Dead At Daybreak. by Deon Meyer. South African crime writer Meyer's expertly crafted second thriller (after 2004's Heart of the Hunter) confirms his place as one of the genre's finest new stylists. Afrikaner Zatopek "Zet" van Heerden, a former cop, is slipping fast into drunken dissolution when a colleague pulls him up and gives him an opportunity. An attorney, Hope Beneke, needs a private investigator fast to find a missing will. An antiques dealer, Johannes Jacobus Smit, was recently found burnt with a blowtorch and shot execution-style, the contents of his walk-in safe, including his will, gone. Beneke and van Heerden have only seven days to find the document before Smit's considerable assets revert to the state, leaving his common-law wife destitute. It doesn't take long for van Heerden to discover that "Smit" wasn't the person whose papers he carried, and that someone very important, quite possibly the state itself, wants to hide his true identity. Meyer keeps the suspense moving throughout the third-person narrative, alternating back and forth with van Heerden's own first-person account of his past. This is a remarkable achievement from a singular new talent. Praise for Dead at Daybreak 'If Dead At Daybreak is anything to go by, we are seeing the rise of a major new, international writing talent. I cannot recommend this book highly enough' Big Issue 'A highly entertaining, page-turning transposition of the American private eye genre to an exotic and vibrant setting ... a terrific new talent' Irish Independent 'A terrific ride' Chicago Tribune 'Meyer manages to ratchet up the tension so effectively that readers will have a hard time deciding which mystery they wish to pierce first ... A narrative gem' Booklist 'Breathtaking pace, heart-pounding action set against a psychological backdrop, and a fascinating protagonist makes this book a winner' Library Journal 'Meyer is a writer to take seriously - the best crime writer out of South Africa since James McClure' Crime Time 'A gripping read with a flawed but human protagonist who invites our compassion. This is the second novel by Deon Meyer, a fresh voice and a compelling storyteller' Manchester Evening News Deon Meyer lives in Melkbosstrand on the South African West Coast with his wife, Anita, and four children. Other than his family, Deon's big passions are motorcycling, music (he is a Mozart fanatic, but loves rock 'n' roll too), reading, cooking and rugby. When he isn't writing novels, he consults on brand strategy for BMW Motorrad. Deon Meyer's books have attracted worldwide critical acclaim and a growing international fanbase. Originally written in Afrikaans, they have now been translated into several languages, including English, French, Italian, Spanish, German, Dutch, Bulgarian, Czech, Danish and Norwegian. Dead at Daybreak won South Africa's ATKV Prose Prize for 2000 and has been made into a TV series in South Africa. It was shortlisted for the M-Net Book Prize, and the Sunday Times Literary Prize, and won France's Prix Mystere de la Critique in 2004. Translated by Madeleine van Biljon Also by Deon Meyer Dead Before Dying Heart of the Hunter Devil's Peak HODDER Copyright 2000 by Deon Meyer Translation copyright ? 2000 by Madeleine van Biljon First published in Great Britain in 2000 by Hodder & Stoughton A division of Hodder Headline This paperback edition published in 2007 The right of Deon Meyer to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. A Hodder paperback 4 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library ISBN 978-0-340-73943-3 Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, St Ives pic Hodder Headline's policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin. Hodder and Stoughton Ltd A division of Hodder Headline 338 Euston Road London nwi 3BH Day 7 Thursday, 6 July 1 He woke abruptly out of an alcohol-sodden sleep, the pain in his ribs his first conscious sensation. Then the swollen eye and upper lip, the antiseptic, musty smell of the cell, the sour odour of his body, the salty taste of blood and old beer in his mouth. And the relief. Jigsaw pieces of the previous evening floated into his mind. The provocation, the annoyed faces, the anger - such normal, predictable motherfuckers, such decent, conventional pillars of the community. He remained motionless, on the side that wasn't painful, the hangover throbbing like a disease through his body. Footsteps in the corridor outside, a key turning in the lock of the grey steel door, the grating of metal on metal slicing through his head. Then the uniform stood there. 'Your attorney's here,' the policeman said. Slowly he turned on the bed. Opened one eye. 'Come.' A voice devoid of respect. 'I don't have an attorney.' His voice sounded far away. The policeman took a step, hooked a hand into the back of his collar, pulled him upright. 'Come on.' The pain in his ribs. He stumbled through the cell door, down the paved passage to the charge office. The uniform walked ahead, used a key to indicate the way to the small parade room. He entered with difficulty, hurting. Kemp sat there, his briefcase next to him, a frown on his face. He sat down in a dark blue chair, his head in his hands. He heard the policeman close the door behind him and walk away. 'You're trash, van Heerden,' said Kemp. He didn't respond. 'What are you doing with your life?' 'What does it matter?' His swollen lip lisped the 's'. Kemp's frown deepened. He shook his head. 'They didn't even bother to lay a charge.' He wanted to indulge in the relief, the lessening of the pressure, but it eluded him. Kemp. Where the fuck did Kemp come from? 'Even dentists know shit when they see it. Jesus, van Heerden, what's with you? You're pissing your life away. Dentists? How drunk do you have to be to take on five dentists?' 'Two were GPs.' Kemp took in van Heerden's appearance. Then the attorney got up, a big man, clean and neat in a sports jacket and grey slacks, the neutral colours of the tie a perfect match. 'Where's your car?' He rose to his feet slowly, the world tilting slightly. 'At the bar.' Kemp opened the door and walked out. 'Come on, then.' Van Heerden followed him into the charge office. A sergeant pushed his possessions over the counter, a plastic bag containing his slender wallet and his keys. He took it without making eye contact. 'I'm taking him away,' said Kemp. 'He'll be back.' The day was cold. The wind knifed through his thin jacket and he resisted the impulse to pull it closer around his body. Kemp climbed into his large four-by-four, leaned across and unlocked the passenger door. Slowly van Heerden walked around the vehicle, climbed in, closed the door and leaned his head against it. Kemp pulled off. 'Which bar?' 'The Sports Pub, opposite Panarotti's.' 'What happened?' 'Why did you fetch me?' 'Because you told the entire Tableview police station that I would sue them and the dentists for everything ranging from assault to brutality.' He vaguely remembered his charge-office tirade. 'My attorney.' Mockingly. 'I'm not your attorney, van Heerden.' The ache in the swollen eye killed his laughter. 'Why did you fetch me?' Aggressively Kemp changed gears. 'Fuck alone knows.' Van Heerden turned his head and looked at the man behind the steering wheel. 'You want something.' 'You owe me.' 'I owe you nothing.' Kemp drove, looking for the pub. 'Which car is yours?' He pointed to the Corolla. 'I'll follow you. I have to get you clean and respectable.' 'What for?' 'Later.' He got out, walked across the road and got into the Toyota. He found it difficult to unlock the door, his hand shaking. The engine stuttered, wheezed and eventually fired. He drove to Koeberg Road, left past Killarney, onto the N7, wind suddenly sweeping rain across the road. Left to Morning Star and left again to the entrance to the smallholding, Kemp's imported American Ford behind him. He looked at the big house amongst the trees but turned off to the small whitewashed building and stopped. Kemp stopped next to him, opening his window just a crack against the rain. 'I'll wait for you.' First of all he showered, without pleasure, letting the hot water sluice over his body, his hands automatically soaping the narrow space between shoulder and chest and belly - just the soap, no washcloth, careful over the injured part of the ribs. Then, methodically, he washed the rest of himself, leaning his head against the wall for balance as he did first one foot, then the other, eventually turning off the taps and pulling the thin, over-laundered white towel from the rail. Sooner or later he would have to buy a new towel. He let the hot tap of the washbasin run, cupped his hands under the slow stream and threw the water over the mirror to wash away the steam. He squeezed a dollop of shaving cream into his left hand, d...
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