Blood Rose

by Margie Orford

The houses had their backs to the alley. In the yards, dogs barked, chained to wires staked into the ground. Damp clothes hung on sagging lines. In the yard opposite the flapping strip of crime-scene tape, a faded-looking woman hung up her last item of washing and hitched the empty basket to her hip. A pudgy toddler tried to push his scooter through the sand.

  ‘Hello,’ greeted Clare, stopping at the fence.

  ‘What you want?’ The woman’s tone was belligerent.

  ‘These dogs always bark like this?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Only for strangers.’ The woman fished out a cigarette from her pocket.

  ‘Did you hear anything on Sunday night, Monday morning very early?’

  ‘She asked me already.’ The woman jerked her cigarette towards Tamar. ‘I was watching TV.’ She blew a smoke ring. ‘Then I was asleep.’

  ‘It’s important, anything unusual,’ said Clare. ‘A boy was murdered.’

  ‘Ja, the third one. You tell the police to do their job, so that our kids are safe instead of bothering innocent people.’ With that, the woman turned and went indoors, yelling at her child to follow her.

  ‘Who uses this alley?’ Clare asked Tamar.

  ‘People taking a short cut to the school,’ answered Tamar. ‘The rag-and-bone men used to come through here with their donkey carts.’

  ‘Not any more?’

  ‘Not as much,’ said Tamar. ‘Most of the recycling is done at the municipal site. The Topnaar carts were banned from coming into town. Hygiene reasons apparently, according to our CEO of cleansing. But they still come from time to time.’

  ‘My friend Goagab?’ asked Clare.

  ‘The very one.’

  The playground stood at the top of a gentle incline. A new wooden fence sequestered the youngest children’s area. It had been decorated with a garish mural, the laughing Disney characters mocking in the childless silence.

  ‘That’s the swing?’ Clare pointed to the last tyre hanging from the yellow frame.

  Tamar nodded. ‘And this is the gap in the fence where he got in.’

  They walked together through the desolate playground. The bright-yellow paint had flaked off the links of the chain from which the seat was suspended. Clare sat down on the inverted tyre. The smell of the rubber, the metal sharp against the back of her legs, tipped her down a tunnel of memory again. It took her breath away, the immediacy of it. Herself a solemn six-year-old, swinging in the hot school playground, bare legs pushing time behind her, brown arms bending into the future. Willing herself older so that she could get away. Watched by Constance, her twin, whose face mirrored hers except in what it concealed, watching her, willing her to stay. Constance, a thought fox sniffing out Clare’s most secret desires to be the only one, whole in and of herself.

  Clare stopped, aware that Tamar was looking at her. She steadied the swing and hopped off.

  ‘It’s got the best view,’ said Tamar. ‘That swing.’

  ‘You tried it?’ asked Clare, looking out at the expanse of sand circled by the dark arm of the Kuiseb River to the south.

  ‘I wanted to get a sense of him. Of his death. To see if there was anything left of the violence of it.’

  ‘And was there?’

  Tamar blushed and shook her head. ‘There were some indentations in the sand, though,’ she remembered. ‘Like someone had poked it with a thin stick. Maybe a cane.’

  Clare nodded and went over to the classroom block. A single window overlooked the playground. She peered into the dim classroom. The rows of miniature red desks and cheery yellow chairs were empty. A pile of marking lay abandoned on the teacher’s desk. The writing on the board caught her eye: Mrs Ruyters, Grade 1, Monday’s date.

  ‘Ruyters,’ said Clare. ‘That rings a bell.’

  ‘She’s on your list for interviewing. She was here early, before Herman Shipanga arrived,’ said Tamar, looking at her watch. ‘Shall we get going? I need to get some coffee and pastries on the way. I can’t do pregnancy on an empty stomach. Post-mortems neither.’

  The Venus Bakery was bustling with early-morning trade when Tamar pulled up on the opposite side of the road. At the stop street ahead, a familiar figure peered into the windows of cars caught by the traffic light.

  ‘That’s the boy I met last night,’ said Clare, feeling the bruise on the side of her arm. ‘I’ll need to talk to him again.’

  ‘Lazarus,’ said Tamar. ‘Lazarus Beukes. He’s sharp. Been living on the streets most of his life. He’ll spin you whatever story he thinks you want to hear.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe him?’ asked Clare.

  ‘Put it this way,’ said Tamar, ‘Lazarus rarely lets the truth interfere with a good story.’

  To the left of the bakery entrance, a wiry girl, her hair a wild black halo, chained her bike to a blue column. Lazarus approached her, trying to sell her a tatty-looking newspaper, his bony shoulders sharp against his worn jersey.

  ‘That’s Mara Thomson. The English volunteer.’ Tamar pointed to the girl as she entered the store.

  ‘They look so alike,’ said Clare as they crossed the road. ‘Funny to think they grew up six thousand miles apart.’

  ‘Two rolls with cheese, please,’ Mara was saying when they entered the bakery.

  The woman behind the counter pulled two buttered rolls out of a tray, slapped the cheese onto them and wrapped them in plastic. She pushed them across the counter to Mara. ‘You shouldn’t talk to these street boys.’ Disdain curled her thin upper lip. ‘Six Nam dollars.’

  ‘They’re good kids,’ said Mara, ‘living a bad life.’

  ‘It’s easy for you foreigners to feel sorry for them, but we have to live with them. Aids orphans are just trouble.’ The woman counted out Mara’s change. ‘Look at that one who got himself killed. And the other two they found in the desert. What do they think that’ll do for our tourism?’

  ‘I’m sure they’d have avoided being shot,’ Tamar interjected tartly, ‘if they’d known what their murders would do to your business.’

  ‘Hello, Captain,’ said Mara, her relief at being rescued palpable.

  ‘Morning, Mara. This is Dr Hart,’ said Tamar. ‘She’s here from Cape Town, working with me.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m glad somebody’s bothered,’ said Mara, shaking Clare’s hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘And you,’ said Clare. ‘You knew Kaiser? And the other boys, I understand?’

  ‘Kaiser plays … played in the soccer team I coach. So did Fritz and Nicanor, on and off,’ said Mara, moving towards the door, out of earshot of the sour-faced shop assistant. ‘Fritz Woestyn’s death, that was part of the odds they play with anyway,’ she went on. ‘There’ve been murders before this. Nicanor Jones’s death made them scared. This last one …’ Mara’s voice trailed off.

  ‘I’ll need to talk to you,’ said Clare. ‘About the boys.’

  ‘All right,’ said Mara. ‘I rent a room in that double-storey on the lagoon. George Meyer’s house, if you need to ask for directions.’

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ said Clare. ‘A little redhead on a bike went in there.’

  ‘That’s Oscar,’ said Mara. ‘I’ll be back after soccer practice this afternoon.’ She nodded goodbye and walked outside. Clare watched her give a roll to Lazarus.

  ‘No meat?’ he asked, pulling off the wrapping and dropping it to the floor.

  ‘How about a thank you?’ said Mara, picking up the discarded wrapping.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, throwing the cheese roll into the bin as Mara turned the corner.

  ‘Her visa’s almost expired.’ Clare had not heard Tamar come outside. ‘She’s got to go home, whether she wants to or not.’

  ‘And does she?’ asked Clare.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Tamar. ‘She’s fallen for a beautiful young Spaniard called Juan Carlos. I doubt she can think straight at the moment.’

  thirteen

  The Walvis Bay private hospital was a drab building. The mortuary, housed in a weather-beaten
prefab round the back, was the grim heart of the establishment. A young woman in hospital greens opened the door when Tamar knocked.

  ‘Welcome.’ She stood aside for Clare and Tamar. The lemony scent of her hair held the institutional smell of disinfectant and instant coffee at bay.

  ‘You must be Dr Hart.’ The hand she offered Clare was broad and capable, the square nails cut short.

  ‘Call me Clare. I feel like a fraud around proper doctors. You’re Dr Kotze?’

  ‘Helena, please,’ the woman said. She turned to Tamar, looking her over. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine. Here’s some breakfast for you.’ Tamar gave Helena a pastry.

  ‘Thanks. It’s good to meet you, Dr Hart. I’ve read some of your work.’

  ‘And your old professor, Piet Mouton, was singing your praises.’ Clare returned the compliment.

  ‘I’m just sorry I wasn’t here to do those other two boys,’ Helena said. ‘A medical intern did the autopsies on Fritz Woestyn and Nicanor Jones. They’re about as much use as a politician’s election promises. Those boys were buried and the intern went back to Cuba, so a lot rests on this post-mortem.’

  Helena gave Clare and Tamar gloves and gowns, ushering them into a cubicle off the entrance hall. Clare pulled the shapeless green gown over her clothes and tucked her long hair into the disposable hairnet. Helena opened a door, releasing the smell of the morgue. The ammonia was biting, but it was no match for the cloying stench of decay. Thick plastic curtains thwacked against metal when Helena Kotze wheeled in the metal trolley.

  Kaiser Apollis’s scrawny body was curled under the white shroud Clare had seen in the photographs. Helena pulled back the cover to reveal the child’s head and face. The back of his head was missing and there was a small, neat hole in his forehead, the caked blood erasing the delicacy of his features. The three women circled him.

  ‘A single gunshot wound to the forehead,’ Helena said, more for her tape recorder than for Clare and Tamar. ‘Probably a pistol. Nasty exit wound at the back, so no bullet for ballistics. Cause of death, I’d say. Put the call through to Piet Mouton, won’t you Clare? The red button switches it to speakerphone.’ She pointed to a machine near the window.

  Clare busied herself, relieved to have something to do. She was also glad to have Mouton orchestrating this, even if it was remote. His experienced eyes missed nothing.

  ‘Dr Hart,’ bellowed Mouton, right on cue. ‘You girls ready?’

  ‘We’re here, Piet. Me, Dr Helena Kotze and Captain Tamar Damases of Nampol.’

  ‘Where’s that useless bastard Faizal? He leave you in the lurch in the desert?’

  Clare kept her voice light. ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Tell him from me that absence makes the maiden wander. Doc Kotze, what you got there?’

  ‘You’ve got the photos?’ Helena asked.

  ‘Yes, of course I have the photos. They jammed my e-mail all morning. Photos help me bugger-all. Forensics is science in court. On the slab, it’s intuition and luck. Put me in your head and let me see through your eyes.’

  Helena took a deep breath. ‘Body of a child. Male. Looks twelve. Sixteen next week, according to his ID book. Weight: forty-two kilos. IDed as Kaiser Apollis. Bullet to the head. Close range. Body placed in a rubber swing. Blue and white nylon ligatures around both wrists. My guess is washing line.’ Helena moved closer to the still form on the gurney and looked at the rope that had held the child’s wrists together. ‘A clean cut. Looks like—’

  ‘Cut with what?’ interjected Mouton.

  ‘Looks like it was a pair of pliers,’ Clare finished for Helena. ‘Something rough.’

  ‘Body folded into a foetal position,’ Helena continued. ‘Arms wrapped around the legs when discovered. Wrapped in an old piece of cloth. All held together with riempie. Riempie also used to attach the child to the swing where he was found.’

  Helena untied the leather strips holding the shroud loosely in position. Kaiser Apollis looked as though he could have been asleep. His limbs had flopped wide, palms up. She pulled the shroud from underneath him and spread it out. There were no bloodstains. His life had seeped away before he had been swaddled in the cloth.

  Helena continued: ‘The top joint of the ring finger is missing.’ Tamar brought her camera up close to the mutilated digit.

  ‘The only finger with a dual nerve supply,’ Mouton noted. ‘Double the nerves; double the pain. No wonder it’s the wedding finger.’

  ‘An unlikely bridegroom.’ Clare picked up the boy’s hand and spread out the fingers. ‘Some bleeding. If it was done postmortem then not too long after he died.’

  ‘Dr Kotze,’ said Mouton, his disembodied voice startling them. ‘What’s your time of death?’

  ‘The body was cold when it was found,’ said Helena. ‘But I’d say at least thirty-six, maybe forty-eight hours before we got to it. There was only a little stiffness left. Weekends are generally our murder nights anyway. So Friday.’

  ‘Any other wounds? From the photographs it looked like his chest was a mess.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Helena. ‘Considerable post-mortem cutting. Surface wounds on the chest and abdomen. Not much oozing. Done quite some time post-mortem. We’ll wash it off and have a closer look.’

  Helena and Tamar laid the slender boy out on the trolley, his hip bones twin peaks under the bloodstained white shirt. ‘The Desert Rats’ was emblazoned across the front of the grubby shirt.

  ‘Mara Thomson’s soccer team,’ said Tamar.

  Helena removed his clothes. He had no underwear on under his jeans. His feet were too small for the shiny new Nikes.

  ‘Expensive shoes for a homeless child,’ Clare commented. She bagged and tagged the clothes and shoes.

  ‘Fake,’ Helena explained. ‘Chinese Nikes. Thirty Namibian dollars. That’s what? About four US dollars. Try China Waltons in the middle of town. That’s where everyone gets them.’

  Helena looked away from the still face, androgynous in death, and put her hand on a dirty knee. ‘Old scars on the knees and elbows. Uncircumcised. No tattoos. A leather necklace with a beaded pouch at the end.’

  ‘It’s for protection.’ Tamar reached forward. She untied it and dropped it with the clothes. ‘He’d have worn it since he was a baby. Whoever gave him that loved him.’

  ‘Didn’t do him any good in the end,’ said Helena. ‘Will you help me turn him, Clare?’

  Clare nodded reluctantly. The naked boy was insubstantial. When they laid him on his stomach, his heels flopped outwards, leaving the feet pigeon-toed. Helena leaned forward, oblivious. She pressed a forefinger against the naked buttocks. ‘The discolouration on the back of the legs is quite marked. Buttocks, back, thighs, calves. The blood looks like it’s pooled.’

  ‘What’s that telling you?’ barked Mouton.

  ‘That he lay on his back for some time before he was trussed up for his trip to town.’ Helena ran her finger over the boy’s matted hair. His drying blood had trapped fine sand. She held a glass strip beneath the locks and tapped a bit of sand onto it, holding it up to the light. It glinted. ‘See that? It’s mica. Fool’s gold. You don’t get that at the coast. At the coast the sand’s darker, purple even.’ Helena put the glass aside.

  Clare’s eyes traced down the lattice of scars on his back. ‘Kaiser Apollis took a few beatings in his life. I’d like to hear what Van Wyk says about his weekend stay in the cells.’

  Helena turned on the tap, and warm water spurted out of the garden hose she had rigged up. She and Clare turned Kaiser onto his back. The water ran pink, clearing the boy’s face of the crust of blood. Bone and skin filigreed over the hole the bullet had punched into his forehead.

  ‘The killer was close when he fired. Look at this.’ Helena pointed to the boy’s forehead. Fanned out around the entrance wound was an intricate stippling. ‘It’s called tattooing. You see this if the victim is shot at close range. Between ten centimetres and two metres. Further away than that you don’t see it.’
>
  ‘What’s it from?’ Clare asked.

  ‘The propellant and gas that travels with the bullet as it leaves the muzzle embeds itself into the tissue, like a tattoo,’ Helena explained. She moved the hose down, rinsing blood from the boy’s neck and chest. She turned the water down and washed the wound on his chest. Marks were deliberately scored into the flesh with a few deft, deep strokes.

  ‘It looks like a 3,’ said Helena.

  ‘There had better not be a number 4. There was a cutting like this on Nicanor Jones too,’ said Tamar. ‘He had a 2 on his chest.’

  ‘Did Fritz Woestyn have a 1?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Nothing. The finger joint was missing. Head shot the same, same type of gun, but not this mutilation,’ said Tamar.

  ‘How was this done?’ Clare turned back to Kaiser Apollis.

  ‘Non-serrated knife, I’d say,’ guessed Helena. ‘Very sharp. A fisherman’s knife, something sturdy like that. Look here.’ She pointed to the chest. ‘It’s nicked the ribs in places. But there isn’t much blood here, so definitely done some time post-mortem.’

  Helena washed the rest of the frail body, hands gentling the healed lash wounds on his back and buttocks. She examined his feet, pulling apart the toes. The tender flesh between them was still pink, the last vestige of a truncated childhood. There was sand and salt crusted around his toes, as if he had dug them into sand and then let a wave run over them.

  ‘It looks like he walked in sand before he put his shoes on,’ she said, taking a scrape of the soil. ‘I could see if this sand is the same as the sand in his hair.’

  ‘You studying soil to go with your gunshots?’ Tamar asked.

  ‘My boyfriend’s a geologist. He thinks the best way of getting me to give him a blow job is to tell me in graphic detail about all the soil types of the Namib.’

  ‘Does it work?’ asked Clare.

  ‘Put it this way, it keeps him quiet.’

  ‘Have you thought about giving him something to eat?’ asked Tamar.

  ‘Gross,’ said Helena, shocked. ‘I hate cooking.’

  ‘Ladies, I have work to do. Call me when you’re done, Dr Kotze.’ Mouton cut the connection, leaving a disapproving silence in the cold room.