Dark Traces

by Martin Steyn

  “But can they run around without a head?”

  “They say so.”

  “But you never tested it?”

  “No.”

  Menck sucked on his cigarette. “Jan Magson, chicken killer.”

  Magson shrugged. “That’s how we grew up.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve never told me this before.”

  “What does it matter? It was a different time anyway.”

  He peered up the street. Somewhere a dog started barking and a guinea fowl’s panicked screams erupted from the same direction. If Maryke Retief had screamed, no one had heard her. Or paid any attention.

  “Maryke disappeared on a Thursday. Dominique on a Wednesday. Weekdays. He has a house and a car. He gets them into his car without a struggle, so he must have a decent appearance. This all means he must have a job.”

  Menck nodded.

  “So does he take leave to watch them while they’re captive?”

  “That, or he has a place where he can lock them up securely while he’s away.”

  Magson pulled a face. “It will have to be very secure if he lives close to other people.”

  “If he ties them up properly, sticks some quality tape over their mouths, he can probably just leave them in his spare room.”

  Magson looked at him. “I’d be stressing the whole time, worrying she might get free.”

  Menck nodded. “I’d have trouble concentrating at work. Keep watching the door for the police.” He took a drag. “Maybe he’s got a cage.”

  Chewing his lower lip, Magson mused, “Afternoons. You know who else has free afternoons, along with pupils?”

  “Teachers.”

  “Teachers. They coach sports on some afternoons, but marking tests and homework, preparing lessons ... All of that is done at home. It’s not a problem to take a few afternoons to go look for a victim.”

  “No co-workers who’ll know he took a day off or phoned in sick.”

  “No. And even if he does leave them alone at his house, it’s just more than half a day.”

  “School comes out around two o’clock. Drive home quickly to make sure she’s still nice and tied up.”

  “The Station Strangler was a teacher,” said Magson. “And his victims were in different schools, too. Hell, different towns.”

  “A teacher knows children. He deals with them every day.”

  “Even if he doesn’t know them from school, he’ll know how to talk to children. How to make them feel comfortable. He can practice it every day.”

  Menck dropped his cigarette butt and crushed it under his shoe. “You know, hanging is actually not a bad option. It removes the entire blood problem from the equation, because that stuff always gets in somewhere. And with hanging you don’t necessarily need to get rid of the body.”

  Magson closed his eyes and rubbed his face.

  But Menck was surging along. “With the necessary planning you can even make it look like a suicide. Maybe slip her some downers a month or so beforehand, so people will notice her mood is low. Of course, you’ll have to stop early enough not to have it show up in her system at autopsy. A convincing suicide. Best place to hide something is smack bang in the open.”

  “Don’t you get tired of this! On and on with the perfect murder of your spouse. Why do you want to plan this so badly?”

  Menck looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “Because it keeps my brain sharp, Mags.” He tapped his temple. “My criminal brain. You know, the one that helps me to catch murderers.”

  Magson turned away, but he could feel Menck’s eyes studying him.

  “What’s eating you, anyway, Mags?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You always used to plan along.”

  “Ja, well, it’s different—” Movement in one of the gardens across the street caught Magson’s attention. “Hey. There’s a gardener over there. I didn’t see him before.” Magson didn’t wait for a response. He crossed the road to where a man was pruning shrubs.

  “Excuse me, we’d like to ask you some questions.”

  The man stopped pruning and looked at them. An older man, middle-aged perhaps. In blue overalls, despite the heat. He came closer.

  “Meneer?”

  “We’re police.” Magson raised his identification card. “On what days do you work here?”

  “I work here for Mevrou Rauch on Wednesdays.” He spoke somewhat slowly, carefully, with concentration.

  “Where do you work on Thursdays?”

  “I work for Mevrou Serfontein on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Her house is just a couple houses down the street.”

  “This same street?”

  “Ja, Meneer.”

  Magson took out a photo of Maryke Retief and showed it to the man. “Have you seen this girl before?”

  The man looked at the photo and nodded. “Ja, Meneer. She often walks past here. But for many days I didn’t see her. I hope nothing happened to her.”

  “Can you remember the last time you saw her?”

  The man’s eyebrows drew closer together, his oil-black eyes staring down to his left. “I think I worked at Mevrou Serfontein, because I remember she came to talk to Butch.”

  “Who’s Butch?” asked Menck.

  “Mevrou Serfontein has a parrot. His name is Butch. We always put Butch’s cage outside when I work there and the sun is out. If the girl walks past and Butch is outside, then she always comes and talks to him.”

  “Can you remember when this was?”

  “It was not last week, Meneer, because last week I worked in the back garden on the Wendy house.” He nodded a couple of times. “I sanded and I painted.” He mimicked the movements with his hand. “It was maybe the week before.”

  “What’s your name?” asked Magson.

  “My name is Justus, Meneer.”

  “All right, Justus. This is very important. Can you remember which way the girl went?”

  “I think ...” He looked down the road. In the opposite direction. Back the other way again. “I think she walked that way.”

  “Home,” said Menck.

  “All right, Justus,” Magson said again. “That’s very good. Did you see if anything happened to her after she left Mevrou Serfontein’s yard?”

  Justus looked down, the concentration evident on his face. He looked up. “A car stops. I can see. I work in the garden by the road. She comes say hello to Butch, then she says bye to me and she walks that way. The car stops and she gets in. But she knows the driver.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She says hello and gets in.”

  “Did you see who drove the car?”

  “Nee, Meneer, I don’t see him.”

  Magson looked down the street. “Do you know what kind of car it was?”

  “Nee, Meneer. I don’t really know cars.”

  “All right, Justus. What do you remember about the car? What did it look like?”

  “I think it is a white car. I just see it from behind.”

  Magson asked more questions about the car, but the man had no further information, except that it had been a car—not a bakkie, not a four-by-four, not particularly large.

  “Thank you, Justus. We may need to talk to you again. I’m Warrant Officer Magson. Here’s my card. If you remember anything, please ask the Mevrou to call me.”

  He nodded and took the card. He looked sad. “The girl, Meneer. Something happened to her.”

  “Ja. Something did.”

  “I’m sorry, Meneer. She had a good heart. People show their heart when they talk to an animal.”

  Magson sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was to knock on the Retiefs’ front door on the day they had buried their daughter. But time was a luxury they couldn’t afford. Tomorrow he would be visiting her school with Menck and then they would n
eed as much information as they could get.

  He rang the doorbell.

  Maryke’s father opened the door. He looked exhausted. There were dark, puffy crescents beneath his eyes and his shoulders sagged.

  “Warrant Magson.” The words came slowly, softly.

  “Mr. Retief. I’m very sorry to bother you ...”

  “It’s all right, Warrant. Anything to catch that ...” The rest of the sentence failed to come, as if he lacked the energy to get the words out, and he just stepped aside.

  “Thank you.” Magson entered the house. He already knew from the cars parked in the street that the Retiefs were not alone, and now he could hear the muted voices. The aroma of food permeated the air. It smelled really nice. He wondered how much food would simply be thrown away. Everyone always brought food on such occasions. Too much.

  “I’d like to see Maryke’s room, if I may.”

  Her father nodded. “We went through it when ... But it’s still the way she left it.”

  “And then I’d like to ask your son a few questions, too.”

  “I’ll go call him.” He began to turn.

  “Mr. Retief. I’d like to talk to him alone, if you don’t mind. Sometimes it’s easier for children to talk when their parents aren’t there.”

  The man just nodded and went to fetch his son.

  Magson knew what the father was feeling. Or perhaps no one could ever really know what another person was feeling. But he recognized what he was seeing. And he understood it. And he knew it never went away. After Emma died, many people said it would get better, he would get over his wife’s death. They had probably meant well, but only one person had told him the truth. He had said you never really got over the death of someone you love, but you did learn to live with it. Magson was a slow learner.

  He sensed someone’s presence and saw the boy watching him.

  “Hello. Your name is Wynand, too, like your dad, right?”

  The boy nodded.

  “We didn’t get a chance to talk the other day.”

  The boy just looked at him.

  “Your dad said it’s all right if I look around Maryke’s room. Will you show me?”

  The boy turned around and Magson followed him down the hallway. The other voices faded out behind them.

  “It’s here.” The boy opened the door.

  Magson entered the room. Looked around. The boy remained outside, looking like he wanted to leave.

  “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen.” One year younger than Maryke.

  “Grade 9?”

  The boy nodded.

  Magson looked around again. Posters of pop stars he had never heard of. The bed was made up in light orange. A ragdoll with a dark violet dress lay against the pillow. The eyes were shimmering buttons, bright green like Maryke’s. Pine desk in the other corner, a neat pile of school books, stationery, two small speakers on top. She had kept her work area surrounded by photographs on the two walls—her family, always everyone together, bunches of friends. She was laughing in every photo.

  He turned around. The boy was still hovering in the doorway, his feet just outside the room. His right hand held the fingers of his left.

  “Brothers and sisters sometimes know things about each other that their parents don’t. Do you know if Maryke knew someone older than her? Someone who’s not in school anymore. Someone with a car. Someone your parents don’t know about?”

  The boy shook his head. “All Rykie’s friends were in her grade.”

  “Did she go to clubs?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did she ever say something about someone watching her, someone who made her uncomfortable, anything like that?”

  Another shake of his head.

  “Did she complain about a teacher at school?”

  The boy looked at him. “Do you think a teacher did it?”

  “To be honest, Wynand, we know very little at this stage. That’s why anything you might know could be important.”

  He looked at the carpet. “Rykie was a good girl. She didn’t hang out at weird places. She played on her keyboard, hung out with friends, listened to music and read. During winter she played netball. She didn’t smoke or drink, and she didn’t have any weird friends. And she never said anything about a teacher bothering her.”

  “All right. Someone saw her getting into a white car one afternoon while she was walking home. She knew the driver. Do you have any idea who that might be?”

  Yet another headshake. “Was it ... him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  It seemed like he wanted to say something.

  “What is it, Wynand?”

  “The newspapers are saying there was another girl.”

  “It looks that way.”

  “So a serial killer killed my sister.”

  Magson didn’t answer.

  The boy stared at the floor, squeezing and rubbing his left hand’s fingers with his right thumb. “Everyone looks at me funny. At school. When I walk past, everyone stops talking. I wish things could just be the way they were.”

  Maryke Retief’s diary lay in his lap, but Magson was staring at a spot somewhere on the opposite wall. The house was silent. His thoughts had drifted aimlessly until it had found Hannes. Hannes far away in England. Another world. Another life. He so desperately wanted to hear his son’s voice again. Sometimes he stared at the phone. Sometimes he picked it up and dialed the number, but dropped it back in its cradle before it could start ringing. Even before his mother’s death their conversations over the phone had usually only consisted of a couple of short sentences. But they had been good. And then Emma would speak to him. She had been the glue keeping them together. She had been the glue keeping him together. Why did she have to get sick? If only it were possible for things to be the way they had been.

  March 13, 2014. Thursday.

  Magson stopped the Corolla in the parking area next to the school and eyed the green rugby fields behind the thick black iron fence. They got out and walked over to the building. Red tile roofs and neatly painted walls. Menck glanced at the light-colored emblem on a dark blue background above the door as he entered.

  “It’s hit us all very hard,” the principal said in her office. “Many of the children are afraid. If it could happen to Maryke, it can happen to anyone. She was a good girl.”

  “We’d like to talk to her teachers,” said Magson.

  The principal nodded. “Of course. We want to do whatever we can to help.”

  “We’d be grateful if we could use an office or a classroom. We’ll try to cause as little disruption as possible.”

  “I would appreciate that. We’re trying to keep the environment as normal as we can for the learners.”

  “We understand.”

  One teacher after another painted a very similar picture of Maryke Retief. The theme was that of an above-average child, but not exceptional. Academically in the seventies. Second best netball team in her age group. No complaints or problems in the classroom, on the playground or the sports field. Well adjusted. Fit in well. Part of a close group of friends. Disbelief, shock and/or anger that such a thing could have happened to someone like her. Condemnation of the crime situation in South Africa.

  “That one reminds me of Miss Banner,” said Menck, wearing a rather tortured expression. “Standard 8 English First Language. She once had me memorize and recite ten minutes of Shakespeare just because I’d forgotten my book at home. I think a man hurt her badly somewhere along the way, because she loathed boys. And I don’t use ‘loathed’ lightly. I’m telling you, that one had that same look in her eyes.”

  Which reminded Magson of old Spaais, who had always cracked a crooked smile when one of the female teachers sent a boy his way for the purpose of receiving some discipline. Then he’d take out his rottang an
d walk in a circle around you, all the while caressing the thin cane. Usually there would be a classroom full of pupils—all boys because Spaais was the woodwork teacher and only boys were allowed to do woodwork—but you couldn’t hear a single one of them. Only Spaais’s footsteps on the floorboards. And then those would fall silent, too. He’d be right behind you. Buk! That meant bending forward with your hands on the edge of a worktable, so that your back was horizontal. After you had unbuttoned your trousers, dropping them to your ankles. In Magson’s Standard-9 year, old Spaais had assaulted a Standard-6 boy who had done something stupid with the woodwork equipment. Spaais had not been seen again and a new woodwork teacher had arrived to take his place. This one hadn’t looked like he enjoyed hitting a child, but he had not allowed it to hold him back, either. Magson shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve ever really missed school.”

  “No.” Menck frowned. “I was always in trouble, too.”

  “And just look at you today, a policeman of all things.” His cellphone rang. “Magson.”

  “Warrant Officer Jan Magson?” asked a female voice. Middle-aged or older. Cultivated.

  “That’s right.”

  “My name is Helena Serfontein. I’m phoning on behalf of my gardener, Justus.”

  “Oh, hello, Mrs. Serfontein. Did Justus remember something?”

  “Yes. But first there is something I want clarity on.”

  “Ja?”

  “What exactly are your intentions with regards to Justus?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” said Magson.

  “Warrant Officer, Justus is a good man and a good worker. He is a bit mentally retarded and as a result somewhat naive. I won’t have you involving him in something.”

  “We don’t want to involve him in anything, Mrs. Serfontein. Justus may have important information about a crime. He’s not under suspicion himself.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Fine then, Warrant Officer. Justus remembered something about the white car you were discussing.”

  “Ja?”

  “There was a sticker on the back. It was oval in shape and dark in color. That is all he remembers.”

  “Does he know on which side of the car it was—left or right?”