by Deon Meyer
She dropped to her knees, the backpack against the wall. Her head drooped in utter weariness, her eyes closed. Then she slid down further until she was seated flat on the ground. She knew the damp in the bricks and the decaying leaf mould would stain her blue denim shorts, but she didn't care. She just wanted to rest.
The scene imprinted on her brain more than six hours ago suddenly played unbidden through her mind. Her body trembled with shock and her eyes flew open. She dared not think of that now. It was too ... just too much. Through the curtain of dark green foliage and big bright red flowers she could see a car in the car port. She focused on that. It had an unusual shape, sleek and elegant and not new. What make was it? She tried to distract herself from the terror in her head with this thought. Her breathing calmed, but not her heart. Exhaustion was a great weight pressing on her, but she resisted; it was a luxury she could not afford.
At 06:27 she heard running steps in the street: more than one person, from the same direction she had come, and her heart raced again.
She heard them calling to each other in the street, in a language she did not understand. The footsteps slowed, went quiet. She shifted slightly forward, looking for a gap in the foliage, and stared at the open gate. One of them was standing there, barely visible, the pieces of the mosaic showing he was black.
She kept dead still.
The mosaic moved. He walked in through the gate, silent on his rubber soles. She knew he would look for hiding places, the house, the car in the car port.
The vague shape halved. Was he bending down? To look under the car?
The pieces of him doubled, the outline enlarged. He was approaching. Could he see her, right at the back?
'Hey!'
She was shocked by the voice, a hammer blow to her chest. She could not tell if she moved in that second.
The dark figure moved away, but without haste.
'What do you want?' The voice came from the house, up above. Someone was talking to the black man.
'Nothing.'
'Get the fuck off my property.'
No answer. He stood still, then moved, slowly, reluctantly, until his broken shape disappeared through the leaves.
The two detectives searched the church grounds from the southern side. Vusi began at the front, along the Long Street border with the spiked baroque railings. Griessel began at the back, along the high brick wall. He walked slowly, one step at a time, his head down and eyes moving back and forth. He battled to concentrate, there was a sense of discomfort in him, an elusive feeling, vague and formless. He had to focus here now, on the bare ground, the grass tufts around the base of the trees, the stretches of tarred pathway. He bent every now and then to pick up something and hold it in his fingers - the top of a beer bottle, two rings from cold drink cans, a rusty metal washer, an empty white plastic bag.
He worked his way around behind the church, where the street noise was suddenly muted. He glanced up at the steeple. There was a cross at the top. How many times had he driven past and never really looked? The church building was lovely, an architectural style he could not name. The garden was well cared for, with big palms, pines and oleanders, planted who knows how many years ago? He went around behind the small office building, where the sounds of the street returned. In the northern corner of the grounds he stopped and stood looking up and down Long Street. This was still the old Cape here, the buildings semi-Victorian, most only two storeys high, some painted now in bright colours, probably to appeal to the young. What was this vague unease he felt in him? It had nothing to do with last night. Nor was it the other issue that he had been avoiding for two, three weeks - about Anna and moving back in and whether it would ever work.
Was it the mentoring? To be at the scene of a murder, able to look but not touch? He would find it hard, he knew that now.
Maybe he should just get something to eat.
He looked south, towards the Orange Street crossing. Just before seven on a Tuesday morning and the street was busy - cars, buses, taxis, scooters, pedestrians. The energetic bustle of mid-January, schools reopening, holidays over, forgotten. On the pavement the murder audience had grown to a small crowd. Two press photographers had also arrived, camera bags over shoulders, long lenses held like weapons in front of them. He knew one of them, a bar-room buddy from his drinking days who had worked for the Cape Times for years and was now chasing sensation for a tabloid. One night in the Fireman's Arms he had said that if you were to lock up the press and the police on Robben Island for a week, the liquor industry in Cape Town would collapse.
He saw a cyclist weaving skilfully through the traffic on a racing bike, those incredibly thin wheels, the rider in tight black shorts, vivid shirt, shoes, crash helmet, the fucker was even wearing gloves. His gaze followed the cycle to the Orange Street traffic lights, knowing that he never wanted to look that silly. He felt stupid enough with the piss-pot helmet on his head. He wouldn't even have worn it if he hadn't got it for free, with the bicycle.
Doc Barkhuizen, his sponsor at Alcoholics Anonymous, had started the whole thing. Frustrated, Griessel had told Doc that the pull of the bottle was not diminishing. The first three months were long over, the so-called crisis period, and yet his desire was as great as it was on the first day. Doc had recited the 'one day at a time' rhyme, but Griessel said he needed more than that. Doc said 'You need a distraction, what do you do in the evenings?'
Evenings? Policemen had no 'evenings'. When he did get home early, wonder of wonders, he would write to his daughter Carla, or play one of his four CDs on the computer and pick up the bass guitar to play along.
Tm busy in the evenings, Doc.'
'And mornings?'
'Sometimes I walk in the park. Up near the reservoir.'
'How often?'
'1 don't know. Now and then. Once a week, perhaps less ...'
The trouble with Doc was that he was eloquent. And enthusiastic. About everything. One of those 'the glass is half full' positive guys who would not rest until he had inspired you. 'About five years ugo I started cycling, Benny. My knees can't take jogging, but the bicycle is soft on an old man's limbs. I started slowly, five or six kilos a day. Then the bug began to bite, because it's fun. The fresh air, the scents, the sun. You feel the heat and the cold, you see things from a new perspective, because you move at your own tempo, it feels as though your world is at peace. You have time to think ...'
After Doc's third speech he was swept up by his enthusiasm and at the end of October he went looking for a bicycle, in his usual way - Benny Griessel, Bargain Hunter, as his son Fritz gently teased him. First he researched the price of new ones at the shops and realised two things - they were ridiculously expensive, and he preferred the chunky mountain bikes to the skinny, sissyboy racing ones. He did the rounds of the pawnshops, but all their stock was worn out, cheap Makro stuff, junk even when they were new. Then he studied the Cape Ads and found the fucking advert - a flowery description of a Giant Alias, twenty-seven gear, super- light aluminium frame, Shimano shifter and disc brakes, a free saddlebag with tools, free helmet and 'just one month old, original price R7,500, upgrading to DH', which the owner later explained to him meant 'Downhill', as though he would understand what that meant. But he thought, what the fuck, R3,500 was one hell of a bargain, and what had he bought for himself in the past six months since his wife kicked him out of the house? Not a thing. Just the lounge suite from Mohammed 'Love Lips' Faizal's pawnshop in Maitland. And the fridge. And the bass guitar he meant to give Fritz for Christmas, another Faizal bargain that he had stumbled on in September. That was all. Essential items. You couldn't count the laptop. How else would he keep in touch with Carla?
Then he thought about Christmas and all the expenses still to come. He argued the bicycle owner down another two hundred and then he went and drew the money and bought the thing and began riding every morning. He would wear his old rugby shorts, T-shirt and sandals and that ridiculous little helmet.
He soon realised that he d
id not live in the ideal neighbourhood for cycling. His flat was a quarter of the way up the slopes of Table Mountain. If you went down towards the sea, you had to ride back up the mountain eventually. You could head uphill first, towards Kloof Nek, in order to enjoy the ride home, but you would suffer going up. He almost gave up after a week. But then Doc Barkhuizen gave him the 'five-minute' tip.
'This is what I do, Benny. If I'm not in the mood, I tell myself "just five minutes, and if I don't feel like going on, I'll turn around and go home".'
He tried it - and never once did he turn around. Once you were going, you went on. Towards the end of November, it suddenly became a pleasure. He found a route that he enjoyed. Just after six in the morning he would ride down St John's Street, illegally cutting through the Company Gardens before the zealous security guards were on duty. Then he would turn into Adderley and wave at the flower sellers offloading stock from the bakkies at the Golden Acre and then to the bottom of Duncan Street to the harbour, see what ships had docked today. Then he would ride down the Waterkant, to Green Point - and all along the sea as far as the Sea Point swimming pool. He would look at the mountain and out over the sea and at the people, the pretty young women out jogging with long, tanned legs and bobbing breasts, pensioners walking with purpose, mothers with babies in pushchairs, other cyclists greeting him despite his primitive apparel. Then he would turn and ride back, sixteen kilometres in total and it made him feel good. About himself. And about the city - whose underbelly was all that he had seen for a very long time.
And about his smart purchase. Until his son came around two weeks before Christmas and said he'd decided bass was not for him any more. 'Lead guitar, Dad, jissie, Dad, we saw Zinkplaat on Friday and there's this lead, Basson Laubscher, awesome, Dad. Effortless. Genius. That's my dream.'
Zinkplaat.
He hadn't even known such a band existed.
Griessel had been hiding the bass guitar from Fritz for nearly two months. It was his Christmas present. So he had to go and see Hot Lips Faizal again and at such short notice he only had one guitar available, a fucking Fender, practically new and horribly expensive. Plus, what he gave to Fritz had to be matched by a gift to Carla in London. So he was financially stuffed, because Anna made him pay maintenance as though they were divorced. The way she made her calculations was a mystery to him and he had a strong feeling he was being milked, he was being sucked dry while she was earning good money as an assistant to the attorneys. But when he had something to say she would reply, 'You had money for booze, Benny, that was never a problem ...'
The moral high ground. She had it and he did not. So he must pay. It was part of his punishment.
But that was not the thing churning in his guts.
Griessel sighed and walked back to the murder scene. As his mind focused on the growing crowd of onlookers who would need to be controlled, he recognised the new unease he was feeling.
It had nothing to do with his sex life, his finances, or hunger. It was a premonition. As if the day brought evil with it.
He shook his head. He had never allowed himself to be bothered by such tripe.
The Metro policemen were helping a young coloured woman over the railings with eager hands. She picked up her briefcase, nodded in thanks and came across to Griessel and Ndabeni. A new face to them.
'Tiffany October,' she said, holding out a small hand to Benny. He saw it trembling slightly. She was wearing glasses with narrow black rims. Traces of acne under the make-up. She was slim, slight under the white coat.
'Benny Griessel,' he said and gestured at the detective alongside him. 'This is Inspector Vusumuzi Ndabeni. This is his scene.'
'Call me Vusi.'
'Pleased to meet you,' she said and shook the black detective's hand.
They looked at her enquiringly. It took her a second to realise. 'I'm the pathologist.'
'You're new?' Vusi asked, after an uncomfortable silence.
'This is my first solo.' Tiffany October smiled nervously. Thick and Thin from Forensics came closer, curious to meet her. She shook each politely by the hand.
'Are you done?' Griessel asked them impatiently.
'We still have to do the path and the wall,' said Jimmy, the thin one. He gave his shorter colleague a look. 'Benny's not a morning person.'
Griessel ignored them. Always some chirp.
Tiffany October looked down at the body.
'Ai,' she said.
The detectives were quiet. They watched her open her case, take out gloves and kneel beside the girl.
Vusi came closer. 'Benny, I asked the photographer to take pictures that ... don't show the damage. Pictures of her face. I want to show them around here in Long Street. We have to identify her. Maybe give them to the media as well.'
Griessel nodded. 'Good idea. But you will have to put pressure on the photographer. They're slow ...'
'I will.' Ndabeni bent down to the pathologist. 'Doctor, if you could give me an idea of how long she has been dead ...'
Tiffany October didn't look up. 'It's too soon ...'
Griessel wondered where Prof Phil Pagel, the chief pathologist, was this morning. Pagel would have sat there and given them a calculated guess that would have been within thirty minutes of the actual time of death. He would have dipped a finger in the pool of blood, prodded the corpse here and there, saying it was the small muscles that displayed rigor mortis first, and he thought she had been dead for approximately so many hours, which he would later confirm. But Tiffany October did not have Pagel's experience.
'Give us a guess,' said Griessel.
'Really, I can't.'
She's afraid of getting it wrong, Griessel thought. He moved toward Vusi and spoke softly, close to his ear, so that she would not hear. 'She's been lying there a while, Vusi. The blood is black already.'
'How long?'
'Don't know. Four hours ... maybe more. Five.'
'OK. So we'll have to get moving.'
Griessel nodded. 'Get those photos quickly. And talk to the Metro people, Vusi. They have video cameras monitoring the streets - in Long Street as well. Let's hope the stuff was working last night. The control centre is in Wale Street. There just might be something ...'
'Thanks, Benny.'
She fell asleep, against the wall, behind the shrubbery.
She had wanted to rest for just a moment. She shut her eyes and sank back with her backpack against the wall and her legs stretched out in front of her, trying to escape the exhaustion and the tension for a little while. The events of the night were demons in her mind. To escape that, she had thought about her parents, what time it would be at home, but the calculation of time zones was too much for her. If it had been early morning in Lafayette her father would be sitting with the paper, the Journal & Courier, shaking his head over the comments of Joe Tiller, the Perdue football coach. Her mother would be late, as always, her heels clattering down the stairs, in too much of a hurry, the battered brown leather briefcase over her shoulder, 'I'm late, I'm late, how can I be late again?' and father and daughter would share their ritual smile over the kitchen table. This routine, this haven, the safety of her family home overwhelmed her with terrible longing and she wanted to phone them, right now, hear their voices, tell them how much she loved them. She carried on this imaginary conversation, with her father answering gently and calmly, until sleep crept up and overcame her.
Chapter 3
Dr Tiffany October called them: 'Inspector ...'
'Yes?'
'I could speculate a little ...'
Griessel wondered if she had overheard him talking.
'Anything could help ...'
'I think she died here, at the scene. The blood pattern shows that he cut her throat while she lay here. I think he held her flat on the ground, on her stomach, and then he cut her. There are no splash marks to show that she was standing.'
'Oh ...' He had already worked all that out.
'And these two cuts ...' She pointed at the two cuts on th
e girl's shoulder blades.
'Yes?'
'It seems as if they were inflicted post mortem.'
He nodded.
'These look like fibres here ...' Dr October used a small pair of tweezers carefully around the wound. 'Synthetic material, a dark colour, totally different from her clothing ...'
Ndabeni looked at the forensic team, now walking bent over along the pathway, heads together, eyes searching, mouths never still. 'Jimmy,' he called, 'here's something for you ...' Then he crouched down with the pathologist.
She said: 'I think he cut something off her back. Something like a backpack, you know, the two shoulder straps ...'
Jimmy knelt beside her. Tiffany October showed him the fibres. 'I'll wait until you've collected them.'
'OK,' said Jimmy. He and his partner took out instruments to collect the fibres. They continued an earlier conversation, as though there had been no interruption: 'I'm telling you it's Amore.'
'It's not Amore, it's Amor,' said fat Arnold and took a thin transparent plastic bag out of his bag. He kept it ready.
'What are you talking about?' asked Vusi.
'Joost's wife.'
'Joost who?'
'Van der Westhuizen.'
'Who's that?'
'The rugby player.'
'He was Springbok captain, Vusi.'
'I'm more of a soccer guy.'
'Anyway, she has this pair of ...' Arnold used his hands to indicate big breasts. Tiffany October looked away, offended. 'I'm just stating a fact,' said Arnold defensively.
Carefully Jimmy pulled the fibres out of the wound with tweezers. 'Her name is Amore,' he said.
'It's Amor, I'm telling you. So this ou climbs on the stage with her and ...'
'What ou? asked Vusi.
'I don't know. Some ou that went to see one of her shows. So he grabs the microphone and says "you've got the best tits in the business", he says to Amor and Joost was the moer in, heavily upset.'
'What was she doing on the stage?' asked Griessel.
