Devil's Peak (14 page)

She rethought her plans. She was twenty-one years old. As an escort she had earned more than thirty thousand rand a month and she had saved twenty thousand of it. After buying the car and a few other large expenses she still had nearly two hundred thousand in the bank. If she could just work another four years . . . until Sonia went to school. Just four years. Save two, two-fifty a year, perhaps more. Then she could afford a normal job. Just four years.
It nearly worked out. Except one day she answered the phone and Carlos Sangrenegra said: “Conchita?”

19.

H
e checked out of the Parow hotel. His requirements had changed. He wanted to be more anonymous, have fewer witnesses of his coming and going. He drove into the city center where he could pass the time without attracting attention. From a public phone in the Golden Acre he called the detective in Umtata to ask for news of Khoza and Ramphele.
“I thought you were going to catch them.”
“I’m not getting anywhere.”
“It’s not so easy, hey?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes,” said the detective, mollified by the capitulation. “We haven’t really got anything from our side either.”
“Not really?”
“Nothing.”
In Adderley Street he bought
Die Burger
and went into the Spur on Strand Street for breakfast. He placed his order and shook the paper open. The main news was the 2010 Soccer World Cup bid. At the bottom of page one was an article headed,
Gay couple arrest over child’s death.
He read that one. A woman had been arrested on suspicion of the murder of her partner’s five-year-old daughter. The child was hit over the head with a billiard cue, apparently in a fit of rage.
His coffee arrived. He tore open a paper tube of sugar, poured it into his cup and stirred.
What was he trying to do?
If children can’t depend on the justice system to protect them, to whom can they turn?
How would he achieve it? How would he be able to protect the children by his actions? How would people know: you cannot lay a finger on a child. There must be no doubt—the sentence of death had been reinstated.
He tested the temperature of the coffee with a careful sip.
He was in too much of a hurry. It would happen. It would take a little time for the message to get across, but it would happen. He must just not lose focus.

* * *

“It’s not going to happen,” said Woolworth’s head of corporate communication, a white woman in her early forties. She sat beside André Marais, the female police sergeant, in a meeting room of the chain store head office in Longmarket Street. The contrast between the two women was marked. It’s only money, thought Griessel, and environment. Take this manicured woman in her tight gray suit and leave her at the charge desk in Claremont for three months on a police salary and then let’s take another look.
There were six around the circular table: January, the Waterfront store manager, Kleyn—the communications woman, Marais, Griessel and his shift partner for the month, Inspector Cliffy Mketsu.
“Oh yes it is,” said Griessel derisively enjoying himself. “Because you won’t like the alternative, Mrs. Kleyn.” He and Mketsu had decided that he would play the bad cop and Cliffy would be the peace-loving, good cop Xhosa detective.
“What alternative?” The woman’s extremely red mouth was small and dissatisfied under the straight nose and over made-up eyes. Before Griessel could reply she added: “And it’s
Ms.
Kleyn.”
“McClean?” asked Cliffy, slightly puzzled, and slid her business card closer across the table. “But here it says . . .”
“
Ms.,
” she said. “As in neither Mrs. or Miss. It’s a modern form of address which probably hasn’t yet penetrated the police.”
“Let me tell you what has penetrated the police,
Ms.
Kleyn,” said Griessel, suspecting it would not be difficult to act mean with this particular woman. “It has penetrated us that this afternoon we are going to hold a press conference and we are going to tell the media there is a serial killer on the loose in the shopping aisles of Woollies. We are going to ask them to please warn the unsuspecting public to stay away before another innocent, middle-aged Woollies customer is strangled with a kettle cord. This modus operandi has penetrated the police,
Ms.
Kleyn. So don’t you tell me “it’s not going to happen,” as if I came to ask if we could hold trolley races up and down your aisles.”
Even through all that foundation he could see she had turned a deep shade of red.
“Benny, Benny,” said Cliffy in a soothing tone. “I don’t think we have to make threats. We must understand Ms. Kleyn’s point of view too. She is only considering the interests of her customers.”
“She is only considering the interests of her company. I say we talk to the press.”
“That’s blackmail,” said Kleyn, losing confidence.
“It’s unnecessary,” said Cliffy. “I am sure we can come to some arrangement, Mrs. Kleyn.”
“We will have to,” said January, the manager of the Waterfront branch.
“Did I say
Mrs.?
Oh, I am sorry,” said Cliffy.
“We can’t afford that kind of publicity,” said January.
“It’s strength of habit,” said Cliffy.
“I will not be blackmailed,” said Kleyn.
“Of course not,
Ms.
Kleyn.”
“I’m going,” said Griessel, standing up.
“Could I say something?” asked Sergeant Marais in a gentle voice.
“Naturally,
Ms.
Marais,” said Cliffy jovially.
“You are afraid something might happen to customers in the shop?” she asked Kleyn.
“Of course I am. Can you imagine what that publicity would mean?”
“I can,” said Marais. “But there is a way to remove the risk altogether.”
“Oh?” said Kleyn.
Griessel sat down again.
“All we want to do is to get the suspect to make contact with me. We hope he will initiate a conversation and get himself invited to a woman’s home. We can’t confront him in the shop or try to arrest him: there are no grounds. So really there is no risk of a confrontation.”
“I don’t know . . .” said Kleyn, and looked dubiously at her long red fingernails.
“Would it help if I was the only policeman in the supermarket?”
“Steady on, Sergeant,” said Griessel.
“Inspector, I will be carrying a radio and we know the supermarket is a safe environment. You can be outside, all over.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” said Cliffy.
“I don’t see why we should change good police procedure just because the Gestapo don’t like it,” said Griessel and got to his feet again.
Kleyn sucked in her breath sharply, as if to react, but he didn’t give her the chance. “I’m leaving. If you want to sell out, do it without me.”
“I like your proposals,” said Kleyn to André Marais quickly, so that Griessel could hear it before he was out the door.

* * *

Thobela was standing at the reception desk of the Waterfront City Lodge when the
Argus
arrived. The deliveryman dropped the bundle of newspapers beside him on the wooden counter with a dull thump. The headline was right under his nose, but he was still filling in the registration card and his attention was not on the big letters:

VIGILANTE KILLER TARGETS “CHILD MOLESTERS”

His pen stalled over the paper. What was written there—what did they know? The clerk behind the desk was busy at the keyboard of the computer. He forced himself to finish writing and hand the card over. The clerk gave him the room’s electronic card key and explained to him how to find it.
“May I take a newspaper?”
“Of course, I’ll just charge it to your account.”
He took a paper, and his bag, and headed for the stairs. He read.
One day before crčche owner Colin Pretorius (34) was to receive judgment on several charges of rape and molestation, he apparently became the second victim of what could be an assegai-wielding vigilante killer bent on avenging crimes against children.
He realized he was standing still and his heart was bumping hard in his chest. He glanced up, took the stairs to the first floor and waited until he was there before reading more.
The investigating officer, Inspector Bushy Bezuidenhout of the Serious and Violent Crimes Unit (SVC), did not rule out the possibility that the bladed weapon was the same one used in the Enver Davids stabbing three days ago.
In an exclusive report, following an anonymous phone call to our offices,
The Argus
yesterday revealed that the “bladed weapon” was an assegai . . .
How much did they know? His eyes searched the columns.
Inspector Bezuidenhout admitted that the police had no suspects at this time. Asked whether the killer might be a woman, he said that he could not comment on the possibility (see page 16: The Artemis Factor).
He opened his room door, put the bag on the floor and spread the newspaper open on the bed. He turned to page 16.
Greek mythology had its female protector of children, a ruthless huntress of the gods called Artemis, who could punish injustice with ferocious and deadly accuracy—and silver arrows. But just how likely is a female avenger of crimes against children?
“It is possible that this vigilante is a woman,” says criminologist Dr. Rita Payne. “We are ruthless when it comes to protecting our kids, and there are several appropriate case studies of mothers committing serious crimes, even murder, to avenge acts against their children.”
But there is one reason why the suspected modern-day Artemis might not be female: “An assegai isn’t a likely weapon for a woman. In instances where women did use a blade to stab or cut a victim, it was a weapon of opportunity, not premeditation,” Dr. Payne said.
However, this does not completely rule out a female vigilante . . .
He felt uncomfortable about this publicity. He pushed the newspaper to one side and got up to open the curtain. He had a view over the canal and the access road to the Waterfront. He stood and stared at the incessant stream of cars and pedestrians and wondered what was bothering him, what was the cause of this new tension. The fact that the police were investigating as if he were a common criminal? He had known that would happen, he had no illusions about that. Was it because the paper made it all sound so shallow? What did it matter if it was a woman or a man? Why not focus on the root of the matter?
Somebody was doing something. Someone was fighting back.
“Artemis.”
He spat out the word, but it left an unpleasant aftertaste.

* * *

Since she had told him about Sonia, the minister seemed to have grown weary. His thinning hair lay flatter on his scalp, smoothed by the big hand that touched it every now and then. His beard began to shadow his jaw in the light of the desk lamp, the light blue shirt was rumpled and the rolled-up sleeves hung down unevenly. His eyes were still on her with the same focus, the same undivided attention, but touched now with something else. She thought she saw a suspicion there, a premonition of tragedy.

* * *

“You were very convincing today, Benny,” said Cliffy Mketsu as they followed André Marais to the car.
“She pisses me off, that fucking
Ms.,
” he said, and he saw Sergeant Marais’s back stiffen ahead of him.
“Now you think I have a thing against women, Sergeant,” he said. He knew what was wrong with him. He knew he was walking on the edge. Jissis, the pills were doing fuck-all—he wanted a drink, his entire body was a parched throat.
“No, Inspector,” said Marais with a meekness that irritated.
“Because you would be wrong. I only have a thing about women like
her.
” He said in a falsetto voice: “
It’s a modern form of address which probably hasn’t yet penetrated the police.
Why must they always have something to say about the fucking police? Why?”
Two colored men came walking towards them down the pavement. They looked at Griessel.
“Benny . . .” said Cliffy, laying a hand on his arm.
“Okay,” said Griessel, and took the keys out of his jacket pocket when they reached the police car. He unlocked it, got in and stretched across to unlock the other doors. Mketsu and Marais got in. He put the key in the ignition.
“What does she want to be a
Ms.
for? What for? What is wrong with Mrs.? Or Miss. It was good enough for six thousand years and now she wants to be a fucking
Ms.
”
“Benny.”
“What for, Cliffy?” He couldn’t do this. He had to have a drink. He felt for the slip of paper in his pocket, not sure where he had put it.
“I don’t know, Benny,” said Cliffy. “Let’s go.”
“Just wait a minute,” he said.
“If I was her, I would also want to be Ms.,” said André Marais quietly from the back seat.
He found the paper, unclipped his seat belt and said: “Excuse me,” and got out of the car. He read the number on the paper and phoned it on his cell phone.
“Barkhuizen,” said the voice on the other side.
He walked down the pavement away from the car. “Doc, those pills of yours are not doing a damn thing for me. I can’t go on. I can’t do my work. I am a complete bastard. I want to hit everyone. I can’t go on like this, Doc, I’m going to buy myself a fucking liter of brandy and I’m going to drink it, Doc, you hear?”
“I hear you, Benny.”
“Right, Doc, I just wanted to tell you.”
“Thank you, Benny.”
“Thank you, Benny?”
“It’s your choice. But just do me one favor, before you pour the first one.”
“What’s that, Doc?”
“Phone your wife. And your children. Tell them the same story.”

20.

S
he sat looking at Sonia. The child lay on the big bed, one hand folded under her, the other a little dumpling next to her open mouth. Her hair was fine and glossy in the late-afternoon sun shining through the window. She sat very still and stared at her child. She was not looking for features that reminded her of Viljoen, she was not reveling in the perfection of her limbs.
Her child’s body. Unmarked. Untouched. Holy, stainless, clean.
She would teach her that her body was wonderful. That she was beautiful. That she was allowed to be beautiful. She could be attractive and desirable—it was not a sin, nor a curse, it was a blessing. Something she could enjoy and be proud of. She would teach Sonia that she could put on make-up and pretty clothes and walk down the street and draw the attention of men and that was fine. Natural. That they would storm her battlements like soldiers in endless lines of war. But she had a weapon to ensure that only the one she chose would conquer her—love for herself.
That was the gift she would give to her daughter.
She got up and fetched the new knife that she had bought from @Home. She took it to the bathroom and locked the door behind her. She stood in front of the mirror and lightly and slowly drew the blade over her face, from her brow to her chin.
How she longed to press the blade in. How she longed to cleave the skin and feel the burn.
She took off her T-shirt, unsnapped the bra behind her back and let it fall to the floor. She held the knifepoint against her breast. She drew a circle around her nipple. In her mind’s eyes she saw the blade flash as she carved long stripes across her breast. She saw the marks criss-crossed.
Just another two years.
She sat on the rim of the bath and swung her feet over. She placed her left foot on her right knee. She held the knife next to the cushion beside her big toe. She cut, fast and deep, right down to her heel.
When she felt the sudden pain and saw the blood collecting in the bottom of the bath, she thought: You are sick, Christine. You are sick, sick, sick.