Kill for the Land - A Farm Murder on the Camdeboo - An Adam Geard Thriller

Kill for the land

A farm murder on the Camdeboo

An Adam Geard Thriller

© Peter Cleary 2015

ISBN 978-0-6399340-1-3

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright owner.

Published by Peter Cleary Books Mtunzini, KZN, 3867

www.peterclearybooks.co.za

peter@peterclearybooks.co.za

Cover photograph by Peter Cleary

Cover design by Jo Petzer of Cosmic Creations

Chapter 1

Adam Geard came to the cottage on the upper Vogel River in late autumn of that year. The one-bedroom cottage was perched high on the flank of the Coetzeesberge, a spur of the Sneeuberg range. South lay the empty Camdeboo plain, and in the foreground, the small town of Pearston.

It was going to be a cold winter. The Sneeuberg range plateaus at over 2 000 metres. The name of the range indicated that there would be snow, but it was a sure thing that there would be bitter winds and rain.

It was not what he was used to, but he welcomed it.

It had been time to leave the Kaokoveld, the rugged northern wilderness of Namibia. There had been an astonishing girl who had shared his life for a brief moment in time, all he could hope for with their radically different backgrounds and values. She was part of the need to get away. The rest of his motivation was the security establishment in Namibia, who were at odds with his brand of justice. Individually they would not have been reason enough, but the two things together had decided him to try a new land: new vistas, new people, and new rules.

Many years previously, when he was with ProGuard, the mercenary company he had joined to do guarding duties in Iraq, they had done training on a farm they owned on the Orange River, near Aliwal North. The country was mountainous and dry. Lonely country, and he had been attracted to it.

So when he came back to South Africa he hired a pickup and travelled throughout that area of the Karoo, seeking the right place – a place where he could take his sabbatical, a place where he could reconnect with nature and himself.

He was not to know that it was also to be a place of murder and grave danger.

*

He was driving through Graaff Reinet when he saw a sign saying ‘Valley of Desolation’. He was intrigued and followed it out of the town travelling west and then up the mountain to a parking spot at the top.

The view was to the south through some magnificent stone buttresses. Out there, brown, yellow and grey, was a vast plain stretching to the horizon with scarcely a break in terrain nor much evidence of man’s presence.

There was a tour party at the observation point and he waited until the guide had stopped his explanation and went over to him.

Is that plain where this place gets its name? The desolation part?

Yes, it’s the plain of Camdeboo.

Interesting name. It sounds like something out of a children’s book.

Well, I don’t know about that.

And what’s the name of this mountain range on which we are standing?

You should join my group, fellow.

Sorry. I’m just intrigued by this land.

The guide, obviously a local, was appeased.

"Ja, this range has many names. But generally people refer to the broader range as the Sneeuberg."

Does it get snow?

Oh yes! Freeze your arse off up here in mid-winter.

So tell me, if you go down to that plain and follow these mountains over that way, to the east I guess, are there any towns?

"Ja. There’s a town called Pearston about 80kms away and then further on, another 50kms or so, a town called Somerset East."

How big are they?

Pearston is small, maybe three, three–and-a-half thousand people, mostly coloured folk. Somerset East is much bigger, maybe twenty thousand people.

*

He drove slowly through the first town, Pearston, early the next day, travelling on the R63 between Graaff Reinet and Somerset East. It was small, as promised. He entered the town just beyond a bridge over a dry riverbed. The houses looked to have been built in the boom after the Second World War, some even earlier, having the curved corrugated iron coverings to the narrow verandahs that were initially imported from Britain, and had become an architectural signature of Karoo town dwellings.  All along the main street, called Voortrekker, were single-storey commercial buildings, most of them converted houses, and two municipal buildings: a library and a town hall. There were several stores called cafés, an inn, a bottle store, and a fuel station with two pumps and no canopy, right on the street, in imminent danger of being knocked over by a drunk driver on a Friday night. There was only one store called a supermarket, very run down.

Voortrekker Street was only about a kilometre long. He was soon beyond the town, passing a shantytown to his left and a few smallholdings, and then the open veld.

He nearly drove on, then changed his mind, and returned. This time he crawled along the tar road, noting the various side roads, all gravel except two, one of which led to an imposing church, shining with new white paint, its steeple three storeys higher than anything else in the town.

It was a poor town, not that different to some of the smaller town in Namibia, although there the tourist trade made a difference. He liked it. It seemed like home and he had never been one for large towns or cities.

He returned to the store marked ‘supermarket’ and parked his pickup, locked it and walked across the road. There were very few people on the streets, a mixture of coloured and black folks. No whites.

*

The inside of the store was dark, the only natural light coming through the narrow doorway, the artificial light coming from naked light bulbs hanging on electric cords from the roof beams. There was no ceiling. He walked among the shelves noting the contents, nearly everything you could want if you were on a subsistence income.

Near the front entrance he noticed a tack board with notices pinned on it and went over to study it. Most of the notices were about events in the town – very few, or lost animals, or employment requests, but there were also three notices of places to rent. Two were in the town but the third one was intriguing:

Charming one-bedroom cottage on the Coetzeesberge. Borehole water and Eskom electricity supplied. The cottage contains a lounge, kitchen and toilet with shower, and a deep verandah with stunning views of the Camdeboo plains. Only twenty kilometres from Pearston. R1 300 per month.

Apply at Bausch Farm or telephone 042 206100.

There was a pay phone on the wall next to the notice board but he had no small change so he went back into the dingy darkness of the store and found a young coloured woman behind the wooden counter.

Can I have some change for the phone, please?

"Ja. Haven’t you got a cell phone, man?"

No.

"Jirra, a white oke without a cell phone! Everyone has a cell phone, man."

Adam was amused by the diction and the flamboyant gestures.

Not me.

"Jirra," she said again.

How much you want?

A few rand.

She gave him two rands worth of twenty-cent coins.

I dunno when last that thing worked, man. We all got cell phones now.

*

Helen Bausch.

A second please. He fed coins into the phone.

Sorry, I’m on a pay phone.

Oh. Don’t you have a cell phone?

Does everyone in this country own a cell phone?

Most, yes, I guess. What can I do for you?

I’m in a store in Pearston, Mrs Bausch, and I saw your notice about the cottage you have for rent.

Oh! she said, and now she sounded guarded.

It occurred to Adam that it had to be a little unusual that a stranger, presumably passing through, should be interested to rent a lone cottage in the middle of nowhere. And a stranger who did not own a cell phone!

He laughed.

I can tell you’re a little sceptical.

You are perceptive. Yes, we always assumed we would know the person phoning, maybe wanting the cottage for a few weeks, for a relative, or something like that.

Nope, I’m a stranger.

What’s your name?

Adam Geard.

Well if you’re interested, Mr Geard, you’ll have to come out and meet us.

Good, can you give me directions?

Which way did you come into town?

From Graaff Reinet.

Then you probably saw a signpost to Coetzeesberge, just after you went over the bridge.

Yes, I remember it.

Take that turn. The road is tar for a few hundred metres then becomes gravel. Stay on that road. It is nearly 20kms to Bausch Farm. You’ll see it on the left.

*

The valley started to get more verdant the further he drove up it. It seemed the river was spring-fed and he saw some pools of still water in the river bed. Then he came to the first of the farms. It was a stock farm with green irrigated pastures, dotted with sheep. The water probably came from boreholes tapping into the underground streams below the river. There was also more of a riverine forest on the banks, including some non-indigenous types, planted by the farmers, some ancient. These farmers have been here for centuries, he thought.

From around the 15km mark the valley ran through high mountains on both sides, the main range to his right and a lesser range, a spur of the main range, to his left. The road had continued to gain altitude and he guessed he had climbed well over 500 metres since leaving the town.

The Bausch Farm notice came up and he turned and stopped the pickup, and got out to open the gate, leaving the engine running. When he continued he saw a copse of trees a few hundred metres in front, and soon he was amongst them. It changed the whole aspect of the countryside, that shaded avenue, but soon he emerged into sunlight again and pulled up before a large farm house.

It made a pretty picture, that house. It had a deep verandah running the length of the house and above it reached a magnificent gable on which was formed in plaster the year the house was built: 1863.

He was almost right. Not centuries, but nearly 150 years.

Standing at the head of the steps up to that imposing verandah was a couple who looked to be in their late fifties. They started down to greet him and he had a chance to make a first assessment. The man was rake thin and tall, wearing the uniform of the farmer: boots, shorts, camo shirt. He had not shaved for a few days and looked tough and competent.

The woman was a surprise: blonde and very good-looking, with a figure that would grace a woman twenty years her junior. The tight jeans and white blouse made her look younger, more modern. It was obvious she looked after herself and was proud of her appearance.

Adam got out of the vehicle and walked around the bonnet and towards them, waiting now on the second step. It was their turn to do the appraising.

Adam Geard had an imposing presence. It was why he naturally became the leader in most circumstances and men and women trusted him and followed him. It had been an especially useful characteristic in Kirkuk in Iraq, and in the surrounding deserts, when he led a group of men who had to do things outside the realm of civilized society.

Morning, he called to them.

Good morning, the man answered. You are obviously Adam Geard.

The accent was hard to place, not quite Afrikaans, not quite English. The name meant he was of German descent, but the family could have come to South Africa a long time ago, perhaps as early as 1863, if this was a family home. Adam knew many men of German origin in Namibia. They kept their language and culture.

Yes.

The man shook his hand first, a firm grip. Then the woman stuck out her hand and he took it gently and she smiled and shook hard. Interesting! She was telling him she was not to be taken as a mere woman.

You’ve met me. On the phone. I’m Helen, this is my husband, Peter.

*

Adam knew they would see him as a risk and he would have to tell them enough to satisfy them but not until he was sure he wanted the cottage.

He told them so.

Okay, said the man, let’s go up to the cottage. It’s nearly 3kms away and 500 feet above us, so we’ll go in a vehicle.

Adam’s vehicle was right there but it was a single cab Nissan and that front seat would be crowded if all three of them went. It will be quite interesting changing gears with the gearstick between Helen’s legs, Adam thought.

It was not to be.

I’ll get my bakkie, Peter said, and disappeared around the house.

That’s a relief. It’s been many years since I was required to ride in the middle of the front seat of a bakkie.

Adam said nothing.

She looked at him closely, surprised he had not risen to her attempt at conversation.

I must confess I’m rather intrigued to hear your story, Adam. I hope you like the cottage and decide to stay on our farm.

"Well, we shall see. I liked your notice. You used some emotive words: a charming cottage and a stunning view. You have to make good on those promises, Helen."

Oh, we will, you’ll see. That is, if you’re the right kind of person.

Peter returned at that point, his vehicle a four-wheel drive double cab Toyota Hilux, with no fancy side steps or special wheels and tyres, clearly a working vehicle.

Adam opened the front door for Helen.

No, you get in the front, Adam. You’re the visitor.

He accepted her offer and opened the back door for her.

The road was rough, not more than a track and obviously not well used. They went up a side valley, a tributary to the Vogel River.  Peter was explaining:

This cottage was built by my grandfather as a retreat for himself. In his old age he found himself increasingly intolerant of the world and wanted no news and no strife. It was a selfish point of view, but he was always his own man.  It’s made of stone, and that’s not the warmest material, but there’s a good fireplace and plenty of wood, so you’ll not be cold. Helen has also put heated blankets on the bed.

Will I get snowed in?

It’s unlikely, although it has happened. You need to go another 1 000 feet up to guarantee snow. But I wouldn’t wish for it.

The scenery was dramatic in its simplicity. Adam had spent five years working as a geologist in the Steilrand Mountains, west of Opuwo in northern Namibia. Those mountains had also been bare of bushes and trees. This view was similar. The mountain rose above them, a brooding presence, as they drove ever higher. Adam knew his rented vehicle would not make those gradients but that did not bother him. If he liked the cottage and decided to stay he would go to Graaff Reinet and return the vehicle to the rental company and buy a second-hand vehicle that he would park at the farm. He could walk the track to the cottage.

There had been a time when he could walk and run 50 kilometres in a day. And do it the next day. And the next.

The vehicle finally reached a plateau, a small bench on the mountainside, perhaps an acre in size, and situated near the front to gain full advantage of the view, was a small stone cottage.

Bausch parked the Toyota amongst some stunted trees behind the cottage and Adam got out and looked back into the vehicle to see if they would follow.

You look on your own first, Peter said.

The cottage was solid. Stone walls, wooden windows and doors and a slate roof which had probably been thatch when it was built. There was a door at the back but he walked around to the front, wanting to see the view. It was as advertised. He could see down the valley, and out to that endless vista, the Camdeboo plain: grey and yellow and brown until it met the sky far out there, maybe 50kms away, maybe a hundred.

He turned and there was the verandah. A satisfying verandah, maybe four metres deep, running the length of the cottage. His eyes moved upward. The cottage was near the top of the mountain, but beyond were higher mountains, an amphitheatre stretching across his front to the north. Up there was where there would be snow. He had studied his map and he knew if he walked over those mountains he would come to the Mountain Zebra National Park. He would go there one day, but not soon.

Helen Bausch came around the corner.

What do you think?

As advertised, Helen. It’s perfect.

Will you be staying on your own?

Her husband joined them before he could answer.

Have a look inside first, Adam, he said.

There were two main compartments to the cottage: on the left the bedroom with a bathroom behind it, and on the right the lounge with the kitchen behind it, in open plan format. There was a large fireplace against the eastern wall.

Adam walked into the bedroom. There was a picture window which looked south out through the verandah to the valley and plain below, and another smaller window which looked west. Just like a bird’s nest, he thought, the location on the west side of the tree to catch the last heat of the day. The furnishings were solid and comfortable.

He re-joined his hosts in the lounge.

You can ask your questions now.

Chapter 2

The wind keened under the eaves, singing its melancholic song, and it was bitterly cold in the night, and some days he could not even venture out onto the verandah until mid-morning.

He was in turn content and frustrated at the inactivity.

I was always a recluse, he told himself. But not for ever, and this enforced isolation was testing his limits. The time would pass and one day he would leave that mountain and place himself in society again. To do what? That question did not need answering yet.

He had prepared himself well in the week following his acceptance of a six-month pre-paid rental of the cottage. He had returned his rental vehicle and bought himself a six-year-old Isuzu diesel pickup in Graaff Reinet. That was the transport sorted. It was a two-wheel drive vehicle so it was parked alongside one of the barns at the farm.

And he had bought the clothes he thought he would need to be still mobile on those frigid mountains, and had laid in stores of food so that he could fend for himself for up to a week.

On the days when he could not venture out his mind was too active, and the problem of the future loomed large. He could enunciate the work he had done: geologist, mercenary and social researcher. That did not define him. He had good physical skills and a mind schooled to handle and process fine detail.

That was only part of the story. He also had the ability to be utterly ruthless in defence of friend or principle, and had a rare proficiency with weapons of death.

He could not see that those qualities in a man in his mid-thirties would be appealing to most employers. In the security business, yes. But did he want to do that? Was he not finished with killing?

It was not a question of money. Adam did not need much, and he had earned and saved a fortune when he was in Iraq, and been wise enough to invest carefully. It gave him an income sufficient to his needs, and perhaps for life.

But work provided the social oil.

He thought often about Casey Johnson, the senior researcher for Rivers for Life with whom he had worked in the last months before leaving Namibia, and of Heidi Kinder, his closest friend, who had made him the offer to stay with her until he could move on with his life when Casey returned to America.

He had left that opportunity for this sojourn on the wind-swept shoulder of the Coetzeesberge.

Some days it did not seem like a good decision.

*

The snow came at the end of July. The blizzard which preceded it did its best to blow the cottage off the mountain and he was sure the slate tiles would be dislodged. It blew for two days, shaking the windows and doors in their frames, blowing sleet straight onto the verandah and he would have faced those piercing needles of ice if he had left the cottage.

On the second night the wind suddenly dropped. The cessation of noise woke him. He went out onto the verandah and in the light spilling through the open door behind him he could see the snowflakes drifting down. The silence was absolute and he went out from under the verandah in his bare feet and let the flakes drift down on his head and shoulders.

In the morning the sky was clear, an open invitation to get out, and he trudged through the snow to the top of the mountain behind the cottage. From that vantage point he looked out upon a wonderland. The amphitheatre of higher mountains was blanketed in snow and even below him, in the Vogel valley, there were isolated patches.

He was almost back down the mountain when he heard the grinding of an engine coming up the track to the cottage. The Bausch Toyota came into view. He could see two people in the front but the window was mired with dirt and he could not make out who they were.

Helen Bausch climbed out of the driver’s side of the vehicle, and a younger woman alighted from the passenger side, the side furthest away from him. They were both bare-headed. The younger woman was also fair-haired. A sibling? He knew that Helen and Peter Bausch had two daughters and a son. The older children were married, the youngest daughter was not.

He called out to them.

Hi, Helen, I’m up here.

They stood watching him clamber down the mountainside.

When he was close enough he could see the similarity in looks between the two women. One of the daughters, he thought, come to see the wild man living in their cottage. He wondered with amusement how they would have described him. In their brief social interactions he had seen they were not at ease with who he was and what he had done.

I see you survived, Helen called out.

Yes, this cottage was built to last.

The younger woman had come around the vehicle and stood next to Helen and when he reached them Helen introduced her.

This is my daughter Danielle, Adam.

She was taller than her mother, and slim, and her face had more character. Not just pretty, but with a kind of angular beauty that you would always remember but that would never grace the pages of a fashion magazine.

Hello, Danielle, he said, offering his hand to be shaken.

Hello, she said, ducking her head in a shy way and shaking his hand, gently. She’s not assertive like her mother, he thought.

He turned back to Helen.

So, have you come to rescue me?

She laughed.

I don’t think you’re the kind of man who needs to be rescued. But we decided to check.

Had she been on her own he would have ascribed other motives for her visit. It had been a worry, and he was glad that what seemed to be flirtation was most likely just an affectation.

He could afford to be gracious.

That’s very kind of you. Can I offer you both some refreshment: ice cold mountain water, or maybe some tea or coffee? We can sit on the verandah. Stunning view, you know.

Will you never forget that?

Of course not. Come.

He led the way around the cottage.

*

Danielle Bausch had a dislike for what she called ‘testosterone’ men. In this regard she differed from her siblings. The three had all attended Stellenbosch University, an institution with great sporting traditions, especially on the rugby field where they were popularly believed to field among the best university teams in the world. That was a matter of great pride and bred a culture of hero-worship for the first team players.

Danielle’s brother, Michel, had been one of them and her sister, Laurel, had