The Monster's Daughter

by Michelle Pretorius

  Alet rolled her eyes. She turned back to Mrs. Dippenaar. “Ja, Tannie, but I’m actually working, see?”

  Mrs. Dippenaar raised an eyebrow to her two friends, the meaning clear. Word about Alet’s misadventures had gotten around. She shrugged it off. Let them play judge and jury. If life in a small town had taught her anything so far, it was that people were only interested in the truth when it fit their way of seeing things.

  “What will it be, doll?” Joey’s overpowering aftershave partly masked the smell of sweat.

  “Can we talk, Joey?”

  “Darling, look at this place.” Joey tilted his head, his expression mocking her request.

  “Won’t take long, man. And I’ll take an ice coffee to go.”

  Mrs. Dippenaar pursed her lips. One of her companions whispered something in her ear and she nodded vigorously, giving Alet the evil eye.

  “Come into the kitchen with me. Gertie’s struggling to keep up.” Joey weaved through the beaded curtain to the kitchen.

  Gertie looked shell-shocked, sweat forming dark patches on her brown uniform. “No more, Baas Joe, no more.” She had kicked her shoes to the corner, navigating the linoleum floor barefoot.

  “Relax, Gertie, darling.” Joey stood behind Gertie and gave her shoulders a playful pat. “Deep breaths. It’s only till lunch. Then they’ll all go over to the braai and we won’t have to worry till tonight.”

  Gertie gave him a dubious look. Joey took a huge tub of ice cream out of the freezer and started scooping the contents into an industrial-size blender. “You’ll love André, Alet,” he said while cleaning the scoop. “He was on TV, you know.”

  “Isit?”

  Joey dumped milk into the blender. “Ja. Two episodes on Egoli. He’s got talent.” He reached for the instant coffee, a glint in his eyes. “And by talent I also mean his enormous schlong.”

  “You didn’t!” Alet stole a glance to see if Gertie had heard Joey above the hum of the blender.

  “Uh-huh.” Joey looked like a cat that had stolen cream. “Might even become a thing.” He sighed wistfully. “Joey du Plessis … No, Joey Joubert-du Plessis.”

  The beginning was always exciting. Alet thought of Mike, the fact that she hadn’t returned his call. That addictive thrill usually preceded a fokop by a hair’s breadth for her, and she didn’t know if she could face another one this soon.

  “Baas, Joey, take those trays,” Gertie yelled over the din.

  “Just a sec, Gert.” Joey poured a third of the blender’s contents into a Styrofoam cup. “I’m dying to hear what you think of him, Alet.” He handed her the coffee shake. “On the house.”

  “Thanks. Look, Joey, I need to ask you something.”

  “Mmm?” Joey lifted a tray from the counter. “Hey, Gertie, is this table eight? I need another slice of carrot cake, my girl.”

  Gertie clicked her tongue. “You didn’t write it on the slip.”

  “Joey?”

  “Ja, doll. What is it?”

  “You know Boet’s foreman, Jakob? Did he know Trudie?”

  Joey raised his eyebrow. “Is he a suspect?”

  “I’m only trying to figure something out.”

  “There was talk when I was a kid. I don’t know.”

  “What talk?”

  “People said he often spent the night there. And I’m not talking the maid’s room, if you know what I mean.” Joey winked. “Big scandal.”

  “Are you saying Trudie had an affair with Jakob?” Alet found the idea preposterous even as she uttered the words. She tried to picture staunch Trudie with the wacky farmhand.

  “Ooh. Jilted lover kills the object of his affection!”

  “No.” Alet raised her index finger to Joey. “Don’t you dare tell that to anyone, hear? All I need is more misinformation.”

  “You’re so boring.”

  “Do you know anything else about Trudie and Jakob?”

  Joey shrugged. “Ask Tilly. She lived with her, didn’t she?” He leaned over the tray. “See you tonight. Mwah.”

  “Letta, there was a call. Hit-and-run,” April shouted over the heads of the people at the service desk. Saturday mornings brought the inevitable slew of minor crimes on the farms that had gone unreported during the week.

  “Okay,” Alet said. “I’ll take over here.”

  “No, hey. Sarge asked for you to go out, see?” April looked put out.

  “Mathebe took it?”

  April nodded. “Guy’s dead.”

  “Shit.” Alet handed April her untouched coffee shake. “For you.”

  “Sheesh. Thanks, hey.” April smiled, forgiving easily.

  The body had been discovered just outside town, on the road to the golf course. While cattle starved and crops failed in one part of the district, here, just over the hill, sprinkler systems kept the course a luminous green that looked almost radioactive amidst the barren brown hills.

  Mathebe and Dr. Oosthuizen stood at the side of the road, their discussion muted, Mathebe nodding and asking an occasional question to which Oosthuizen responded with expressive hand gestures. He stopped his explanation midsentence, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose as Alet came within earshot. A covered body lay perpendicular to the side of the road, skid marks thick on the road’s tar.

  “Sergeant?” Alet shaded her eyes from the sun, realizing that she’d left her cap at Joyboys.

  Mathebe gave a nod of acknowledgment and walked over to the body.

  “We need you to help with an ID,” Oosthuizen said. He gestured for her to step closer.

  Alet had a sinking feeling. The two men looked at each other before Oosthuizen lifted the sheet. The body of a black man was on its side, one leg at an unnatural angle. The right arm was splayed overhead.

  Oosthuizen lifted the arm up carefully to expose the face. “It’s the Terblanche foreman?”

  Alet put her hand to her mouth. She managed to nod in confirmation.

  “I should have a report for you by this evening.” Oosthuizen covered Jakob again.

  “When did you find him?” Alet tried to get her emotions under control.

  “An hour ago,” Mathebe said calmly. He shook hands with Oosthuizen.

  Alet followed him to the squad car. “This was an accident?”

  “You said you saw him yesterday, Constable. That he was drunk.”

  “Ja, but—”

  “It is conceivable that he ended up on this road. There are no streetlights. A speeding car might not have noticed him until it was too late.”

  “Jakob knew our murder victim. He works on the farm where her body was discovered. Don’t you think it’s somewhat suspicious that he suddenly turns up dead?”

  The crease between Mathebe’s thick brows deepened. “Yes. I do.”

  “So it’s homicide.”

  “We have to wait for the autopsy report, but Dr. Oosthuizen feels the injuries to the body are not explained by the impact alone.”

  “He was killed before?”

  “Severely beaten, but some of the injuries had started to heal. Where are you going, Constable?”

  Alet headed for the van. “I’m sick of people lying to me.” She slammed the door shut and sped off before Mathebe could stop her. Fokken Boet Terblanche. No matter which way she looked at it, he seemed to be there. She felt stupid for denying the possibility that he could be anything but the man she’d once thought him to be. Jakob was loyal to Boet. Could that loyalty have made him protect Boet from a murder conviction? She honked at a slow-moving car in front of her. When it didn’t move any faster, she sped around it.

  Alet stopped in front of Zebra House, her mood flammable, double-parking next to the red pickup. It was only when she got out that she noticed the smashed left headlight and the dent on the driver’s side. She had explained the smashed passenger window with an attempted break-in when she returned the vehicle to Tilly, but she was sure that that had been the only damage.

  “Where’s Mies Tilly?” Alet asked a bewil
dered Maria as she stormed into the restaurant. A few heads looked up from their rum-and-Cokes.

  “Mies?”

  Alet didn’t wait for Maria to answer. She stormed through to the empty kitchen and opened the office door. Jeffrey Wexler looked up from his laptop. In the corner, Tilly lay curled up on a small sofa, her face pale, her expression blank, her chestnut hair limp and greasy in a low ponytail. She barely acknowledged Alet’s presence.

  “Constable Berg. I do believe it’s customary to knock, even in the boondocks.”

  “Tilly, I need to speak to you.”

  Tilly turned her head away. “Not now, Alet.”

  “We can do it here or at the station.”

  “What?” Tilly narrowed her eyes, her irises disappearing.

  “Jakob is dead.” Alet watched a semblance of emotion creep into Tilly’s expression. “How did he know your ma?” Tilly bit a hangnail on her ring finger. Alet turned her attention to Wexler. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Wexler got up from his chair. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?” He gestured toward the kitchen. Tilly didn’t move. Alet nodded and followed him.

  Once the office door was closed behind them, Alet got in Wexler’s face, her voice seething. “What is going on here, Mr. Wexler?”

  “Calm down, luv.”

  “Look, you pissant, it’s Constable Berg. And I’ve had just about enough of all the kak you people have been dishing me, see?”

  “Mathilda is having a rough time.”

  “No shit. Doesn’t explain the state she’s in right now. Or the way the red pickup looks.”

  Wexler showed no reaction, calmly filling the kettle with water.

  Alet crossed her arms. Her dislike for the man was intensifying exponentially. “Well? I’m waiting.”

  “I believe Dr. Oosthuizen gave her a sedative prescription.”

  “She’s high?”

  “She’s been through a lot.”

  “And the pickup?”

  “Probably a little run-in with a lamppost. Nothing serious. Lucky, really, considering the state she’s in.”

  “I’ll need the keys.”

  Wexler gave her a questioning look.

  “The vehicle has to be ruled out in our homicide investigation, Mr. Wexler.”

  “Homicide?” Wexler paled.

  “Ja. Jakob was the victim of a hit-and-run. And Mr. Wexler? I’ll need you to stay in town until all of this is sorted out.”

  Alet went back to the office. Tilly had not moved from the sofa. “Come, Tilly, you can’t stay here.” She knelt next to Tilly when she didn’t get a response. “I need you to sober up. Okay? I need you to come with me and explain what happened last night.”

  Tilly blinked hard, trying to focus through hazed confusion. She nodded slowly. Alet helped her up. Heads arched together as they walked through the restaurant, their progress carried on a flutter of whispers.

  Dominee Joubert stepped up to the microphone, his voice hollow and metallic over the speaker system. “We need three more to fill the tug-of-war, Brothers and Sisters. The winning team gets free tickets to tonight’s cabaret at Joyboys featuring André du Plessis.”

  Alet wondered if Dominee Joubert had gone to the trouble of finding out who André really was yet. She waited until the feedback from the speaker died down.

  “We need to talk to Boet, Jana.” Alet and Mathebe had been looking for Boet at the church bazaar and found Jana working the concessions stand, selling tickets for the braai.

  “He was helping out with the sheep auction. Two farmers donated this year.”

  Alet had heard about this charity sheep auction. There was an unspoken rule that whoever put in the highest bid was supposed to donate the sheep back to the church. The same sheep ended up being auctioned multiple times through the day.

  “It’s about your foreman—” Alet was interrupted by the man in the fake-fur Santa suit and white polyester beard. It took her a moment to realize that it was Boet. He made brief eye contact with her before laying his hand on Jana’s shoulder.

  “Haai, Koeks.” Jana turned her head, her kiss lingering uncomfortably long. “Are you ready for the little ones?” She patted his padded stomach. “Boet plays Santa every year. The kids love it.”

  “So what’s this about, Jakob? Does he need to be bailed out again?” Boet had a forced joviality about him. Probably a few too many bazaar beers. Alet noticed sweat beading on his forehead. In this heat that suit had to be torture.

  Mathebe stepped in. “Could we talk privately, Mr. Terblanche?”

  “Why?” Jana snapped.

  Alet caught Mathebe’s eye. The way he looked at her made her uncomfortable. She turned her attention back to Boet. “Jakob’s body was discovered this morning.”

  Jana put a swollen hand on her chest. The other was stuck to her swollen stomach, as if it might fall off if she let go.

  “What?” Boet frowned. “That can’t be right.”

  Mathebe clasped his hands in front of him, nodding confirmation. “Mr. Mens was struck by a vehicle late last night.”

  “I just saw him yesterday.” Shock sobered Boet. “He asked for half day. Said he had business in town and took the smuggler’s truck in.” He addressed Alet. “Do you know who it was?”

  “Nobody has come forward. We’re waiting for the autopsy.”

  “I see.” Boet had the same look in his eye that he’d had the day of the murder, a surprised fear, as if he was barely keeping it together.

  “One more thing. Do you either of you know anything about the Thokoloshe?”

  Mathebe’s neck stiffened.

  “The what?” Jana’s upper lip lifted in an incredulous sneer. She reached for Boet’s hand, interlacing her fingers with his. “That’s just kid nonsense and superstition.”

  “It’s the nickname for a man named Skosana.”

  “Never heard of him,” Boet said mechanically.

  “Skosana has been known to frequent Magda Kok’s.”

  “That woman,” Jana said with disgust. “Nothing but trouble. Beautiful little girl she has. Shame she has to grow up like that. The police really should do something.”

  “Thanks for your help.” Alet walked away, leaving Mathebe a few paces behind. He caught up to her at the school gates.

  “Constable, what are you doing?”

  “Boet’s lying. Did you see his reaction when I asked him about Skosana? He almost pissed himself. Boet Terblanche is eyeball-deep in this. I say we go after him and see what shakes out.”

  “Are you sure you are the best person to judge Mr. Terblanche’s involvement?”

  “What?”

  “I’m asking if what you see is not influenced by something else.”

  “I don’t know what you—”

  “You had promised you would not lie to me again, Constable.”

  Alet sighed. “That’s personal.”

  Mathebe held up his hand. “Mr. Terblanche is a suspect.”

  “Look, it happened way back, hey. I was …” She struggled for the words, finding it difficult to explain. “I had lost a lot. Everything. It’s not an excuse, but … When I came here, I was lonely, see? It was a mistake. But it is over. Long gone. Forgotten.”

  “You are sure?”

  “I can do my job.”

  A group of teenage girls walked past the gate, chatting noisily. Mathebe motioned to the van and got in.

  “Let me work Boet, find a crack,” Alet said as she closed the door. “He’s ready to break, I can tell.”

  “You have to stay away from Mr. Terblanche.”

  “But—”

  “This has to happen the right way, Constable.”

  A call came in over the radio. Pileup on the N12. Mathebe responded to the dispatcher.

  “We need to wait this out. Find evidence first.” Mathebe turned the siren on. “We cannot proceed with what we have at the moment.” He looked over at her. “Patience, Grasshopper.”

  Alet did a double-take. Did Mathebe just m
ake a joke?

  Alet booked off shift at six and walked home. Between two accidents on the N12 and keeping the bazaar-goers from blocking the streets, she didn’t really feel like going to a show to chitchat with a has-been TV celebrity amid a sea of sunburned drunks. Jakob’s death bothered her. He had been a good oke, no matter his love for the bottle. She should have taken him in last night, let him sleep it off in a cell. Perhaps he’d still be alive.

  Alet closed the groaning gate behind her. She thought about the night she climbed over the fence and ruined her blouse. The same night that Boet followed her home. His clumsy goodbye as he left her flat. The light that went on in Trudie’s living room as Alet slammed the door behind him.

  “Fokker.” Alet took her cell out of her backpack and dialed Mathebe with shaky hands.

  “Constable?”

  “When you went through Trudie’s house, what did it look like?

  “I do not understand.”

  “Did you mess it up?”

  “I always try to be respectful.”

  “So it was in chaos when you got there?”

  “There are photographs of the scene.”

  “You took prints, right? You ran them against Trudie and Tilly. Anyone else’s pop up?”

  “Only a partial index finger print in the living room that did not match Mrs. Pienaar or her daughter. But we do not know how old it is.”

  “Johannes, I think he was in the house.”

  “It is possible. Most victims know their killers.”

  “No. You don’t understand. There was a light that went on in the house that Thursday night. Trudie was already dead. Boet saw it too.”

  “Mr. Terblanche was at your house?”

  “He wanted to talk about what happened on the mountain.” Alet sighed. “Look, I told you the truth. It’s over.”

  Mathebe was quiet for a moment.

  “That print might be the killer’s, Johannes. Can we run it?”

  “There is not enough of it. We need a print to compare it to.”

  Tilly sat on the stoep of Alet’s flat, a mug of coffee at her feet. She had changed into clean clothes and her hair was wet.

  “Johannes, I’ll call you back.” Alet hung up the phone. She walked up to Tilly. “How do you feel?”