from the window until another driver lets him into the right-hand lane.
‘There was one thing,’ he says. ‘Some of his behaviour was interesting. How he wanted us on his side. You notice?’
‘His body language was open?’
‘It was.’
Don tilts his head.
‘The handshakes?’
De Vries smiles to himself. Don February, so unassuming he often seems not even to be present, and yet he spots things De Vries has never known another black officer to notice, or to appreciate.
‘Yes.’
‘I do not understand a man,’ Don says vehemently, ‘who would take a woman for five years and let her sleep with other men.’
‘I don’t think he was the one doing the letting.’
‘But that is what I mean: it is not masculine behaviour.’
‘No.’
‘I asked him, at the end, when I had finished with the official questions: did he have other girlfriends . . .’
‘He said “no”?’ De Vries says.
Don looks at him. ‘He said “no”.’
‘I thought so.’
At Katy’s Bowl in Kloof Street, they pick up sandwiches and cold drinks, slide across town from the café to St Jerome Street, park fifty metres down from St Jerome’s Chapel and Hall. They eat in a silence De Vries appreciates; it is his Warrant Officer’s ability to say nothing that he cherishes. He considers the interviews with Dominic van der Merwe and Lee Martin, realizes that they have defined Taryn Holt more vividly than any number of reports. This is why he personally interviews everyone close to the victim; answers always lie in these interactions.
The hall adjoining the chapel is dark, the wooden doors locked. De Vries leads Don to the entrance porch of the chapel itself. As he pulls open the Gothic arch door, blue frankincense smoke floats past them and into the street.
The small interior is unlit, but for the pale coloured light from the dusty stained-glass panels set into the small, deep window holes, and the Virgin Mary surrounded by candles. The statue seems to hover in the smoke, the haloed candle flames burning points of light in the damp, heavy air. De Vries, who has not been in a church for many years, now finds himself in a second one within the hour. He innately mistrusts peddled stories, prides himself on knowing a liar; he has never heard one word from a pulpit in which he has faith. At least it is cool here.
To the right of the altar, a door opens and a priest appears, straight white hair cut crudely above the collar, and bustles down the aisle toward them. Halfway down, he slows, narrows his eyes.
‘What do you want?’
De Vries holds up his ID. The man stops and announces from afar:
‘I’ve spoken to you people already. Our action was legal and just. I have nothing further to say.’
The tone is flat. It annoys De Vries.
‘Taryn Holt is dead.’
De Vries senses his words travel through thick air, sees the priest recoil.
‘Dead?’
‘That is why we must speak with you.’
The priest walks slowly towards them, gestures to what looks like a school table and chairs in the corner at the back of the church. He sits first and waits for De Vries and Don to follow him.
De Vries says: ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Father Jacobus.’
He hears the priest’s voice echo around the small chapel, made cold by the damp, thick air. He lowers his voice.
‘You work here alone?’
‘Apart from the lay volunteers, yes.’
‘Did you know Taryn Holt personally? Before you were involved in the demonstration outside her gallery?’
The priest folds his fingers together and stares upwards.
‘I did not.’
De Vries pauses, eager to hear what the priest might ask, but the man says nothing, his expression locked.
‘Had you met her?’
‘Last Monday. I visited her with representatives of the women’s group who are based in the hall.’
‘Where?’
‘At her gallery. On Tuesday, at her home.’
‘For what reason?’
‘To demand that she cancel her revolting exhibition. To remove the offensive canvas from her shop
‘There was one thing,’ he says. ‘Some of his behaviour was interesting. How he wanted us on his side. You notice?’
‘His body language was open?’
‘It was.’
Don tilts his head.
‘The handshakes?’
De Vries smiles to himself. Don February, so unassuming he often seems not even to be present, and yet he spots things De Vries has never known another black officer to notice, or to appreciate.
‘Yes.’
‘I do not understand a man,’ Don says vehemently, ‘who would take a woman for five years and let her sleep with other men.’
‘I don’t think he was the one doing the letting.’
‘But that is what I mean: it is not masculine behaviour.’
‘No.’
‘I asked him, at the end, when I had finished with the official questions: did he have other girlfriends . . .’
‘He said “no”?’ De Vries says.
Don looks at him. ‘He said “no”.’
‘I thought so.’
At Katy’s Bowl in Kloof Street, they pick up sandwiches and cold drinks, slide across town from the café to St Jerome Street, park fifty metres down from St Jerome’s Chapel and Hall. They eat in a silence De Vries appreciates; it is his Warrant Officer’s ability to say nothing that he cherishes. He considers the interviews with Dominic van der Merwe and Lee Martin, realizes that they have defined Taryn Holt more vividly than any number of reports. This is why he personally interviews everyone close to the victim; answers always lie in these interactions.
The hall adjoining the chapel is dark, the wooden doors locked. De Vries leads Don to the entrance porch of the chapel itself. As he pulls open the Gothic arch door, blue frankincense smoke floats past them and into the street.
The small interior is unlit, but for the pale coloured light from the dusty stained-glass panels set into the small, deep window holes, and the Virgin Mary surrounded by candles. The statue seems to hover in the smoke, the haloed candle flames burning points of light in the damp, heavy air. De Vries, who has not been in a church for many years, now finds himself in a second one within the hour. He innately mistrusts peddled stories, prides himself on knowing a liar; he has never heard one word from a pulpit in which he has faith. At least it is cool here.
To the right of the altar, a door opens and a priest appears, straight white hair cut crudely above the collar, and bustles down the aisle toward them. Halfway down, he slows, narrows his eyes.
‘What do you want?’
De Vries holds up his ID. The man stops and announces from afar:
‘I’ve spoken to you people already. Our action was legal and just. I have nothing further to say.’
The tone is flat. It annoys De Vries.
‘Taryn Holt is dead.’
De Vries senses his words travel through thick air, sees the priest recoil.
‘Dead?’
‘That is why we must speak with you.’
The priest walks slowly towards them, gestures to what looks like a school table and chairs in the corner at the back of the church. He sits first and waits for De Vries and Don to follow him.
De Vries says: ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Father Jacobus.’
He hears the priest’s voice echo around the small chapel, made cold by the damp, thick air. He lowers his voice.
‘You work here alone?’
‘Apart from the lay volunteers, yes.’
‘Did you know Taryn Holt personally? Before you were involved in the demonstration outside her gallery?’
The priest folds his fingers together and stares upwards.
‘I did not.’
De Vries pauses, eager to hear what the priest might ask, but the man says nothing, his expression locked.
‘Had you met her?’
‘Last Monday. I visited her with representatives of the women’s group who are based in the hall.’
‘Where?’
‘At her gallery. On Tuesday, at her home.’
‘For what reason?’
‘To demand that she cancel her revolting exhibition. To remove the offensive canvas from her shop
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