Requiem in E Sharp

by Joan De La Haye

  “Seriously? Don’t they have anything better to do?”

  “Nah, all they used to worry about was who was shagging whom. At least now it’s interesting. So, aren’t you any closer to finding him?”

  “We're working on it. We've got a few leads we're looking into.”

  “Well, that's good. Maybe you'll catch him before the next one.”

  The look on Nico's face told him it was doubtful.

  “We live in hope one of the leads will pan out and will break the case,” Nico said.

  Louis laughed. He couldn't help himself.

  “So, that's the party line is it?” Louis asked with an ambiguous smile.

  “I'm afraid so,” Nico said and took a swig from his beer.

  “That's okay. I understand. Janet told me about what happened with your ex. If I were in your shoes, I'd also be careful about who I discussed things with.”

  “Janet told you about Helen?” Nico almost spat out his beer.

  “Ja, we tell each other everything. Have done since we were kids. No secrets in our group.” Louis sipped his beer and wondered if he should have said that. The look on Nico's face was not encouraging.

  “That's good to know.” Nico swallowed a large gulp of beer.

  Just as Louis was about to ask Nico another question, Nico's cell phone rang.

  “Sorry, I have to take this,” he said with a slight sigh of relief and answered, “Van Staaden”.

  Nico nodded his head a few times.

  “Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said to the person on the other end. Turning back to Louis, he said, “That was the Forensic Pathologist. It seems he’s ready to talk to me now. I’m sorry to cut this short but duty calls.”

  “Sure, not a problem, maybe we can do this some other time. I know the girls want us to be friends.”

  “Okay-ja-no-well-fine. Give me a shout some time, and we can make a plan.”

  Nico walked out of the bar leaving Louis still sitting on his stool and with the bill. Louis took a final swig of his beer with a grimace and paid for the beers. Things hadn't gone quite as he'd hoped.

  “Well, I guess I’d better visit my mother,” he muttered to himself as he left.

  WALKING INTO HIS MOTHER’S flat brought back too many memories. Hardly any of them good. Why he put himself through this every Sunday, he would never know. He picked up the old photo of his parents on their wedding day. It had been standing on his mother’s dusty piano ever since his father left. He would never forget that night. The sounds of his parents fighting in the lounge had woken him up.

  “I don’t want you or that bastard of yours!” his father yelled. “I’m not even sure he’s mine! You’re just a fucking whore! You’re both good for nothing!”

  Tears ran down his face as he snuck out of his bedroom and down the dark passage. His bare feet didn’t make a sound on the cold tiles. He peered around the wall and saw his mother holding a full whisky glass, emptying the contents into her mouth. His father picked up his packed bags and walked out of the house and out of his life. He watched in shock as his mother threw the empty whisky glass at the shut door. She turned around and saw him standing there. He tried, unsuccessfully, to make himself invisible.

  “You!” she shouted, “It’s all your fault! If it weren’t for you, he’d still be here!” In a matter of seconds, she had grabbed him by his pyjama collar and dragged him to the bathroom. She flung him in. He skidded across the cold, smooth floor and cracked his head on the bathtub. She kicked him over and over again. Everything went black.

  Hours later he woke up in the bathroom on the cold floor with his legs wet and sticky. The slightest movement caused him pain. He remembered that his father was gone. His father didn’t want him anymore, and his mother hated him.

  The sound of his mother calling him from the kitchen brought him back to the present. He was no longer the scared little six-year-old boy but a thirty-one-year-old man.

  “Louis, is that you?” his mother screeched from the kitchen.

  “Ja, Ma,” he yelled back as he walked through the small dirty house towards the kitchen. He poked his head around the door.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  “Sorry, Ma.” He looked down at his feet.

  “But what else could I expect from you, hey?”

  “Yes, Ma. Sorry, Ma.” He examined his feet more closely. He should have polished his shoes: she would notice. He rubbed the tip of his left shoe up and down on his calf, hoping that his jeans would somehow manage to give his shoes that just-polished shine. He then did the same to his right shoe.

  “What are you doing hopping around like an idiot for?” His mother had caught him, she always did.

  “Nothing, Ma.”

  “That’s the problem with you. You’re always doing nothing. You just stand there looking like an idiot. Make yourself useful for a change and make your poor mother a cup of coffee.”

  “Yes, Ma.” He put the kettle on and took a mug out of the cupboard above his head. His mother walked out of the kitchen and waited to be served her coffee in the lounge. He poured the boiling water into the mug, added a heaped teaspoonful of Frisco and three spoons of sugar. No milk. Her coffee was as black as her heart. He carried the hot coffee through to the lounge, careful not to spill a drop.

  She sat on the couch with her legs crossed. He could still see the attractive woman she had once been beneath the wrinkles and the overdone makeup. He’d need a knife to scrape the gunk off her face to see what she really looked like. He put the coffee down in front of her and sat down on the edge of the opposite couch. She took a sip and immediately spat it out.

  “What kind of crap coffee is this?” she asked as she smacked the mug down on to the dusty and now wet table.

  “It’s how you always drink it, Ma.”

  “Are you trying to poison me? After everything I’ve done for you.”

  “No, Ma,” he said. “I can make you another cup if you don’t like that one.”

  “No, you’ll just try to poison me again. Pour me a strong drink instead. At least you won’t be able to put poison in my whisky with me watching you like a hawk.”

  “Ma, how many times do I have to tell you that I’m not trying to poison you? ... Nobody is. You’re imagining things.”

  “Don’t backchat me, little boy. Just pour me my fucking drink.”

  “Yes, Ma. Sorry, Ma.”

  He stood up and walked over to the small battered cupboard that served his mother as her liquor cabinet. He took out the bottle of Three Ships Whisky and poured a triple tot into a dirty glass standing on top of the cabinet. He put the glass down in front of her. She picked it up and threw the contents down her throat. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she handed the glass back to Louis.

  “Pour me another one and make it stronger this time.”

  He poured her another triple shot and gave her the glass without a word.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Louis,” she said and downed the alcohol. “I deserve a little bit of respect after everything I’ve sacrificed for you. I’m all alone because of you, and you want to desert me just like your father.”

  “No, Ma, I’m not going to desert you. I’m here every Sunday, aren’t I?”

  “But you would love to desert me just like your father, wouldn’t you?”

  “No, Ma. You’re the only mother I have, and I love you.”

  “Show me how much you love me and pour me another drink.”

  He took the glass from her and poured her another drink.

  “Good boy,” she said when he gave her the glass. “Give your mother a kiss and then get lost. I’ve seen enough of your ugly face.”

  He bent over and kissed her on her forehead.

  “No. Kiss me properly.”

  He bent over and kissed her on the lips. Her tongue slithered into his mouth. He tasted the whisky and wanted to throw up. He managed to extract himself from her vice-like grip on the nape of his neck before he gagged
.

  He turned, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and walked towards the dark passageway that led to the front door. He stopped at the piano. It was incongruous. It didn’t fit in with the other furniture, which was all bargain-basement stuff; it certainly wasn’t compatible with the woman he knew to be his mother.

  The piano had belonged to his father. His father had taught his mother to play when they first met but she now only thumped on it when she was drunk. She always thumped out the same piece of music, the last piece his father had tried to teach her to play, a Rachmaninoff piece, which his mother called the ‘coffin concerto’. As he closed the door behind him, he heard his mother start to bang on the piano. The sound tarantella’d up his spine.

  It sounded like knocking from the inside of a closed coffin.

  4

  Nico arranged to meet the Forensic Pathologist in the Government Mortuary. The smell of industrial strength disinfectant hung in the air. The mortuary was kept clean and sterile judging by how the surfaces seemed to sparkle. The sparkling almost belied the fact that the only thing to be found in this basement was a bunch of dead people. He thought it was strange that it was cleaner here, where they kept these dead bodies than many hospitals where people were fighting to stay alive.

  The Forensic Pathologist, Dr Michael Keartland, was standing over Theresa van Wyk’s corpse with Dr Pete Papenfuss when Nico walked into the mortuary. Her clothes had been peeled off her flesh slowly and carefully to limit the damage, but despite this, some of her skin was stuck to her jeans and jersey, leaving behind bloody meat and bone. What was left of her body had been cleaned and was in the process of being autopsied. The case had been bumped to the front of the queue.

  A Y-incision had been made in Theresa van Wyk's chest, and her ribcage had been removed using garden pruning shears. He was relieved he would miss the rest of the autopsy. He saw enough blood and guts every day – he didn’t need to see an entire post-mortem as well.

  “Have you two discovered anything interesting?” Nico asked from the door. They looked up from the body.

  “Well, I’ve found out what kind of wire your Bathroom Strangler’s been using,” said a very proud Pete.

  “That’s good news. What kind of wire is it?”

  “I know how you hate all the technical information, so I called the forensic guys for you.”

  “Thanks, you get brownie points for that. Now tell me what kind of wire it is?”

  “Patience is a virtue, but it’s piano wire: E sharp to be exact, also commonly referred to as F natural. The old codger in the lab is insisting that in his day it was referred to as E sharp and that it should stay that way.”

  “Okay ... interesting. But how the hell did they figure that out?”

  “They’ve been experimenting with different wires up until now, and they found a microscopic piece still stuck inside Michelle Venter’s throat, the first victim. It’s a miracle that it was still there, considering how long she was in the water. Anyway, the bit they found in this lady over here,” he said pointing down at Theresa van Wyk's naked body on the metal slab, “just confirmed their suspicions.”

  “Okay Doc, I get the picture. Why are you so sure that it’s piano wire? Couldn’t it just be any old kind of wire?”

  “It’s possible, but the flake they found has the same consistency as piano wire. Besides which, piano wire is the best type of wire for garrotting, especially E sharp. It’s thin and sharp and cuts through clay very nicely, apparently. Plus the way the wire slit all the victims’ throats is almost an exact match to the way the E sharp wire cut through the mounds of clay they used in the lab.”

  “So that’s how they experiment with different types of wire?” Nico asked him.

  “That's right. They used clay as a substitute for the human body.

  “Thanks again, Doc. Is there anything else?” Nico asked Pete.

  “Yes, I have a little something for you.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of coiled wire. “I thought you might want to see an example of what the wire looks like and put it up on your wall of horror.”

  “Thanks, Doc. Is that everything?”

  “I think so, but I’ll let you know if I find anything else.”

  “Good.” And then turning to the Forensic Pathologist, “Please tell me you also have something and that you’re going to make my life considerably easier.”

  “Nothing quite as exciting as Dr Papenfuss here,” said the Pathologist. “But judging by the angle of the cut he was quite tall approximately six feet and, like the other victims, she wasn’t raped. No signs of vaginal tearing or subcutaneous bruising that would indicate rape or any other kind of sexual activity. That’s about all I can tell you. The time she spent in the water destroyed any other evidence as well as messing with the time frame. So I can’t give you an estimate as to the time of death. I’ll have the results from the blood work in a few days if we're lucky and I’ll be able to tell you more then.”

  “I guess I'll just have to work on my patience and wait for the lab,” he said while shaking his head. “Well, thank you, doctors, for your help. Now I just have to do some old-fashioned detective work.”

  NATALIE SAT AT THE kitchen table chewing her nails. She watched the front door from her perch, expecting it to open with every second that ticked past.

  She hated Sundays.

  At least the day had started off well in spite of the dead body interrupting their lunch. She glanced at the yellow kitchen clock. Eight o’clock: he should be back any moment now. She drummed her fingertips on the chipped wooden surface and then combed her fingers through her hair, noticed split ends and bit them off. The minutes carried on ticking by.

  She was still staring at the clock half an hour later when the keys rattled in the lock. She bolted from her seat and stood in the kitchen doorway nibbling on her fingers, waiting for him. She recognised the look on his face the moment he walked through the doorway. It was the same look he had almost every Sunday night. He closed the door behind him and pushed past her into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, took out a beer and slammed the door shut. Natalie stayed planted in the doorway. Louis downed the beer and then exhaled.

  “So how’s your mother?” Natalie asked, leaning against the doorframe.

  “The same as she always is. Cruel and mean,” he said, grabbing another beer out of the fridge. Again he slammed the door shut and pushed past Natalie on his way out of the kitchen.

  “Then why do you go every Sunday, especially after everything she’s done to us?” she asked, following him out of the kitchen.

  “She’s still my mother, and if you had ever had a mother, you would know that blood is thicker than water. Now please, Nat, not now. I’m not in the mood for one of your little tantrums.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “What is what supposed to mean?”

  “The whole blood-is-thicker-than-water crap and I’m not throwing a tantrum.”

  “Just shut up. I’m not in the mood for this. I might as well have stayed at my mother’s if this is how you’re going to be.”

  “No. I will not shut up. Why do you always have to shove not having parents in my face?” Tears started to fall down her cheeks.

  “For fuck's sake, Natalie, just stop with the waterworks. I get enough of that crap from my mother. I sure as hell don’t need it from you, especially not tonight.”

  “You wish I’d done it properly, don’t you?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about now?”

  “The night I slit my wrists. You wanted me to die, didn’t you? You wanted me gone so you could be with Janet.”

  “Just stop right there. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I don't want to be with Janet. I never have.”

  “Liar!” She screamed at him, pushing him, but she couldn’t stop herself. She knew which buttons to press. She was alive when she felt pain – any pain, be it mental, emotional or physical. Pain was her friend. “Well, I�
��m sorry I didn’t die. I’m sorry you have to deal with having me in your pathetic little life.”

  She knew she was on the verge of being hysterical and felt the back of his hand slam into her cheek. The familiar stinging sensation brought her back from the edge. Her tears ran down over the red welt developing on her pale cheek. He struggled to maintain control and clenched and unclenched his fists. She stood rooted to the floor. Sobs racked her body.

  “Don't ever say that again. I never want to hear you utter those words ever again. Do you hear me?” he shouted and shoved his index finger in her face.

  She had nothing left to say. Her only response was a gut-wrenching sob. He pushed her out of his way, forcing her to fall to the floor, and stepped over her. The front door slammed behind him. She heard him rev the engine of his battered Toyota Tazz followed by the squeal of tyres as he drove out of the parking lot below.

  Lying on the cold kitchen floor, memories of the night not so long ago flooded over her. Louis's mother had paid her an unexpected and unwelcome visit. The evil cow had taken great relish in telling her all the sordid details about Louis's sexual escapades with Janet and with one other person. Oh god, she groaned. It was just too horrible to think about: the betrayal was too much to bear.

  How could they pretend to love her when they were doing that behind her back? She didn't remember how the knife had appeared in her hand. She didn't remember what else his mother said. All she knew was when she sliced into her wrists, and the blood seeped out of her veins, the agony stopped. The noise in her head was silenced. It was the most peaceful she'd ever felt. Even that evil woman’s cruel laughter didn't bother her.

  She'd woken up in the hospital with Louis standing over her. He'd promised that things would change. Empty promises. Nothing had changed.

  Ginger slinked out of whatever hiding place she'd been in and rubbed herself against Natalie and purred.

  5

  Natalie couldn’t sleep. She was lying on her back in their bed with the duvet pulled up to her chin. The wind buffeted against the windows. The streetlights outside the bedroom window caused shadows to form on the walls. She watched them dance to a strange rhythm. The tune changed every time a car drove past.