Dark Traces

by Martin Steyn

They followed him into the dining room. A few envelopes were lying on the table, some open. A light green sheet of paper was lying on the carpet.

  Magson pulled on latex gloves and picked it up. The paper was somewhat rough with an uneven texture. It contained a short message, in a solid black typeface, the letters tall, narrow and angular.

  Maryke you were so beautiful

  So beautiful

  The most beautiful eyes

  I had to have you

  Now you are mine for Always

  Menck opened one of the evidence bags he’d brought along from the Corolla. As Magson slid the sheet of paper inside, he caught a scent. He raised it to his nose. Yes.

  “It’s scented paper.” He pulled the yellow strip from the evidence bag, pressed along the length of the seal, and marked it.

  Sonja Retief had come into the dining room and was now staring at the letter with an expression that looked a bit vacant to Magson.

  “It was just in the mail,” she said, her voice lacking emotion. “Together with the other letters and bills and junk mail.”

  “Do you still have the envelope?” asked Magson.

  Her eyes shifted rigidly in the direction of the table. “It is there.”

  Magson turned to the opened envelopes. The top one was white and plain. It contained the Retiefs’ address, in the same black letters.

  “Is it this one?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Is there something else you want to ask my wife?”

  “Not at the moment,” said Magson.

  Wynand Retief went to his wife and put his arm around her shoulders. “Come, Sonja, come and sit.” He led her out of the dining room.

  The envelope went into a second evidence bag. While sealing and marking the bag, Magson said softly, “He put effort into this. Special, scented paper.”

  “Not printed,” said Menck, taking a closer look at the letter. “It looks like those letters you rub off. Can’t remember what it’s called. I used it for a few of my projects in high school.”

  “Time and effort. It’s almost ...”

  “Like a love letter.”

  “Ja.” Magson read the message again. “Neat. No spelling mistakes.”

  “No name ...”

  “Why put all this effort into the letters? Doesn’t he have a printer? Or is there some other reason?”

  “What are you thinking, Mags?”

  “A love letter is personal. Why didn’t he write it? Just because he’s careful? Or maybe because we know what his handwriting looks like?”

  Menck’s eyes, narrowing, turned to Magson. “You’re thinking of Delport.”

  “It’s a possibility. I ... left a newspaper with the letter Maryke’s mother wrote at his door.”

  Menck chuckled. “And you think this was his response?”

  “I don’t know. But I would like to know if they found paper like this during the search of his house.”

  Wynand Retief returned. “The doctor prescribed some tranquilizers,” he said in a muted voice. “It’s quite strong. I gave her some when I got here. This thing ...”

  It wasn’t only Sonja Retief who was struggling. Her husband’s face looked as if all the muscles were slack and his eyes were dull. It always seemed as if a light were extinguished in a parent’s eyes when a child was murdered.

  “We’ll send the letter and envelope for forensic analysis,” said Magson. “If another envelope like this comes in the post, don’t open it at all. Phone me immediately.”

  “Do you think he’ll write again, Warrant?”

  “I know it’s difficult, Mr. Retief, but I hope so, because every time he does, there’s a chance he’ll give something away about himself.”

  They took their leave.

  Back in the Corolla Magson hesitated. “There is nothing in the letter that proves it came from Maryke’s killer. But let’s say it did. Why did he write?”

  “He’s sadistic,” said Menck. “He wants to torment her parents.”

  “That’s what the profile would say. But why like this? Why write to Maryke? Why a love letter?”

  “Instead of something cruel to her parents. Like describing what he did to her.”

  “Why only Maryke? Why didn’t he write to Dominique?”

  “Maybe he didn’t think of it. Maybe it’s the publicity. Or maybe it is because of her mother’s letter in the newspaper.”

  Magson gazed down the street. A girl jogged past. Her dark brown ponytail swayed from side to side with each stride. “Or Maryke was different. Special. He wanted to have a relationship with her, but he couldn’t.”

  “So he punished her.”

  Magson nodded. “So he took her and made her his.”

  “For ‘Always’.”

  March 28, 2014. Friday.

  The letter was back in Magson’s possession. LCRC had found several fingerprints, mostly partials along the sides of the paper. The prints had been scanned into the Automated Fingerprint Identification System, but the database had failed to identify any, which meant whoever had left the prints had no criminal record. The envelope was currently at the Forensic Science Laboratory in Plattekloof. Perhaps he had licked the envelope or the stamp, enabling the Biology Section to retrieve DNA from it. Of course this would only be of any real help once they had a suspect’s DNA to compare it to.

  Magson knew very little about paper, but it was clearly a special kind. And anything that was special held promise. Thus he had gone through the Yellow Pages yesterday and below Paper Merchants he’d found a shop that might be able to assist: Paper Paradise in Tyger Valley.

  They got out at the shopping center and were immediately greeted by a car guard. Magson nodded and showed his identification card.

  “Oh, I keep a good eye, Captain.”

  “You just can’t park anywhere without being accosted by someone who wants money,” grumbled Magson once they had walked some distance away.

  “Fortunately, you have mastered your badge action,” said Menck, demonstrating the move.

  “Can you think what it will cost per month if you have to hand out a couple of rands every time you get back in your car?”

  “It’s like drugs, Mags. Just say no.”

  They entered the shopping center and started looking for the nearest information board. Magson scanned the list of shops for the number and located it on the map.

  Paper Paradise was in one of the side corridors on the upper floor. In the window was a display of invitations, menus and a photo album, everything of handmade paper, for a bride favoring an apricot-themed wedding. The ribbons were light violet. Maryke Retief’s colors. Her bed. And the ragdoll. Inside, the shoulder-high shelves and limited floor space gave the shop a cramped feeling. The shelves were filled with A4 sheets of paper in a variety of colors.

  The girl behind the counter had long, straight black hair and dark make-up around her eyes. “It’s handmade paper,” she said after Magson explained the purpose of their visit. She took another, closer look at the green sheet inside the evidence bag. The fingerprints were fine dark pink patterns. “Looks like Kleider.”

  “Do you sell it here?” asked Magson.

  “Yes.”

  “Does it come in a packet?”

  “When we buy it?”

  “When you sell it.”

  She shook her head. “No. All our paper is sold uncovered as single sheets on the shelves.”

  Fantastic. That made a significant dent in the evidential value of the fingerprints.

  “You said it’s handmade,” said Menck. “Who manufactures it?”

  “Kleider Paper. It’s a place in Milnerton. They make paper for fine art and also handmade paper.”

  “Is it sold in many shops?

  “Most shops that sell handmade paper would probably stock it.”


  “This color, does it all have the same scent?” asked Magson.

  “Scent?” she asked, her black eyebrows arched.

  “It’s scented paper.”

  The right eyebrow lowered and she shook her head. “No, it’s not.”

  “You can’t smell it anymore, after the ninhydrin, but I promise you it had a scent.”

  The girl shrugged. “Well, it’s not scented when we sell it. Ours just smells like ... it smells papery.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Come smell for yourself.” She walked out from behind the counter and led them to one of the shelves, where she removed a sheet exactly like the one in the evidence bag. She watched him as he sniffed.

  That meant he had scented the paper himself. “This paper, this color, is it something that sells well?”

  “Fairly.”

  Magson sighed. They wouldn’t be able to trace it.

  “The letters look like Letraset,” said the girl.

  Menck snapped his fingers. “Letraset. That’s the name.”

  Seven

  April 17, 2014. Thursday.

  The tires squealed as Magson took the corner, the Corolla careening to the point where he received a fresh squirt of adrenaline. The rear wheels lost grip and slid, but he kept the car under control. He floored the petrol pedal. The girl had been missing less than two hours. Seventeen years old. Every minute could make a difference.

  In his mind, he saw Maryke Retief’s bloated body in the veld.

  The magnetized blue light flashed on the roof and the siren wailed, but the Fiat in front of them was slow to yield. Now the brake lights were glowing. He slammed the heel of his hand onto the hooter and forced his way past, turned just as the orange traffic light switched to red, narrowly missing a Berco delivery van.

  “Shit,” said Menck, “one more coat of paint on this Corolla and we’d have hit him.”

  “They said something about a number plate. I hope they’ve found something by now.”

  Careering down Van Riebeeck Road, Magson weaved through the traffic trying to make way within the confines of the street, brushed one side mirror, hurtled across a red light past Kuils River Police Station, forced the Corolla into the right lane, making good progress with two wheels on the island while it lasted, and finally turned right into Energy Street. The Detective Branch was on the next corner. He stopped across two parking spaces and shoved the door open.

  They jogged into the light brown brick building, up the stairs, and turned right down the narrow corridor. They enquired at the first open door and the detective took them to another office a few doors down.

  “Specs? SVC about the missing girl.” The detective motioned for Magson and Menck to enter.

  A short, slight woman beckoned them closer while talking on the phone. “Okay. Phone me as soon as you know.” She ended the call and looked at them with black, almond-shaped eyes, a tight smile on her wide mouth. “Niquita Brill.”

  Magson took the proffered hand and introduced himself and Menck. “Have you found anything yet?”

  “Well, the girlfriend took a photo of the car with her phone. So we got the number plate. It’s an Avis car. Hired by an Allan Norton. Paid with a credit card.”

  “Have you found the car?”

  “Won’t be long now. Norton is from Gauteng. His record is clean.” She took a photograph from the desk and handed it to Magson. “Anja Heyns. Seventeen.”

  “New hair color,” remarked Menck. It had been the first thing to catch Magson’s eye, too. She was not a brunette.

  “Her friend and Anja’s mother are in the colonel’s office. Come. I’ll take you through.”

  They walked further down the narrow corridor, around the corner to the end. Brill knocked on the door and they followed her inside, greeting the unit commander.

  He turned to the woman sitting on one of the chairs, kneading her hands. “Mrs. Heyns, these are Warrant Officers Magson and Menck of the Serious Violent Crimes Unit.”

  Next to the mother a teenage girl was seated, her hands locked between her knees. She was still wearing her green school tunic.

  Magson pulled a chair closer. “Mrs. Heyns, please tell us everything that happened.”

  “You have to talk to René. She saw everything.”

  He turned to the girl. “What happened, René?”

  She took a shaky breath and looked at him. “We were walking home. Anja and I always walked together, because we live close to each other, but at the beginning of the year we had a ...” she looked down and folded a stray lock of hair behind her ear “... a fight. So she was walking on her own and I was behind. A car stopped next to her and she went over and spoke to him.”

  “Did she know the man?”

  “I don’t know. He got out and they argued about something.”

  “Could you hear what they said?”

  “No. I was too far away. And then he grabbed her wrist.” She demonstrated on her own. “And he pulled her to the car. He opened the door. That was when I called to her. I don’t know if she heard me. She got in and he closed the door. I ran and kept on calling. He saw me and quickly got in the car and drove off.”

  Magson’s heart was beating quickly, because this was exactly what could have happened to Maryke Retief and Dominique Gould.

  “That was when I thought I should take a photo.”

  “That was very clever,” said Menck.

  A fleeting smile touched the girl’s lips.

  “Did Anja look scared?” asked Magson.

  “Yes. She didn’t want to go with him.”

  “Have you seen the man before?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Did he have a weapon?”

  Anja Heyns’s mother made a sound.

  “I couldn’t see,” answered the girl. “I was too far away. I phoned her. It rang and then it went dead. When I redialed, it went to voicemail.”

  The phones of Dominique Gould and Maryke Retief had been shut off quickly as well.

  “Her phone is still off.” Anja’s mother was wringing her hands so hard the knuckles had turned white. There was no wedding ring on her finger. Her eyes filled up again.

  “Mrs. Heyns,” asked Magson, “does the name Allan Norton mean anything to you?”

  “The other detective already asked me. I’ve never heard of him.”

  “All right.” He started to get up, but two hands shot out, grabbing his fingers.

  The woman’s eyes were pleading. “Please bring my daughter back.”

  “We’ll do everything we can to get Anja back safely, Mrs. Heyns.” Magson left the office.

  Menck followed him into the corridor. “Serial killer tourism?” he asked softly.

  “Right now I don’t care where he lives. It fits.”

  Menck nodded. “But if his home is in Gauteng and his work is there, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out if he’s been here—” He glanced over Magson’s shoulder.

  The girl was standing there. She was holding herself as if she were cold. “I should’ve yelled louder. Started running sooner.”

  “You did what you could, René,” said Menck. “If you hadn’t had the presence of mind to take that photo, we wouldn’t know what car to look for.”

  “But what if it’s already too late? What if Anja ... like Maryke Retief ...” She swallowed and looked down.

  Maryke Retief was turning into one of those names. Like Leigh Matthews and Inge Lotz.

  “Warrant Magson?”

  They turned around, saw the female detective approaching, and went to meet her.

  “We’ve found the car,” said Niquita Brill.

  “Where?” asked Magson, as they continued on towards the exit.

  “Bloubergstrand. The Blue Ocean Apartments.”

  “W
ho’s at the scene?”

  “We have two uniforms there.”

  “Have they done anything?”

  She shook her head. “Just made sure the vehicle is there.”

  “All right. Make sure they keep their distance. And stay out of sight. Unless Norton leaves, they must do nothing. We’re on our way.”

  She frowned. “It’s a long way to Blouberg. If it’s the same killer—”

  “Anja Heyns still has a lot of time. We don’t want to be too hasty.”

  “Warrant Magson—”

  “Warrant Brill, we have no idea what the situation is inside that flat. We don’t know what weapons Norton has with him. We don’t even know what position Anja Heyns is in. Do you really want to have two uniforms storm in there and hope for the best?”

  The black eyes turned away and she shook her head.

  “I don’t want her to be alone in there, with him, until we get there, either. But it’s more important to me that we get her out alive.”

  Brill did not look happy, but she nodded, before turning around.

  “Warrant? Good work finding Norton.”

  She looked back over her shoulder. “Just make sure Anja is okay.”

  Magson and Menck ran out, got in the Corolla, and Magson pulled away with screeching tires.

  The Blue Ocean Apartments were on the beach front with a view of Table Mountain, Robben Island and the hazy arc where the Atlantic Ocean disappeared on the horizon. Large, white, modern, angular. No need for Magson to go any closer to know it was well beyond his price bracket. He parked in the street.

  Getting out, he shook his head. “Is that what they call ‘out of sight’? We can just be grateful there are almost no windows on this side.”

  They walked over to the klagtebakkie and the two uniformed officers inside. One was staring in the wrong direction, visibly bored, the other was eating something greasy-looking. The latter glanced up, noticed Magson and Menck approaching, and apparently recognized them as detectives, because he shoved the packet somewhere. The first officer realized something was happening. They clambered out.

  Magson said nothing, merely looked at them pointedly with raised eyebrows. Menck studied the building and the parking area.

  “The suspect is still inside.” The officer rubbed his greasy fingers on his uniform.