Devil's Peak (25 page)

* * *

He walked into the task group office in the old lecture hall. They were all sitting waiting for him. He was tired. It was as if the tears he had shed with Joubert had drained him. Captain Helena Louw motioned him closer. He went to her. “How’s it going, Captain?”
“Slowly, Inspector. We have—”
“My name is Benny.”
She nodded and pointed at the computer in front of her. “We have started a database of all the unsolved cases where children were the victims. There are a lot . . .” She had a peaceful manner, a slow way of speaking. “We start with the most serious. Murder. Rape. Sexual abuse. So far one hundred and sixty.”
Griessel whistled softly through his teeth.
“Yes, Inspector, it’s bad. This is only the Peninsula. Lord knows how many in the whole country. We put in the names of the children, the next of kin and the suspects. We include the nature of the crime and the location. If it’s gang-related, we mark it ‘B’ because those are a bit different. We indicate the weapon, if there is one. And the dates of the offenses. That’s about it. Then we can start cross-referencing. As new information comes in, we can plot it against what we have.”
“Sounds good.”
“But will it help?”
“You never know what will help. But we can’t afford not to do something.”
He didn’t know if he had convinced her. “Captain, we need two more items.”
“Call me Helena.”
“I want another field in the database. For vehicles. We have a tire print. Maybe we’ll get something from it.”
“That’s good.”
“I’m not sure how we will handle the last thing. I wonder how he makes his choices. The murderer. How does he decide who the next victim will be?”
She nodded.
“There are two possibilities. One is that he is part of the system—policeman or prosecutor or something. But if you say there are more than a hundred and sixty . . . and the victims are too disparate regarding their location and their offenses. I have a feeling he is using the media. Radio, or newspapers. Maybe TV. My trouble is I don’t read the papers and I don’t listen to the radio much. But I want to know when the victims were in the news. I want to know the date of the reports compared to the date of the assegai murders. Am I being clear?”
“Yes. Is it okay if we draw up a table on this blackboard?” She pointed at the front wall of the old lecture hall.
“That would work,” he said. “Thanks.”
Griessel stood up. Jamie Keyter sat in the corner at the back and watched him in expectation. Cupido and Bezuidenhout sat beside each other, each at his own desk. He drew up a chair and sat down opposite them.
“The assegai is a stuff-up,” said Cupido. He leaned back and from behind him picked up a wrapped parcel, long and thin. He unrolled the brown paper and let the assegai drop onto the desktop. The shiny blade gleamed in the fluorescent light.
“Wallah!” he said. He pronounced the “W” like “Willy.”
“Voilŕ,” Bezuidenhout corrected him with a fake accent. “It’s a fucking French word. It means ‘check me out.’ ”
“Since when are you the great language expert?”
“I’m just helping you not make a fool of yourself.”
Griessel sighed. “The assegai . . .” he said.
“On loan from Pearson’s African Art. In Long Street. Six hundred rand, VAT included. Imported from Zulu Dawn, a distributor in Pinetown. I talked to Mr. Vijay Kumar, the sales manager at Zulu Dawn. He says they have agents who drive around and buy them up, there must be at least thirty places in KwaZulu that make them.”
“That’s not
art,
” said Bezuidenhout.
“Bushy . . .” said Griessel.
“I’m just saying. Nowadays everything is art. I wouldn’t pay fifty rand for that thing.”
“But you’re not a German tourist with euros, pappa,” said Cupido. “The fact of the matter is, our suspect could have bought it on any street corner. Pearson’s say there are five or six chaps in the city alone who peddle them. And then there’s another place or two on the Waterfront, two in Stellenbosch and one in the southern suburbs. The whiteys from Europe like them and the African masks like nobody’s business. And ostrich eggs. They sell ostrich eggs for two hundred rand apiece. And they’re empty . . .”
“I want Forensics to look at the thing, Vaughn . . .”
“Sorted. They’re busy already. I took two on loan; I wanted to bring one in for you to see, Benny. Forensics will compare it with the chemical results of the three stab wounds.”
“Thanks, Vaughn. Good work.”
“You said it. But it doesn’t look like I’m going to score a trip to Durbs.”
“You’ll let me know what Forensics say?”
“Absolutely. Tomorrow I’m going to all the places that sell assegais. See if they have sales records we can trace. Credit-card slips, tax invoices, anything. See what I can find.”
“I want those names in the database, please. They must be compared with the names Captain Louw has.”
“You got it, chief.”
Griessel turned to Bezuidenhout. “Anything, Bushy?”
Bezuidenhout pulled a pile of files closer with an air of getting to the important stuff at last. “I don’t know.” He pulled them one by one off the pile. “The Enver Davids rape,” he said. “Strongest possibility so far. The baby’s parents live in the informal settlement on the corner of Vanguard and Ridgeway. Residents call it Biko City; municipality doesn’t call it anything. Father is unemployed, one of those men who stand on Durban Road in the morning and raise their hands if the builders come to pick up cheap labor. The mother works at a paper recycling plant in Stikland. They buy old cardboard boxes and turn them into toilet paper. Dawn soft. What the ‘dawn’ has to do with ‘soft’ who the fuck knows, but then I’m just a policeman. Anyway, they say they were together in their shack in Biko City the night of Davids’s murder. But the father says, and I quote, ‘good riddance’ about Davids’s death. He says if he had known where to find the bastard, he would have stabbed him himself. But he says it wasn’t him and he doesn’t own an assegai. Their neighbors say they know nothing about that night. Saw nothing, heard nothing.”
“Hmm,” said Griessel.
Bezuidenhout took another file off the heap. “Here’s a list of all the children that were molested by Pretorius. Eleven. Can you believe it! Eleven that we know of. I have started phoning. Most of the parents are in the Bellville area. I’ll start with them tomorrow. It will be a long day. I’ll get the names onto the database too.”
“Use the uniform guys, Bushy.”
“Benny, I don’t want to be funny, but I prefer to talk to them myself. The uniforms are very green.”
“Let them talk to neighbors or something. We have to use them.”
“What about Jamie?”
“What about him?”
“He’s doing fuck-all.”
“Do you want him?”
“I could use him.”
“Bushy . . .” Then he changed his mind. “Jamie,” he called in Keyter’s direction.
“Yes, Benny?” Keyter responded eagerly. He leapt up, almost knocking his chair over.
“Tomorrow you go with Bushy.”
He had reached them. “Okay, Benny.”
“Do the first few interviews with him. Is that understood?”
“Okay.”
“I want you to learn, Jamie. Then Bushy will let you know which you can do on your own.”
“I get it.”
“Jamie . . .”
“Yes, Benny.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Don’t say what?”
“Don’t say ‘I get it.’ It irritates the hell out of me.”
“Okay, Benny.”
“It’s Amerikaans anyway,” said Bezuidenhout.
“Amerikaans?” asked Cupido.
“Yes, you know. The way they say it in America.”
“An Americanism,” said Griessel wearily.
“That’s what I said.”
Griessel said nothing.
“You said ‘Amerikaans,’ you clot. You’re not a language expert’s backside,” said Vaughn Cupido, getting up to leave.

31.

H
e wanted to go home. Not to the flat, but to his
home.
Where his wife and children were. He had a pounding headache and a sluggishness as if his fuel had run out. But he steered the car towards the city. He wondered what the children were doing. And Anna.
Then he remembered. He wanted to phone her. About the thing that had been bothering him since yesterday. He took out his phone while driving and looked up her number on the list. He pressed the button and it rang.
“Hello, Benny.”
“Hello, Anna.”
“The children say you are still sober.”
“Anna . . . I want to know. Our agreement . . .”
“What agreement?”
“You said if I could stop drinking for six months . . .”
“That’s right.”
“Then you’ll take me back?”
She said nothing.
“Anna . . .”
“Benny, it’s been barely a week.”
“It’s been nine fucking days already.”
“You know I don’t like it when you swear.”
“All I’m asking is if you are serious about the agreement?”
The line was quiet. Just as he was about to say something, he heard her. “Stay off the booze for six months, Benny. Then we can talk.”
“Anna . . .” but she had disconnected him.
He didn’t have the energy to lose his temper. Why was he putting himself through this? Why was he fighting the drink? For a promise that was suddenly no longer a promise?
She had someone else. He knew it. He was a bloody detective; he could put two and two together.
It was her way of getting rid of him. And he wasn’t going to fall for that. He wasn’t going through this hell for fuck-all. No, damnit, not the way he felt now. One glass and the headache would be gone. Just one. Saliva flooded his mouth and he could already taste the alcohol. Two glasses for energy, for gas in the tank, for running the assegai task force. Three, and she could have as many toy boys as she liked.
He knew it would help. It would make everything better. Nobody need ever know. Just him and that sweet savor in his flat and then a decent night’s rest. To deal with this thing with Anna. And the case. And the loneliness. He looked at his watch. The bottle stores would still be open.

* * *

When he arrived at his door with the bottles of Klipdrift and Coke in a plastic bag, there was a parcel on the threshold wrapped in aluminum foil. He unlocked the door first and put the bottles down before picking up the package. There was a note stuck to it. He unpeeled the sticky tape.
For the hard-working policeman. Enjoy. From Charmaine—106.
Charmaine? What was the woman’s case? He unwrapped the foil. It was a Pyrex dish with a lid. He lifted the lid. The fragrance of curry and rice steamed up to his nostrils. Boy, it smelt good. His hunger overcame him. Light-headed, he grabbed a spoon and sat down at the counter. He dug in the spoon and filled his mouth. Mutton curry. The meat was tender under his teeth; the flavor seeped through his body. Charmaine, Charmaine, whoever you are, you can cook, that’s for sure. He took another spoonful, picked out a bay leaf with his finger, licked it off and put it aside. He took another mouthful. Delicious. Another. The curry was hot and fine beads of perspiration sprang out on his face. The spoon fell into a rhythm. Damn, he was hungry. He must make a plan about eating. He must take a sandwich to work.
He looked at the bottle of Klippies on the counter beside him. Soon. He would relax in his armchair with a full belly and take his drink as it should be: slowly, with savor.
He ate like a machine down to the last spoonful of curry, carefully scraped up a morsel of meat and a last bit of sauce and brought it to his mouth.
Damn. That was good. He pushed the dish away.
Now he would have to take it back to Charmaine at 1
0
6. He had a mental picture of a plump young woman. Why was that? Because her food was so good? Somewhat lonely? He got up to rinse the dish in the sink, then the lid and his spoon. He dried it off, found the foil, folded it neatly and placed it inside the dish. He fetched his keys, locked the door behind him and walked down the passage.
She knew he was a policeman. The caretaker must have told her. He would have to tell her he was a married man. And then he would have to explain why he was living here alone . . . He stopped in his tracks. Did he really need to go through all that shit? He could just leave the dish at her door.
No. He must thank her.
Perhaps she wouldn’t be in, he hoped. Or asleep or something. He knocked as softly as possible, thought he could hear the sound of a television inside. Then the door opened.
She was small and she was old. The wrong side of seventy, he judged.
“You must be the policeman,” she said, and she smiled with a snow-white set of false teeth. “I’m Charmaine Watson-Smith. Please come in.” Her accent was very British and her eyes were large behind the thick lenses of her spectacles.
“I’m Benny Griessel,” he said and his intonation sounded too Afrikaans to him.
“Pleased to meet you, Benny,” she said and took the dish from him. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Very much.” The inside of the flat was identical to his, just full. Crammed with furniture, lots of portraits on the walls, full of bric-a-brac in display cabinets, on bookshelves and small coffee tables: porcelain figurines and dolls and framed photographs. Crocheted cloths and books. A giant television set with some or other soapie on the go.
“Please take a seat, Benny,” she said and turned the sound of the television completely off.
“I don’t want to interrupt your program. I’ve actually just come to say thank you very much. It was very nice of you.” He sat down on the edge of a chair. He didn’t want to stay long. His bottle awaited him. “And the curry was fantastic.”
“Oh, it was a pleasure. You not having a wife . . .”
“I, uh, do. But we are—” he searched for the word—“. . . separated.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I sort of assumed, seeing your children yesterday . . .”
She didn’t miss much. “Yes,” he said.
She sat down opposite him. She seemed to be settling in for a long discussion. He didn’t want . . .
“And what sort of policeman are you?”
“I’m with the Serious and Violent Crimes Unit. Detective Inspector.”
“Oh, I’m delighted to hear that. Just the right man for the job.”
“Oh? What job is that?”
She leaned forward and stage-whispered conspiratorially: “There’s a thief in this building.”
“Oh?”
“You see, I get the
Cape Times
every morning,” she said, still in that exaggerated whisper.
“Yes?” A light began to go on for him. There is no such thing as a free curry and rice.
“Delivered to my postbox at the entry hall. And somebody is stealing it. Not every morning, mind you. But often. I’ve tried everything. I’ve even watched the inner door from the garden. I believe you detectives would call it a stakeout, am I right?”
“That’s right.”
“But the perpetrator is very elusive. I have made no headway.”
“My goodness,” he said. He had no idea what else to say.
“But now we have a real detective in the building,” she said with immense satisfaction and sat back in her chair.
Griessel’s phone rang in his shirt pocket.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to take this.”
“Of course you do, my dear.”
He took the phone out. “Griessel.”
“Benny, it’s Anwar,” said Inspector Anwar Mohammed. “We’ve got her.”
“Who?”
“Your assegai woman. Artemis.”
“Assegai woman?”
“Yup. She’s made a complete statement.”
“Where are you?”
“Twenty-three Petunia Street in Bishop Lavis.”
He got up. “You’ll have to direct me. I’ll phone you when I’m nearby.”
“Okay, Benny.”
He switched off the connection. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go.”
“Of course. Duty calls, it seems.”
“Yes, it’s this case I’m working on.”
“Well, Benny, it was wonderful meeting you.”
“And you too,” he said on the way to the door.
“Do you like roast lamb?”
“Oh, yes, but you mustn’t go to any trouble.”
“No trouble,” she said with a big white smile. “Now that you’re working on my case.”