In the orphanage, she would lie awake and stare at the walls. She remembered the small metal bed and how the springs had dug into her flesh through the thin mattress. Listening to some of the other girls cry themselves to sleep and hearing their sobs was strangely comforting. There, she wasn’t the only one whimpering at night. Tonight she was alone.
The shadows taunted her with more painful memories.
The key scraped against the lock. Turning onto her side, she curled into the duvet and tucked up her legs into the foetal position. She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. The same way she had when the house-mothers patrolled the hostels. The front door squeaked open. It took her a few seconds to realise that she was in her own flat and that she was safe. Her heart raced. She didn't want to fight anymore.
Louis closed the door softly behind him, bumped into something in the dark, and swore under his breath. His feet shuffled along the passage towards her then made their usual pit stop in the kitchen. The washing machine made a noise when it started. She heard the water from the shower. It was the same ritual every Sunday night. First, he would visit his mother then he would come home. They would fight, and he would disappear for a few hours, come back and put his uniform in the washing machine and then have a quick shower. Where had he been for the last four hours? Had he been with Janet? Or someone else?
She felt him slip into the bed and curl up behind her. His hair still wet. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the nape of her neck.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair.
“Me too.” Her voice was hoarse and sounded strange in the darkness.
His hands started to caress her breasts through her flannel pyjama shirt. He nibbled her earlobe and darted his tongue into her ear. She rolled over onto her back so that she could see his face, but could only make out the outline of his features.
Her index finger traced stubble from his chin to his mouth. He kissed her fingertip and then sucked it. She wanted to ask him where he had been and why he was so affectionate. But asking him would ruin the moment, and any chance of him making love to her would fly out of the window. Not being touched for another month was more than she could face. She ran her fingers through his hair and grabbed hold of the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling his face to hers. The smell of beer and cigarettes drifted up her nose. So that’s what he’d been doing she thought. He'd probably been blowing off steam at Stix, the pool and billiards bar down the road.
His stubble scratched her skin, but his kiss was tender. He teased her with his tongue while his hands explored her body. She had forgotten what it felt like to have his hands on her, in this way, affectionate, seeking, giving. He pulled her pyjama pants down, over her feet and threw them to the floor. While they made love, all she could think of was that whatever he had been doing in the last four hours, he should do it more often.
After he came inside her, he lay on top of her, breathing hard. She clung on to him with her arms and legs, staring at the ceiling. The sound of the wind outside mingled with the sound of Louis’s breathing.
THE PHOTOGRAPHS OF the Bathroom Strangler’s victims adorned the walls of the operations room assigned to the task team investigating the killings. All the women were in their mid-fifties, garrotted and found floating in their baths. Nico’s skin crawled every time he walked into the room. It was no different on this Monday morning. He couldn’t help wondering when the next body would be found. The fact, according to the killer's profile and a witness statement, he was one of their own just pissed him off even more.
He walked up to the wall opposite the door, where most of the pictures were displayed. The wall was divided into the different murder scenes. In the middle of each group of photos was a blown-up headshot of the women before they were murdered. Next to that were pictures of the victims, taken at the mortuary, of their heads and shoulders. It was a ‘before and after’ collage. Around those were smaller snapshots of the individual crime scenes. He felt as if he knew each of the victims personally. He knew he had to distance himself from them but he couldn’t. They all reminded him of his mother: her killer had never been brought to justice.
He heard the rest of the policemen and women who made up the task team filing into the room behind him. Papers shuffled, and desks scraped as they found their seats. Any of them could be the killer. He turned around and watched them drinking coffee and chatting as though they didn’t have a care in the world. He would never be able to understand how they could just shut out the horror on the walls encircling them. Then again, maybe he was someone who felt too much.
He raised his voice above the chatter and scraping of chairs as they started to take their seats.
“Okay boys and girls, we have another body to add to the list. Her name is Theresa van Wyk. Fifty-five years old and divorced. No news on hubby. Steon, that’s your job. Track him down and find out where he was and all the usual bullshit. Thanks,” Nico said, pointing at an overweight policeman at the back of the room. “The Forensic Pathologist isn’t able to give us a clear idea of the exact time of death. Closest we can guess is last Sunday. The Forensic Pathologist has also determined the killer is about six-foot tall due to the angle of the incision. According to her neighbour, a sweet old lady called Mrs Du Plessis, the victim went out to do her shopping at the local Spar in Kilnerpark and to fetch some more boxes for packing. That was the last time she was seen in the land of the living. No one remembers seeing her there. Frank and Lucas: canvas the area again. Maybe they’ve remembered something since yesterday. Bother them at work, maybe that’ll jog their memories. Someone out there has to have seen something. Okay, we now know what kind of wire he’s using, thanks to our forensic team. It seems our boy likes piano wire. He’s using the E sharp wire to garrotte these ladies. So start checking up on piano shops and people who can fix these things. Apparently it’s quite a specialised field. Any questions?” he asked, looking around the room with his hands behind his back.
“Nothing? Our boy seems to have a thing about Sundays, so we probably have less than a week before the next body turns up. This is the third body, so we officially have a serial killer on our hands. Which means there’s going to be a lot of pressure from the press and the brass, so we need to wrap this up as soon as possible and put him away. Remember this guy is killing every week like clockwork. Let’s just hope he sticks to that and doesn’t decide to accelerate his spree and kill every day. That’s all. Now get out there and kindly catch me the murdering SOB. Watch your backs; we don’t want any of your pictures on this wall.”
He watched them leave the room and wondered which they would find first: another dead body or, by some miracle, the killer.
If he were a gambling man, he would have bet on the corpse.
TUESDAY, 2 JULY
Nico stood in a position that was starting to become a habit for him, in front of the pictures on the wall after the daily task team meeting on Tuesday morning. The incessant ringing of a phone on one of the desks exasperated him. He had been trying to get the women in the pictures to reveal something – anything – to him. He needed divine inspiration, maybe even a séance. He was stuck and only they knew the answers to the questions running around in his head. He finally answered the phone to shut it up.
“Van Staaden,” he barked into the receiver, “Okay, give me fifteen minutes to get there.” He slammed the phone down, dragged his wrinkled jacket off the back of a chair and jogged out of the room. Outside the task team operations room was a large open-plan office where policemen and women sat with telephones glued to their ears.
“Lucas, Koos, what are you two still doing here?” Nico shouted at them across the room. They tried to respond, but the words didn’t leave their open mouths in time. “Never mind giving me some excuse! Just call Dr Papenfuss and that photographer, whats-his-face, and tell them to meet me in Silverton, corner of Pretoria and Republic. They’ve found another one,” he shouted over his shoulder as he rushed out of the room.
A CROWD H
AD ALREADY formed outside the small rundown house in Silverton when Nico’s car screeched to a halt. The same young constable from the previous Sunday’s crime scene stood around and yet again looked bored. “Hey, you!” Nico shouted at him. “You’re as useless as tits on a bull. Whenever I see you, you’re standing around doing nothing. Make yourself useful, get some statements or find me a fucking witness and then get rid of the fucking crowd.”
“Yes, Captain. Sorry, Captain.” The young constable mumbled as he made his way towards the crowd of morbid spectators.
Nico stood waiting at the front door to the house. He took a drag of his cigarette and was writing down the name of the victim and all her relevant information when Pete and Thabiso arrived.
“Shocker of all shocks. The good Captain is actually on time for a change” said Thabiso, walking towards Nico.
“Oh, just shut up and take some photos of the crowd before I have them all arrested for loitering,” Nico said, surprised by the anger in his own voice. The case was affecting him more than he wanted to admit. Thabiso looked from Nico to Pete, his mouth emulating a goldfish gasping for air.
“Didn't get it all this morning, huh?” Thabiso asked, trying to soften the atmosphere with some sarcasm.
“That's none of your fucking business. Just do your job,” Nico said and crossed his arms. The banter only pissed him off even more.
“Fine, I’m going. Just remember you need me to be there when you’re walking the scene.” He picked up his camera and stalked off towards the crowd.
“Hey, what’s up with you?” Pete asked. “You don’t normally bite off people’s heads for giving you grief.”
“It’s this case. It’s starting to drive me crazy. If I don’t catch him soon, you’ll have to lock me into one of those padded cells. I heard Weskoppies is quite nice this time of year.”
“So have I, but I don’t think they’ll ever let you out again.”
“How long do you think it’ll take him to do the crowd shots?” Nico asked tilting his head in Thabiso’s direction.
“A few minutes, maybe. How long does it normally take to snap a few shots?”
“At least I can finish my smoke in peace.”
“Just don’t forget to throw the stub in the correct bin.”
“Oh, very funny. Are you always so cute this early in the morning?”
“Yes. Haven’t you noticed?”
They watched Thabiso snap his last shot of the crowd and cars parked in the vicinity. He changed the zoom lens on the camera and put the previous one back in his black camera case. Nico watched as Thabiso looked around, checking to see if he had missed anything. Nico had to admit that the kid was good at his job. After checking he had shots from all angles Thabiso hung the camera around his neck and jogged back to Nico and Dr Papenfuss, his camera bouncing up and down on his chest.
“Are you done?” Nico asked the slightly out-of-breath photographer, who looked as if he had just escaped from the front cover of Men’s Health, which irked Nico even more.
“Yes,” Thabiso answered and nodded his head.
The smell of rotting flesh was not as strong as it had been in the other victims’ homes. The body was still relatively fresh. Nico led them through the dark house. The passage light didn’t work. On closer examination, Nico discovered that the light bulb was encrusted with dust and had probably not been changed in years. The carpet was full of questionable stains. He heard a dog yelping in the backyard. That explained some of the stains. From the sound of its high-pitched yelping, it was something small like a Maltese poodle, a rugby ball with legs. Every time he saw one of those little ankle-biters he wanted to kick them. Dogs were supposed to be big and have a deep bark. These chaff-chaff things were sent here to plague him, he was sure of it. It certainly hadn’t been of any use to the victim.
In the kitchen, they found coffee which had been in the process of being made. The coffee mugs on the counter were chipped and in need of a scrub. The scene was similar to that at Theresa van Wyk’s home and the other two victims. Thabiso took pictures from every angle of the room. Blood had coagulated on the dirty floor, which had probably not seen a mop in months. He would never be able to understand how people could live like this. The only reason Nico could think of was that she had given up all hope if she'd ever had any to begin with.
In the second bedroom of this small, dismal house, they found all her dirty laundry piled up on a single bed with a foam mattress. The room smelt of wet dog. The material covering the mattress was worn through or ripped in places. Dog hair was all over the dirty laundry and all over the parts of the bed that was visible.
In the lounge, magazines were strewn all over the floor. They were predominantly You magazine. The furniture was in need of polish, and the upholstery was old and worn. The springs were showing through the material. They walked into the main bedroom. The bed was unmade, and clothes were strewn across the dirty floor. The smell of dirty laundry hung in the air. There was a thick layer of dust on her chest of drawers. Nothing in any of the rooms seemed to have been disturbed. They left the worst for last and made their way to the bathroom.
The bathroom light didn’t work: there was an old paraffin lamp on top of the toilet cistern. The top of the lamp’s glass chimney was pitch-black from use and lack of cleaning. The bathroom smelt of a strange mixture of urine and jasmine. The woman floating in the bath was bloated but still intact.
“She is Mrs Erica Steenkamp, fifty-four years old, divorced and has a daughter she doesn't speak to. Or so the maid said.” Nico said, reading from his notebook. “I still can't believe she had a maid,” Nico said, looking around the dirty room and then back to his notes. “The neighbour found her. Apparently, the dog was yapping all night and pissing off Mr Neighbour. So he came on over to complain and found the front door unlocked. He walked in, called her name a few times. Went through the house looking for Mrs Steenkamp and found her in here. And like a good citizen, called us.”
“Good thing Mr Neighbour decided to yell at the victim instead of taking matters into his own hands and didn't just shoot or poison the mutt, which so many other people seem to be doing lately. She’s still relatively fresh. Well, a lot more so than any of the other victims. We might actually get lucky and find something of value on this one. But I wouldn’t hold my breath,” Pete said and took out his notebook. “She fits the victim profile. Divorced, mid- to late-fifties, doesn’t take care of herself or anything else. They were all down-and-out. I would say these women represent his mother. That’s just a guess, mind you, but I would say that our boy definitely has issues with an older woman who played a major role in his life. He’s also very controlled. I would say that this woman dominated him throughout his life and this is his sick way of taking back that control. He probably feels that she’s castrated him.” He looked up from the woman in the bathtub and looked at Nico. “Are you listening to me?”
“Oh ja, I heard you. His mother castrated him. Sorry, but I think I’m going to go back to the last crime scene. I keep thinking I’ve missed something,” Nico said, staring down at yet another floating corpse.
6
The crime scene tape was still stretched across Theresa van Wyk’s chipped front door. Nico ran his fingertips over the door and the tape. He gripped it and pulled it downwards. Taking the keys he'd borrowed from the caretaker out of his pocket, he unlocked the door but paused inside the doorway. The smell of death still hung in the air. He had no idea what he was looking for but hoped that he would find some small, overlooked, detail that would help him nail the murdering bastard.
The flat was dark, the curtains closed. Everything seemed to be the same as when he had left it on Sunday, but it felt different. He had a distinct feeling that someone else had been there since the forensics team had vacated the premises: the sensation made his skin crawl. The powder from the fingerprinting was still visible on the yellowing light switches. Little black lines formed a web against the faded yellow backdrop. He walked into the lounge
and swivelled around the room. His eyes swept over everything in sight. Nothing different. Nothing out of place. Nothing which could account for the feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He returned to the kitchen and stood in the doorway. His eyes travelled over the cupboards with dirty fingerprints on the handles. Over the door hanging at a slant. The one Theresa van Wyk had kicked in her struggle to live. Taking a Tums out of his jacket pocket, he opened the green and white packaging using his teeth and popped it into his mouth. The lemon flavour started to fizz as he chewed it.
The docket containing all the reports on Mrs Van Wyk’s murder, including the crime scene photograph album, was nestled under his arm. He went through the pictures and found those taken in the kitchen. He put the docket down on the counter. Thabiso hadn’t missed a single inch of the room. He'd managed to capture all the horror that had taken place in this small kitchen. This had been the place where Theresa van Wyk had taken her last breath. He took another cursory look around the room and compared it with the photographs in front of him. There didn’t seem to be anything missing. He picked up the docket and photo album and walked out of the kitchen and into the dark passage.
In the bathroom he sat on his haunches, bobbing up and down to his own haunted rhythm. With every breath, he inhaled the unmistakable smell of rotting flesh drifted up his nostrils. The rental agent would have a tough time finding a new tenant. He was tempted to open a window and stick his head out of it, but he held the impulse in check, as well as the rising bile which irritated his stomach ulcer. He reached into his pocket again and took out another Tums, popped it in his mouth and chewed on it while he put the photographs of the bathroom on the floor in front of him. He rested his elbows on his knees, his hands dangled between his legs. Looking down at the photos and then at the room around him, always keeping in mind that every crime scene is three dimensional. He looked at the floor, the walls and lastly the ceiling but there was nothing different. It was still the same as it had been on Sunday, except the woman’s corpse was missing. He put the bathroom photographs back into the docket, stood up, closed the shower curtain and walked back into the dark hallway. He took a few steps towards the front door when he remembered that he hadn’t checked the bedroom. He turned around and walked back down the passage.
Requiem in E Sharp Page 5
