ They move off, negotiate two more sets of traffic lights before they are stopped again. Why, De Vries wonders, does an illicit affair within a marriage seem commonplace, almost normal, whereas a mutually agreed open relationship strikes him as peculiar?
Don February says: ‘We can eliminate Lee Martin?’
‘No.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘You see his wrists?’
‘The tattoos?’
‘No. Not the tattoos. Bruises. Like his wrists had been tied.’
Don turns to him.
‘I did not see that. The wounds were fresh?’
‘Not wounds. Not recent. Almost like shadows. On both wrists. It made me curious.’
‘You did not ask him?’
‘No . . . What matters now is we tie down what time the housemate saw him and whether that leaves enough time for him to travel to Oranjezicht and back to be relevant.’
‘You think he knew he would be in her will?’
‘Fifty million is a motive right there. He’s living in a shared house, has no money. But, if he did kill her, then he’s very good.’
‘Good?’
‘I was watching him when you were talking to him. He seemed genuinely dazed.’
De Vries jams on the brakes behind a taxi-van which stops without warning. He then sits, indicator on, arm outstretched
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