Dark Traces

by Martin Steyn

  Magson rubbed his face before throwing both hands in the air. “What do you think I’m doing, Captain? I’ve been through the notes, the statements, the reports, the photos over and over and over again. Colin and I have walked up and down that street. We have spoken to everyone. Several times. If there is something else I can do, tell me, Captain, and I’ll go out and do it.”

  Kritzinger watched him for a few moments. “Mags. I know.”

  “So what then, Captain? Why come in here and close the door if it’s not to tell me I’m not doing my job?”

  “How long has it been since Emma passed?”

  He could only stare at Kritzinger. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I know you’re struggling. I know it’s a process you have to go through and it takes time. And it’s fine, Mags. But I want you to be honest with me. Are you in a place where you can deal with a case like this?”

  “Captain, if I can’t do my job anymore ...” He raised his hands. Let them drop on the desk.

  Kritzinger regarded him for a while. “Okay.” He got up. “Who knows, maybe someone reads the story and comes forward.” His voice didn’t sound particularly optimistic.

  Magson sat at his desk and watched the captain leave his office. He shook his head. This was all he needed.

  He didn’t want the case. He would much rather investigate a normal murder, and spend more time on his other open dockets. But if he did that ... They were already keeping an eye on him, they already had doubts.

  His eyes settled on the small cactus again.

  “Kathy’s car is still not fixed.” Menck followed his words into the office and plopped down in the chair. “They promised me it would be done by last Monday. Then it was ‘definitely before Easter weekend’. And now the guy I need to talk to is supposedly not there. Bliksem is probably hiding in the toilet.” He shook out a cigarette, stuck it between his lips, pulled it out again. “I miss the nineties. You could smoke in the nineties.”

  Magson didn’t answer.

  “If he doesn’t call me back within an hour, I’m going to go over there and drag his arse out of that stall. I’m in the mood for a good fight.” Menck coaxed the cigarette back into the pack and nodded in the direction of the open dockets. “Find anything?”

  “A hair and fibers without owners. The captain was here. There’s going to be an article in You about unsolved murders of children, Maryke Retief in particular. Focus is on the parents.”

  Menck rolled his eyes. “Shit, what, wasn’t there a soap star or a rugby player involved in some kind of scandal this week? Did you receive the hurry-up?”

  Magson nodded.

  “Well, you know how it goes. The brigadier kicks the colonel. Colonel kicks the captain. Captain comes and kicks us.”

  “The problem is we don’t have anyone to go and kick.” Magson looked at the reports in front of him. “I wish we also had databases for all these things. I could do with a computer that can simply tell me this fiber is from a 2010 Mazda 6. Or a specially imported carpet only sold by two shops in the country.”

  “Is it a specially imported carpet?”

  “How should I know? I had to buy every carpet in my house with a policeman’s salary.”

  “I’ve found my way to the dog box thanks to CSI,” said Menck. “Ben never misses an episode. And then I tell him, you know, how it really is. But it usually turns into an argument and now Kathy is pissed because I can’t just watch it for the story.”

  “Why do you want to watch it? CSI makes it look like detectives are only there to put cuffs on the suspects.”

  Once again Menck shook out a cigarette and started playing with it. “That’s my point. I can’t just sit there. I have to defend my profession. They don’t understand.”

  “Why don’t you rather watch Law & Order? If you really want to see more murders in your free time.”

  “Because Ben doesn’t watch Law & Order. Ben watches CSI. And I watch it to spend time with him. The older he gets, the more difficult it becomes.” Menck studied the cigarette while rolling it between his thumb and index finger. “Sometimes it feels like he’s drifting away. So slowly, you don’t realize it until one day when you stop and look ...”

  Magson said nothing.

  Menck rose. “Anyway. Want to go for a drive?”

  “Depends. Why and where?”

  “Johnson phoned. He says he’s got something.”

  “Johnson?” Menck’s longtime informant had his fingers in all kinds of pies, several of which Magson would rather not know about. “What would Johnson know about our case?”

  Menck shrugged. “Let’s go and find out.”

  Johnson’s Bistro was part café, part restaurant. Not Johnson’s primary business, it was the only one completely legit. Magson was glad to see few patrons when he entered behind Menck. He had never particularly cared for the red-and-black interior, and the plastic tablecloths tended to be either sticky or greasy. The aroma of the place, on the other hand ... At present the predominant smell was that of dough frying in oil. And spices. His stomach groaned.

  “Misters M ’n M!” said Johnson with his customary hospitality. “Welcome to my bistro. You’re very scarce these days.”

  “Honest work keeps one busy,” said Menck.

  “Jaaa, but your pockets stay empty. Come closer so I can introduce you to my niece here. This is Shamia, my sister’s daughter.”

  They greeted the slender girl. Large black eyes, shy smile.

  “First you must taste these chicken samoosas. New recipe. Much improved. Shamia, find us two nice ones there.”

  Magson and Menck each received a samoosa on a white plate with a serviette. Golden brown. The steam ferried the promise of curry, coriander and other pungent spices. Magson took a bite. The crunch of the outer layer of the pastry came first, followed by the chewy inner layer and finally the meat, hot and spicy, but not so much that it overpowered the flavor of the meat and onions.

  “This is a bleddie lekker samoosa, Johnson,” said Menck.

  “Of course. Johnson is in the bleddie lekker business. And, as always, special price for you. Get it sorted with Shamia, then we’ll go to my office and discuss our business.”

  Menck smiled, taking out his wallet.

  Johnson’s office smelled of smoke, the consequence of his love of cigars. He shut the door behind them.

  “Look, I don’t know if this will help you. But I had a chat with a joygirl. She had a hook-up with a couple. Man wanted to tie her up first. Paid extra. Then she and the woman played round the world. Then the man tied her up again, strangled her with rope and worked her over with a tool of some sort. Via the back road.”

  “When was this?” asked Magson.

  “About two weeks ago.”

  “And you only phoned today?” asked Menck, annoyed.

  Johnson pressed his fingertips against his chest. “Shocked am I, that you would think Johnson holds back. I only chatted to her yesterday. When she dropped the rent.”

  “I apologize,” said Menck, bowing his head.

  Johnson spread his arms. “Apology accepted. If you’re interested, a meeting can be organized. But her time costs, whether you get joy or not.”

  “Even for the police?”

  “A joygirl must eat, too, pay rent. She had to take time off already because he damaged her.”

  Magson received a raised-eyebrow look from Menck. “Ja, let’s hear what she has to say.”

  “Right,” said Johnson. “Let me make a call. With luck she’s between joyrides. Why don’t you go ask Shamia for a menu while I get things sorted.”

  Johnson had told them she was nineteen, but to Magson she looked like a schoolgirl. Her hair was draped long and dark across her shoulders and the white top clung to her breasts. She hid a pretty face beneath thick base and lipstick the color of
fresh blood. Whatever her age, she had been doing this work long enough to harden her eyes.

  “I’m Lola. Come in.”

  She turned to the side, her belly-ring glinting, and ushered them inside. There was a noticeable fragrance—perfume, a decent kind, fresh and with a hint of apples. Magson wondered whether the idea was to excite or to conceal the smells of the previous encounter. A bedroom with a double bed, a chair and a cupboard. Another door to a bathroom. Not much in the way of decoration, but everything looked clean.

  “I like to get paid up front.”

  Magson turned around, removed his wallet and paid her fee, hoping her information would be worth it.

  She took it with a smile which, like the long nails lightly trailing his skin, did not seem real. “Thanks.”

  “Okay,” said Menck. “Tell us about the couple with the rope. What happened?”

  “The wife said he liked to tie her up and he wanted to tie me up. He’d pay extra. He went through this whole thing—it took at least half an hour. Tied me up in different positions. The rope had to be perfectly aligned or something, symmetrical. Then he took it off and he watched while I did the wife. She told me what she wanted. Then he told her what to do to me. He spoke to her as if she was the whore. But he wasn’t very excited about it. I mean, the whole thing was for him, but he sounded bored. While she was busy, he had me turn on my stomach and tied my hands to the bed. Next thing I knew, he had a rope around my throat and I couldn’t breathe. He stuck something up my arse and it hurt a lot. He was very violent. Finally he pulled the thing out, untied me and they left.”

  “Did you report it?” asked Menck.

  She laughed without humor.

  “How did they contact you?”

  “I have ads in the papers. He phoned. Asked if I’m really nineteen and if I did couples.”

  “Age was important?”

  “He asked more than once.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “The wife was smallish, pretty. Had blonde hair ...”

  “Blonde?” asked Magson, thinking of the hair on Maryke Retief’s clothes.

  “Natural blonde.”

  “How long was her hair?”

  The girl pursed her lips. “Bit longer than shoulder length.”

  “What about the man?” asked Menck.

  “He was strong. Well-built. I’m sure he gyms a lot. Not a body builder, but strong. Not unattractive, but not wow, either.” She looked up, to the left. “Brown hair, I think. They wore nice clothes, not cheap stuff. I’d say they’ve got money. Or debt.”

  “And they were married.”

  “They had wedding rings.”

  “Was it this man?” Magson showed her a photo of Neels Delport.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Would you be willing to work with a sketch artist?”

  “Do you know how many faces I see? Except for the regulars, they all blend together. I don’t remember details. I don’t want to.”

  “What about the wife?”

  Again she shook her head. “I don’t want to get involved.”

  “But would you be able to describe her?”

  She looked away.

  “Please,” said Magson. “It would help a lot.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Thanks. Here is my card.”

  She took it.

  “Thanks for your time.”

  “Well, you paid for it.”

  At the door, Menck turned around. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

  A faint smile touched her lips, a real one. “You live, you learn. I won’t lower my guard again just because there’s a woman present.”

  “It does sound a lot like the way Lauren Romburgh was killed,” said Menck as they walked to the Corolla. “Plus the sodomy. The violence.”

  “Hmm, but I don’t know about the man and woman thing.”

  “It happens. Fred and Rose West, for example.”

  “Not often. But it would explain the blonde hair.” Magson looked up at the gray sky. All the clouds appeared shapeless. “I’m not convinced I got my money’s worth.”

  “At least she didn’t charge you for a full house. But Lola did say one very interesting thing.”

  “What?”

  “‘I won’t lower my guard just because there’s a woman present.’ It could explain why the girls so readily get into the car. Because a woman feels safer when there is another woman with a man.”

  April 23, 2014. Wednesday.

  They were back at the Retiefs’ house. Sonja Retief had retrieved a second white envelope, identical to the first and similarly addressed, from the mailbox. She’d recognized it immediately, placed it unopened inside the house, and phoned Magson. He, in turned, had phoned the Local Criminal Record Center.

  They watched as the crime-scene technician carefully handled the envelope with his latex gloves. He photographed it and turned to them. “I still think I should just seal it and take it to the lab so they can open it there.”

  “I want to know whether Mrs. Retief recognizes the scent,” said Magson. “It can’t wait. But I take full responsibility. Just make sure you document the whole process.”

  The technician shook his head one more time, slit the envelope open with a blade and took another photo. He sniffed, nodded and held it so the detectives could have a smell.

  “I think it’s the same,” said Magson. “Must be some kind of perfume.”

  “It’s something nice,” remarked Menck. “It doesn’t have that sharp, sickly smell of the cheap stuff.”

  “Mrs. Retief, do you recognize it?”

  She approached, reluctantly, dread etched into her features. No tranquilizers today. Her eyes were green as well, but lacked the impact her daughter’s had had. She stooped and sniffed. Shook her head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not something Maryke wore?”

  “No.” She shuddered and returned to her husband’s side.

  “You know,” said Menck, “Edgars has quite a collection of perfumes. Maybe they’ll know what it is.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Magson.

  In the meantime the technician had removed the letter with tweezers. The same light green handmade paper. He folded it open. The same black letters.

  Maryke

  I made you a part of me

  You are now tied to me

  For All Time

  “How can anyone be so cruel?” asked Sonja Retief. Her cheeks were wet with tears. “Isn’t it enough that he killed her? Isn’t it enough?”

  She left the dining room.

  While more photos were taken, Magson opened his notebook and wrote the message beneath the previous one.

  The technician placed an evidence bag beside the envelope and took a photo, the unique number clearly visible. He sealed it, marked it and proceeded to do the same with the letter.

  “I’ll see what prints I can lift and let you know.”

  “Thanks,” said Magson, “but we want to try to identify the scent first.”

  “Okay. So I should first send it to Pretoria for chemical analysis?”

  “That will take weeks. Months. We’ll just take it to Edgars.”

  The technician looked at him. “I have to go and book this stuff into the SAP459.”

  “We’ll follow you. Then you can book it in and book it out for us. And we’ll bring it back as soon as we’re done.”

  The wound left by the Inge Lotz fiasco still hadn’t healed. The LCRC members employed at the time of Fred van der Vyver’s trial were especially testy. Magson preferred it that way, since there were few things more pathetic than a defense attorney ripping holes in your chain of custody.

  “Another outing to Tyger Valley,”
said Menck as they entered the shopping center.

  “I don’t know why you’re so excited about it,” muttered Magson.

  “What? No decomposing bodies. No crying relatives. No lying suspects. No court appearances. It’s fun.”

  “You know, you’ve been too cheery all day.”

  “What can I say? My day started with a climax.”

  They walked down the shiny corridor. Magson never ceased to be amazed by the host of people wandering around in a shopping center at this time on a weekday. Didn’t they have jobs where they were supposed to be? The place was practically teeming.

  “While we’re here, we should get something for you, too,” said Menck with a smile as they turned towards Edgars.

  “What?”

  “Aftershave.”

  “Why? There is nothing wrong with Shield.”

  “Does Shield make aftershave?”

  “I don’t use aftershave,” said Magson. “I use deodorant.”

  “How long have you been using Shield?”

  “Since ... Who cares? I like Shield.”

  “Don’t you feel like using something different?”

  Magson sighed. “Do you have a problem with my Shield?”

  “No, probably not. But there’s nothing wrong with a little bit of change now and again.”

  “Oh. So after all these years, now you have a problem with my deodorant.”

  “I’m just saying change isn’t always bad. But you Afrikaners are so stubborn.”

  “We Afrikaners. Now you’re insulting my heritage, too.”

  Menck laughed. “I thought you Afrikaners considered stubbornness to be a compliment.”

  Magson gave him a look and Menck laughed harder. “What’s with the ‘you’ anyway?” asked Magson. “You’re half an Afrikaner yourself.”

  “Hmm. Looks like it’s my dark half.”

  Magson sighed.

  They went to the nearest perfume counter and the woman behind it greeted them with a friendly smile. Her coffee-colored skin was smooth, her hair and make-up immaculate, as if she had been carefully prepared for a magazine photo shoot. Magson didn’t like it—she looked unnatural. He had always felt that the “flaws” were what actually made a woman beautiful and different. Like Emma, who had frequently bemoaned her large mouth, while he loved it. Especially when she’d smiled. He used to joke that he was the only man whose wife complained about her big mouth.