The Disappeared (10 page)

(
abyss?
)

of a former
hell had badly shaken her. It now felt as if the hard and delirious work of six
months had been spectacularly undone in the blink of an eye. Until now she had
felt so confident and assured even self-assured. She had assumed that a life of
sucking bottle was permanently behind her. She had assumed that alcohol
addiction was something that you simply walked away from one fine day. She was
wrong. The greasy permanent stain of alcoholism on her life deeply troubled
Lindiwe. Very few people could bring up the matter
without
evoking her
immediate resentment. Inspector Coetzee was one of them.

‘I am, Inspector.’
She paused unsure of how truthful she should be. ‘Some days are harder than
others. But ... but I’m fine. Thank you for asking.’

‘Remember we’re
all behind you on this one, hey? If you need help, or ... anything, just ask.
Don’t you ever be afraid just to ask, you hear Lindi?’

Lindiwe smiled
and nodded. She walked into the silent and deserted streets of Bishop.

Gone.

They were
all gone.

On a cold July
morning – some nineteen years before – the 10111 Police Call Centre in
Bloemfontein received a frantic call. Magda Roberts, the operator who took the
call, struggled more than usual to distil the necessary information from the
hysterical words that bubbled through her headset. She could immediately gather
it was a boy child. In a state of extreme stress. What sounded like the word
suicide
surfaced a few times amongst a ceaseless eruption of unintelligible screaming. The
system indicated the call originated from an address in the newly developed
suburb of Pentagon Park. Magda had been on the job a good few years. She had
been around the block a good few years more than that – maybe quite a few more
than she would like to admit. But she had never received a call like
that
before.

Something just
wasn’t right.

On the whole,
the calls that came into the Bloemfontein sector of the national 10111 network
were usually calm and focused. Sometimes angry. Sometimes scared. Sometimes
resentful. But usually calm. These were people who – most of the time – phoned
to report burglaries, car thefts, barking dogs ... things like that. Bloemfontein
was still a small city – a damn great city. She didn’t care what Henry – her
brother-in-law – and her sister Maggie from Johannesburg said. Bloemfontein was
not
a cemetery with lights. It was a safe city. And its crime statistics
reflected this. Sure. Bloem also had its problems ... and okay sometimes just
sometimes Magda had the nasty suspicion that those problems were getting worse.
But
Hells Bells,
Bloem was still a great city to live in. Serious crimes
like hijacking, murder, rapes, in-transit heists ... the kind of things that
had become a staple of Johannesburg life, were still few-and-far between down
here. In fact Magda could recall every single such episode in the last few
years. Simply because they occurred so infrequently. There was that time those
gomgat
(scumbag) boys from Navalsig killed that gay doctor by smashing his head in with
a large rock from his own garden.
Shame.
The poor boy had received his
medical degree only the day before. Magda wasn’t terribly comfortable with the
issue of homosexuality. But
hene
... no one deserved having his head
smashed in – especially someone as valuable as a doctor. Then of course there
was that sensational story about the depressed man that built this crazy
contraption – a suicide machine! Can you believe it? A suicide machine! In a
city like Bloemfontein of all places. Constable Reinders had told her the man
wanted to die more than anything in the world – and he made sure of this. The
man had fitted a shotgun to the wood and iron contraption. As he lay on the
wooden board, built into the base of the contraption, the shotgun was designed
to point at his head. But that wasn’t all. He had also attached a large circular,
electrical saw powered to the death machine. Reinders said it looked like
something you would find in a butchery. He also said the base of the saw was
fitted to a groove that allowed it to move. On that dark day when the poor
depressed man decided to end his life, he first pushed the button to activate
the gliding saw. Then he flexed the rope that pulled the trigger that
disintegrated half his head. A few seconds later the buzzing saw bit into the

(
still
)

warm flesh of
his neck. Moments later his severed head lay under his left armpit ...
cushioned by about half a dozen large white beach-towels. Because – you see –
that was the saddest thing of all. To minimise the mess – and save others the
unnecessary trouble of cleaning up after him – he had covered himself and the
floor around the machine with thick absorbent towels. He may have been
depressed but he wasn’t inconsiderate.

It was
sensational. Sure. But in Bloem, things like that only happened once in a blue
moon.

The calls
Magda hated the most were the ones she – more often than not – received when
she was doing a night shift. The caller was always female and – almost always –
drunk ... usually in a heightened state of frenzy, goaded on by the deep fires
of alcohol. These were calls reporting domestic disturbances. Magda knew from
experience that these calls typically came from low-income areas where a heavy drinking
session had escalated into a physical altercation.
Wasn’t that the word the guys
in uniform liked to use in their reports: altercation?
It seemed that
lower-class people never fought anymore; they had altercations.

However, the
call that Magda Roberts received on that windy and unpleasant mid-July morning
was nothing like the calls that reported drunken
altercations
between
Bloemfontein’s impoverished classes. It wasn’t just the hysterical pitch of the
voice. It was the Pentagon Park address of course.

Something ...

Pentagon Park
was a brand-new – and very exclusive – high-income development at the time. It
was built around dozens of hills and
koppies
to the north of
Bloemfontein. The prime locations offered fantastic views of the surrounding bush
veldt. The hilly area together with its stone quarry and dam was formerly known
by Bloemfontein residents as Junkie Town. In the decades before it became cultured
and unaffordable, thousands of Bloemfontein youths had gone to the irregular
hills with its undulating roads to indulge in everything from
dagga (
marijuana),
ecstasy, Mandrax and PCP. Now as monstrous modern mansion dotted the hills ... the
only junkies there were the kind that required expensive doctors and running
prescriptions.

Moments after receiving
the call that morning, Magda had relayed the information to a police van – back
then they were still yellow – currently in the area. The police van was
attached to the Bayswater police station – the one nearest to Pentagon Park.
The driver of the van was a Constable Jan Coetzee. One of Magda’s favourite
officers. Next to him was his partner. Constable James Cloete.

On that day –
nineteen years ago – Constable Coetzee was hunched over the CB radio, the
steering wheel of the Mazda Drifter gripped firmly in his right hand. Both he
and Cloete were listening intently to the directions coming over the speaker of
the built-in CB-unit. They looked at each other at the mention of the swanky
Pentagon Park address. Cloete raised his eyebrows.

Coetzee
depressed the button on the side of the handset. ‘Did you say suicide?’

‘Affirmative.’
Magda’s voice squeaked through the speaker. ‘Jan, the caller was very upset.
Hysterical. A young boy, it sounded like. I think you better get over there as
soon as possible.’ Coetzee could hear the concern in her voice. It didn’t
happen often. Magda was no spring chicken after all. Whenever he heard that
angle in her voice it always gave him cause for concern.

‘Okay. We’re about
...’ Coetzee glanced at his partner for confirmation; he was new to the
Bayswater area and still relied on Cloete’s knowledge of this part of town. James
Cloete flashed both hands palms towards Coetzee. ‘...about ten minutes away.’

‘Okay, Jan,’
Magda said. There was a slight pause. ‘Please thank Karen for the pattern,
okay?’ Back then Coetzee’s wife was still alive ... and whole. A beautiful
graceful woman that, as yet, showed no sign of the black cancer that would
devour her a few years later. Back then Coetzee was still a man who only drank
occasionally

‘Will do.’
Coetzee replaced the handset.

As the police
van rolled into the driveway of the address Magda Roberts had provided Coetzee
had a strong and inescapable feeling. It was exactly the way he would feel
nineteen years into the future as he cruised into the parking lot of Bishop’s
police station.

He parked the sturdy
bakkie
on the steep incline of the large angular house and climbed out.

Something was
wrong terribly wrong. Something dark and unnatural.

It wasn’t the
reported suicide. No. It was something

(
dark and
unnatural
)

else. He had
done his fair share of suicides ... and no. That was not it.

As the two
police officers approached the massive ornate door Constable Coetzee glanced over
at his fellow police officer. On Cloete’s face he saw none of the strangeness
he now felt inside. And yet. The dark pungent feeling of something so terribly
wrong wouldn’t subside. He pressed the large door buzzer. A few moments later
the door opened.

Something ...

Coetzee was
prepared to deliver the usual spiel: Good morning. I’m Constable Coetzee. This
is Constable Cloete. From the Bayswater police station. We’ve had a report ...

But the sight
that greeted the two police officers robbed him of words.

Two teenage
boys stood in the doorway. They were both crying hysterically. Their mouths
were wide-open wailing maws; their faces distorted in the crucified agony of
grief; and their voices awkwardly pitched sirens of misery, dipping and then
rising in wordless oscillations as they shrieked at the policemen. It was the
most bizarre thing Coetzee had ever seen in his career.

His first
thought as he stared at the two bawling youngsters was

(
something’s
not right oh God
)  

Liewe Here.(
Dear
God
)
What happened here?

He exchanged a
shocked look with Cloete.

Behind the
boys, Coetzee could see the ultra-modern ultra chic interior of a large
open-plan house. A staircase with an enormous concrete balustrade wound up to a
loft-style upper floor. From somewhere he heard the booming noise of a TV at
full volume. The frenetic music and sound effects indicated it could be an
action movie.

Coetzee’s
second thought as he reached in consolation towards the boys was

(
something
is not damned right here
)

that
everything was just too ... perfect? Was that the word? Perfect?

The boys each
grabbed a police officer and hugged them fiercely. Their wailing rose to a new
fever pitch. With his arms dangling uncertainly behind one of the boys’ backs,
Coetzee looked at Cloete who was also standing in the awkward grip of a
teenager. He looked as helpless as Coetzee felt. In another world it would have
been hilarious. But now ...

Coetzee pulled
the boy from him and looked into

(
something
...
)

his eyes. ‘Er
... my name is Constable Coetzee from Bayswater police station. Don’t be ... afraid.
We’re here to help you. Do you hear me, son?’ Despite the hysterical violence
on the boy’s face he appeared to take in what the policeman was saying. He
nodded. Coetzee glanced again at Cloete. He took a deep breath. ‘Listen to me,
son. We received a report of a ... suicide.’ The boy nodded furiously. ‘Okay.
Okay. Can you ... where ... where did it happen? Can you take me there?’ The
boy started wailing anew. He grabbed Coetzee’s hand and led him up the staircase.
Coetzee turned to Cloete who was still standing awkwardly, immobile in the
other boy’s grasp. ‘James, stay here. With ... uh ...’ Cloete indicated that he
understood. He unlatched himself from the boy’s grip and led him to the large
sprawling lounge with its immaculate wooden floor.

In the middle
of the lounge was a deep round depression where steps led down to several plush
leather couches. The Constable seated the boy on one of these. He remained
standing and surveyed the sumptuous affluent interior. From his position on the
staircase Coetzee could now see a massive plasma screen TV blaring loudly. It
was flashing images of some Hollywood movie. Beneath it, on a long polished
glass rack, rested what appeared to be a sophisticated entertainment system.

Coetzee walked
up the steps. High above them the ceiling arched in a triangular apex; naked wooden
beams visible against beige plaster. He continued to follow the boy up the
staircase and along the walkway that looked down onto the lounge below. When
they reached what was obviously the parents’ room the boy hesitated. Coetzee
indicated for the boy

(
too
perfect too perfect something
)

to stay behind
as he carefully entered.

Two bodies
were suspended from the slanting wooden beams high above. It was a middle-aged
man and woman, hanging motionless above a large queen-sized bed with a
fantastically curved steel frame and headstand. Horribly bloated tongues protruded
from twisted mouths. The woman’s neck was bent at a crude angle. It was
obviously broken. A wet triangle decorated the crotch area of the man’s pants.

Fifteen
minutes later, two detectives from Park Road police station showed up. Park
Road was Bloemfontein’s police HQ. The senior detective was Piet Linde; a hard
and aggressive man that had few friends in the police force. He didn’t kiss
arse. He pissed off anybody who was willing to give him the time of day. And he
was probably the best detective in the history of Bloemfontein. He was also rumoured
to be a raging alcoholic. From a long-standing friendship with the boorish
detective from a small town in the Northern Cape – Coetzee could never remember
its name – he knew this was a lie. Linde
did
drink like a fish – a very
thirsty fish with an insatiable appetite. But then again so did almost every
single member of the South African Police Services. It was an occupational
hazard – as much an occupation as a hazard. But that didn’t make him an
alcoholic. Not in Coetzee’s eyes. If Linde was an alcoholic, then so was every
single member of the South African Police.