‘I walked.’
‘From here?’
Jacobus nods. De Vries wonders how far from Taryn Holt’s house they might be now, wonders how much higher Jacobus would have had to climb. It seems a strange lie to tell.
‘This women’s group: it is part of this church?’
‘Some of their members worship here. Others not. I provide moral and spiritual guidance to those in need.’
‘They attended these demonstrations as individuals or as a group?’
‘Four women run the group. They were offended by those paintings and appalled that anyone could walk in off the street to view them. Those who chose to join them did so.’
‘When does this group meet?’
‘Every week day. From 2 p.m. One of the conveners will open up the hall . . .’ He reaches inside his robes and produces a small, gold pocket watch. ‘Any minute now.’
‘You didn’t see Taryn Holt again after your meeting?’
‘That woman lacked a moral compass; she showed no respect for her fellow human beings. We reached out to her but she spurned us . . .’
‘No, then?’
‘No.’
De Vries waits, but the priest says nothing more.
‘Where were you last night between 10 p.m. and 4 a.m.?’
‘You ask me that?’
‘I ask anyone who might be a suspect that question.’
‘Do you people understand who I am; who I represent?’
De Vries leans over the table at the priest.
‘If you think that because you work in here, you wear dark clothes and pray to a god I do not believe in, that somehow exempts you from suspicion, you are wrong. Answer my question, Father Jacobus.’
De Vries observes contempt and anger in the man’s face; he smiles inwardly.
‘I was at prayer here until 10.30 p.m. I locked the church and returned to my home, four houses along the road. That is my ritual, every day.’
‘And you didn’t leave your home?’
‘No.’
‘Can anyone verify that?’
Jacobus sneers at him.
‘Obviously not.’
De Vries nods, glances over his shoulder; Don February stands still and silent. He gets up and, without acknowledging the priest, lets himself out through the church door. When Don joins him on the street, he says:
‘You see why I don’t like these people, Don?’
‘I understand you do not have faith . . .’
‘We tell that man of god that Taryn Holt is dead and he asks us nothing. Instead, we have to listen to his opinion.’ He begins to walk away down the street, arms swinging; turns back: ‘He talks about morality, but these people, Don, these people, they fucking revolt me. Doesn’t matter which fucking religion it is. They always know best and it’s not enough for them to live their own lives the way they believe, they have to make others do the same, and if we don’t we’re condemned.’
Don says: ‘He is in denial about the problems in our country.’
‘I think he lied about walking to Taryn Holt’s house.’
Don says quietly: ‘I think he lied later too.’
De Vries walks up to him, his face close to Don’s.
‘When?’
Don takes a step back. Amidst his boss’s mood changes, he protects his own territory. He has learnt that this is the way to operate.
‘When he said that he had not heard any threats; when he did not know who had thrown the brick at the gallery.’
De Vries nods minutely.
‘You did not see this, sir?’
‘I wasn’t watching as I should. I was too busy disliking him.’
Taryn Holt’s body is uncovered, five entry wounds on her torso, the holes clean and dark and deep. Her mouth is open, empty.
Doctor Anna Jafari says: ‘You can see everything there is. Five shots. No defensive wounds, no sign of movement or molestation post-mortem. She was shot where she was found, fell backwards probably from the impact of the first shot, and then shot a further four times.’
De Vries sees two holes on the left side of her chest, a third on the right side, the final two lower on her abdomen.
‘Unless toxicology produce something, cause of death is simple and obvious. There is no alien material about her person. She had bathed earlier in the evening.’
‘Can you narrow the time of death?’
‘I will state that it occurred between 11 p.m. on Thursday evening and 1 a.m. on Friday morning. I can’t be more specific.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because there are extenuating factors and, considering our professional history, Colonel de Vries, if I am required to testify in court, I would be unhappy moving to a narrower time-frame.’
‘But, if it was off the record, would you favour the earlier or later time?’
‘I would favour what I have just told you.’
De Vries sighs.
‘What about what was in her mouth.’
‘I extracted it and sent it to Dr Ulton in the laboratory here. It was inserted post-mortem, almost certainly within minutes of her death, since the throat constricts quickly post-mortem, and there was no sign of force or trauma.’
‘What was it?’
Anna Jafari looks at him blankly.
‘Twenty-four centimetres.’
De Vries gags on a smart line, stays silent.
‘But I have not finished with the bullet wounds. The weapon was a nine millimetre; Dr Ulton has identified the bullets and suspects that they were shot from a Beretta, fitted with what seems to be the standard silencer. It is not clear whether she was standing when she was first hit, but it is certain that each shot was taken at a different range . . .’
‘The shooter approached her firing?’
Jafari hesitates.
‘That is a possible explanation. Perhaps I can explain?’ She produces a silver ballpoint pen, points at the five entry wounds in turn. ‘This shot is from the furthest range, probably about six metres. From the killer’s point of view, it is perfect. This shot punctured the heart and caused it to explode. Death would have been instantaneous. This is the shot responsible for most of the scattered matter discovered at the scene. It is possible that she had expired seconds previously, but it would be reasonable to assume that this was the kill shot, the cause of death.’ She leans forward and points at the shot on the other side of her chest. ‘This shot was taken at approximately four metres from the victim. This one from perhaps three metres, this at two metres and, this final shot . . .’ She indicates the entry hole just to the right of the likely kill wound. ‘This entry wound suggests that the shot was taken at virtually point-blank range, perhaps thirty centimetres – you can see scorching at the perimeter of the entry wound.’
De Vries stares at the fluorescent tube above the table, lets the image go out of focus.
‘The killer shoots her from six metres out – which puts him in the doorway to her bedroom . . . Then he moves towards her, shoots four further times . . .’ He looks up, turns to Don February. ‘I can see that.’
Don says: ‘Why fire four further times when your first shot is fatal?’
De Vries shrugs.
‘Perhaps you don’t know for certain . . . ?’
‘Doctor Jafari,’ Don says, bowing minutely at the pathologist, ‘told us that her heart exploded, that there was blood and organ matter exploding from her body. She would have gone down instantly.’
‘If you are angry, you keep shooting . . .’
‘You are assuming,’ Jafari interrupts, ‘that the shot from the fur-thest range was the first. It is possible that the killer was walking away from his victim.’
De Vries turns to Don February and back to her.
‘Why?’
‘It’s not my job to speculate, Colonel. But, to me, it is a mistake not to consider all possibilities unless excluded by the evidence. All five shots were taken within a very few seconds, but it is unproven which shot was first.’
Do
n says: ‘Maybe the killer crept into her room, saw her sleeping but, when he saw her waking up, began to shoot while retreating . . . ?’
‘No,’ De Vries says quickly. ‘We think that she was standing at the end of her bed, perhaps sitting, but shot where she was. She wasn’t in bed, and she wasn’t sleeping.’ He looks up at the pathologist, continues dryly: ‘With respect to Doctor Jafari, it may not be proven, but we can say that it is very likely that the killer approached as he shot.’
Jafari blinks slowly.
‘I will conclude my report. Doctor Ulton’s team may choose to attempt a sequence with trajectory information. That is not my concern.’
‘So,’ Don February says. ‘It seems that the killer was a good shot with his first bullet, not so good with the next three, and tried to kill his victim a second time with his last. That does not make sense.’
De Vries smiles at them both.
‘No. And that’s the first good news we’ve had.’
The woman sits. When she first saw them, she spoke curtly and continued laying out the seats in neat rows, adjusting them minutely, unnecessarily. Now, she looks at the white officer, fixes him with her eyes, knows what effect she will have.
De Vries hopes that the women’s group is more welcoming to women.
‘My name is Brenda Botes,’ she tells them. ‘I am one of the organizers here. Father Jacobus told me that you would be coming back.’
‘We need to talk to you about the art exhibition, about what happened to Taryn Holt.’
‘I am sorry about Taryn Holt. I am not sorry that the door is closed on her vile display.’
‘The exhibition?’
‘When you have been raped and abused,’ she says, ‘imprisoned as a slave in your own home, you do not need art to tell you that men can be cruel, can be evil even to their own wives.’
‘You thought the pictures were art?’
‘I thought they were exploitation.’
She pushes herself back into the orange plastic chair and tries to cross her legs. When this manoeuvre fails, she sits upright and plants her feet flat on the floor.
De Vries continues: ‘Did you speak personally to Taryn Holt?’
‘I went with the other ladies. When you join us here, you become part of our group. The strength is within the group; we fight for each other.’
‘You approached her before the demonstration?’
‘We went with Father Jacobus. We were there for different reasons but with the same aim.’
‘To prevent the exhibition from opening?’
‘To warn her.’
‘Warn her?’
She pats her tight bun of brown hair; it is immovable.
‘To explain . . . That the group would fight her; that we would not allow her to demean us.’
‘How would the exhibition do that?’
‘Have you seen it? Have you seen those pictures?’
De Vries speaks quietly, hoping that it will calm her.
‘The painting in the window is striking, but not overtly graphic. You would have to enter the gallery to see the more . . . controversial images.’
‘That is what I am saying. Our group was afraid that people would see those awful paintings and be offended, that it would reawaken memories that they are fighting to forget.’
‘But you don’t have to look at them . . .’
‘But they can be seen. You could walk in and be confronted by them.’
De Vries opens his mouth and closes it again. He takes a breath.
‘Your group; it consists of the women who meet here?’
‘Yes, but we have affiliates all over the Cape. We have influential backers: professional women. We have attorneys and doctors, journalists and councillors. We have to make our voice heard.’
‘And how many of you visited the gallery on the night the exhibition opened?’
Brenda Botes posits a thoughtful expression.
‘Maybe eight of us.’
De Vries shakes his head; eight scandalized women.
‘But there were others there?’
‘A few people. I didn’t know who they were. I didn’t care. I was glad to see them with us.’
‘Did you hear anyone threaten Taryn Holt?’
‘At the demonstration, we were angry. Her rich, protected guests would not even look at us. This is how it is in our country now: you do not like something, you pretend not to see it; you will it not to exist. None of them spoke with us, and Taryn would not come out to speak with us. Instead, she sent out men to frighten us away.’
‘Who called the police?’
‘They were there already. When her security guards came out, they appeared from their cars across the way. A tall black officer and about six or seven other officers. Like they were waiting for trouble.’
De Vries frowns.
‘What did they do?’
‘They told us that we were causing a disturbance, blocking the highway, and that we had to disperse. It was nonsense. We were on the pavement and we were obstructing nobody.’
‘Did you visit Taryn Holt’s home?’
‘No.’
‘Before or after that night?’
‘No. The group decided that she should be confronted at the gallery.’
De Vries uncrosses his legs, hesitates.
‘I thought those pictures were supposed to highlight crime against women in Africa. Wouldn’t you sympathize with that aim?’
She snorts.
‘The artist who painted those pictures painted them to sell. She painted blood and penetration, naked men and women. She might want you to believe that they contain a message, but they don’t. She and Taryn Holt knew what would sell for big bucks and that’s what she went away and painted.’ She looks scornfully at De Vries. ‘Our group know about the art scene in Cape Town and we know that Taryn Holt was not liked. She may have given some money in grants and sponsorships, but she made damn sure she made it back again with interest. She had those artists tied to her for as long as she wanted.’
‘You have had dealings with her before?’
‘I had my opinion of her.’
‘You didn’t like her?’
‘Not very much, no.’
De Vries gets up, glances at Don.
Don February gets out of his chair and squats down next to her.
‘Can I ask you? Miss Holt: had she visited you here?’
Brenda Botes leans away from him, squeezes the word from her lips.
‘Yes.’
‘She was a member of your group?’
‘She would not abide by the wishes of the majority.’
Don nods. He squats lower, so that she is looking down at him, even from her sitting position.
‘But she joined you? Why did she come?’
Brenda Botes drops her head.
‘I cannot tell you that.’
‘But, Miss Holt is dead. Was she a victim?’
‘She said she could not trust men, that they exploited her. But, when we got to know her, the group agreed: she was no victim.’
‘Why did you think that?’
‘She did what she wanted.’
‘And you do not?’
‘Do not? Can not. This is the fate of many women.’
‘So she left?’
She folds her arms.
‘She was asked to leave.’
‘Was there bad feeling between her and your group?’
‘She had promised money for the group. She withdrew it. Taryn Holt was never really part of our group; she was only interested in herself.’
Don nods at her, smiles, turns to De Vries, whose gaze seems out of focus.
‘Then,’ he says quietly, ‘we will leave you.’
‘How,’ De Vries says as he opens the car door, ‘did you know that Taryn Holt had been part of that set-up?’
They both get in.
‘I did not know, but Miss Botes referred to her as Taryn. It was familiar in a way that she was not otherwise.’
&nb
sp; ‘Very good.’
‘You think that they could pose a threat? That group?’
‘No. I think it is a few women who are afraid and they come together to hold each other’s hands.’
De Vries nods, pulls out from the parking space, smirking.
‘Even so, it seems you wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of the group?’
Don smiles.
‘No, sir.’
De Vries drives up Vineyard Street, which climbs the mountain close to Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens. It is 4.30 p.m., and he steers between the steady trickle of descending domestic workers: broad-hipped black housemaids in bright colours, leaning back to balance on the gradient; skinny coloured handymen in tight scruffy suits smoking roll-ups; and blue-boilersuited garden workers, encrusted with lawn clippings. All retrace this morning’s climb, descend to the short stretch of Rhodes Drive, trudge up the main freeway towards the university and wait in a lay-by for a taxi-van to take them home to their township of Langa or Khayelitsha or Mfuleni.
He changes down a gear to take the sharp left turn and makes the vertiginous climb onto Vineyard Heights, locking eyes with a haughty ginger cat, which freezes with its paw raised to its mouth on the bonnet of a parked car, freewheels down to the end of the cul-de-sac, parks by the plain white wall of John Marantz’s house.
John Marantz and he have been friends for almost ten years. Marantz worked for the British government until someone kidnapped his wife and daughter. He has never seen them since. De Vries and Marantz have drunk together, seeking salvation in oblivion. De Vries came to this house to avoid his own – his driven, demanding wife and ambitious daughters; now he is here because he is alone.
He pats Marantz’s Irish terrier, Flynn, and hears his quadraphonic footsteps behind him as the lithe dog overtakes them both on the inside down the long staircase.
‘What,’ De Vries says at the bottom landing, ‘do you know about Holt Industries?’
John Marantz gestures into his kitchen, to a perfectly straight line of six bottled beers on the marble counter.
‘Nothing until I read Taryn Holt had been killed. You got that case?’
‘Ja.’
Marantz smiles to himself.
‘You get where the action is, don’t you?’
‘Nowhere else to go . . .’
‘Holt Industries was a product of the old South Africa. Graeme Holt built his companies on the back of the Apartheid regime and the cheap labour market, expanded it throughout Southern Africa. The Nationalist government backed him and he supported them: as a growing business in an otherwise shrinking economy, and personally . . .’
The Serpentine Road Page 6