Since her twelfth birthday, she had been earning good money helping her dad on the farm over the weekends. In fact, by her sixteenth birthday she had managed to save more than ten thousand rand in her Volkskas bank account. A princely sum in those days. You see, Elizabeth loved pop music. She loved boys (a bit of a late starter in that department ... not that her father had any complaints). And she cultivated all of the other obsessions of adolescent girls like make-up, fashion and jewellery. Yes, she certainly loved all of these things. But more than anything in the world, Elizabeth loved farming. Since she was fourteen she could operate all of the heavy machinery on the farm. And make no mistake; on a farm this size the machinery was seriously heavy. This included the cumbersome eight-tonne baler as well as the gargantuan John Deere class-eight twenty-tonne harvester (combine), capable of harvesting an impressive eighty tonnes per hour. By her sixteenth birthday she had delivered dozens of calves; spent hundreds of hours ploughing, planting and harvesting; and had mastered virtually every aspect of the labour-intensive activity of farming. Even as a sixteen year-old girl she was the equal of any of Johann Trudouw’s several hundred farm labourers. She was also a first-rate hunter. As a pre-teen she had already hunted everything from Kudu to Springbok to Wildebeest. The trophy from one of her kills was proudly displayed by her father in the roomy lounge of their huge farmhouse. Elizabeth regularly competed in the country’s various shooting competitions and had won junior Springbok colours two years before. She was proud of her achievements. As her father’s only child, Johann was even prouder. Since the suicide death of his wife almost ten years ago their bond had grown until they were virtually inseparable. Johann couldn’t stop bragging how his little girl was going to become the region’s first female farmer. He therefore had no qualms in bequeathing his entire estate – valued at more than thirty million rand – to his only daughter.
Yes, Elizabeth had big dreams. All of which came to an abrupt end on Friday afternoon, the twenty-seventh of June, nineteen-eighty-six ... when she disappeared into thin air.
Two
After school, on the afternoon of the twenty-seventh, Elizabeth caught a ride home with Pippa Koornhof and her mom – a standing arrangement of many years. The Koornhofs owned a farm adjacent to the sprawling Trudouw property, to the south-west. As usual, Elizabeth was dropped off at the mouth of the long and winding dirt road that led – some three kilometres away – to the massive Trudouw farm house, surrounded by a dense grove of poplar and weeping willow trees. Here, where the dirt road met the R48 a farm labourer would wait for Elizabeth in one of the many Toyata Hilux bakkies (pick-up) to take her home. On the afternoon of her disappearance she arrived home shortly after three o’ clock after which hurried preparation were made to get ready for that evening. You see, that Friday was going to be the annual Hopetown High School ball – an event that no self-respecting rural teen would miss for anything. Elizabeth was going to drive herself to a friend’s house where the girls would prepare for the night’s festivities. It was an exciting day. Not least because it was rumoured that Flippie Groenewoud, a boy from nearby Luckhoff, was going to ask her to go kuis (go steady) that very night.
Maria, the Trudouw domestic, helped her pack her belongings, which included her make-up and her evening gown, into a little suitcase. Since the tragic death of her mother, the old Sotho woman had become somewhat of a surrogate mother to the little girl. In a country dominated by racial politics, it was surprising how often this happened.
At the front door old Maria waved goodbye to her little Lizzie as she pulled away in her purple Opel Corsa. Her dad was busy in the fields, fixing a crop pivot. He never got to greet his only daughter. As Elizabeth disappeared in a cloud of dust no-one could guess they would never see her again.
Three
Johann Trudouw had long ginger sideburns that wound all the way up to his bald pate, so endemic amongst Afrikaners. He was also a huge towering bulk of a man. At least the Major Crimes Unit detectives guessed he was. It was difficult to tell with him crouched up into a tight foetal position on the expensive lawn chair.
Hertzog and his group rushed over to the Trudouw farm mansion the moment they had received news of Elizabeth’s disappearance. They arrived as the sun was setting in the distant western horizon. Now the group was standing on the edge of the beautiful Trudouw patio, awkwardly gathered around the sobbing father. His shiny bald head reflected the light from powerful garden lights. Sitting on a lawn chair next to Johann Trudouw was the omnipresent Mayor Botha, looking appropriately sympathetic. A short distance behind them was the man Hertzog had seen in the police station. Rotund, balding, hook nose; predatory and obsequious all at once. The lawyer, Jacobs.
The Trudouw back garden was as lush as the rest of the property. A short distance from the patio the garden featured a stylised swimming pool with various rock fountains. Adjacent to it was an expansive thatched Lapa providing shade to an entertainment area with a brand-new Jetmaster barbecue set at its centre. The entire garden was beautifully illuminated with a series of ornate lanterns. Parked in the Trudouw driveway, visible from their position, were about half a dozen police vehicles. For better or for worse, various policemen were dotted around the property. Duvenhage was busy interviewing the domestic at Hertzog’s request. She was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief as tears flowed freely across her wizened black cheeks.
Captain Shaun Hertzog cleared his throat. ‘Mr Trudouw we are so incredibly sorry about your ... erm, about the disappearance of your daughter.’ Hertzog gave Jools a quick glance. He had almost said “loss”. ‘Please understand that we are doing everything in our power to ensure that Elizabeth is returned ... safe and unharmed.’ Johann Trudouw didn’t react to Hertzog’s words and continued his bitter sobbing unabated. Hertzog exchanged another look with Jools. When he saw Jannie Duvenhage approach he motioned for his two team members to join him at the far end of the large patio while Dog remained with the inconsolable father.
‘Interesting how different Trudouw’s expression of grief is compared to the previous two,’ Jools said, referring to Bismarck and Botha.
Hertzog nodded but said nothing. ‘What have we learned so far?’
Jannie Duvehange scanned his notes. ‘The girl departed just after half past three. The drive to her friend’s house should have taken her no more than about twenty minutes ... tops.’
Jools nodded. ‘Uh-huh. Her friend is Rachel Ferreira. When the Trudouw girl didn’t arrive by four-thirty, Sunette Ferreira, the girl’s mother, phoned the Trudouw residence. When she learned that Elizabeth had left an hour ago they jumped into her car and traced the journey from their home back to the Trudouw house. At the southern end of De Beers Street, just north of the R48 turnoff, they found the purple Opel Corsa. Abandoned. No sign of her.’ Jools looked at the two detectives. ‘They immediately reported her missing.’
‘Has the Bloemfontein forensics team been able to process the car?’
‘Uh-huh. They’re busy as we speak.’
‘Do you think they’ll find anything, boss?’
‘There’s always the possibility, detective,’ Hertzog nodded at Duvenhage, smiling. The look he gave Jools was far more sceptical though.
‘This is brazen,’ Jools said. ‘He not only grabs her in broad daylight, but he takes her in full view of Coffee’s busiest street.’ Hertzog nodded. ‘Do you think his behaviour is escalating?’
Jools was referring to the tendency of – especially – serial offenders to escalate the intensity or frequency of their crimes. A well documented phenomenon.
Hertzog stared at the beautifully manicured lawn, illuminated from a dozen secret locations. ‘Maybe. But I don’t think so. He’s still averaging about two weeks between crimes.’ Hertzog paused. ‘I just think it’s a sign of his supreme confidence. And his ability to blend in ... without detection.’ He frowned. ‘Which leads me to an ominous conclusion.’
When Hertzog still hadn’t said anything after a few moments, Duvenhage stepped forw
ard. ‘What’s that, boss?’
Hertzog looked at Duvenhage, slightly taken aback at the intrusion into his thoughts. ‘He’s one of them, detective,’ he said as if it should have been obvious. He turned to face Johann Trudouw and the Mayor. ‘Our suspect is a member of this community.’
Four
Hertzog’s group of detectives were seated in the spacious Trudouw lounge, with its ceiling-high windows offering a spectacular view of the back garden and distant crops beyond. Mayor Botha was seated on a leather couch next to Johann Trudouw who had calmed down enough to engage in basic conversation. The ubiquitous lawyer retained a respectful distance, standing by the massive hearth that featured a hunting trophy consisting of an impressive set of Gemsbok horns.
‘Mr Trudouw, I just want to offer my sincere condolences. Please, I want you to rest assured that we will do everything humanly possible to stop this man. And bring his rampage to an end. We have never failed to bring closure to any of our previous cases. We don’t plan to start now.’ Trudouw looked up and stared with meek tear-stained eyes at the detective.
‘Please, Captain Hertzog, please ... bring my daughter back to me. Please, I beg of you.’
Hertzog nodded gravely. ‘I won’t rest until I’ve brought a conclusion to this whole unpleasant matter, Mr Trudouw. You have my word.’
‘Please Captain, since her mother took her own life I’m the only one she has.’ He began sobbing again. Hertzog gave Jools an odd look. ‘Please bring my little Lizzie back to me.’
‘Of course, Mr Trudouw.’ Hertzog cleared his throat. ‘Mr Trudouw I’m sorry to ask ... but is there anything ... anything at all you could tell us that will help us in our investigation?’ Trudouw stared at the terracotta floor, his face twisted into a mask of pain. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. ‘What I mean, Mr Trudouw, is ... have there been any strange incidents in the days leading up to her disappearance? Any strange calls ... strangers on the farm ... anybody or anything out of place, in any way whatsoever?’ Trudouw shook his head. ‘Did Lizzie maybe mention anything at all? Any new friends or acquaintances? Anybody that seemed to be friendlier than usual? Anybody that paid her any more attention than usual?’
‘What are you saying, Captain?’ Mayor Botha gave Hertzog an enquiring look, a hostile frown on his forehead.
‘Mr Trudouw, you understand, sometimes it’s small seemingly meaningless details that can turn out to be vital clues,’ Hertzog said, ignoring Botha’s question.
Trudouw shook his head. Fresh tears flowed across his reddened cheeks. ‘I should have done more,’ he said, wailing through twisted lips. ‘I should have never allowed her to go alone. I should have known.’ He pounded the armrest of the couch with his beefy hands, leaving deep dents. ‘It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.’ He stared at Hertzog, the eyes of a man haunted by guilt and self-recrimination. ‘It’s all my fault. I should have known she would be next. How could I leave my baby with no protection?’ He sobbed uncontrollably, his face buried deep in the folds of his two-tone shirt. ‘I should have known she would be next.’
Botha placed an arm around Trudouw. The lawyer stepped forward. ‘I think Mr Trudouw has had quite enough, detective.’ Mayor Botha gave Hertzog a look of finality. ‘I’m sure you have other leads to follow.’
Hertzog nodded without looking at Botha. ‘We’ll be in contact, Mr Trudouw.’ He indicated for his group to follow him as they headed for the front door. Outside they regrouped. ‘Any thoughts?’ Hertzog asked.
‘I was a bit bothered by something he said inside,’ Jools said.
‘You picked up on that too?’
‘What do you mean?’ Duvenhage said.
‘He said, “I should have known she would be next”. Now I understand it’s not a very large town; there can’t be that many teens about. But it still seemed like a very precise way for a parent to voice their concerns. Why would he think that his own daughter would be next?’
‘Oh my God, you mean he knew she was going to be abducted?’
‘No, detective. I don’t think it’s quite as bad as that. But just like everyone in this place, Mr Trudouw knows something he’s not telling us.’ Hertzog scanned the distant horizons. ‘What secret are they keeping from us?’
Silence.
‘What now, boss?’ Dog flicked a half-smoked cigarette onto the Trudouw driveway.
‘How are you progressing on the search of the Wouter Bredekamp house?’ Hertzog asked.
‘Well, boss, it’s taking a while. The Bloemfontein magistrate wasn’t too impressed with us. In his own words, “There’s bloody well nothing linking Bredekamp’s death to your investigation”. I’ve asked head office to pull some strings. But we’ll have to see. Maybe tomorrow.’
‘Okay, good. Keep me informed. Chaz should be joining us tomorrow.’ Hertzog turned to Duvenhage. ‘Detective, I don’t know about you, but when I hear about three suicides in such a small place it makes me concerned. Please go through the town archives and see what you can dig up about that.’
‘I’m on it, boss.’
Hertzog motioned for Jools. ‘Detective, it’s getting late,’ he said, eyeing the sinking sun. ‘But let’s pay a quick visit to the Coffee cemetery. If our perpetrator’s stuck to his modus operandi he would have tried to desecrate another grave site.’ He grimaced. ‘Maybe Bismarck’s guards have a surprise for us.’
Five
‘That’s impossible. That’s completely impossible. There’s no way this could have happened.’
Silence.
‘And yet it did.’
Hertzog looked down at the freshly excavated grave with chagrin. Illuminated by their flashlights, a mannequin was visible at the bottom of the six-feet hole. It was missing an arm and a leg and its face was horribly mauled by a large knife. Crude blotches of lipstick around the mouth gave the impression that the mannequin was leering at the group of detectives gathered around the grave.
Next to Hertzog the gangly Constable van der Merwe gesticulated wildly as he tried to explain the bizarre occurrence. ‘Captain, I promise we didn’t abandon our post – not even for a second. I’m telling you, sir, there is no way under God’s blue heaven that he could have dug this grave, right under our noses, without us hearing or seeing him. You have to believe me, sir. It’s impossible.’ The rookie officer stared imploringly at Hertzog.
Hertzog nodded without saying anything. He looked at the tombstone. Unlike the other two, which had been written in Afrikaans, this headstone was inscribed in Dutch.
Afrikaans, as a language, has many distinctions. Although spoken predominantly by European settlers, it is nonetheless recognised as an “African” language. It evolved and was shaped on the African continent and occurs nowhere else in the world. It is also the world’s youngest language. Known derogatively as “Kitchen Dutch” in its formative years, the language evolved – or devolved as some would say – from the Ubiquitous Dutch spoken by the Boer settlers. The reason the tombstone was in Dutch was because of its age. It dated from the Anglo-Boer War of 1899-1902; when Dutch was still, by and large, the written language of the Boer people. Hertzog learned later that Johann Trudouw’s parents were buried in Kimberley. As one of only two Trudouw graves in Coffee, it was not surprising that the disturbed perpetrator chose the grave of Johann Trudouw’s grandfather as the site of his sick joke.
HIER RUST MIJN LIEVE MAN, ONZE VADER EN OPA JOHANNES SYBRAND TRUDOUW. GEBOREN DEN 20 DESEMBER 1833; GESTORVEN DEN 20 OCTOBER 1901.
HERE LIES MY DEAR HUSBAND, OUR FATHER AND GRANDFATHER, JOHANNES SYBRAND TRUDOUW. BORN ON 2O DECEMBER 1833; DIED ON 20 OCTOBER 1901.
‘Please Captain, you have to believe me. We allowed no-one near the cemetery.’ Behind him his comrade enthusiastically nodded his head. ‘We guarded this place with our lives.’
Hertzog turned to him and patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’s fine. Our man is obviously equipped with resources we continue to underestimate. Please, I need you to continue guarding the site.’ He grimaced. ‘He’s n
ot finished by a long shot.’ He turned to Dog. ‘Detective, please have the CSU guys haul out the mannequin and comb the area for any clues. Constable,’ he said, once again addressing the agitated rookie, ‘I need you to ensure no-one touches this grave until our forensics people have been here.’
The Constable jumped to attention and saluted, relieved. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘If I understand our perpetrator’s modus operandi correctly, we should be receiving a message just about now ... in the form of a new poster. It’s late. Let’s head to the police station first thing tomorrow morning and see if they’ve found anything.’
Six
The silence hung like a wet rag in Major Bismarck’s office. Grave expressions loomed on the faces of the mute detectives. For what seemed like an eternity no-one spoke. The bright rays of the Saturday morning sun did little to dispel the gloom in the room. Jools leaned against the wall of the office while Jannie Duvenhage sat in a chair to Hertzog’s right. The only one missing was Dog. Under mounting pressure the warrant for a full search of Wouter Bredekamp’s house had been issued late the previous evening. He was currently at the Bredekamp house, soon to be joined by Chaz who had taken an early morning drive from Bloemfontein, a mere hundred-and-twenty kilometres away.
‘Where did you find it?’ Hertzog asked after a while.
The Man in the Wind Page 16