His poor mom has since tried to commit suicide.
The next victim is Macy Bowers, the girl who used to go to my school. She was taken ten days after Dawid disappeared, in almost exactly the same way. Macy used to be this kiddie beauty queen, which isn’t that surprising, I guess, once you learn that her mom works as a beauty therapist and her dad is a plastic surgeon. What really gets to me from this case is the picture of her two little brothers’ crying faces. They just looked so scared and so sad and so vulnerable.
And then there’s Ruth Jones, the last one to have been taken. By far the oldest of the missing children (she’s sixteen), Ruth was a brilliant student, a junior prefect and a religious leader at her school. Like the others she disappeared in the middle of the night, but in this case a kitchen window was found broken the next morning. Her stepfather, a pastor, has set up a prayer group for her which meets every morning at his house.
Anyway, after I draw up those files I can see why the police are so baffled. Usually, when children disappear like this, there’s some or other obvious connection between them. They all live in the same neighbourhood, for example. Or they are roughly the same age. Or sex. Or they look similar, or they come from the same background, or they go to the same school or they use the same train. Or something.
But no matter how you look at it, with these four children there are hardly any similarities to be found. And if there aren’t any similarities, we are dealing with coincidence.
And if you are solving a case, let me tell you, coincidence sucks big time.
As you would have noticed when you read my overall case summary (previous page), just about the only thing these kids have in common is the way they disappeared. And the way they disappeared, let’s face it, is really difficult to explain.
The fact of the matter, I realise as I read through my first solo case ever, is that the internet isn’t going to solve this mystery for me. I will need to do real field work in order to get any answers. You know, poke around in hidden spaces, listen to private conversations. The way I used to.
But how on earth am I supposed to do that, now that time won’t stop for me any more?
Chapter 12
I decide to focus my energies on Ruth Jones first – since she disappeared most recently, I figure she should be easiest to trace. Also, it seems to me that in her case the kidnappers were finally starting to get a bit sloppy: unlike the almost clinical disappearances of the first three children, in hers an iPod and some money were stolen, and a kitchen window was broken. Hopefully this means that discipline was starting to break down, and that there will be a few leads to trace on this one.
The other reason I decide to tackle her case file first is because she seems to have lived her whole life online. I’m telling you, that girl must’ve spent entire decades on her computer and this, fortunately, makes her movements, her friends, her interests, and just about everything else in her life an open book to someone with even the most rudimentary hacking skills.
(Honestly, I will never understand how people can just put everything about their lives out there, and live under the illusion that a seven-digit password is going to keep it private. Sure, I might be more paranoid than most people, but I look at people posting photos of themselves naked, or partying like it’s fricken 1999, and I wonder if they know that that info is now available to the whole world. [28] Heaven help these kids if they ever decide to run for president, is all I can say.)
Anyway, Ruth seems to have been a total Facebook and MySpace addict (obviously not having received the memo that that was so over). After an evening online, I begin to feel like I’ve known her my whole life. And let’s just say the picture that emerges is w-a-a-y different from the one in the newspapers.
In short, there seem to have been two Ruths. The first one advertised her existence like this:
The photos show a blonde girl who might’ve been pretty if it wasn’t for her penchant for long, Nineties-style, floral-print, A-line dresses. (And her strange eyes, which are big and blue but also odd-looking somehow – too round and too big, like a barn owl’s.) Always smiling shyly at the camera, she looks like the nerdy best friend in an American sitcom. Average-looking but not ugly. Destined to play supporting roles her whole life.
This is the Ruth the media wrote about, a girl not known by many, but liked well enough by most. A dutiful daughter who was only allowed out to attend church events or study groups. A Christian youth leader. A brilliant student. A shy, private person.
The public Ruth. The one you don’t need passwords for.
But then there’s the other Ruth. By sniffing out her alias on Twitter (Ruthless) and tracing that alter ego, I discover someone completely different:
This girl, the one calling herself Ruthless, has a totally different set of friends, and on their “private” pages I find a totally different person. On the plus side, she does look better, mainly because she wears jeans like a normal person. On the minus side, it kind of seems like she really loves a good party (if you know what I mean). And her hobbies basically consist of the following: flashing her boobs, getting wasted, licking people’s faces and hating her parents. I find photo after photo of her with her hands around various boys’ (and one girl’s) necks, snogging her little heart out or laughing at the camera, eyes as big as saucers and obviously feeling all loved up.
Mmm. Now that’s the kind of study group most people only dream of.
By the way, let me just make one thing very clear. I’m not sitting in judgment here. Life is complicated, and people need to deal with it in their own way. It’s just that something about the intensely schizophrenic nature of her life on the web activates all kinds of alarm bells in my head.
I mean, sure, lots of girls have had their picture taken topless, high as a kite and downing body shots off a series of random boys’ naked butts. (Cellphone cameras have a lot to answer for.) But these girls mostly don’t sign chastity pledges or wear purity rings.
If you know what I mean.
* * *
So anyway, I spend the whole week brooding over the enigma of the two Ruths.
Which is probably just as well, because it distracts me from the fact that my life at school is beginning to resemble Prison Break. Except without the camaraderie or any hope of escape. By Friday, I decide that I need to speak to some of Ruth’s friends. Do some real detective work. Get to know her crowd a little, find out if she is into any seriously bad stuff.
It also just so happens that I know exactly where to find them. Following some of her friends on Twitter I find out that their favourite party – The Wedding DJs at LBs – is on again tonight.
The good ol’ interweb. Don’t you just love it.
* * *
I arrive at the club at ten, all primed and ready for some serious Nancy Drewing, but after about an hour I reluctantly begin to admit defeat. I don’t see any of Ruth’s friends, and it’s impossible to talk to anyone in this place – you have to scream at the top of your lungs just to buy a drink.
It’s a weird gig too: Eighties and Nineties music, neon colours, teased hair, legwarmers everywhere … The two DJs are dressed in the shortest shorts I’ve ever seen, and the whole crowd is bouncing up and down and singing along to the music like very uncool crazy people.
The silliness is catching though, and after a while I decide to make the best of a bad situation and start dancing too. Soon I’m having fun in spite of myself. (Mostly, I have to admit, because of this gorgeous blond Viking sex god who dances so close that I can feel the heat waves rolling off his perfect body. I try not to throw myself at him, but it’s difficult.)
It’s about midnight when the party really begins to rock. Michael Jackson’s Thriller just about brings the house down. People are moonwalking, some are on their knees, hands thrown up in the air, girls are losing make-up in sweaty streams down their faces, and just about everybody is singing along.
And then – flash! – it goes quiet. And cold. And absolutely still.
I am going to kill Finn.
* * *
At first I just kind of stand around waiting, hoping this session will be brief. But when my teeth start chattering I realise that I’d better make a plan, borrow something warm from someone. (Lulled into a false sense of security by weeks of normal time, I haven’t brought anything with me. Like an idiot.)
But, you know, the club was boiling hot so there aren’t exactly a lot of thick coats lying around, and to be honest …
. . . what I’m really tempted to do is to snuggle up to Viking sex god here next to me. [29]
Of course, I made the decision long ago that I would never take advantage of people frozen in untime – it’s a slippery slope, as Simon always used to say – but for a heady second I can’t help but imagine my body resting against that broad chest. . .
Then I decide that I’m not quite that desperate (yet) and I turn away reluctantly. [30] Maybe some of the clubbers would’ve stashed jackets or sweaters on the padded benches against the wall.
As I move through the throng of dancing people, all frozen so spookily, I try not to make eye contact with anyone – it’s an old trick I’ve learnt to make it more bearable to be around a crowd of blank-eyed people. Usually I kind of narrow my gaze, forcing my eyes out of focus, the way we used to do with those 3D pictures when we were kids. Then I convince myself that all these creepy, motionless figures around me are dolls. Just dolls. Like shop mannequins, or those wax figures at Madame Tussauds.
Which is still pretty disturbing, I admit, but come on, throw me a bone here.
Anyway, I luck out almost immediately when I see a thickly padded Eighties-style windbreaker lying in one corner. By this time I’m shivering like mad, and the tip of my nose and my ears have gone numb, so I thank my lucky stars and rush over.
I’m so eager to get the thick jacket on, unfortunately, that I don’t watch what I’m doing, and suddenly my night gets a whole lot worse. Because the next thing I know I’ve accidentally knocked someone over, and then it’s like a life-sized game of dominos.
Holy. Cow.
The first girl I knocked over bumps against a woman leaning over the bar, and knocks her right over so that you just see legs flying. She falls against the barman, and he spills an open beer all over a waiting customer.
Oh boy. I just hope nobody broke anything, that’s all …
Fortunately, the windbreaker is really warm and it has a hoodie so at least my head begins to defrost after a while. Once I heat up a bit, I start trying to fix the mess I made, but it’s difficult. It’s a good thing I’m so strong, I’m telling you.
Anyway, I’m trying to get this one girl to sit upright again, right, when suddenly my evening is taken to the next level of crazy bizarre. Because as I gently tug on the chick’s hair (okay, okay, I might have yanked at it a bit less than gently) her head comes off – thump! – just like that.
WTF!!!???
I’m about to lose it completely, when I realise that it’s not her head I’m holding in my hands. Thank God.
It’s a huge red wig.
I’m so relieved that I laugh out loud in the deafening silence around me. But then I stop laughing.
Because when I turn to put the wig back onto the girl’s head I get right up close to her face. And wouldn’t you know it, but the eyes look all too familiar.
Big and almost completely round. Like an owl’s. (Or the top of a roll-on deodorant.)
No way. No. Way.
Ruth fricken Jones.
* * *
I finally get her alone when she moves towards the small balcony at the back of the club to get some air. By this time it’s after twelve thirty, which is making me nervous as I have a one o’clock curfew on a Friday. Also, I’m really tired, as we stayed in untime for at least two hours, so according to my body it’s already nearer to three. (Not to mention all the physical exercise I got trying to fix my accidental game of dominoes.)
When I’m nervous I get grumpy. When I’m tired I get very grumpy. When I’m both at the same time, the last of my meagre social skills disappear.
“You bloody stupid cow.”
“Excuse me?”
But she’s a clever girl, obviously quick on the uptake, and she realises almost immediately that she’s been recognised. She looks around, then tries to make a run for it.
“Not so fast, Ruth.”
The handcuff I slap around her wrist yanks her back so hard it upsets her red wig. She looks at the way her hand is trapped against the table leg, stunned. Then she hisses at me, her voice so full of acid it could burn through solid steel.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”
“I’d keep it down if I were you, girlfriend. We don’t want to attract too much attention to ourselves, now do we.”
She sits back down, and I can see the thoughts racing around her head. She knows she’s busted. She so knows it.
“What do you want?”
“What do you think?” I can do sarcasm if I have to.
“Leave me alone!”
In reply I give her my meanest stare. And then I feel kind of bad when she bursts into tears.
“Don’t make me go back to him,” she sobs. “Please. Please. I can’t go back to that man.”
“So you ran away from home?”
She nods, miserably.
“And you made it look like another kidnapping.”
Another nod.
“Why would you do that? You’re messing up the whole investigation! How can anybody be that selfish?”
She’s doesn’t answer me and I realise that she’s still crying, although she’s not making any noise. Her tears are just dripping down her face, her chest heaving, her shoulders defeated. She’s biting her bottom lip so as not to make any sound. Ruth Jones, I realise, is someone who’s had a whole lot of practice crying silently.
Oh hell.
I feel my anger leaving me, just like that. Then I give a deep sigh.
“You do realise that you are totally confusing the case and wasting police time?”
“I didn’t know what else to do. I needed to get away from him.”
“Your stepfather?”
Another miserable nod.
“And what about your mother? She must be just sick with worry!”
Ruth winces, but then she shakes her head. “My mother died when my father did.”
I frown at her, not understanding. According to the internet her mother is still very much alive.
“What do you mean? I’ve seen pictures of your mother and –”
“I’m talking about inside,” she interrupts me. “Her soul. It’s only her body that lives with that man.” She gives a little sob, but she doesn’t stop talking. “Sometimes I look into my mom’s eyes, and it’s like looking into an empty room. She’s not there any more.”
We are both silent for a moment, because I just don’t know what to say to that. When she looks up at me, her eyes pop out even more, just pleading, you know, like those of a dog that’s been tied up in the sun.
“Please, I beg you. I beg you. Don’t make me go back. Please. You don’t know what it’s like.”
Oh great.
Now in the old days, this is where I would’ve handed the situation over to Simon. You know, leave the complicated human issues for the grown-up to deal with. Simon knew how to talk to people. He knew how to make things right.
But Simon is dead.
I need to be the grown-up now.
I sigh again, give a quick look at my watch – 12.37 am. We have a few minutes left. Then I take her other hand, the one that’s not handcuffed to the table, and look her in the eyes.
“Why don’t you tell me about it?”
Chapter 13
The story Ruth told me was so awful that at one stage I could actually feel my brain melting. Seriously, it felt as if certain wires up there just kind of fused and then exploded. She made me swear on my mother’s life that I won’t ever tell anybody, and I intend to keep that pr
omise, you know, seeing that I like my mother just fine.
But I do just need to mention that that stepfather of hers could give lessons in evil to the devil.
Anyway, after hearing her story there was no way I could let her go back to that man. And I couldn’t just let her fend for herself out on Cape Town’s streets either. So I told my mom she was a friend from school whose parents had gone overseas and who was getting lonely at home. And my mom, being my mom, offered for her to stay with us, thrilled that I was making new friends.
In the end, I guess I merely did what anybody would have done in my situation: I lied to my mom, subverted the cause of justice by withholding information from the police, and began to harbour a fugitive.
So that turned out pretty well.
* * *
Actually, in spite of my immediate problems, I wake up kind of stoked on Saturday. I mean, let’s face it, I’ve only been working on this case for a week, and I’ve already found one missing kid! That’s like a quarter of the case – solved!
(I’m using the word “solved” in the very broadest sense, of course … What am I going to do with Ruth?)
Not wanting to lose any momentum, I decide to get right back to the investigation. I’m not too sure where to start though. (It’s not that I don’t have ideas; I have tons of ideas. The problem is just that they all suck.)
In the end I spend the morning just staring at the photos in the files in front of me: little orphaned Samantha; Dawid, the Down’s syndrome boy; Macy, the baby beauty queen. What on earth could link these three people?
In the end it’s Samantha’s baby face and sparkling black eyes that move me the most. She’s only six, for pity’s sake. Six! My throat closes up when I think of how scared she must be. Of what gut-wrenchingly disturbing things evil people can do to six-year-old girls.
But I put those thoughts out of my mind, together with the nagging concern that she might not even be alive any more. Cynicism and fatalism won’t get you very far in this game. You have to believe that you can make a difference, or you’ll end up a complete and utter loser.
Sidekick Page 10