The international mobile equipment identity (IMEI) number is the unique digital I.D. assigned to each cell phone and is used by a GSM network to identify a specific phone. It can be used to permanently block a cell phone and can also, in some cases, be used by the police to track a phone whose original SIM card has been replaced.
Human turned to Joemat. ‘Do you still have the original box and documentation for the Blackberry?’
Joemat wiped his eyes, his features revived by the hope of finding his son. ‘Yes, I’m sure. He’s only had the phone for a few months.’ Joemat turned to his P.A. ‘Tina, please won’t you help the detective.’ The P.A. stood up and accompanied the detective Human had addressed to a corner of the foyer where they quietly talked. Human’s phone rang. Irritated he plucked it from his pocket and looked at the caller ID. It wasn’t a number he recognised. He gave it to Lerato.
‘Please take this for me.’ Lerato took the phone, and turning her back to Human and Joemat, answered the phone.
Human turned and noted the time on the wall clock. He turned to Joemat again. ‘Tell me, Mr Joemat, can you maybe give us an approximate time when your son was kidnapped? What time did erm ... Mrs Cilliers phone you?’
Joemat was about to answer when Lerato turned and grabbed Human’s arm. She addressed him, her eyes wide with excitement. ‘They have the killer’s voice on the recorder.’
Human’s head snapped back. With all the drama of the day’s events, Human had completely forgotten about the recording device they had hooked to the phone system of the Hope Gazette. His mouth agape, Joemat looked at Human, then Lerato, then back to Human. ‘What? You have a recording? Of the son of a bitch that took my boy?’ He jumped up, drawing startled glances from the others in the room. ‘I want to hear it. Right now. I want to hear his voice.’ Human rose quickly, placing a hand on Joemat’s arm.
‘Please, Mr Joemat, you have to let us take care of it.’ Joemat looked around frantically, not heeding Human’s words. ‘Mr Joemat.’ Human raised his voice and grabbed Joemat by both arms. ‘This is a police matter. Please let us deal with it.’ Joemat stared at Human, fresh tears rising to his eyes. ‘The moment we know something ... the moment we have a suspect, you will be the first to know.’ Joemat swayed on his feet, weeping openly yet again. ‘Mr Joemat, listen to me. I ...’ Human pointed to those around him, ‘we ... are giving everything we have to this investigation. Please trust us. And allow us to do our job.’ Joemat nodded almost imperceptibly. Tina approached, wrapped an arm around his shoulder and led him away. Human turned to his group of detectives. ‘Let’s go.’
About five minutes later, Human’s car came to a grinding halt outside the modest offices of the Hope Gazette. Seconds later four more squad cars came to a stop in the dusty parking lot. The policemen rushed into the premises. Greeting them at the door was a terrified Gerhard Volkers, owner and editor-in-chief. At the sight of the policemen he instinctively backed up against the wall. ‘Oh my God,’ he wailed.
Behind the receptionist desk sat a young man with a ponytail and an unbelievably large beard. It was Johannes Volkers, Gerhard Volkers’s cousin from De Aar, hurriedly conscripted after Mitzi Booysen resigned, convinced all the drama would dampen her creativity. Human walked up to the young man with the ponytail. ‘I want to hear the recording. Now!’ The young Volkers gave Human an odd look, shrinking into his chair as the lead detective approached him. Human leaned forward, both hands on the reception desk. ‘Do you recognise the voice on the recording? Is it someone you know?’
The blood drained from the young man’s face. His bottom lip started trembling uncontrollably. ‘It was him,’ he said, staring with huge terrified eyes at Human. He lifted a tremulous hand into the air and pointed at Human. ‘It was his voice on the phone.’
Twenty two
The morning sun pilfered the darkness from the room, licking the corners of Kyle’s bedroom like melting ice cream. He stirred, slipping effortlessly out of a pleasant dream with vague – and fading – erotic undertones. For a moment, as his mind rebooted, loading a lifetime of memories and habits, he was just a drop of morning dew, fresh and inchoate. And then he remembered the previous evening. The scent and taste of a woman. Odette. Like a pleasant aftertaste, she lingered in his memory ... and on his skin.
Kyle rolled over, now thoroughly awake. In his solar plexus he felt a warm glow. A blurred happiness. A foggy halcyon. Yes. It was true. He was starting to fall in love with the girl from his past. It was an awesome feeling!
He had been spending the last few nights at Odette’s place. Wrapped in the warm passion of her fevered embrace. Making love. And learning to love. Again.
He sat up in the bed, feeling re-invigorated. Looking forward to the day ahead. It had been so long since he felt anything like this. God, he could hardly remember when last his dark soul had been stirred by such exhilaration. Could happiness really be such a distant memory? Damn, he thought to himself, rubbing sleep from his eyes, what a terrible year it had been.
Outside, half a dozen birds vied for attention, weaving a morning symphony out of merry birdcalls. Unlike Johannesburg, however, the morning song was not flayed by the persistent drone of traffic. Out here, the frenetic chirping and twittering was like a reflection in a crystal pond. Pure and clean. Kyle breathed deeply, allowing himself to enjoy the moment. The images and sensations from the previous evening’s lovemaking flittered through his mind. Her hot full mouth on his neck. Her taut nipples pushing against his chest. The deep moist bliss inside her.
‘Wow, what a night,’ he said to himself. Yes. What a night.
And yet, at the edges of this thing he was starting to feel, there was an undefined anxiety. A peripheral gangrene. Eating at the heart of his joy. Kyle shook his head as if to dislodge the feeling. But he couldn’t. It was like creeping dusk. Unavoidable. Inevitable. More powerful than a thousand armies.
Kyle ran his nails across his scalp, digging deep. Agitated. When would the shadows dissolve. And when would his darkness cease having a name. Because it did. His hurt. And everything that was standing between him and a new life. It had a name. It was called Angelique.
As Kyle thought of his ex-wife, he felt a hot pang of regret. And hurt. And love. After all this time. After everything that had happened. She was still there. Like a burning ember. Not hot enough to provide thankful warmth. Yet not cold enough to stop searing his soul. He realised instantly what the source of his disquiet was. He still loved her. And the thought of letting her go – in his heart – was filling him with fear. She had long since ceased to be a part of his day-to-day life. But abandoning her – in the only place he still possessed her – was a frightening prospect. Kyle groaned. The pleasant glow left over from the previous evening now entirely dispelled. Why could he not let go? She was never coming back. That was sure. James Burton was obviously everything she had ever wanted in a man. He had given her everything. And more. Much more than Kyle ever could. And now. With his brat growing inside her...
Unable to stop himself, Kyle whimpered. She had started a glorious new life. A wonderful happy new existence as Mrs Burton – wife and mother. And here was Kyle. Trying desperately to grasp phantoms. And possess a past life that had long since ceased to be. Even now, as the merciful prospect of new love loomed on the horizon, she was still with him. Blocking his emotions. Obstructing his way forward. She was like a favourite mug, whose chipped rim wasn’t nearly enough motive to discard it. Like a once treasured garment which he no longer wore, yet whose frayed edges nonetheless guaranteed it a cherished place in his closet. She was there. Like a bloated toad in his heart. And as long as she remained there, he could not allow anyone else inside.
Kyle cursed loudly, the last vestiges of the previous evening now gone. His good mood thoroughly soured. He threw the comforter from his body and climbed out of bed. Sighing with chagrin.
At the doorway to the bathroom he stopped. His heart thudding in his chest. He had just seen something out of the corner of his eye.
Could it be? He hesitated. Struck by the ridiculousness of the thought. No. It was a figment of his imagination. And yet something, some dark fear, restrained him. Kept him from going back. And looking at the mirror. Where he had seen it. A splotch of red. The scrawled letters. It was straight out of a bad movie. It couldn’t be real.
Slowly. His throat constricted. His fists clenched. He took a step backward. And another. Until he was standing in front of the mirror in the main area of his room. He hadn’t been imagining things. There it was. Scrawled across the full length mirror. Scrawled in lipstick. Angelique’s lipstick. Oh irony. The only thing of hers he still allowed himself. Her only possession that remained behind. The brown-red Clinique lipstick she so loved. The lipstick he so loved. A tiny yet powerful reminder of the woman who had broken his heart into an irretrievable million pieces. There it was. Written across the mirror. In ugly, jarring capital letters. Someone had left him a message.
HICKORY DICKORY DOCK
LET’S ROCK AROUND THE CLOCK
WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES ONE
YOUR TIME HERE WILL BE DONE
Kyle grimaced. ‘Engelman. You bastard!’
Twenty three
Johannes Volkers stared at Human as if he were the Anti-Christ.
No-one spoke. The silence clung like wallpaper to the room. Human looked at the others with confusion, yet bemused. He turned to the bearded man behind the reception desk. ‘Look here, I –’
Johannes Volkers grabbed a wooden ruler and brandished it with a flourish, pointing it at Human. ‘Don’t come near me.’ As if to emphasise his point, he grabbed a small pair of scissors in his other hand. ‘I mean it.’ He stared at Human with terrified eyes.
‘Look here, son, I’m the lead investigator on this case,’ Human said, not entirely surprised by the visceral reaction the killer had produced in people. ‘I guarantee you I didn’t make that call. So why don’t you just relax and let us listen to the recording.’ Human indicated for one of the detectives to operate the highly specialised recording device, perched on the edge of the reception desk. The detective stepped forward. Johannes Volkers jumped up from his chair and backed into a corner, never once taking his eyes off Human. The detective occupied the empty chair. He consulted the digital LED display and adjusted a dial, pressing a button. He looked up at Human, who nodded.
‘Okay, here we go,’ the detective said, pressing another button.
With crystal clarity, they heard the ringing of a phone. Then a click as Volkers picked up the handset and answered the call with a crisp ‘Hello.’ To Human’s astonishment he heard his own voice issue forth from the recorder.
Johannes Volkers pointed with triumph at Human, waving his ruler excitedly. ‘You see, you see. I told you.’ With his finger on his lips, Human indicated for the young man to be quiet. But it was true. There – in crisp Dolby stereo – was the voice of detective Wayne Human. One of the detectives swore under his breath.
Human took a step forward and listened intently, cocking his ear. And then he understood. Betrayed by misplaced intonation, and faulty emphasis. Words that seemed to fall over each other. Under each other. Awkward pauses. And interrogative inflections in the middle of sentences. He understood. Human turned to the other detectives. ‘He recorded my voice.’ Several of the detectives nodded. It was a masterful job. But the trained ear could easily pick up the inconsistencies. ‘Press conferences.’ Human looked at Lerato. ‘He recorded my press conferences.’ Against the wall, Johannes Volkers looked around with confusion. His hunched shoulders relaxed slightly. He stared with dumb embarrassment at the ‘weapons’ in his hands and quickly shoved both hands behind his back.
‘Good morning Hope I have. come ... to inject your empty? lives with ... my dark insanity. Did you. miss ... me? It’s been so long. But don’t ... worry. I am here? to stay. I. want ... to send. a special ... good morning to Joemat. I will be? enjoying your child ... tonight. And now? for a rhyme.’ Human looked at the others ominously. The words that now came from the speaker were a pastiche of dozens of different recordings and sources, using TV programmes, adverts, news broadcasts and press conferences. The effect of dozens of voices mixed into an audio narrative was eerie ... and unsettling.
‘Little Alex Joemat sat on a wall,
Little Alex Joemat had a great fall.
I took his name
I stole him from his house
We’re playing a little game
It’s called skin the mouse.
Don’t you dare insult me,
It’s your manners you must mind.
I’m gonna take your little boy
And eat him from behind.
How bad ... how sad,
All Joemat’s horses and all Joemat’s men
Couldn't put little Alex together again.’
‘Oh my God.’ Lerato’s hand flung to her breast. ‘That’s terrible.’
Human turned to Brussouw. ‘I don’t care what he says, under no circumstances is premier Joemat to listen to any part of this recording.’ Human could only imagine what the words would do to an already perturbed father.’ Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Brussouw indicated the device. ‘Should we have the recording analysed?’
‘I don’t see what good that would do.’ Human paused, frowning. ‘But right now we can’t ignore any evidence. We have a guy in Wachthuis who specialises in audio analysis.’ He turned to Lerato. ‘Lerato, please assist detective Brussouw in sending the material to Pretoria.’ She nodded.
Gerhard Volkers stepped forward. ‘Erm ... detective, before you do that, I just need some time to make a transcript of the recording for Wednesday’s issue. If you don’t mind.’ He wrung his hands nervously.
‘Of course I bloody well mind,’ Human said, his temper flaring up. ‘There’s no way you’re going to publish any of this rubbish in your newspaper.’
Volkers sputtered and wheezed, his hands flailing about. ‘What, what? You ... you can’t do this. You have no right. You ... you ... you’re obstructing the freedom of the press.’
‘And you’re obstructing justice. Do you want to spend a night in jail, Mr Volkers?’ Gerhard Volkers’s mouth twitched and jumped. ‘We’re talking about the life of a little boy, Mr Volkers. The son of the premier of the Northern Cape.’ Human bore down on Volkers. The editor-in-chief shrank into himself. ‘I am through with giving this sick bastard everything he wants. Everything ends right here. Right now. You’re free to report on the investigation. But if you print any of this message ... I will personally arrest you.’
Volkers’s nose twitched. His eyes darted from one person to the next. Feeling himself outgunned, he twirled around and huffed and puffed his way to behind his desk where he promptly sat down and grabbed the remnants of a KFC box meal. With narrowed eyes, he glowered at Human over a chicken breast.
‘Let’s get going,’ Human said to his team. ‘We’ve got a lot to do.’
Give or take a day, they had about a week before Daddy Long Legs took the life of little Alex Joemat.
Twenty four
As was to be expected, the media exploded into a veritable feeding frenzy at the news of Alexander Joemat’s disappearance. The boy’s abduction featured on the front pages of newspapers across the country, from Cape Town at the southern tip of South Africa all the way to the small city of Polokwane in the north. It was also the lead story in all the TV news broadcasts, across all of South Africa’s networks. All the major international news networks also picked up on the story. The disappearance of a high-ranking politician’s son was big news indeed. Included in that night’s broadcast was a joint press conference, hosted by Human and Joemat.
Standing behind the bank of microphones, wedged in between Lerato on his left and Joemat on his right, an uncomfortable looking Human announced that Alexander Joemat had indeed disappeared earlier that day. ‘It is with great regret that I inform the public of the disappearance and suspected kidnapping of Alexander Joemat.’ Although the abduction was already wi
dely known, the troupe of reporters erupted into a flurry of sound, clamouring for Human’s attention. Hundreds of camera flashes strobed the detective in staggered light. ‘Since the disappearance of Alexander Joemat, we have been able to confirm beyond a doubt that the abduction was the work of the serial killer that has become known as Daddy Long Legs.’ Once again, the announcement resulted in a barrage of shouts and questions. ‘Following his established modus operandi, the killer contacted the Hope Gazette.’ Human did not mention the novel delivery method Daddy Long Legs had employed, using recorded samples of his own voice. ‘For the sake of the investigation, however, we have decided not to make the killer’s communication public.’ Several of the reporters booed Human, while others shouted ‘freedom of the press’ and ‘Big Brother government’. ‘I can guarantee you,’ Human continued, ‘that we have marshalled all the resources of the South African Police as well as those of the Northern Cape administration to track down the killer and rescue Alexander Joemat. At the moment we are following several promising leads.’ Human paused, his jaw fixed in steely determination. ‘As I have suspected right from the beginning, the key to this entire investigation lies in the past. If we can discover how the killer began his original rampage and why he stopped and then resumed his killing spree ... if we can discover these crucial particulars, then I believe we can learn the identity of the killer. At this very moment, I myself, and certain key personnel, are reviewing old case files and data from the past. I am confident that we are on the verge of a breakthrough.’ The press conference exploded. Pushing and shoving, shouting and gesticulating. The press demanded to know more. ‘I’m sorry, at this stage, due to the extreme sensitivity of the investigation, I cannot reveal anything more.’ Human pointed to his right. ‘Premier Joemat would like to say a few words.’ As if by prior agreement, a deep hush fell over the proceedings. And complete silence greeted the premier as he traded places with Human. For a few moments, Joemat stood at the podium, head bowed in silence. The very epitome of the grieving father. Gone were the bluster and the bravado. Gone too, the confrontational defiance, the vague accusations and the insinuations. In its place was a grief-stricken shell of a man. Deeply regretful. Destroyed by his own hubris. Joemat raised his head and stared dolefully at the media representatives gathered under the hot Karoo sun.
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