He taps de Vries on the shoulder, and then a second time.
De Vries is disorientated, then snaps to.
‘Forensics?’ he asks immediately.
‘Thirty minutes from now,’ Don tells him. ‘In the lab.’
‘Jesus. Didn’t think I’d drop off.’ He looks at Don. ‘You all right?’
‘Unpopular at home, undervalued at work.’
‘At least someone notices you’re not there.’
De Vries gets up, brushes himself down, combs his salt and pepper hair; wonders why there is so much more salt than pepper. He puts on a faded tie, looks down at it, murmurs, ‘My “Big Day” tie.’
Don holds open de Vries’ office door. Vaughn stops as he passes through.
‘The Scene of Crime leader’s name?’
‘Steve Ulton.’
De Vries nods and walks away.
De Vries bursts through the plastic curtains, strides towards him.
‘Morning, Steve.’
Ulton looks a bit taken aback, hesitates until Don joins them. Then he delivers the results, the two boys laid out on wheeled stretchers either side of him. De Vries props himself up against a workbench, the almost silent lab emphasizing the sound of throbbing in his right temple.
Unbidden, Ulton starts reading from his report.
‘Starting off. The scene itself is devoid of useful physical evidence. There are tyre-tracks from over twenty different vehicles. With the weather as it’s been, most of the track is just blowing away, so there’s no way we’ll get anything there. We searched every inch of the skip and its contents, and there’s nothing there either. Finally, to confirm: there were no cameras or other surveillance at MacNeil’s farm-stall. They sometimes employ a car-guard, but not so late in the season.’
‘Nothing on anything then?’ de Vries murmurs.
Ulton doesn’t know whether he was meant to hear the aside, but he goes on: ‘Some stuff, but mainly negatives. No fingerprint evidence on either side of the polythene wrapping. We have found two small hairs, probably eyebrows, on the inside of the polythene. It is possible that these come from Dr Kleinman or either of the two technicians processing these bodies and their wrapping. They could belong to the boys themselves. However, we will await DNA tests. Otherwise, there are no obvious DNA tags from which we can seek a match. We can assume that whoever wrapped them was wearing gloves, possibly protective clothing. From the state of the blood found inside the polythene, we estimate that between eight and twelve hours passed between the shooting of the victims and the wrapping of the bodies.’
He swallows, takes a couple of breaths. ‘The polythene wrapping is odd. It’s old and was around from the 1950s through to the late 1970s, possibly, here, the 1980s, when new chemical formulas were developed which made the products lighter, thinner and stronger, also cheaper and with less pollution. In its time, it would probably have been used by warehousemen, distributors, transport companies, for binding units together securely for transit.’
‘Heavy-duty shrinkwrap?’
‘The precursor to it, yes.’
‘So someone had access to, or had saved, some packing material that hasn’t been around since the 1980s?’ de Vries queries.
‘Apparently, yes. To my knowledge, this product hasn’t been made anywhere for thirty, forty years. It’s obsolete.’
De Vries nods; it is clear information, but it means nothing. ‘I’m sorry, go on.’
Ulton turns a page. ‘We haven’t been able to retrieve anything from the boys’ bodies, but there was particulate in their hair. Grass seeds, and a predominance of leaf and seed matter from Triticum aestivum – wheat. They probably fell in a field, or close to a wheatfield. There are corresponding findings: the stomach contents of both boys showed that they had ingested water containing a high level of Atrazine. That’s an agricultural pesticide, used mainly on arable crops such as wheat and corn. That might suggest that the boys had drunk water obtained from a borehole, somewhere in the countryside, where arable farming takes place.’ He turns another page. ‘This ties in with Dr Kleinman’s observations of residual damage to the heart and liver of both boys – a likely long-term symptom, after many years of ingesting water contaminated in this way.’
‘Seven years?’
‘Perhaps. I don’t know.’
‘Okay.’ De Vries turns to Don. ‘Let’s assume that these boys were held in the countryside, and they were killed there also. Then, for whatever reason, they were moved and dumped.’
Ulton resumes speaking the moment De Vries stops. ‘Dr Kleinman found particulate in the lungs: this was dust from standard building concrete. In his report, he says that he suspects long-term absorption.’
Tiny steps, clicking in notches. De Vries realizes that he is wide awake again.
‘Under the fingernails, there was also concrete dust, from a similar source to that found in the lungs. This substance was also found on the underside of both boys’ feet, and under their toenails. Again, he suggests a long-term build-up of particulate matter.’
De Vries stops him. ‘A cell, or cells? Concrete floor, concrete walls, unplastered, unpainted?’ He looks at Don, who frowns back at him, then at Ulton, who shrugs.
‘Possibly, yes.’
‘Anything else for us?’
‘Yes.’ He looks at de Vries. ‘This could be nothing, but Dr Kleinman found on the right heel of this boy . . .’ he indicates Steven Lawson, pointing to the boy’s heel with the tip of his pen ‘. . . adhered here is a small trail of dairy product. He did very well to spot it. We’ve tested it, and it’s cheese.’
De Vries ponders a moment. Says, ‘I’m having trouble seeing how this helps us.’
Ulton is unperturbed. ‘This matter got stuck on Steven Lawson’s heel just before he was wrapped in polythene. This means that it occurred post-mortem. The cheese is made from goats’ milk and contained one unusual ingredient: stinging nettle. As far as I know, there is only one cheese in the Cape which uses nettles, and that is Fineberg Roulade.’
Don asks, ‘What is that?’
‘It’s a goats’ cheese made at the Fineberg Wine Estate outside Stellenbosch. They make layers of cheese, cover them in wild nettle, and then roll the cheese to form a green spiral running through it.’
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ de Vries states.
‘Not likely you would have. I only know because I visited the place about two months ago. As far as I know, they only sell it there.’
De Vries thinks out loud, questioning whether this could possibly mean anything. ‘So, whoever wrapped those boys’ bodies, or dragged them, bought this . . .’
‘Fineberg Roulade.’
‘. . . this roulade, at the estate.’
‘Possibly, yes. It was certainly present at the site of the wrapping.’
‘Which we can reasonably assume, for now,’ de Vries adds, ‘could have been where the boys were held.’
‘And, if so, recently. The cheese doesn’t keep, and the trace on Steven Lawson’s heel isn’t old. It’s decayed because of the heat and the wrapping, but it isn’t old.’
De Vries meditates on the information. He has something, however little, to feed du Toit. More importantly, there are slender leads he can now follow which might guide him to more concrete ones. He grimaces at the use of the term. He turns to Ulton.
‘Thank you, Steve. It means a lot that you worked all night.’
Ulton holds up his hands. ‘No problem. I just want to hear you catch this guy.’
He turns and walks briskly from the lab towards his office, holding open the door for a technician to return the bodies to refrigerated storage.
De Vries looks up at Don February.
‘Right,’ he starts, rubbing his hands. ‘I’m going to brief Director du Toit, and you’re going to find out where this Fineberg Estate is, and what time it opens. Then, you’re going for a cheese-tasting.’
2007
The office of Superintendent du Toit is opposite the squad room. Eve
n through the closed door, the group inside the office can hear the hubbub coming from outside: telephone calls, impromptu meetings, the desire of all to produce a breakthrough, a witness. Anything, to break open the case. Inside, the atmosphere is hushed, each man contemplative, yet wanting to contribute.
Du Toit sits behind his desk, four chairs arranged around it. He looks at Dr Johannes Dyk, consultant psychologist to the department. ‘Assuming we hear nothing today, it will be seventy-two hours since Toby Henderson went missing. There has been no ransom demand; no communication. What can we take from this?’
Johannes Dyk replies blankly, ‘In one respect, relief that there have been no further abductions. On the other hand, this is a highly unusual series of events. If the kidnappers of these children want to exert pressure on us for their own gain, then I would still expect to hear from them within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.’
Du Toit says: ‘And if we don’t?’
‘Then . . .’ Dyk runs a small pink hand through his white hair. ‘Then, I am afraid, you face a very serious situation. Unless you can identify some clue as to the identity of the abductor, or abductors, then you seem to have a cold trail.’
De Vries says: ‘You think this is the work of a group?’
Dyk looks him in the eye. ‘Possibly.’ He turns back to du Toit. ‘It is conceivable that this is a couple working together.’
‘A couple?’
‘There have been examples – very rare, I might add – of a married couple working in tandem to steal children. In those cases, it would be to form what they would regard as their family. It might be that they have lost a child, or children, through illness or accident, perhaps even by their own hand – and now seek some kind of surrogate replacement. But to abduct three children – it seems to me incredible.’
‘So we assume a single perpetrator?’
‘Based on precedent, yes, but there are concerns about organization. Is he keeping them or killing them? The longer we don’t hear from this man, or men, the more inclined I am towards the unpalatable truth that these boys have been taken and killed.’
‘A serial killer?’
‘Well,’ Johannes Dyk pronounces, ‘that is a much misused term. It is not my area of expertise, but a classic serial-killer scenario would not begin with three murders in such quick succession. Such an extraordinary event would be the culmination and marked acceleration after many months, maybe years, of activity. So, unless you have child abduction and murder – white child murders – stacked up over years, then I am inclined to say no.’
De Vries says: ‘No.’
Dyk bows at him.
‘But,’ du Toit says, turning to the rest of the group, ‘I’m still unhappy about how they were taken so easily, in full daylight. Who do these boys trust enough to get into his car so easily?’
De Vries says: ‘Parents of friends? Teachers, clergy?’
‘A policeman?’ Dean Russell says. There is a silence.
Du Toit is the first to speak.
‘It would explain Toby Henderson,’ he says quietly, ‘but I don’t know. Unless he was in a marked car, would a child get in? Even then . . .’
‘If the officer were known to him, perhaps?’ Russell says.
De Vries says: ‘I’ve talked with the parents. They all say that their sons were intelligent, sensible young boys; that they would never go off with a stranger. I believe that’s what they taught them.’
‘We need to think about this more,’ du Toit tells them. ‘We know that whoever was targeting them wanted middle-class white boys, and we know that he took them in what appear, to us at least, to be public open spaces.’ He drifts off, looks expectantly at his audience. No one speaks. Finally he turns to the one black officer in the room. ‘Mikkie, nothing from the patrols at the abduction sites?’
Everyone turns to Sergeant Mikkie Ngolo. He has said nothing for the entire meeting; just listened and waited to be addressed.
‘Nothing, sir. We have found no one who noticed the boys, saw a car pulled over at the kerb, saw anyone at the Family Day who seemed out of place.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing. I think this is because these boys were walking on the streets, two of them after school when there were many children walking home; at the Family Day, there were also many children playing around the ground, they did not stick out. So what if a car stops, picks up a child? It is an everyday occurrence: cars and taxis stopping in the street. There is no reason for people to notice. Maybe whoever took them knew this – and he was right.’
2014
Don stays long enough to hear Director du Toit’s eloquent and meaningless press conference descend into a tense stand-off as journalists return him to the original failed inquiry – which he led – seven years before. Don heard him admit that they had assumed Steven Lawson, Toby Henderson and Robert Eames to be dead, even though he denied that the case had ever been officially closed. He watched du Toit begin to sway slightly – a physical reaction to the blows landing, loaded question after loaded question.
There is a horrible moment, Don reflects, every time he is present at a SAPS press conference, when control shifts subtly, but completely, from police to pressmen. That is when Don steps outside for a moment, gets in his car, and drives towards Stellenbosch. He takes the N2 out of town, turns after Khayelitsha, the township in which he lived as a child, down the R310, turning onto the Annandale Road at the giant fibreglass strawberry outside the petrol-station farm-stall. He weaves his way down an olive-lined driveway and parks to the right of the ultra-modern winery building – steel and stone, huge glass windows presenting a visual cacophony: the workings of the winery, and the reflection of a huge blue sky, lines of narrow poplar trees, goats in the pastures.
Already, there are other cars there. Through the double-height glass doors, Don can see the backs of white legs standing at a bar where the tastings are held. As he enters, he sees the white girls behind the counter look up and scrutinize him. Instinctively, he looks down at himself; his suit trousers are crumpled, but he is wearing a tie. He looks up at the girls again, all back to their business; he may not be accepted, but he is not deemed a threat.
‘Warrant Officer February?’
Don turns to find a lanky man in khaki shorts, blue blazer and tie, proffering his hand.
‘Yes, sir. I called earlier.’
‘When did they change the ranks? What is a Warrant Officer?’
‘A few years back, sir. I am an Inspector.’
‘And I am Marc Steinhauer, the owner. I think you said you wanted to ask me about our cheese. Is our cheese a police matter?’ The man laughs in staccato, choking bursts. He stops himself. ‘Come on through. I’ve kept our Cheese Room closed until I’d spoken with you.’
He leads the way through a pair of oversized rustic wooden doors, into another brightly lit space. The room is unnaturally cool. A pure, fresh odour assaults Don’s senses. It smells, Don thinks, of white man’s piss.
‘Not that we only sell cheese, as you can see.’ Steinhauer gestures about the room, to limed wooden shelves, filled with bottles and glass jars. ‘As well as our wine, we have olives, our own olive oil, and recently sundried tomatoes and artichokes.’ He glides over to the low-profile, under-lit glass counter, pointing to the cheeses displayed within, his patter bland, over-rehearsed. ‘We started off with one goat. My wife wanted a goat – I bought her a goat. Then she got us all onto goats’ milk, then the cheese, and before I knew, I have a whole herd of them.’ He laughs loudly again.
Don wonders at his accent: it is English, but he has Afrikaner intonation on some words.
Steinhauer starts up again: ‘The story begins with plain goats’ cheese. Then we added garlic, chives – which goes very well with our Chardonnay – then sundried tomato, and now, finally, the Fineberg Roulade.’
‘That,’ Don interjects firmly, ‘is what I want to ask you about.’
Steinhauer shuts his mouth.
‘Is it right
that you sell it only here?’
‘Yes. Though we are in talks—’
‘This is a very serious matter, Mr Steinhauer,’ Don interrupts. ‘How many of these Roulades do you sell each week?’
‘Maybe . . . twenty, thirty. Why?’
‘And how long does it keep fresh?’
Steinhauer bridles at being ignored, then answers, ‘In the fridge, ten days or so. We don’t use preservatives.’
Don smiles at him. ‘I do not expect the answer to be positive, but do you keep a record of who buys the cheese?’
A snort. ‘No, Inspector. We have scores of visitors here every day. Mainly, they buy our wine, but many customers come here to our temperature-controlled Cheese Room. Some buy cheese also, some not.’
‘Okay, sir. Who usually manages this section?’
‘Any one of the girls. All my staff have tasted all the wine, our products, all the cheese . . .’ Steinhauer trails off, watches Don walk over to the display at the end of the counter, where he taps a basket containing business cards and completed forms.
‘How many of your customers fill in your forms, or leave their business cards?’
‘It’s a way of building a database of customers. You see, we offer a case of wine each year – as a prize, but also an incentive – to whoever’s card is randomly selected. I don’t know what percentage of customers enter. Can you tell me what this is about?’
Don dismisses the database idea. Why should a kidnapper, murderer, enter his name for a case of wine? He turns back to Steinhauer.
‘Your cheese turned up on a murder victim, sir. You tell me that it is sold in very small quantities, so naturally, we have to follow it up.’
Don watches Marc Steinhauer recoil, steady himself, concentrate on breathing normally.
‘How terrible. I’m sorry. I don’t know how I can help.’ He runs a hand through his thinning hair, winces as he reaches the crown. Don watches him; watches Steinhauer realize this.
‘A bump. Our house is a converted barn. Low beams.’
‘Okay.’
The First Rule of Survival Page 4
