by Martin Steyn
“No, I’ve never—”
“What about Maryke?” asked Magson. “Did she need discipline?”
“No. No. Like I said, she was a good learner.”
“Learner,” said Menck. “Educator. Educator my arse, man!” He shoved his chair backwards and got up. Delport recoiled.
“She was special,” said Magson.
Delport looked over his shoulder at Menck, who was standing against the wall behind Delport’s back.
“Did you like her, Mr. Delport?”
Delport looked back at Magson, but his attention was divided. “Everyone liked her.”
Menck paced up and down. Delport turned his head to look over his shoulder again.
“You too?”
“Yes, me too. But ...”
“But ...?”
Delport looked at Magson and then at his hands in his lap. “... as a teacher.”
Menck bent with his mouth right next to Delport’s ear. “I thought you’re an educator.”
Delport shifted in his chair, away from Menck.
“Is that the way you felt about Denise Pont, too?” asked Magson.
Delport looked at him sharply. “What?”
“Denise Pont, Mr. Delport. I’m sure you remember her.”
“I ...”
“We had a long conversation with her. She told us everything about your relationship.”
“Nice girl,” said Menck, sitting back down at the table. He leaned back comfortably in his chair and looked at Delport. “Quite chatty.”
“We ...” Delport dropped his head in his hand. He looked up at Menck and then at Magson. “Listen—” He swallowed. “It was long ago. I have never again ...”
Magson looked at him. “Never again ...?”
“It was wrong. Denise Pont. Okay? It was wrong, and I have never again done anything inappropriate with a learner.”
Magson just looked at him. Silence could be very powerful during an interrogation. Menck got up again, this time without any drama.
“I never hurt Denise! And my relationship with Rykie was completely professional. There was nothing inappropriate about it.”
“‘Remember—you are special.’”
“What?”
Magson just looked at the man opposite him.
Menck dropped the dark blue book on the table.
Delport flinched and looked at the little book. “This?”
Magson said nothing.
“It was a gift because she did well in her exam last year. I gave it to her at the beginning of the quarter.”
Still Magson only looked at him.
“I gave the same book with the same message to about ten other learners as well.”
“Ten others as well.”
“So you’re also a hockey coach,” said Menck, taking his seat again.
Delport looked at him for a moment. “Yes.”
“For girls,” said Magson.
“Warrant Officer ... Magson, right? Warrant Officer Magson, I had nothing to do with Maryke Retief’s death. I made a mistake with Denise Pont, but I learned my lesson. I’ve never crossed the line again. I swear.”
Menck placed his left elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. He was inside Delport’s space, staring at him. Delport shifted uneasily.
“Do you have a girlfriend, Mr. Delport?” asked Magson.
“Not ...” He looked away. “Not at the moment.”
“Not? But you’re an attractive man. Athletic. I wouldn’t think you would struggle. Hey, Warrant Menck?”
“I have never been able to understand what women see in men,” said Menck. “Every single day I am amazed that they aren’t all lesbians.”
Delport leaned to his left and stared at Menck. His mouth was slightly open.
“Why don’t you have a girlfriend, Mr. Delport?” asked Magson.
“I ...” He looked down. “I just haven’t found the right woman yet.”
“Have you had a girlfriend before?”
“One that isn’t still in school,” added Menck.
“Yes,” said Delport. “Of course.”
“Of course, Mr. Delport?” asked Magson. “Because it looks to me like you prefer girls. Teenage girls.”
Menck nodded. “That is how it looks.”
“The first school where you applied for work was a school for girls. Two schools for girls, in fact. Isn’t it because they didn’t want you that you settled for a mixed school?”
“I applied at many schools.” Delport said this softly, looking at his hands.
“And you’re a hockey coach,” said Magson, “for the girls’ team.”
Delport dropped his head into his hand. “It’s not how it looks.”
“Why don’t you explain it to us then.”
“I ...” He licked his lips. “I’m just more comfortable with the girls.”
“Girls like Maryke Retief.”
“I didn’t do anything to her.”
“An eyewitness saw her getting into your car before she disappeared.”
“What? No, that’s not—She was not in my car on the day she disappeared.”
“Mr. Delport, at this very moment a forensics team is searching through every centimeter of your car. They are extremely thorough. If Maryke Retief was in your car, they will find something. She had lovely, thick hair. Did you know that you lose more than one hundred hairs every day. We only need one.”
“She has been in my car.”
Magson nodded.
“But not on the day she disappeared. I know, because the police came to the school the next day. The last time I saw her was in class.”
“I thought you said there was nothing inappropriate about your relationship.”
“I drove past her and gave her a lift home. That’s all.”
“I see.”
“That’s all. I dropped her at her home and that was all.”
“And when would this have been, Mr. Delport?”
“Earlier that week.”
“Earlier in the same week that Maryke Retief disappeared, you gave her a lift.”
“That’s right.” Delport nodded repeatedly.
Magson sighed.
“That is quite a coincidence,” remarked Menck.
“And your houses aren’t even in the same area,” added Magson.
“Miss Bosch was ill,” said Delport. “Melanie Bosch. One of her classes had an assignment they had to hand in that day. She asked me to collect them. I went to drop them off at her house that afternoon. On the way back I drove past Rykie and offered her a lift.”
“And that was when you saw your opportunity.”
“Don’t you listen? It was just a lift. To her home. It probably wasn’t even three blocks.”
“Why would she accept a lift for such a short distance?”
“I don’t know. It was hot.”
“Wasn’t it because you had a relationship with her?”
“No. I told you, I didn’t have an inappropriate relationship with Rykie.” Delport sighed and shook his head. He was hunched over even more than earlier. “But it doesn’t matter how many times I say it, does it?”
Magson just looked at him.
“I think I want an attorney now.”
Magson picked up the phone and dialed. “Captain? How is it going over there?”
“Except for some porn,” said Captain Kritzinger from Neels Delport’s house, “not much.”
Fantastic. “What kind of porn?”
“The computer was on, so we looked around a bit. A couple of teen sex sites, according to his favorites. Typical barely legal type of stuff. Girls that look young for their age. But he’s got a bunch of photos in his collection of women who definitely aren’t teens. It’s the usual type of
stuff. Nothing violent.”
“Nothing with rope?”
“No. And none of the models look uncomfortable or as if they’re being forced or anything.”
“What about sodomy?” asked Magson.
“Nothing that he kept. We don’t want to dig around too much. How is the interrogation going?”
“He has all kinds of stories, Captain. Claims he gave Maryke a lift earlier the week that she disappeared.”
“That would mean nothing if we find evidence in the boot.”
“He’s asked for an attorney now, anyway.”
Kritzinger clicked his tongue. “Pity.”
“What about panties?”
“We’re still searching, but so far there’s nothing. No sandals or jewelry, either. We have found a bunch of hockey sticks, but they’re all large, adult-sized. And no rope at all.”
“Maybe the primary scene is somewhere else.”
Magson made several phone calls. He learned that Delport had indeed given the Hearing Voices book to other pupils, three of them in Maryke’s class. They were pupils who had improved significantly in their exams at the end of the previous year, and each one bore the exact same message on the first page. Melanie Bosch confirmed that she had been ill and had asked Delport to collect the assignments on her behalf. He had brought them to her house that afternoon and she was even able to tell Magson which afternoon it had been. Tuesday, February 25th. Two days before Maryke Retief had disappeared. Delport’s parents were both still alive and living on the only property they owned. His older sister was married to a businessman in Johannesburg. Not much in terms of other family, and no indication of any other location where he could have held the girls captive.
In the end, Delport walked out of the SVC building with his attorney. Magson watched him leave. A false lead? Or a sharp pencil ...
The search of his house yielded nothing. Captain Kritzinger reported that they hadn’t even found a suitable place to tie a rope in order to hang someone. No rafters or anything in the garage that might contain scuff marks or rope fibers. One long strand of dark brown hair had been recovered from the back of the Civic’s front passenger seat, but nothing from the boot. Even if the hair did turn out to have come from Maryke Retief’s head, all that would prove was that she had probably sat there at some point in time. Delport had already admitted to offering her a lift the Tuesday afternoon and they couldn’t prove exactly when the hair had ended up on the seat. The team had collected fingerprints and a host of trace evidence, but it would be weeks before the results were known.
All of which left Magson chewing his lower lip and shrugging. “Maybe he is telling the truth. Maybe ... I don’t know. He bothers me.”
Menck shook a John Rolfe from his pack and started playing with it. “Do you want to go for a beer? I’ll sponsor the first one.”
“I have a headache. I’m going home.”
Magson stopped in front of the gate, unlocked the Viro and removed the chain. Pushed the gate wide open. Walked over to the garage and unlocked that. The hinges whined as he lifted the door. Everything was in need of lubrication—the garage door, the gate, his knees. He walked back to the old white Jetta. The car could probably use some oil, as well—when was the last time he’d checked? The paint was dull in the late afternoon sun. His entire life he had washed his car every week, usually on Saturdays. He glanced at the patch of bird droppings on the roof that had begun to flake from weeks of dehydration and got in. Turned the key. Parked the Jetta in the garage. Got out. Shut the garage door and locked it. Walked over to the gate and closed it. It had to take ten minutes just to arrive at home, he thought, locking the Viro.
Glass shattered somewhere to his right. He turned to look, but saw nothing. He walked to the corner of the house, his right hand touching the pistol on his hip. A soccer ball was nestled in the tall grass. Had the two Koertzen brothers from next door finally kicked hard enough to shatter a window? No small faces peeking over the Vibracrete wall. The ball was a bit too far away from the house. He peered around the corner, down the side of the house, but saw nothing.
More glass breaking—behind him—and he whipped around, heart thumping. Nothing. Must have been at the neighbors, the Bradleys.
He walked over to the wall separating the yards, stood on his toes to peek over the top.
A rifle against a shoulder. The finger pulled the trigger. Glass shattered.
The last brown shards of the beer bottle settled on the ground. The Bradley boy lowered the airgun and sauntered over to the plastic crate to replace the broken bottle.
Magson turned around, walked to the soccer ball and tossed it back over the wall to the Koertzen side.
After Emma’s condition had worsened, he had sometimes gone to the shooting range. He had pumped bullets into black-and-white targets. Sometimes he had even felt better for a few minutes.
These days the front door was just another door. He missed the smell of food when he came home. Onions frying. Chicken in the oven. Something that roused his appetite. Finding Emma in the kitchen, kissing her, telling her it smelled wonderful. He wished he’d appreciated that daily routine more.
After locking his service pistol in the safe, he fetched two Adco-dols in the bathroom. Cupping his hand beneath the tap, he swallowed the bitter yellow tablets.
In the kitchen he took a plate from the cupboard and eyed the bread. Not exactly soft, but still edible. Emma’s little bird would have to be satisfied with cheese tomorrow morning. He stacked three slices of bread atop one another and opened the fridge. Margarine and ... apricot jam. He carried his one-and-a-half sandwich and a glass of milk to the dinner table.
Five
March 18, 2014. Tuesday.
“I believe Lauren Romburgh is part of the series.” Kayla Schulenburg untied her ponytail and crumpled the curls into a kind of wild bun. “She may have been the first one.”
Once again Magson caught himself glancing at Warrant Officer Azhar Najeer, studying his own murder mosaic in the operational room. Prostitutes, Magson knew. He also knew that Najeer had a very strong suspect. Unlike him. Instead, Magson would soon be sticking a third photo of a girl to the wall. She would probably be smiling, too.
“Unfortunately, there hasn’t been a great deal of progress made in the investigation.”
“Because the investigating officer is a fucking idiot,” said Gys Burger, having returned following several days of questioning and cross-examination in the High Court. He had to be just a few years shy of fifty. Magson had always thought of Burger as something hewn from a solid block of wood, but never sanded. That applied to both his appearance and personality.
“There was a scene.” Schulenburg smiled.
Burger pulled a face. “I hurt his feelings. Shame, because nothing hits harder than the truth.” There had been fervent speculation, wagers even, when the temperamental old South African policeman and the female detective not much older than his daughter were paired together. Nobody placing wagers had won.
“Lauren Romburgh was sixteen,” said Schulenburg. “Grade 11 at Durbanville High. She was out for the evening with her boyfriend. He is eighteen. They went to Tyger Valley. On the way back from the mall they got into an argument. She told him to stop, got out and walked home. That’s the boyfriend’s version. And that was how he told it to us, as well, but then Gys ... had a more intimate chat with him, and he eventually admitted things actually happened somewhat differently.”
“He was sick of her bitching, so he just stopped by the side of the road and kicked her out. Real gentleman.”
“Children from Bloekombos found her body the following Thursday.” Schulenburg flipped open her notebook. “She was wearing: black top, black bra, blue jeans, black socks, black shoes, but no panties and no jewelry.”
“That sounds very familiar,” said Captain Kritzinger.
“She had been wearing a silve
r chain, silver earrings, silver bracelet and a silver ring before she disappeared. And she had a little black handbag, which is also still missing.”
“But she wasn’t hanged,” said Magson.
“No,” said Schulenburg. “She was strangled. But a rope was used. Her wrists and ankles were bound. Signs of sexual assault, including sodomy, but no semen. Doc Killian didn’t perform the autopsy, but she looked at the report and, except for the fact that Lauren Romburgh wasn’t hanged, it is very similar.” She produced a photograph. “And that’s not all.”
Magson took the photo. A pretty face, thin, oval, perhaps a hint of shyness. Dark brown eyes. Long dark brown hair. “Did the investigating officer find anything?”
Burger laughed through his nose and shook his head.
“First he tried to nail the boyfriend,” said Schulenburg, “but when it turned out that he had an alibi ...”
“After he left the girl by the side of the road,” said Burger, “he went drinking with his buddies. Other people saw him there, too.”
“So then he shifted his investigation to Bloekombos, and well, he hasn’t really made any progress since then.” Schulenburg raised her eyebrows.
“He is developing informants,” said Burger, mimicking quotation marks with his fingers around the last two words. “He should go babysit cars at Tyger Valley. Not that I’d park my car in his block.”
“Is there a reason why she didn’t phone her parents?” asked Menck.
“Her phone was broken,” said Schulenburg, “so she didn’t even have it with her.”
“Didn’t her parents complain about this detective?” asked Kritzinger.
“Her dad is a computer programmer—the stereotype—and he doesn’t appear to be too comfortable around people. His wife isn’t Lauren’s biological mother—who is dead—and she seems quite timid also.”
“Where exactly was she found?” asked Magson.
Schulenburg pointed with a finger on the map. Beside the R101, on Bloekombos’s side, diagonally across from Kraaifontein.
“Same type of place as the others. But she was abducted in the evening.”
“She was obviously a victim of opportunity,” said Menck.
Schulenburg nodded and lifted her bun, which had sprouted several tentacles, away from her neck. “I think he just happened to drive past her, saw her walking alone and exploited the situation.”