A Sailor's Honour Read Online Free Page A
minutes later. Liesl Weber was missing too.
Now the âAndâ made sense.
What did the major want?
Johann Weber had a different question. âWhy would anyone want to abduct my wife and threaten me?â
De Villiers didnât have an answer. âCould it be a client or an opponent who is disgruntled enough to want to get back at you?â
âIâm a commercial lawyer, Pierre. I donât deal with clients of that kind. And if I did, it would have nothing to do with you.â
âIt doesnât make sense,â De Villiers conceded.
âWhy both of us at the same time?â Johann Weber asked the logical question.
De Villiers couldnât think of a common enemy. âI canât work it out.â
For a while the only sound on the line was the static of the long-distance call while Johann Weber and Pierre de Villiers thought about it.
They ended the call without having found an explanation that made sense.
Auckland
Monday, 15 June 2009
3
Auckland has everything a great city should have, and more. A million and a half people, living in diverse suburbs stretching over sixty kilometres from north to south and forty from east to west. The warm Pacific to the east and the cold Tasman Sea to the west. Volcanic rock rising above the houses, islands dotting the ocean. It has a modern central city, but you can still find parking at any time in the main streets. Every suburb with its schools: preschool, primary, intermediate and high school, with children walking to and from school in their uniforms, the little ones wearing hats to protect them from the sun. Modern shopping centres, north and south, east and west. Modern people, from north, east and west. A blend of Polynesian, Asian and Caucasian. Infrastructure that works. Sanitation, electricity, water. Highways with traffic flow. Streets without potholes. Ferries carrying cars and passengers to the islands and to work. Marinas for the 200,000 boats. Parks with old, established trees for greenery. Universities, institutes for higher education and libraries. Sports fields and gymnasia. Beaches for swimming, fishing and sailing, and lots of inland waters. Municipal workers in the parks and police patrolling the streets at night.
And the police are good. Very, very good.
Maybe a little soft, De Villiers thought. He felt like strangling someone. He was sitting outside an office at the Howick Community Police Centre in Moore Street. Emma was being interviewed inside.
Auckland, for all its greatness, has so many places to hide, so many places to run, so many places to melt into the crowd. Where to look for a seven-year-old child? There are too many places, so the police start at home. The parents are the usual suspects.
When Emma came out of the office, her face was red from crying. She sobbed as she sat down next to her husband. De Villiers was called inside immediately.
He felt like strangling someone.
There were two police officers in the room. One sat behind a desk and indicated to De Villiers to take a seat across the desk from her. Mousy, slightly greasy hair. No make-up. No rings. Shirt with tie, not police issue. Detective Inspector Megan McCarten. Unsmiling. She probably doesnât shave her legs, De Villiers thought unkindly. Child Protection Unit.
âYou know why weâre here,â DI McCarten said.
De Villiers nodded. A police officer may only be questioned by an officer of equal or superior rank.
âWhere were you yesterday afternoon?â DI McCarten asked. She picked up her pen and looked up, ready to record the answer. âStart from the time you left your office.â
De Villiers looked past DI McCarten to the second police officer. Small. Chinese. Manicured fingernails. Hair in a bob. Small earrings. Expensive shoes. Louis Vuitton handbag next to the chair. Probably not a fake, De Villiers thought. White gloves protruding from the handbag. For driving, De Villiers knew. With a matching hat, he expected.
Now the âAndâ made sense.
What did the major want?
Johann Weber had a different question. âWhy would anyone want to abduct my wife and threaten me?â
De Villiers didnât have an answer. âCould it be a client or an opponent who is disgruntled enough to want to get back at you?â
âIâm a commercial lawyer, Pierre. I donât deal with clients of that kind. And if I did, it would have nothing to do with you.â
âIt doesnât make sense,â De Villiers conceded.
âWhy both of us at the same time?â Johann Weber asked the logical question.
De Villiers couldnât think of a common enemy. âI canât work it out.â
For a while the only sound on the line was the static of the long-distance call while Johann Weber and Pierre de Villiers thought about it.
They ended the call without having found an explanation that made sense.
Auckland
Monday, 15 June 2009
3
Auckland has everything a great city should have, and more. A million and a half people, living in diverse suburbs stretching over sixty kilometres from north to south and forty from east to west. The warm Pacific to the east and the cold Tasman Sea to the west. Volcanic rock rising above the houses, islands dotting the ocean. It has a modern central city, but you can still find parking at any time in the main streets. Every suburb with its schools: preschool, primary, intermediate and high school, with children walking to and from school in their uniforms, the little ones wearing hats to protect them from the sun. Modern shopping centres, north and south, east and west. Modern people, from north, east and west. A blend of Polynesian, Asian and Caucasian. Infrastructure that works. Sanitation, electricity, water. Highways with traffic flow. Streets without potholes. Ferries carrying cars and passengers to the islands and to work. Marinas for the 200,000 boats. Parks with old, established trees for greenery. Universities, institutes for higher education and libraries. Sports fields and gymnasia. Beaches for swimming, fishing and sailing, and lots of inland waters. Municipal workers in the parks and police patrolling the streets at night.
And the police are good. Very, very good.
Maybe a little soft, De Villiers thought. He felt like strangling someone. He was sitting outside an office at the Howick Community Police Centre in Moore Street. Emma was being interviewed inside.
Auckland, for all its greatness, has so many places to hide, so many places to run, so many places to melt into the crowd. Where to look for a seven-year-old child? There are too many places, so the police start at home. The parents are the usual suspects.
When Emma came out of the office, her face was red from crying. She sobbed as she sat down next to her husband. De Villiers was called inside immediately.
He felt like strangling someone.
There were two police officers in the room. One sat behind a desk and indicated to De Villiers to take a seat across the desk from her. Mousy, slightly greasy hair. No make-up. No rings. Shirt with tie, not police issue. Detective Inspector Megan McCarten. Unsmiling. She probably doesnât shave her legs, De Villiers thought unkindly. Child Protection Unit.
âYou know why weâre here,â DI McCarten said.
De Villiers nodded. A police officer may only be questioned by an officer of equal or superior rank.
âWhere were you yesterday afternoon?â DI McCarten asked. She picked up her pen and looked up, ready to record the answer. âStart from the time you left your office.â
De Villiers looked past DI McCarten to the second police officer. Small. Chinese. Manicured fingernails. Hair in a bob. Small earrings. Expensive shoes. Louis Vuitton handbag next to the chair. Probably not a fake, De Villiers thought. White gloves protruding from the handbag. For driving, De Villiers knew. With a matching hat, he expected.
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