Chapter 39
I’m parked a few cars behind the black van standing in front of what used to be Lucky Luke’s.
Leaning down across the seats to keep a watchful eye on the door without being spotted, I set up my phone to the hands-free device in Rynhardt’s Ford Ranger.
If I knew what Him looked like, this would be easier. As it happens, I’m hoping my instincts will come into play when the murderer sets foot outside the door.
If all goes well, my mission will come to fruition before a cop pulls me over for stealing Rynhardt’s car.
When the set-up is complete, I call my grandfather to let him know what’s up. His phone rings a few times before he answers with a disengaged, “Yello.”
“Hello, Gramps,” I say.
“How’s the interrogation going?” he asks. “Is he talking?”
“No, I gave up on him when I got a tip off for Him himself,” I answer.
He mumbles an affirmative.
“Pops, could you stop whatever you’re doing and pay attention for two minutes?”
An audible sigh follows, before, “Sure darling. What’s up?”
“Can you get together some bail money?” I bite my lip, staring at the door of the heroin house.
A prolonged silence fills the conversation.
“Are you there?”
“Yes,” he draws out the word. “Why would you need bail money, Esmé?”
“I might have borrowed Detective Louw’s car without his permission, or knowledge for that matter.” I answer. “But there’s a perfectly good explanation for why I did it.”
“I’m listening.”
A man, wearing a remarkably similar outfit to the warped man in the MMS, walks out of the heroin house. He looks left, then right—a responsible (or suspicious) pedestrian—before walking towards the black van. Nothing about him screams “I’m a homicidal maniac!” apart from him coming out of Lucky Luke’s.
My heart pounds in my throat, my eyes widen, my thoughts reel. Could it be Him or am I simply desperate enough, crazy enough, to follow anyone around?
No, it’s Him. There’s no way in hell it isn’t Him. My instincts are lighting up like its Chinese New Year.
“Esmé?”
“Pops, I’ve got to go,” I say starting the engine, ready to follow the black van to the ends of the Earth if I have to. “Remember bail money, please.”
I cut the call, watching the black van and prepared to follow.
The black van slips into the lane first, behind a taxi, before heading west on WF Nkomo Street.
I keep two cars between us at all times.
We drive through the dip, past the Pretoria West Police Station, and towards Quagga Centre situated across the KFC and Debonairs Pizza. Taxis and vehicles turn off either to the restaurants, maybe looking for a lunchtime snack, or to the shopping centre for something entirely different.
We continue heading west, past the Pretoria West Golf Estates, although, it’s not really golf estates in anyone’s opinion. Even the residents aren’t deluded enough to be fooled by the massive signs proclaiming these two-bedroom, one bathroom properties as exclusive high-end homes. It’s low-cost housing with “Golf Estate” in its address, for lower middle-class home owners who want to feel important. Everyone knows this, but it would be in bad taste to mention it out loud.
At the WF Nkomo Street and Transoranje Road intersection, the robot—or traffic light as the Americans like to call it—catches the black van before he can turn left. With two taxis and one skedonk between us, I’m still safe from being discovered.
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel.
When the traffic light changes and the cars move forward again, we turn left on Transoranje Road and head south. The road acts as a boundary between Proclamation Hill and Pretoria West suburbs, but we’re heading to neither.
“Where are you going?” I ask out loud, keeping a steady speed and distance from the van.
Soon, we’re turning west on Quagga Road, driving through a more industrial and rundown part of the area. The Consol Glass Factory used to be around here somewhere, as well as a soap dispensary and a fabric outlet. An array of other big companies, ranging from metal outlets to second hand car dealers, make their homes here too.
My cell phone vibrates again. The car’s stereo rings in unison and Rynhardt’s name pops up.
“Hello?” I answer as casually as I can, trying not to betray myself with something as silly as emotions. Indifference is better under the circumstances. It just happens that I’ve mastered it years ago.
“You stole my car!” Rynhardt exclaims.
“No, I’m borrowing it,” I correct him. “Don’t worry, Rynhardt, I’m an excellent driver. Also, I’ll return it with a full tank of gas and there won’t be a scratch anywhere.”
“I don’t know if I want to marry you or arrest you for stealing my car!”
“If you’re trying to make me blush, it’s working.”
“Give me that.” Detective Mosepi’s voice chimes in.
I hear the phone changing hands.
“Go switch on your tracker, you love-struck fool. The first girl who flutters her eyelashes at you and you turn into a moron. What is wrong with you?”
“I regret that,” I say loudly, hoping Detective Mosepi will hear.
“As for you,” he says directly into the phone, “I’m going to wring your scrawny neck when I get my hands on you, Esmé.”
“And suffer a police brutality lawsuit? I think not, Detective Mosepi.”
“Don’t start with your bullshit. I know your tricks almost better than your daddy does. Get your ass back to the police station or I’m putting out an APB.”
He’s not joking, but I’m not cracking yet.
“Esmé!”
“I heard you, Detective,” I say in a singsong tone, keeping my eye on the van. We’re still heading west on Quagga Road, coming up to Laudium.
“You are obstructing justice—”
“Only if it turns out this guy is the killer, but then all I’ll get is a slap on my wrist anyway. Why? Because I found the bloody killer. And if this guy doesn’t turn out to be Him, then I’ll admit defeat, and take whatever punishment you wish to bestow upon me.”
“She’s heading south on Quagga Road.” I hear Rynhardt in the background. “Nearing Laudium.”
“Detective Mosepi, if you put an APB out on me now, you lose your best chance at getting information, which could possibly lead to an arrest,” I say.
There’s a moment of silence, before, “You are not to approach the suspect at any cost. Is that understood?”
“Loudly,” I answer.
“Don’t get spotted. Keep three cars between you for as long as possible, pull away if it seems he’ll figure out you’re following him,” he continues.
“Yes. Understood.”
“I’m on my way with back-up to see if this guy of yours is Him, and if he isn’t, you’re paying for the full cost of this excursion,” Detective Mosepi barks at me.
“Now you’re just being mean.”
“And Esmé, you’re to stay on the phone with Rynhardt until I’m there with you.” He ends off, shouting, “Catch!”
“I’m angry with you,” Rynhardt’ voice replaces Detective Mosepi’s.
“No, you’re not. You’re intrigued. Maybe even a little excited,” I say. I can hear the background sounds change from office noises to echoes. They’re already in the parking lot.
“Hold up, we’re coming to a robot.”
I slack off and look around the interior of the Ford Ranger. “Do you have sunglasses or something?”
“Glovebox,” he says.
I lean over, pop open the glovebox, and find a pair of sunglasses inside. In one smooth movement, I have the sunglasses on and am tying my hair up into a bun.
“You good?”
“Yup,” I pop the P
The traffic light changes colour and the cars move forward again. By now, traffic has thi
nned out and I’m sure it’s going to be harder to hide when the next few cars turn off.
Rynhardt and Detective Mosepi are in a moving vehicle, the police scanner and windy noises in the background prove as much.
“Talk to me.” Rynhardt says when a few minutes have passed.
“We’re heading into Erasmia, not Laudium.” The Ford Ranger was becoming conspicuous as the rest of the vehicles dispersed to other places, leaving only the black van ahead. “I need to focus on not getting spotted, call you later.” I end the call, without waiting for confirmation. As we both decelerate at a stop street, I calculate the black van’s probable location before switching on my indicator. The van heads forward, whereas I turn off in a completely different street.
“The race is on.”
I speed up.
My foot barely touches the brake pedal at the next four-way crossing before I turn right. Luckily it’s the middle of the day where little to no traffic is driving around in the suburbs. I speed up a fraction, hoping to get to the next stop sign as the black van does. It takes me a few streets to catch up but eventually we’re driving in different streets at the same pace.
It takes everything in me not to toss my cell phone out of the window, it’s ringing so much.
We’re coming to the edge of the Erasmia suburbs, entering the more agriculture areas between Erasmia and Mooiplaats. The plots are mainly occupied with chicken farmers, but I’m sure some of these properties are self-sustainable agricultural holdings, farmed by hippies or hipsters or whoever the hell makes their homes here.
I don’t mind the open air or being away from the buzz of the capital. Not much, anyway. These places however are riddled with dirty little secrets. Headlines of previous terrifying, unrelated cases in the media pop into mind: SA DAD “HELD FAMILY HOSTAGE FOR YEARS,” WIFE, SONS WATCH IN HORROR AS GANG KILLS FARMER, THE HORROR OF THANDI MODISE’S CANNIBAL PIG FARM, etcetera, et-fucking-cetera. There are too many places to hide criminal activities when it comes to farmlands.
I turn back onto the main road, the only one heading in or out of the region, hoping the driver’s too oblivious to notice this massive Ford Ranger behind him. At least it blends into the whole scenery.
Five minutes later, the black van turns down an unpaved road. Red earth shoots up from the wheels, dust billows around the black metallic exterior.
I drive straight on, not wanting to alert the driver of being followed.
My cell phone ringtone has turned hoarse from the continuous ringing.
I actively ignore it.
When a few minutes have passed, I make an illegal U-turn and head back to the dirt road. I park the Ford Ranger at the open gate, looking straight into the steep incline of a little hill that provides both privacy and security. Long grass stalks wave in the slight breeze, mocking me as I sit helplessly in the car.
“Don’t do it,” I say to myself. My fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel as I study the entrance of the plot. I still my hands, grip the wheel hard, and look around. “Don’t do it.”
I do it.
After switching my cell phone to “Flight Mode,” I slip out of the car, and head up the dirt road.
The sun beats down on the hilltop, biting the exposed skin of my bare shoulders and legs while I jog up the path. There are a few barren trees—spaced far apart, which is of no use against the sun’s damaging effects—but otherwise nature has taken over quite spectacularly. The grass and weeds have grown out of control, so much so I can easily hide in the bushes if necessary. Dust clings to my sweaty skin, turning my pale complexion to a reddish brown.
My boots become filthy, and my clothes heavy, making the exercise worse than it should be. It’s not the type of day one wants to spend outside, but this is life and death. Or so I keep telling myself. I’m no cat burglar, or ninja, or spy, and I hate admitting it to myself.
After a five-minute jog, the dirt path opens into a lot where a few rundown outbuildings are situated. I kneel down in the long grass, ignoring the itchiness on my thighs from being out in the wilderness, searching for the black van. After a moment, I spot the vehicle behind one of the outbuildings, parked near a neglected house.
“I’m going to get myself killed,” I whisper.
I resign myself to my fate if the decision to play cops-and-homicidal-killers backfires, and I set off towards the large concrete block standing straight ahead.
Chapter 40
Dirty glass shards protrude from broken window frames like jagged shark teeth.
Against my better judgment, I step through the unlocked door and enter an abandoned office. A thick layer of dust covers the entirety of a reception desk, while a scene depicting a possibly violent game of musical chairs lies before it. Overturned chairs battle for space with listless pieces of paper and rubbish. Paint and wallpaper are stripped down in places displaying bare patches of concrete.
The depressing state of the building is further tainted with the stench of rotting meat and rat piss, creating an ambiance of death and despair.
My boots crunch across debris, laced with shattered glass, as I make my way to the only other door in the room. I glance over my shoulder hoping nobody is sneaking up on me. So far, luck’s been on my side. If only my good fortune will hold out until the police tracks the GPS of the Ford Ranger and arrive at this location.
A painfully loud squeal comes from the rusting door handle and echoes through the whole building as I push down on it. It’s followed by an even louder creak when the door swings open.
Utter darkness greets me, and a gag-inducing odour.
My hand flies to cover my nose and mouth, but it’s not helping. With my free hand, I pull my cell phone from my pocket and find the flashlight app.
The light cuts through the inky blackness, illuminating the blood splattered slaughterhouse with its shiny metal hooks and stained floors.
I wave my cell phone across the room, finding a workbench littered with instruments of horror and some unpleasant remains I, thankfully, can’t see from my position.
“Shit,” I whisper to myself coming to grips with the fact that I am not prepared for whatever comes next. With shaky hands, I bring my cell phone closer, disengage the “Flight Mode,” and dial Rynhardt’s number.
He answers on the first ring. “What the actual—”
“It’s Him,” I rush my whisper. God help me if something jumps out at me right now.
“Whatever you do—for God’s sakes, don’t get out of the car.”
“I’m already in his workshop.”
“Jesus Christ,” Detective Mosepi cusses. Rynhardt must have placed me on speaker when I called. The sirens go on, while he continues to shout obscenities.
“Step on it, Elias!” Rynhardt barks. “Get out of there. Get out, now.”
Only then do I hear a muffled scream coming from within the slaughterhouse. It takes every ounce of my courage not to scream out in response.
“There’s someone here,” I say through clenched teeth. I move the phone away from my ear to use the backlight as a weaker torch.
“Get out of there, Esmé!” I hear Rynhardt’s shout even with the phone at arm’s length.
The whimpers and screams and cries continue as I step deeper into the workshop.
The gory mess on the workbench, where pieces of flesh coagulate in blood, turns the rising bile in my throat to acid. A maleficent apothecary where tiny jars of unidentifiable ingredients stand within arm’s reach is a soulless rendition of a horror movie come to life. The low hum of a swarm of, hopefully, flies is noticeable only by ear. Scratching and squeaking—more proof of a rat infestation—surrounds me. I walk further, allowing the sounds of desperation to guide me. The blackness is so deep, so physical, I feel like I’m walking through custard. My flashlight app doesn’t shine bright enough to make the unknown seem any less frightening.
Finally, after what feels like searching forever, the cell phone’s light falls on the owner of the noises.
My he
art drops like a stone into my stomach.
“Leila?”
A shaky gasp escapes my mouth when I see her chained to the wall in the furthest corner of the slaughterhouse.
She’s sitting on a pallet where the straw has become crusty with faeces and decomposing food. The bedding, if I can call it that, is filthy even in the bad lighting, and I can just imagine what type of critters take up residence there. But, of everything I’ve seen in this shithole, it’s the terror in Leila’s eyes that’ll haunt me for the rest of my days.
Without considering what would happen if Him decides to return and finish her off, I’m on my bare knees in the filth, pulling the saliva-soaked rag from her mouth. Then I’m tracing the chain from the wall to her ankle, padlocked fast. Blood covers the metal, her ankle, the pallet.
“Run,” Leila croaks. “Go, find help.”
“Help is coming.” My throat is thick with grief. “I’m not leaving you.”
“He’s insane, Esmé. He’ll kill us both. Go.”
“No, we’re going to get you out of here.”
She cries, stifling her sobs whenever they start to get out of control. When she’s managed to pull herself together again, she says: “Even if you can free me, he cut my ankle. I can’t walk properly.”
“Then the fucker’s going to have to go through me to get to you,” I say. “I am not leaving you behind.”
I’m on my feet again, using my cell phone to light the way back to the workbench where the tools and instruments are. There must be a key here somewhere, or a hand saw, something to get Leila out of her chains.
With shaking hands, I rummage through the workbench, pushing aside jars and tools and trying to ignore the human tissue scattered across the surface. Cockroaches and maggots scuttle and squirm across the table, grossing me out further. My muscles are hesitant, and every movement feels like I’m wading through more black custard. “I can’t find a key. Where’s the key? Damn it!”
“Esmé, leave it.”
“Pull yourself together, for fuck’s sake!” I yell, my voice rebounding from one concrete wall to the other, off the floor and the ceiling.
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