“Keep an eye on him, Kalo. Teach him his place if he gives you any trouble.”
Kalo smiled. His teeth seemed unnaturally white against his dark skin. Kalo had made a small fortune working for Adriaan, every kill rewarded, every mission carried out with relish. He owned a huge house in Soweto, a brand-new BMW, two wives and family who had grown accustomed to luxury. But the more precarious the whites’ position became in the country, the more his demands grew. Adriaan wondered if Kalo could still be trusted once the well of money dried up.
Stofberg, a short man in his forties with an intelligent face, came out of one of the rooms at the end of the hallway. “Colonel Berg. I appreciate you coming.” He extended his hand.
“I’m not at Brixton anymore, Stofberg. And you know we’re in the middle of a shitstorm. So what do you want?”
“I thought that …” Stofberg retracted his hand. “Perhaps you should see for yourself.” He turned around and led the way into one of the bedrooms.
The door frame was scorched black, the inside of the room almost totally destroyed, the floor covered in water. On the bed was a human form, female, the outer layer of skin burned black, exposing raw flesh underneath.
“Neighbors called when they saw smoke. The whole house almost went up in flames.”
“Where’s forensics?”
“Everybody’s been called to Shell House. Only me and Lucky left to process it.”
Adriaan studied the scene with a practiced eye. “The fire started on the bed.” He held out his hand. Stofberg handed him a pair of latex gloves.
“Ja. The firemen had the same conclusion. The house is being rented by three flight attendants. The other two are out of town, so it’s possible that this is the third girl, Fransien van der Merwe.”
“Why am I here, Stofberg? The girl probably fell asleep with a lit cigarette.”
“After she threw petrol all over herself? The firemen confirmed an accelerant was used.” Adriaan carefully lifted the skull, finding traces of scorched blond hair beneath it. “Do you have a photograph of her?”
Stofberg left the room briefly and came back with a small square frame. A smiling young couple, their arms around each other, looked back at him, the man making bunny ears behind a girl with white hair and high cheekbones. Adriaan knew without a doubt that Benjamin De Beer was back in Johannesburg.
“You were the lead on the Angel Killer, Colonel. I read all the files. I thought you could perhaps—”
“The Angel Killer hasn’t been active in years.”
“But he has also never been caught.”
Adriaan looked at the Fransien van der Merwe in the picture. She was only a few years older than Alet. “We followed all the leads. We got nowhere. The murders stopped. He’s probably dead.”
“But, sir …”
“Listen to me, Stofberg, I’m not going to tell you this is the Angel Killer just because a blond girl was burned in her bed.” Adriaan barely contained his agitation.
“You were close. I studied the file.” The accusation was clear in Stofberg’s voice. “If it’s him there will be more girls, you know,” he said when Adriaan didn’t answer.
Adriaan peeled the gloves off. He recognized the flimsy concern that veiled Stofberg’s true ambition, the potential for besting the legend of Adriaan Berg by solving the one case he couldn’t. He gave Stofberg a smile. “You think you can do better? Be my guest.”
“Wait. I pulled the case files. While you were working on the Angel Killer case, you requested DNA tests on some old unsolved murder case of a student in Pretoria.”
“Ja, so?”
“You also had samples processed. But there’s no record of the results in the file.”
“After all these years and the state of that evidence locker, I’d be astonished if you found anything. Look, I’m a busy man, Stofberg. Can you get to the point before our new government takes over?”
“What was in that report, Colonel?”
“It was a dead end.”
“I think you found him, Colonel. That you matched him up with that early case. That you know who he is.”
“If we could convict criminals with theories, you’d be a champion, Stofberg. As it is, you have nothing. Why would I let a killer go free?”
Stofberg stared at him without answering. Adriaan snorted and walked away. Stofberg was digging, getting too close. Adriaan would have to make sure his line of inquiry was quashed.
After De Beer left his blood on the car door at the zoo, Adriaan had had it tested. The results came back negative for human DNA. It had puzzled the hell out of the techs. It sounded like nonsense, the stuff of myth and nightmare, a monster preying on humans. Nobody would have believed it. But Adriaan had known Benjamin De Beer, had seen what he was capable of. There was no doubt in his mind that the man wasn’t human. Not a day had gone by since the incident at the zoo that Adriaan hadn’t thought about taking that animal down. He kept his investigation off the books, though, leading the official line of inquiry away from De Beer. The trail had been cold for so long, Adriaan had almost given up.
Kalo pulled into Berg’s parking spot at John Vorster Square. In front of them loomed the granite monolith. Adriaan had always been proud to walk into that front entrance. This was all he ever wanted to do. Find the criminal, destroy the enemy. But the thought of going in there now, dealing with the bureaucratic fallout of the bombing instead of hunting De Beer, felt oppressive.
“You right, Boss?”
Adriaan came out of his reverie, contemplating the meaning of De Beer’s return. “I need you to do something for me, Kalo. On the quiet, see?”
Kalo nodded.
“I need to find someone. Double pay if you do.”
Kalo’s smile seemed to extend beyond the confines of his face. “You give me a name, Boss. It’s done.”
“I don’t have a name. Couldn’t find anything on her either.” Adriaan took the faded photograph out of his wallet, pointing at the girl.
“Nice. You want me to take care of her?”
Adriaan considered it for a moment. “No. Not yet.”
14
Tuesday
DECEMBER 21, 2010
“Homicides, all of them. According to the coroner reports they were killed before their bodies were burned.” Theo yawned. He dropped the notebook on his desk. “Only the last two in here were part of the Angel Killer investigation, though.”
“He started a new notebook.”
“If it’s the same guy, he only played with the idea of fire in the beginning. Or he was a huge bungler.” Theo pointed to the list of names on his computer screen. “These first girls, in the late fifties, only had partial burns. The strangulation marks were still visible. After the mid-seventies, the bodies were all beyond recognition. That’s a really slow learning curve.”
“Or he changed his MO. But why?” Alet looked at the printouts of case-file pictures spread out chronologically on the floor in front of her, all of them blond females, all of them vaguely resembling one another. She took out the picture she’d found of Trudie from the seventies, when her hair was long and blond like the others, a startled expression on her face as if she didn’t expect the camera. Her eyes were pale and ethereal. Alet dropped it into the final spot. Something bothered her about the picture, but she couldn’t put her finger on it; an unsettling memory, buried just beyond her reach.
Theo got up and walked to the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“It’s too late, I’ll never sleep.”
Theo glanced at his watch. “Wine?”
Alet nodded.
“I thought you said that the DNA matches were negative.” Theo took a bottle of red wine from the rack and dug around in the drawer for a bottle opener.
“Ja.” Alet sat down on the floor, crossing her legs. “Koch said Trudie was the only one with the gene mutation.”
“So was she killed because she looked like the others?”
“I don’t know. I think she might have been the reason
he killed them.”
“What do you mean?” Theo poured the wine and handed Alet a glass.
“The victims got progressively older. Look here—they all died around the time their biological age matched up to hers. That can’t be a coincidence.”
Theo looked over her shoulder at the photographs. “A very old guy, then.”
“Who likes blondes.” Alet put a fist to her mouth, trying to stifle a yawn.
“We’re talking about a huge chunk of the male population.” Theo sat down next to Alet. “Why didn’t he just kill Trudie Pienaar if she was his target? What do these other woman have to do with it?”
Alet’s cell vibrated on the table. “Johannes? What took so long? It’s after midnight already.”
“Mr. Wexler admitted to selling the children.”
“And Mynhardt?” There was a short silence on the other end of the line. “Please don’t tell me—”
“He refused to say anything more.”
“He can’t explain how he pulled the whole thing off without implicating Mynhardt and Jana Terblanche.” Alet shifted in her seat, watching Theo at the computer. Theirs was an uneasy truce. She had apologized to him for her outburst, he in turn for his unflattering remarks, but the air wasn’t quite clear. Alet didn’t know how to broach the subject, didn’t know that she wanted to. But she needed him to help her solve the case. She’d deal with the rest later.
“Theo managed to pull the numbers off Mynhardt’s cell, Johannes.” Alet caught Theo’s eye and smiled at him. Theo gave her a small nod and turned back to the computer screen. “Mynhardt and Wexler definitely talked, especially around the date when the Bravermans were in town.”
“It does not prove anything by itself.”
“What about the Skosana incident the other night at Zebra House?”
“Mr. Wexler said Skosana was angry that he had not arranged another buyer. He wanted to get paid a second time for the same child, a six-month-old girl.”
Alet felt alarmed that the baby was still in Skosana’s possession. “Where are they keeping her?”
“Mr. Skosana has a girlfriend on the Terblanche farm.”
“Magda Kok.” Alet could kick herself. She remembered the cradle. It had been right there in front of her. Magda looked after the children while they were waiting to be sold off. “Did you send someone out there?”
“Child Services has taken custody of the baby and the older child. There is a warrant out for the arrest of Gareth Skosana and his associates.”
“Ngwenya?”
“I will interview him when you do your pointing-out.”
“Oh. Ja. That.” Alet had forgotten about the witness statement she was scheduled to give at the scene. The charges against her would not be dropped until her hearing. She had to convince a review board of the events of that night. If Ngwenya could be implicated in the Braverman killings, her shooting him might be viewed as justified.
“I need to talk to Wexler.”
“Constable—”
“Please, Johannes. He knows the truth about Trudie. I know I can get him to talk.”
A brief silence. “Perhaps you are right.”
Alet hung up the phone, a heaviness settling over her as she emptied her glass. Theo motioned to refill it, his hands poised on the wine bottle. Alet waved him away. “No. I … I need to go to sleep.” She sank into the couch, her head too heavy to hold up any longer.
“I’ll get you a pillow and a—”
Theo’s silhouette fractured in her vision. She fought the depths pulling at her, trying to keep up conversation, but sleep enticed her to its molten core, and she gave up.
A persistent buzzing clawed at Alet’s inertia. She tried to find the cause, her senses muffled. Her fingers found her phone on the ground next to the couch, its vibration sending an unpleasant tickle up her arm. Its journey between the floor and her ear was glacial.
“Hallo?” Alet was met with silence, the call disconnected. She tried to pry her eyes open. Theo’s name came up as a missed call; in fact, there were several missed calls, two from Koch. Alet noticed the time on her phone. “Fok.” It was ten-thirty already. She was supposed to have met with Koch at nine. She sat up, realizing she was only wearing her T-shirt. Her jeans lay neatly folded on the coffee table.
Alet pressed the redial button on her phone.
“Alet?” Theo aspirated her name, relief in his voice. “I’ve been calling all morning.”
“I just woke up.” Alet tried to clear the fog from her mind as she dressed. “Last night … I must have been exhausted.”
“You were pretty out of it.”
“What’s going on?”
“Turn on SABC 1.”
Alet reached for the remote on the coffee table. The screen sprung to life after a few seconds, the image of a black female reporter in a beige suit jacket jerking onto the screen.
“… death toll on the roads now nearing eight hundred for December. I’m here, on the outskirts of Khayelitsha Township, where a car veered off the road hours ago and crashed into a convenience store.”
Behind the reporter, men were working on the crumpled wreck of a blue sedan, its nose smashed into the wall of a small square building covered in bright advertisements. Groceries lay scattered on the sidewalk. The frame cut to a prerecorded clip. A man, dressed in a hotel porter uniform, gestured toward the wreck, other brown faces looking over his shoulder at the camera. “I had to jump to get out of the way. Others too!”
The reporter’s face appeared on the screen again. “The cause of the accident has not been confirmed yet, but it is believed that the driver, identified as a professor at the University of Cape Town, lost control of the vehicle.”
Alet felt cold.
“It’s Koch,” Theo confirmed. “They’ve been running the story for the past couple of hours. I spoke to the police. He’s in critical condition … Alet?”
Alet took her hand away from her mouth. “We were supposed to meet today, Theo.” Alet grabbed her jeans from the pile on the coffee table and finished dressing. She lost her balance, one leg in her pants, and banged her knee against the table. “Eina. Fok!”
“Are you all right?”
“Ja … I don’t know.” Alet sat down on the couch and took a deep breath. “You think this might be the killer? That he found out Koch was onto him?”
“It was a car crash, Alet. The policeman I spoke to said it looks like he swerved to miss a baboon in the road. They’re all over the place that side of town.”
“This stinks, Theo.”
“I know.” Theo sighed. “Listen, I ran prints against that partial. It’s not Jana Terblanche.”
“What about Mynhardt?”
“Corruption is one thing, Alet, but murder—”
“You read the TRC testimony. Just because Mynhardt was never prosecuted doesn’t mean a thing. If he was involved with a death squad, he’s capable of this. He’s been making a lot of money with this baby thing. If Trudie threatened to expose him … Don’t tell me he wouldn’t have done whatever it took to keep her quiet.”
“I thought you were looking for this weird serial-killer guy.”
“This is all connected somehow, Theo. Please. Rule Mynhardt out, then, if nothing else.”
“Okay, okay.”
“I’m going to the hospital. I’ll see you after.”
Alet had learned a long time ago that if you looked confident in what you were doing, people rarely questioned you. The same was true when she walked into intensive care and announced at the desk that she was Koch’s daughter. The receptionist directed her to a waiting room where the other family members had gathered. Alet slipped down the hall to Koch’s room. She could pick out the familiar smell of blood masked by disinfectant. Koch’s wispy gray hair was pasted to his scalp, and his frozen face had a sallow color. A gash ran from his forehead down the side of his nose and right cheek, and a plastic brace enfolded his neck and back. Wires attached to hidden places on his body, springing forth fro
m his hospital gown in a tangled web. A huge plastic tube snaked from his mouth, the respirator beeping with reassuring regularity. It was hard to reconcile this damaged body with the peculiar little man who had given her such grief.
Alet opened the locker next to Koch’s bed. His glasses were sealed in a plastic bag, the right lens cracked, the frame bent, resting on a shelf next to a pair of shoes, a watch and a wedding ring. It was a miracle they weren’t looted off his body at the scene. A tan briefcase had been slid into the top shelf of the locker. Alet reached for it.
“Miss Koch? You shouldn’t be in here.” The nurse smiled sympathetically. “I know it’s hard. I promise we’ll let you know if there is any change.”
Alet quickly closed the locker door, the briefcase tucked under her arm. “I wanted to take his things home before they …”
The nurse nodded. “That’s probably a good idea.” She touched Alet’s arm. “There’s always hope,” she said. “Remember, your father is in God’s hands.”
“They ran a toxicology report, didn’t they? What did they find?”
The nurse’s hand froze, a confused frown nestling into her homely features. “I don’t know if the results are back yet.”
“Do you know how it happened?”
The nurse shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” Alet walked past the waiting-room door and out of the hospital, her heart racing. Only once she was on the road did it feel like she could breathe again. She couldn’t accept that it had been an accident. Koch had found something and he was going to tell her, she was sure of it. Someone wanted to make sure that it didn’t happen.
Alet turned into the university’s empty parking lot and reached for Koch’s briefcase. It contained a wallet, keys, a half-eaten ham sandwich carefully rewrapped in cellophane, folders with grade sheets for the semester and three rolls of cherry-flavored sweets. Alet went through everything, desperate to find a clue as to why Koch wanted to meet, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She cut through the campus, Koch’s keys in her pocket. The grounds were eerily quiet, the quad empty in the lazy afternoon sun, the academic staff on vacation. Only the truly dedicated would be here now, instead of spending vacation time with their families.
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