by Martin Steyn
“Hold on a moment, please.”
While waiting, Magson shared the new information with Menck.
“Warrant Officer?”
“Ja?”
“He says he thinks it was on the same side that the girl got in.”
“Left side. Thank you very much, Mrs. Serfontein. Please thank Justus, too.”
“Could be helpful,” said Menck.
“Ja. You never know.”
“Well, let’s get these interviews over with. My nicotine reserves should’ve been replenished a long time ago.”
“Shall we take a stroll through the parking area?”
“Yes.” Menck whipped out his pack of cigarettes.
Magson shook his head. “On the schoolgrounds. Is that the kind of example you want to be?”
“Believe me, if you have a child at school these days, you’d be only too happy if he’s only smoking instead of all the other things.”
“Who’s worrying you now: Ben or Casey?”
“Casey is still in her angelic phase. She still believes her mom and I know everything. Ben is convinced we know nothing. And I’m not too sure about a couple of his friends.”
“Did you check them out?”
“They’re clean. So far.”
Magson raised his eyebrows—he hadn’t been serious. “Casey’s boyfriends are going to have a hard time.”
“No, man. Don’t say ‘Casey’ and ‘boyfriends’ in the same sentence. Please. I need my sleep.”
“I think it might be a good thing that I never had a daughter.”
“How is Hannes? You haven’t said anything in a long time.”
Because there was nothing to say. “He’s well. We spoke the other day.”
“It’s bad that so many children have to live so far from their parents these days.”
Magson nodded. If only the distance between them could be measured in kilometers alone.
“When is he coming for a visit again?”
“He’s busy. He can’t just drop everything and fly over here.”
Menck looked at him. It had come out too sharply.
“Work is keeping him busy.”
Menck took a deep drag. “Well, what about you? Why don’t you go visit him? When was the last time you went on holiday?”
“With two murdered teenage girls and the colonel already giving me the look?”
“When it’s over. When we get him.”
“Ja, we’ll catch him just like that,” said Magson, snapping his fingers. “We have so many fantastic leads.”
“You have to be positive, man.”
About what?
The cars were parked between the buildings on one side of the school. Magson started looking. “All right ... white cars ...”
“Toyota ... Volkswagen ... Hyundai ... another Toyota—hey, here’s something.”
“What?” Magson followed Menck’s gaze.
“Dark oval sticker.”
Magson looked at the blue Stormers sticker on the back of a red Toyota. Could it have been the local rugby team’s sticker the gardener had seen?
“There are more cars around the corner.”
They walked around the building to another parking area. Magson noticed two more stickers, but one was on a bakkie and the other was melting away on a blue Opel Corsa.
“Here,” said Menck. “White Honda Civic. Blue Stormers sticker on the left side.”
Magson joined his partner.
“I’m so glad they stopped putting this red reflector across the back. Sies, man.”
Magson had no interest in the styling. He walked around the car. The Civic was not particularly dirty, but it could use a wash. Tires were a bit deflated. He peered through the window. The ashtray was pulled out and half filled with coins, mostly copper in color. There was a flyer on the passenger seat. Furniture at discount prices in massive green digits. Most likely received at a traffic light. Other than that, there was only an empty can of Stoney ginger beer.
“All right,” said Magson, writing down the registration number in his notebook. “Let’s go find out whose it is.”
Three
Cornelius Delport. Born in 1985. Unmarried. Not only a teacher at Maryke Retief’s school for the past three years, but one of her teachers as well. And owner of a white Honda Civic with a Stormers sticker on the back.
It didn’t even qualify as circumstantial evidence, Magson reflected, turning his eyes up to the ceiling of his office. Delport had no criminal record, either.
He was one of the teachers they had spoken to, but Magson couldn’t recall much about him. Which meant he hadn’t made much of an impression. Always useful if that person aspired to being a successful murderer.
It wasn’t much, but it was something. And no clue was too weak to follow up on.
He took his jacket and left the office.
A large part of police work consisted of phone calls, but Magson had always felt that face-to-face conversations were rather more productive. People were more likely to divulge information, particularly of the sensitive kind. And it was easier to see if they were hiding something or lying. Thus, whenever possible and when the potential information could prove to be important, he always tried to go to the person. Cornelius Delport had previously taught at a different school, and Magson was curious about his reasons for leaving. Maybe it had been nothing, but maybe it had been something. And if it had been something, his former principal might just be more inclined to talk about it with Magson sitting right there in his office.
“Thank you for your trouble.” The principal had already been home when Magson phoned and had come back to school.
“As I said, I live nearby. And it is truly awful about that girl. But, Warrant, I still don’t understand how I could be of help.” He had his elbows on the armrests of his chair, his fingers forming a tent in front of him.
“Well, obviously we have to take a look at everyone who had contact with Maryke Retief, including her teachers. One of them taught here in the past.”
“Oh? Who’s that?”
“I just want to state that we’re not talking about suspects here. It’s just routine.”
The principal nodded, but his bushy eyebrows rose. “And yet you drove all the way here, Warrant.”
“I had to come in this direction anyway. But it is a sensitive case.”
“What is the individual’s name?”
“Cornelius Delport.”
“Neels? Oh.” It was obvious the name didn’t leave a pleasant taste in the principal’s mouth. He lowered his hands and shifted in his chair.
“Why did he leave?”
The principal rubbed the tip of his nose and straightened a book on his desk. “People do sometimes change employers, Warrant.”
“That is true,” said Magson. “But usually they have a reason.”
“It was years ago ...” He wiped along the edge of the desk, as if he’d noticed some dust.
“Is there someone else who might remember?”
The principal looked up quickly. “There was never—they were only ever allegations ...”
“What ‘allegations’?”
The man’s shoulders sagged. He stared at the book on his desk. “There was a rumor that Neels Delport had had a ... relationship with one of the girls in Grade 11.” He looked up at Magson. “But there was never any concrete evidence, and the girl denied it. Still, the rumors persisted. The learners circulated it as fact. Some of the parents got wind of it and eventually the situation became unsavory. The governing body decided it would be best if Neels ... resigned.”
“And Delport just accepted it?”
“Well, he denied the allegations, but the situation was unpleasant for him as well. He offered to leave if we ... supported his applications at other schools.”
“Do you think he was involved with the girl?”
“As I said, there was never any concrete evidence. But I had the feeling there was ...” He paused. “... something going on. I’m not sure how serious it was. Children have a tendency to embellish a story and that was where most of the details had come from. Neither Neels nor the girl admitted to anything.” He looked at Magson. “But, Warrant, surely you don’t think that he ...”
“What happened to the girl?”
“She transferred to a different school. The learners made it impossible for her to stay.”
Magson nodded. “Was she a loose girl?”
“That wasn’t the impression she gave. She wasn’t the type of learner teachers really talk about among themselves. There were no complaints about her, but she didn’t excel.”
The principal might just as well have described Maryke Retief. “Was Delport involved in any other incidents?”
“None before the rumors started circulating. After that there was ... an episode involving Neels and one of the other teachers.”
“What kind of ‘episode’?”
“Well, they had words, a confrontation, I suppose. When it got physical, other teachers intervened.”
“Other than these incidents, what was your opinion of Neels Delport during the time he was here?”
The principal was silent for a moment. After a while he sat back and rebuilt his finger tent. “Warrant, I have been in education for a long time. There are always some children who are troublemakers. Usually, it derives from a lack of attention and love at home. Children fight it for all they’re worth, but they like discipline. It means they are being protected because they’re precious. Of course they would never admit it—and I doubt whether many even realize it on a conscious level—but that’s what these troublemakers are really seeking with their behavior. But then, Warrant, there is another type of child. He isn’t conspicuous, he doesn’t really cause any problems. You barely remember him after he’s gone. And then, one day, you read about him in the papers. Perhaps he swindled some elderly people out of their pensions. Perhaps he murdered his wife. Neels Delport reminds me of that kind of child. Prior to the story with the girl, he was here without being noticeable.” He stroked his chin. “Of course, some of these ... ‘invisible’ children simply become ‘invisible’ adults.”
March 14, 2014. Friday.
Lieutenant Colonel John Hattingh walked to the front of the operational room. He looked at the photographs and information on the wall, and turned around. “Right. Where are we with Gould and Retief? It’s Friday. My phone doesn’t stop ringing. Tell me the beautiful words I can convey to the brigadier and the general. So they can gaze upon me and my specialist unit with joy in their hearts.”
How Magson wished he had beautiful words to offer. “There is a teacher at Maryke’s school, Colonel. Neels Delport. Bit early to talk of ‘suspect’, but there are some interesting things.”
“I don’t hear anything that will inspire joy yet. How interesting?”
Magson went over the details.
“How good is this gardener’s description?”
“Good enough to lead us to Delport’s car. Too vague to say it’s definitely the car that picked up Maryke.”
The unit commander nodded. “Any connection between Delport and Gould?”
“Nothing yet, Colonel.”
“There’s no connection between the two schools in terms of personnel,” added Menck.
“There are no other homicidal hangings, Colonel,” said Schulenburg. “But there are a couple of open dockets with similar victims. One of which is quite interesting.”
Lieutenant Colonel Hattingh turned his head and cupped his left hand behind his ear.
“Schoolgirl. Strangled with rope. She was found in the veld. Clothed, except for her panties.”
At the last part, Magson looked up at Schulenburg. “When was this?”
“April 2013. She’d been with her boyfriend, they’d had an argument and she walked home alone. It was a Friday night.”
“Where did she disappear?”
“Durbanville.”
Magson walked over to the map. “Brackenfell.” He pressed the tip of his index finger against the name. “Bellville. The area where Maryke was dumped. And right in the middle is Durbanville.” He looked at Schulenburg. “But you said it was at night?”
She nodded. “Ja. But her photo will not look out of place with those two. Her hair was also dark brown.”
“What’s her name?”
“Lauren Romburgh.”
“Okay,” said Captain Kritzinger. “Schulenburg, dig deeper into the Romburgh girl’s story. I want to know if she could be part of the series or not. Mags, what is your plan for today?”
“Delport’s old girlfriend from school. I want to talk to Maryke’s friends again, too. And get around to Dominique’s friends.”
“Okay. Also, send everything you have to Pretoria for a profile. It might help with Delport or if we have to look further.”
Denise Pont was now a student at the University of Cape Town. Like many of the female students on campus, she was dressed in jeans and a top. Emma had been wearing a dress when he’d met her, he barely a year in uniform and she an eyewitness ... Magson shoved the memory away and looked beyond Denise Pont’s heart-shaped face and deep brown eyes to the long dark brown hair tied back in an unruly ponytail.
“We’d like to talk to you about your relationship with Neels Delport.”
A shadow passed briefly across her face, leaving a frown in its wake. “He was one of my teachers at school. What is this about?”
“As we understand, he was more than just your teacher.”
She rolled her eyes. “That old story again. It was years ago. What—”
“Miss Pont, we’re busy with an important investigation. We would appreciate your honesty in the matter. Did you and Neels Delport have a relationship?”
“It’s ancient history. What’s it got to do with the police now?”
“I would prefer to just have a conversation here. Rather than have to take you to the station for a formal interview.”
She glanced around, fidgeting. “Okay, fine, we had a relationship. But it really is ancient history. What does it matter now?”
“Do you still have contact with him?”
“No. After it came out, I went to a different school. Neels as well. And he moved. He didn’t want to tell me where. Now I don’t care anymore.”
“How did the relationship start?” asked Menck.
“He was my hockey coach.”
Magson caught Menck’s quick glance at him.
“One afternoon after practice we started talking. Just about stuff. He was nice. He listened, cared, and I was flattered by the attention. It started like a normal relationship. It wasn’t some wild, sordid affair.”
“But it was a romantic relationship?” asked Magson.
She nodded.
“A sexual relationship?”
She looked away and there was a brief twitch at one corner of her mouth. Her right hand moved across her body, holding her left arm. “If you want to ask such personal questions, I want to know what’s going on. Because I really don’t understand why it matters after all this time.”
“Miss Pont,” said Magson, “we are investigating the murder of a schoolgirl.”
“Murder?” Now she was holding both her arms, looking from Magson to Menck and back again, her forehead creased.
“Neels Delport was one of the murdered girl’s teachers. It is routine to investigate everyone who had contact with her.”
“Did Neels ... Was he in a relationship with her?”
“The investigation is still at an early stage.”
“Neels wouldn’t ...” She looked down, her frown etched deeper, and shook her head. “I ca
n’t believe that Neels had anything to do with her death.”
“Was your relationship sexual, Miss Pont?”
She nodded.
“Was the sex ever rough?”
She looked away. “I wouldn’t use the word ‘rough’.”
“What word would you use?”
She looked at Magson. “Is this really necessary?”
“I’m not asking for my enjoyment.”
She sighed. “Passionate.”
“What about sodomy?”
She frowned. “Sodomy?”
“Anal sex,” offered Menck.
“I know what ‘sodomy’ is. No. It was just normal sex.”
“Last night Kathy made ostrich and cabbage for supper.”
The traffic had ground to a halt yet again. On the sidewalk the wind swept a white plastic bag up against a post, where it wrapped around, just above the garbage bin.
“It means something, but I can’t figure out what.”
Magson sighed. The bag flapped loose and gusted past the Corolla’s windshield. “Why does it have to mean something? It’s food.”
“Ostrich?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I don’t like it.”
“There is nothing wrong with ostrich,” said Magson. “Tastes almost like beef.” Couldn’t the traffic just start moving?
“It’s not right.”
He rolled down the window. The din of cars and people flooded in. The stench of the diesel bakkie smoking diagonally in front of them. He rolled the window back up. “What do you mean, ‘it’s not right’?”
“An ostrich is a stupid bird.”
He turned to Menck. “An ostrich is a stupid bird?”
“The thing’s brain fits into a teaspoon. That’s five milliliters. An ostrich is quite large.”
“Maybe a teaspoon is all it needs.”
“All it needs? We’re talking about a bird that sticks its head in the sand when it’s scared or confused or whatever.”
“That’s a myth, man.”
“Most myths sprout from the seed of truth.”
“In any case, it’s just meat,” said Magson. “Who cares how clever it was? Don’t tell me you believe those pork-fat-makes-you-stupid stories?”