“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Oh yes.”
She stuck her hand inside his underpants and took a firm hold of him. Her fingers were magical tentacles, touching, stroking, and making him feel things he hadn't felt since Helen. He felt himself respond to her touch. She looked up at him with a pleased grin. He took her glasses off their perch on her nose and kissed her.
“What happened to wanting to wait?”
“We’ve waited long enough.”
She bent her head down, freed him from his jeans which were getting tighter and licked the tip of his penis.
“Oh, god,” he murmured
She started sucking.
“Oh, God. You’re incredible.”
“You like that do you?” she said, looking up at him.
He pulled her head up to his face and kissed her hard. Picking her up, he carried her down the passageway to his bedroom. It was the first time he'd had a woman in his bed in a very long time. He just hoped he'd live up to her expectations and his own.
“OKAY BOYS AND GIRLS, settle down,” Nico said, looking at his team. He focused on each of them, finding it difficult to believe any one of them might be the man he was after. He had worked with each of them for years. He knew them all, had gone out drinking with them, braaied with them and their families. Pete's profile had to be wrong. He had to be wrong. The caretaker and the other witnesses had to be wrong.
“Dr Papenfuss has amended and improved the profile on the Bathroom Strangler. According to him, our boy has a mother fixation. In other words, for those of you who don’t speak psyche, he wants to kill his mother. He probably also killed or maimed animals when he was a kid. The fact that he kills on Sundays has to have something to do with his mother. You know, the whole thing about Sundays being a family day and all of that crap. Also, statistically speaking, people are more prone to commit suicide on Sundays. Our boy decided homicide was a much healthier way of expressing himself. And considering he kills every Sunday, we only have a couple of days to go till the next one drops. So, people, we need to get a move on. Has anyone found out anything about the piano wire that our boy uses?” Nico waited for a response. His audience looked at the floor, at the wall, everywhere except where he wanted them to look. They avoided looking at him.
“So I take it that’s a ‘no’. Would one of you wonderful people please tell me why the fuck not?”
Silence. Someone in the back of the room coughed.
“Eben,” he shouted across the room at the man guilty of coughing. “Would you be so kind as to tell me why nobody here is able to tell me the reason why the forensic team’s hard work has not been able to bear fruit?”
“Because it’s a dead end,” Eben mumbled
“What was that Eben? Please speak up. We can’t hear you.”
“I said it’s a dead end. Manufacturers aren’t able to tell us what kind of piano it comes from because it’s the same kind of wire that they use for every single type of piano that's sold in this country. Do you have any idea how many pianos there are in this country? There are a shitload, okay? So short of doing a house-to-house search of everyone in Pretoria and asking them if they have a piano with a missing E sharp or F wire, we have jack-shit. Okay?”
“Okay. Thank you, Eben, but that sounds like a fucking cop-out, and I think you should check again. While you're at it you can check sales records for names of people who have bought that type of wire, also have a look at piano tuners who have had to replace that wire for any of their clients. No wonder the people out there think we’re useless. We can’t even find out about a piece of wire. The death toll is up to five. People are scared, so watch yourselves out there. Kindly get your arses in gear and catch the mother-hating bastard. Thank you and get out.”
He watched them file out of the room. When they found the next body, he would be ready and waiting. He realised that he would have to carry out his plan alone. Not knowing who he could trust was a royal pain in the arse.
SUNDAY, 7 JULY
She closed one eye trying to coerce the three dotted lines to become one. That didn’t work. She decided to aim her car at the middle line and straddled it. White flashing lights winked at her in the rear-view mirror. It took her a few moments and a disembodied voice telling her to pull over before she realised that the cops were trying to get her attention. Usually, the police flashed blue lights at her, and their sirens gave her a headache. She far preferred this new way of doing it, it was less noisy.
“Shit,” she slurred, as her fuzzy mind grasped that she could be arrested again. She hid the empty bottle of vodka under her seat with shaky hands. The policeman got out of his car and slammed his door. The sound of the slamming door ricocheted around her head a few times.
She put her hands in front of her eyes trying to protect them from the bright torchlight the policeman insisted on shining in her face.
“Have you been drinking, Ma’am?” a deep voice asked her.
“No, ozzifer. I never drink on the Lord’s Day,” she said, trying not to slur her words. She sounded like a weedeater, inadvertently placing zs in all the wrong places.
“I see, ma’am. Do you normally drive in the middle of the road?” he asked her.
“Yes, osfizer, I always drive in the middle of the road. I prefer to drive that way. It makes things so much more interesting.”
“I see, ma’am. I should actually take you down to the station for driving under the influence, but the holding cells are usually full on a Sunday night. So I think I’ll drive behind you and make sure you get home safely.”
“Thank you, Ozzifer, but I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll get home just fine.”
“I’d rather make sure you get home in one piece, ma’am. I'll sleep better tonight.”
“Suit yourself, but I live just around the corner. I can make it there on my own.”
“I know, ma’am, but I’ll feel better knowing you got home safe and sound.”
“I live just over there,” she said, waving her hand in the general direction of where she lived.”
“Okay, ma’am, I’ll be right behind you.”
The bright light disappeared, and she heard the footsteps retreating. A car door slammed shut, making her cringe. It took her a few engine-grinding tries before she managed to put the gear lever into first. She straddled the dotted white line and drove at 20km/h. The steering wheel decided to go its own way once or twice, and she bounced on and off the pavement. She veered right into Anna Wilson Street, bumped onto the pavement and screeched to a halt outside the green fence of her block. The complex was three different blocks of flats, each three storeys high.
She climbed out of her car on unsteady legs. He caught her when she stumbled and helped her to her feet. She fumbled through her oversized handbag for the remote control for the gate. She hated that remote. It was never where she put it. It always hid from her. Her trembling fingers found the remote. She dropped it. He picked it up. The gate wheels squeaked on their tracks as they opened. She stumbled once again and fell to her knees. She tasted vodka and bile. Her non-existent stomach muscles tensed as she heaved. Her mouth opened: it felt as though her jaw would dislocate as the hot liquid poured out of her open mouth onto the pavement.
She felt his strong hands grip her around her waist and help her to her feet once again. He half-carried her through the open gate, leaving her car on the pavement. She didn't remember locking the car door. He pushed open the wooden door to the second block and helped her inside. She tasted bile and heaved. They made it to the pot plant in the entrance hall just in time.
“Oh well,” he said. “The plant won’t need any other nutrients for a while.”
He propped her up against the wall and waited for the lift to take them to the third floor.
The lift rattled all the way up. On several occasions, she thought she would lose what was left of her stomach. Her jaw hurt and her throat burned. She felt like she was dying. Never again, she swore, woul
d she do this to herself. A whole bottle of vodka in one sitting was not a good idea. If she didn’t die of alcohol poisoning tonight, she promised herself she would never touch the stuff ever again. She just had to get through tonight.
She felt the lift come to a jolting stop, which sent what was left of her stomach up her throat. His hands gripped her fleshy arms, and she was moving once again.
“What number?” he asked.
“Number thirteen.” She heard a strange voice reply. The voice sounded like hers, but she couldn’t be sure. The bile rose again, but she managed to swallow it. It tasted of acid and vodka.
“Almost there,” he said. “Just keep it in for a little bit longer.”
She felt the brick wall beneath her fingers as he leaned her against the wall at her front door. She heard the bell-like jingle of keys. She floated and then hit the floor with a thump. He left her on the floor while he fiddled with the keys, trying to find the right one for her front door. Her shoes, which were too big for her, slipped off her feet. The door creaked open. She felt his strong hands grab her and pick her up again.
The familiar smell of home wafted up her nostrils. She felt her carpet beneath her feet and wondered what had happened to her shoes. He let go of her, and she found herself once again on her hands and knees.
“Where’s your bathroom?” he asked her, his voice was distant, and she had trouble deciding where it was coming from.
“Down the passage. Somewhere over there.” She flailed her right arm about, pointing to the left. She started to gag and heave. She was sure there wasn’t anything left in her stomach to throw up. She crawled down the dark, narrow passage towards her bathroom. Muffled footsteps followed her, and she tried to crawl faster. The footsteps still followed her. The tiled floor was cold on her naked knees. She felt her way in the dark towards the toilet. The tiles felt gritty beneath her fingertips. The base of the toilet was wet and sticky. The smell of stale urine wafted up her nostrils, and she couldn’t hold it any longer. She managed to lift the toilet seat in time for the rest of her stomach to leave her body. The light had been switched on, and she wondered how that had happened.
She rested her head on the toilet seat and waited patiently for the next wave to hit her. The room turned slowly. Putting her hand flat on the floor, she tried to stop it from spinning out of control. She felt the man’s presence behind her and closed her eyes. The toilet seat felt cold against her hot cheek. It was strangely comforting.
A shadow passed over her, and she opened her left eye a fraction. He loomed over her and was fuzzy around the edges. She tried to focus but gave up and closed her eye again. Something rough and sharp bit into her throat. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to get a grip on it and pull it away. It pulled tighter. She tried to stand up but felt something push her back.
“Breathe, I need to breathe.” She tried to suck in some air. It never made it to her lungs. She had nothing left inside her. She let go and slipped away.
8
Tuesday, 9 July
Nico took the call on Tuesday morning. The latest victim had been found. It was now time to put his plan into action. The inactivity and the helplessness of it all drove him crazy. But another death brought him closer to catching the bastard. Relief that there was another body bothered his conscience, but the new body was necessary to his plan. He exhaled, grabbed his wrinkled jacket and walked out of the noisy police station, climbing into an unmarked white Nissan Almera.
The police radio buzzed with activity. A robbery was in progress in Sunnyside, also commonly referred to as Scumyside. Shots had been fired, and an officer was in pursuit of the suspects.
“Well, that’s nothing new,” he mumbled to himself.
Driving down Church Street, the morning traffic was moving in the other direction towards the heart of Pretoria. Most of them were probably government employees on the gravy train. Prostitutes stood on the street corners in miniskirts that could pass for belts. Beggars stood at traffic lights, in the middle of the road, brandishing cardboard signs, each one of them looking more sorrowful than the next. The irony was that they probably made more than he did. He had to laugh when he spotted a young white man brandishing a sign claiming to have three mistresses and a thirst to support. That earned the beggar a five Rand coin.
He drove past the Union Buildings and the Sheraton Hotel. He would never understand why they put a five-star hotel so close to Sunnyside. Just one road down and you were in crime central. The only thing the hotel had in its favour was the view of the Union Buildings. He always marvelled at the sight of one of the country’s most majestic Government buildings. It was one of the few buildings that made him proud to be a South African. People often took their afternoon siesta on the lawns in front of the building, which had caused a lot of controversy during the height of the Apartheid era. In the mid-eighties, the international press had reported that the men and women sleeping in the sun were actually dead bodies that had been left to rot.
He drove through Hatfield and turned left at the driving range and drove towards Queenswood. At the Kilnerpark Spar, he turned right into Lynette Street. He climbed onto the curb outside the green gate of the latest victim’s block of flats. Police cars were parked on either side of the narrow street. The all too familiar scene of blue lights flashing made his stomach pitch and yaw. He felt as though he were standing on the deck of a ship during a turbulent storm. Nervous excitement filled him.
Once on the third floor, he found his way to number thirteen. The barrier tape marked the scene in much the same way the flashing blue lights outside notified everyone in the neighbourhood that a crime had been committed. He looked around. The scene was an exact replica of all the others. They were all interchangeable. Thabiso was snapping away with his camera. Pete leaned against the wall having a smoke, waiting for him. He felt as though he was experiencing déjà vu. He experienced it a lot these days.
“I hope they’ve already dusted for prints,” Nico said to Pete when he reached him.
“Would you relax? Of course, they have. I’m not a complete moron, and besides it’s a pigsty in there, a little ash won’t make much difference.”
“As long as you don’t contaminate the scene I don’t really give a shit. Just remember to throw the stompie in the right bin,” he said as he went inside.
The scene in the bathroom differed from all the previous murder scenes in that there was vomit in the toilet basin and blood on the seat. Unlike the other victims, she had been killed in the bathroom and not in the kitchen. He made a mental note to remind the forensics guys to take samples to be analysed in the lab.
He truly believed that a large percentage of catching criminals was just plain dumb luck. He wished he could say all the bad guys he had put behind bars were there because he was a genius. The sad truth was that the criminals had made stupid mistakes. This killer, on the other hand, hadn’t yet. But he would, eventually, and Nico would be there. Waiting.
The victim was Tanya McKenzie. According to her neighbours, she was a notorious drunk. Her husband had left her for his secretary a few years ago and left her with just the clothes on her back, quite literally. She had found a friend in a bottle of vodka. Her neighbours had seen her leave late on Sunday evening, probably going on one of her usual binges. It was normal to see her stumble to her car with a bottle in hand and then take off, leaving most of her tyres behind. The rumour was that she went and harassed her ex-husband and his new young wife. No one bothered to stop her. One of the neighbours had tried the first time she had done it, but had been smacked over the head with her bottle of vodka and had his skull cracked for his trouble. No one had tried since and no one had seen her come home that night. Her car had been found outside the complex the next morning. A constable had found an empty bottle of vodka wedged under the driver’s seat.
He went down to the ground floor and had a look at her car. It was a battered old Ford held together by the rust marks. The tow truck driver was manoeuvring it onto the back of the
truck. He watched the tow truck drive off and thought about her last few hours on this earth. In her drunken state, she must have been an easy target. The inebriated condition made a thought buzz in his mind. Something bothered him about the murders, something he had missed. It was like an itch in one of those hard-to-reach places. He wanted to scratch it but could never quite find it. All the murder scenes flashed through his mind. He thought about the empty vodka bottle in Tanya McKenzie’s car and the brandy bottle in Theresa van Wyk’s dustbin. He realised this was the connection between all the victims. They were all drunks. Well, they were according to their neighbours. He smacked his palm to his forehead.
“Idiot,” he admonished himself. “Why didn’t I see it before?”
He turned around and walked back towards the building when he spotted Pete walking out of the glass door towards him. An idea started to take shape in his mind.
“Howzit, Doc,” he said, once the doctor was within hearing distance. “I have a little theory I need your help with.”
“Okay, what do you want now?” the doctor asked.
“Would you call the Government lab for me?”
“Why? Don’t you remember how to use a phone any more or do I look like a fucking secretary to you?”
“Ummm, come to think of it I can definitely see you in a tight skirt and heels,” he said grinning. “But seriously, would you do this as a favour? I have a shitload of stuff to take care of, and it’s just one little phone call.”
“Fine – on condition that you stop picturing me in a skirt.”
“Consider it done. I need you to ask them to check the blood work from all the victims. The lazy bastards haven’t come back to me about any of them.”
“Have you forgotten about the backlog at the lab?”
“I keep hoping for a miracle and that the lab would just once be able to get me the results when I need them, without screwing them up or taking years to do them. Is that really asking too much?”
Requiem in E Sharp Page 7
