#Youdunnit

by Nicci French

  Du Toit dropped to the floor.

  The microphone cracked against something.

  For twenty seconds, all Zill could hear was du Toit’s breathing. There was no footage, just sound. The lens was pressing against a trouser leg, the material moving in and out of focus as the lens failed to centre. Eventually du Toit started to get to his knees again, to his feet, bringing the camera up with him and directing it out through their kitchen window. The man was leaving, heading out the other way, his back to the camera, suit jacket back on.

  Coiled around the killer’s hand was a black necklace.

  Susan’s necklace.

  Hanging from it was a crucifix.

  #Monday_29_October_2007

  Lucinda tried to help Zill identify the man, but he was a ghost. He wasn’t a student. He wasn’t a UCT employee. He had no history. She watched and rewatched the footage, over and over again, and got nowhere. The process went on for weeks, through the rest of September and into October, until she knew every second of the tape. Every day, she would pick up the newspapers and expect to see Zill splashed across the front page, but the story never arrived: Raker had taken the original – presumably deleted any copies that had been made too – and, without the tape, there was no footage of Susan’s bloodied face, and no footage of her killer. Zill had been saved from one fate – but not another.

  With no tape, there was no story; but with his possession of it, there was no case. He was boxed in. Zill couldn’t use the footage to progress a prosecution because he’d obtained it illegally.

  He couldn’t put the guy’s face on a poster.

  Instead, she realized, a different fate had befallen him: having to watch his wife’s killer repeatedly exit the sanctity of their home, a trace of her blood on his shirt, her necklace in his hand, her crucifix against his fingers. Lucinda imagined what came before was worse still: seeing her alive, breathing as she once did, moving from the hallway and into their kitchen, the evidence of what he’d done to her burned on to the tape forever.

  A woman he’d loved, but maybe not enough.

  At least, until she was gone.

  #Tuesday_6_November_2007

  The interview rooms in the Central Station backed on to the kitchen area. One morning, six days after Lucinda left South Africa, Zill looked up from the coffee machine and saw two officers bringing a teenager in. They walked either side of him, a hand on each arm.

  It was the boy from the off ramp.

  ‘Hey,’ Zill said to them in Afrikaans. ‘Hey, stop.’

  The officers stopped, eyes flicking between Zill and the boy. ‘Is there a problem, sir?’ one of them asked politely.

  Zill didn’t reply, keeping his gaze on the boy. ‘You remember me?’

  Slowly, the boy looked up. He had a bloodshot eye, a cut on his left cheek and a gaunt, lifeless expression.

  ‘You don’t remember me?’ Zill said.

  The boy shook his head.

  Zill glanced at the officers and could see in their faces that they were wondering whether he’d finally flipped. The guy who’d lost his wife, and maybe his mind too. The obsessive who’d never talked to anyone about the case – except for a photographer who was now six thousand miles away.

  Eventually, Zill looked at the cops. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘We caught him trying to steal a car.’

  Zill nodded. ‘Give me two minutes with him, okay?’

  ‘Sir, I –’

  ‘Two minutes,’ Zill said.

  The officers nodded and disappeared back to their desks.

  ‘I passed you every day for nine years at De Waal,’ Zill said to the boy.

  The boy’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  He shook his head for a third time.

  Zill felt strangely disappointed. He’d always been courteous to the kid; always acknowledged him, even if he hadn’t bought his golf balls or his flower pots. Now the boy was staring straight through Zill – just like everyone else had since 3 August.

  ‘Come with me.’

  He led the boy along past the kitchen to one of the interview rooms further down and, once inside, directed him to a chair. Zill waited for the door to close.

  ‘Why are you stealing cars?’

  The boy finally looked up. ‘Why not?’

  ‘What changed?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why did you stop coming to the off ramp?’

  The boy stared down into his lap again, to trousers that were coming apart at the seams, to the frayed ends of a Kaiser Chiefs t-shirt. When he finally looked up again, there were tears in his eyes.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Zill said gently.

  ‘I have no family now,’ the boy replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My mother … she died this morning.’

  Zill paused. ‘I’m sorry. Where’s your father?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Grandparents?’

  He shook his head and wiped some tears away.

  ‘How long have you been stealing cars?’ Zill asked.

  More tears glistened in his eyes. ‘I’ve been trying to save some money,’ he said. ‘I’ve been stealing the cars and selling them to a guy I know in Mitchells Plain. The one I stole this morning … I wanted it to be my last. I was going to drive along the coast to Port Elizabeth. I was going to try and start again.’

  ‘What is there in PE for you?’

  ‘Something better than here,’ the boy said. ‘The disease, it has taken my mother, my father, my grandma. Maybe, eventually, it will take me and my brother. But I’m not going to wait around to find out.’

  ‘Where’s your brother?’

  He looked at Zill, but said nothing.

  ‘Can’t you stay with him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He glanced at Zill, as if unsure. Then, he reached into his pocket and took something out.

  ‘He’s not someone I can believe in any more,’ the boy said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He showed Zill what he was holding.

  It was a black necklace with a crucifix on it.

  #Wednesday_7_November_2007

  The brother lived in a one-room house in a suburb of Khayelitsha called Rocklands. Zill left his car out on Baden-Powell and approached in darkness. The house was on the edge of the development and when Zill found it, he stopped and pulled on a balaclava. Every inch of surrounding scrubland was littered with rotting food and rusting tin cans. On the opposite side of the house he found a window: inside, his wife’s killer sat on his own in the corner of the room. He was listening to the radio and laughing.

  He looked high.

  The room – his bed laid out beside him, a small kitchenette on the far side with dishes in the sink, no carpets, no paint on the walls – was lit by a single candle. On a stool in the corner of the room was a laptop. Jo Vorster’s. Zill felt a stir of anger.

  But then it got worse.

  Above the stool was a peg rack with a coverall for a gardening service hanging from it; then the uniform of a local Pick N Pay supermarket; then a shirt, tie and name badge from McDonalds. Next to that, the whites of a hospital porter.

  Next to that, the suit he’d worn the day he’d killed Susan.

  Above each set of clothes, he’d pinned pictures. Susan and Jo Vorster above the suit. Three more women above the MacDonalds uniform. Another above the whites. More above the other uniforms.

  It was how he lured them in without anyone noticing. He camouflaged himself. He blended with his surroundings. There were twelve women on the wall, and the cops only knew about two of them. The others Zill had never seen in any file, on any wall, any database in any part of Murder and Robbery.

  The others were all victims, still waiting to be found.

  He backed away from the house and continued going, stumbling through bush, head thumping, nauseous, dizzy, eventually ending up back at his car. He got inside, closed the door and too
k a series of long, deep breaths.

  Lucinda.

  He removed his phone and dialled her number.

  After a couple of rings she answered. Her voice was distant, her words echoing as they travelled thousands of miles: ‘Ben?’

  ‘I’ve found him.’

  A pause. She instantly knew who he meant.

  ‘He’s killed more.’

  ‘More than Susan and Jo Vorster?’

  ‘Ten more.’

  Another long pause. This time, he could hear her clearing her throat. ‘Ben, listen to me: I suggest you call Moses and give him the address of this guy. Let Moses go around there and bring this guy in. I don’t think you should be there.’

  ‘It’s too late.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m already here.’

  ‘Oh shit. Ben, what are you going to do?’

  ‘He’s high. He wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Ben –’

  ‘He wouldn’t see me coming.’

  ‘Ben.’

  He stopped, listening to her breath on the line.

  ‘Ben, you asked me once, did I imagine my life turning out like this. Do you remember asking me that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is this how you want your life to turn out?’

  He didn’t respond.

  ‘Ben?’

  ‘“I’m just a photographer.”’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what you said to me once. I asked your opinion on Vorster’s murder and you said to me, “I don’t know. I’m just a photographer. I don’t have an opinion.”’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So maybe I feel like that too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Zill looked off at the maze of broken homes. ‘I don’t want an opinion. I don’t want people to ask me what I think when I see a young girl dumped on a railway line. I don’t want to face down all the misery I see. I don’t want to be a cop.’

  ‘You do, Ben.’

  ‘No. I don’t.’

  ‘You do. It’s your gift.’

  ‘No. Not now Susan is gone. Now it’s my curse.’

  ‘Ben. Listen to me.’ She paused. ‘If you do this, you’re no better than him. If you do this, you go against everything you believe in. Everything.’

  ‘He’ll get away with it.’

  ‘He won’t. He’ll go to prison.’

  ‘That’s what I mean.’

  ‘Ben … ’ A tremor of emotion sounded in her voice. ‘Who are you if not a cop?’

  He placed his hand on the door again, pulled at the handle and watched it pop open.

  The gun shifted against his hip.

  ‘I’m her husband.’

  ‘Ben –’

  ‘Goodbye, LB,’ he said quietly, and ended the call.

  He got out, leaving the car open, heading back through the scrub and the litter to the front of the house. The place was now in darkness. The candle was out and no light came from the window.

  He tried the front door.

  There was no noise as it moved on its hinges, but Zill stood there for a moment all the same, hesitating, looking into the same darkness that had stared back at him from that tape. A doorway to actions you could never take back.

  There was a noise from behind him, out on the nearest road. Voices. As he listened to them, panic hit. If I go in now, will he even be able to tell me anything?

  Zill wanted to know why.

  That was what he wanted to know, above all else.

  Why did he have to kill them all?

  Why Susan?

  Why didn’t he just take her money and go?

  Why did he have to take her necklace?

  But then an image came back to him, of Susan, of what had been done to her, of Jo Vorster, of that abandoned railway station, and Zill realized it didn’t matter. Not now. If her killer gave him no reason, he would at least be able to see Zill’s reasons. He’d see them in Zill’s face. He’d feel the gun against his head and know. Because a killer must surely recognize his reflection. He must understand the symmetry of revenge.

  So, finally, Zill took another step forward.

  And another.

  He apologized softly.

  And, slowly, he let the darkness take him away.

  Hashtag, Bodybag

  ALASTAIR GUNN

  @Alastair_Gunn

  Feeling lost without @Specsavers #Youdunnit story to think about, but can’t wait to read @FrenchNicci and @TimWeaverBooks!

  The marker moved onto Station Road.

  She was coming.

  He locked the phone and waited, subduing his exhilaration, aware that she’d soon pass his position.

  It was incredible really; first that technology had advanced to the point where, with the right software, you could track someone via the GPS system on their mobile phone. And second, that most people were stupid enough to leave their privacy settings turned off.

  He checked the pavement to his left, using the dentist’s mirror to see without putting his head around the corner, and saw her approaching.

  He withdrew the mirror, hearing a train pass in the distance, still surprised that the sound travelled all the way from the tracks half a mile north. Then again, there wasn’t much around to stop the noise. Most of the old buildings on this street had been demolished to make way for re-development, so it didn’t offer many decent hiding places. Otherwise the location was perfect: quiet, isolated, poorly lit by outdated sodium street lamps, and used by his target on a daily basis. Plus it offered this particular deserted house, near to what would be her final resting place.

  He heard footsteps.

  Seconds later his target passed; long auburn hair swinging halfway down her back as she walked. She didn’t see him.

  He let her get a few yards in front before he moved, soft-soled trainers silent on the concrete. It was only fair: she had followed him, so now he was following her. He suppressed ironic laughter.

  And raised the brick.

  Pete Marshall was just about perfect. That was Lucinda Berrington’s assessment, at least. The news writer was tall, handsome and well-dressed, and he painted, which sat right next to her own discipline of photography in the spectrum of creative arts. Pete had done her induction at the Saverton Star, for the one-month freelancing contract she was currently halfway through. They’d had such a laugh that Lucinda was sure he’d ask her out afterwards. But that was nearly two weeks ago, and they hadn’t exchanged a lot more than pleasantries since.

  Such amorous obsession was never a good thing. The fact that Pete’s desk was directly across from her own meant that Lucinda’s recent work rate had been average at best. She needed to get on.

  She sighed and turned back to her schedule for Wednesday: a supermarket opening, then a few clandestine shots of the roadworks on Peer Street that had overrun and weren’t properly signposted. Hardly what she went to University for. At least the local eye candy improved what was otherwise the dullest place on earth. She glanced around at the poky first-floor office, at its Velcro-like carpets and woodchip wallpaper, longing for a beach. Being reduced to freelance snapper work at a struggling weekly rag in a landlocked backwater like Saverton would have been depressing enough for anyone. For a short-of-work travel photographer like Lucinda, it was purgatory.

  But she was trapped.

  Five years of photography at college and university, a few more in office jobs, saving hard, then a round-the-world trip designed to build her launch portfolio, had seen Lucinda return home penniless, but determined that a glittering career would follow. The trip had been amazing, but now it looked like an extravagant waste of time.

  The reality, that the website she’d paid £1,000 for wasn’t good enough, and that technology had moved beyond Lucinda’s means in the time she’d been away, bit hard.

  The recent migration of her city-based competitors to superfast internet connections meant their online portfolios were now hi-def, slick and instantly accessible. Meanwhile, Saverton’s rem
ote location between two peaky moors meant they were lucky to have running water, let alone a modern communication infrastructure. Lucinda’s weedy site couldn’t match the new breed, and gone were the days when you met clients in person to show your work and take contracted assignments. The only travel she’d done since joining the paper was to and from the office, and she’d had to sell her car. She’d been restricted to domestic excursions for the last six months, and money was only getting tighter, which was bad, considering she’d recently sunk a £1,000 bank loan into a new Nikon SLR.

  Already twenty-eight and permanently single, Lucinda lived in a flat owned by her mum and dad, right across the road from the Star office. Her parents lived in France now, but they let her rent the place in Saverton for half its market value, which was nice, but it also made it difficult to justify doubling her rent by moving to a bigger town …

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

  Lucinda gathered her equipment and stood, about to head off for another afternoon of tedious photographic work, when a voice interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘Lucy.’ The deputy editor, Susan Masters, was heading her way. ‘Hold on.’

  ‘It’s Lucinda, actually.’ For the hundredth time.

  Admittedly it wasn’t the Susan’s fault that every abbreviation of Lucinda stank. ‘Sindy’ was a child’s toy, and ‘Sinned’ made her feel like she’d done something wrong. Worst of all was ‘Loose’, because she certainly wasn’t.

  ‘Lucinda,’ Susan asserted, ‘drop whatever you’ve got on this afternoon. I have a special assignment for you. Something a bit more up your street.’

  Milton, the local taxi driver, pulled up on Station Road.

  Lucinda paid and waited while he wrote out the receipt, still feeling naïve for having been excited by Susan’s mention of a ‘special assignment’.

  Her instructions were to find and photograph Saverton’s best ‘points of interest’, for a bumper edition of the paper to coincide with the coming weekend’s county fair, the first time the event had been held on Saverton Common since 1984. But the only ‘special’ aspect of Lucinda’s task was that it was now urgent, mainly because no one had got off their backside to organize it in good time.