Dark Traces

by Martin Steyn

  “Can I help you?”

  Magson presented his identification card. “I’m Warrant Officer Magson and this is Warrant Officer Menck. We’re hoping you can help us with something.”

  The woman turned serious. “Should I call the manager?”

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary. We just want to know if you can identify a perfume for us.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s evidence, so it has to be handled with care.” He cut the evidence bag along the broken line at the bottom, and held it out to her. “If you could just smell it, please?”

  The woman bent over, sniffed carefully at first, then deeper. She closed her eyes and smelled again. Nodded. “Yes. I think ...” She turned around and retrieved a bottle from the shelf, sprayed some of the scent on the inside of her wrist, smelled. “Yes.” She held her wrist for Magson. “It’s Tommy Girl.”

  Magson sniffed the letter. “Hmm,” he said, pleased. “That’s quite impressive.”

  She smiled and looked down, shrugging. “That’s what happens when you work behind a perfume counter for six years.”

  Hy placed the bag containing the letter inside a new evidence bag and sealed it. “Who usually buys Tommy Girl?”

  “Mostly the younger girls, sixteen and older. But I’ve got a lady in her sixties who likes it, too.”

  “What about men?”

  “There’s a Tommy for men—”

  “No, I mean, do men also buy Tommy Girl?”

  “Oh. Yes, for their girlfriends, wives, daughters.”

  “Does it sell well?”

  “Yes. It’s quite popular.”

  Magson clicked his tongue. “Can I see the box, please?”

  The woman took one of the white boxes off the shelf and handed it to him.

  He looked at it, noticed the price, and handed it back. “Thank you very much for your help.” Magson began to turn.

  “Sir? We also have lovely fragrances for men. Eau de toilette, perhaps? Or an aftershave?”

  Menck erupted into laughter. “A Shield refill, hey, Mags?”

  “I have enough, thanks,” Magson told the woman and gave Menck a look. “I’ve got some Stetson aftershave at home.” Most likely scentless from age. “I’ll put it on tomorrow, all right?”

  “Stetson. I should get you a hat for your birthday,” said Menck as they left the store. “Sheriff Magson.”

  “You know, it’s because of clowns like you that people complain about the police.”

  “And some chewing tobacco.”

  Magson sighed and glanced at the ceiling.

  “Listen, since we’re here, I just want to pop into Secrets of India for some chili powder,” said Menck.

  “I need to use the bathroom. See you at the car.”

  No sign of Menck at the Corolla when he got there. The car guard scurried over. “Here’s your car, sir.”

  Magson glared at him. “I’m a policeman. I can find my own bloody car.” He unlocked the door, got behind the wheel and yanked the door shut.

  The guard walked off.

  Magson opened the window and sat back. Looked at his watch. He took out his notebook and leafed through the pages. Until he reached the messages from the two letters.

  The passenger door opened and Menck slid in. He leaned over, holding a brown paper bag under Magson’s nose. “Just smell this.”

  Magson could feel the burning promise in his nostrils.

  “Specially mixed,” said Menck, practically beaming, and took a deep whiff.

  “It’s a miracle you haven’t burnt a hole straight through your intestines.”

  “Chili is good for you. It keeps all sorts of bad things at bay.” He rubbed the curve of his belly. “You know, I could really do with one of Johnson’s samoosas. It worries me a bit to think what he might be putting in them, but damn, they’re good.”

  Magson was still staring at the two messages:

  Maryke you were so beautiful

  So beautiful

  The most beautiful eyes

  I had to have you

  Now you are mine for Always

  Maryke

  I made you a part of me

  You are now tied to me

  For All Time

  He tongued the cavity in his tooth.

  Menck was frowning. “Won’t be surprised if it’s cat or something.”

  Magson shook his head. “I don’t understand it.”

  “I heard somewhere cat kind of tastes like chicken. Those samoosas were chicken ... Supposedly.”

  “How do you do that to a girl and then write letters on special paper, which you spray with perfume that costs almost six hundred rand, going on about how she’s yours ‘for Always’? With a capital letter.”

  “Maybe it’s better not knowing.”

  Magson sighed and shook his head. “Unless LCRC finds something, these letters won’t mean shit.” He snapped the notebook closed. From dead end to dead end. How long before Captain Kritzinger was no longer simply inquiring behind a closed door?

  “Let’s take the letter back and go get a samoosa. Hey?”

  “A samoosa. I’m trying to find something so I don’t get thrown off the case, and all you can think about is samoosas.”

  Menck looked at him. “Why would you get thrown off the case?”

  “Because what have I just learned? That this letter was sprayed with Tommy Girl. That helps us fuck all. I don’t even know that this letter was actually written by the killer. I’m not investigating a suspect’s background. I’m not on my way to go and interrogate a suspect. Because I don’t have a suspect.”

  “Mags, you know there’s always more pressure with these kinds of cases. But you can still only work with what you’ve got.”

  Magson stared out the windshield. Menck didn’t understand. He didn’t come home to a dark, silent house. He had not failed his wife, his son, and now had to hear he was failing his job as well. He had not lost everything yet.

  Nine

  April 24, 2014. Thursday.

  Well, even the devil’s luck can’t last forever, Magson thought. One fingerprint, a thumb, on one of the corners of the latest letter. There were other fingerprints as well, but this one was in the AFIS database. The owner had a criminal record. A sexual offence in 2011. He had exposed himself to a teenage girl.

  “She was on her way home after school,” said Magson. “On foot.”

  “That sounds familiar,” said Menck.

  “When she crossed the veld, he accosted her.”

  “Did he try anything with her?”

  “No. When she saw what he was doing, she ran. There was a surveyor and he asked her what was wrong. She told him, and he and his assistant went looking for the guy. They found him still in the veld, busy.”

  Menck cast his eyes downward, lowering his head. “Caught with the redheaded monster in his hand.”

  “Ja.”

  Menck looked up again. “So surveyors actually have a use. They don’t just stand in the middle of the road with their weird binoculars.”

  “The flasher is twenty-four. It’s his first offence on record, but ...”

  “We know offenders learn from their mistakes. And they tend to begin with lesser crimes.”

  Magson nodded. “The pieces fit so far.”

  “What’s the flasher’s name?”

  “Roelof Kirstein.”

  “Okay. So how do you want to do this?”

  The house was rather old, white and dark green. It seemed to be kept in good condition and the garden was tidy. The yard didn’t look particularly large. A low white wall had been built higher at some stage. White columns with black metal bars in between. Magson wondered how many walls in South Africa had changed from decorative to defensive during the last two decades.

 
He pressed the button on the intercom.

  A female voice answered. She sounded elderly.

  “It’s the police. Can we speak with you a moment, please?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “We’re looking for someone. Maybe you can help us?”

  “Just wait a while. I’m coming.”

  She was indeed an elderly woman, Magson noticed when she arrived at the gate. Probably late sixties, early seventies. Short and somewhat portly, her straight gray hair just reaching below her jaw. She favored her left leg.

  “I’m Warrant Officer Magson. This is Warrant Officer Menck.”

  She took his identification card with one hand, put on the spectacles dangling around her neck, and studied it down her nose.

  “We are looking for Roelof Kirstein. Does he live here?”

  She handed the card back and looked at him over the top of her spectacles. “He does, but he’s not here at the moment. What do you want with him?”

  “He might be able to help us with an investigation.”

  She frowned, staring at Magson. “What investigation? Roelf is a good boy. He isn’t involved in the wrong kind of things.”

  “Mr. Kirstein may have information that could help us. Are you sure he’s not here?”

  “No. I told you. He’s at work.”

  “May I ask who you are?”

  “Bets Lennard.”

  “How do you know Mr. Kirstein?”

  “This is my house. Roelf rents the outside room.”

  Magson nodded. “Do you know where Mr. Kirstein works?”

  “Of course I do. He works at Kirstein Pool Services.”

  “Is he the owner?”

  “No. He works for his uncle.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Lennard.”

  Kirstein Pool Services had two premises. One in the industrial area—presumably where the fiberglass swimming pools and equipment were stored—and the other was a combination office/service shop in Bellville. The store was not large, but the shelves were neatly packed with Kreepy Kraulies and pipes, nets, brushes and miscellaneous products that supposedly kept water clean and clear. As always, the smell of chlorine transported Magson to the old municipal swimming pool of his childhood, the baking Transvaal sun ...

  The woman behind the counter was watching him. Something about her looked wrong. He walked closer and realized it was the light brown eyes—clear as glass—in the brown face that gave the strange appearance. He took out his identification card.

  “Warrant Officers Magson and Menck. Is the owner here?”

  “Mr. Kirstein is in his office.” Her eyebrows scrunched together. “Is there a problem?”

  “We’d like to talk to him, please.”

  She picked up the phone and pressed a couple of buttons. “Mr. Kirstein? The police are here to see you.” She listened, said, “Yes, sir,” and replaced the receiver. “He says he’ll be here now.”

  Menck took a chlorinator from the shelf. On top of it was a plastic shark wearing reflective sunglasses and he started fiddling with it.

  “Did you know a person produces enough spit in a lifetime to fill two swimming pools?”

  “No,” said Magson. “And I could’ve gone through the rest of my life without that knowledge.”

  “My son told me the other day,” said the woman behind the counter, “that if you take all the arteries in your body and put it in a line, it can go around the earth, not once but twice.”

  “Ah,” smiled Menck. “Someone who appreciates the wonders of the human body.” He returned the chlorinator to the shelf.

  “I still can’t believe it,” she said.

  “Did you know your entire skin is replaced every month?” asked Menck.

  Magson sighed.

  The door behind the counter opened and a man with a bit of a paunch and a round face appeared. He seemed to be compensating for the deficit of hair on the top of his head in the lower half of his face.

  “Boy Kirstein. How can I help?”

  Magson accepted his strong handshake and introduced himself and Menck. “Can we talk in your office?”

  “Sure. Come through.”

  Like the store, the office wasn’t large but neat—desk, computer, framed photos of vehicles and workers installing swimming pools on the walls, framed photos of wife and children on the shelf.

  “Sit.” He swept an arm at the chairs and walked around the desk. He sat down, propping his arms on the desk. “What do you want to talk to me about?”

  “Do you know where Roelof Kirstein is?” asked Magson.

  The man’s face froze for a moment. “He’s on his rounds. Did something happen to him? Was he in an accident or something?”

  “Not as far as we know. What rounds, Mr. Kirstein?”

  “We offer several services. One is pool maintenance. That’s what Roelf does.”

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  “I can phone and find out. Why are you looking for him?”

  “It’s possible that he might have information that could help us with an investigation.”

  Boy Kirstein hadn’t moved since he sat down. A groove had steadily deepened between his eyebrows. “What information?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss it,” said Magson.

  “Look.” Boy Kirstein crossed his arms. “I’m not stupid. You could’ve asked this out there in the shop, but you wanted to come to my office. Did Roelf do something?”

  “Mr. Kirstein, what do you know of Roelof’s private life? His habits, comings and goings, that sort of thing?”

  He placed his hands in his lap and shifted in the chair. “To be honest, not much. I often see him on workdays, of course, and sometimes he comes over for Sunday lunch, but I don’t really know what he does in his free time. Roelf is my brother’s son. After my brother’s death, I’ve tried to take care of Roelf as best I can. I gave him this job, organized a place to live. But he keeps to himself.”

  “We understand he rents an outside room from a Mrs. Lennard?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Does Roelf have access to a vehicle?”

  “He does. It’s not a wonderful car, but it takes him where he needs to be. And of course he uses the bakkie for work. Won’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  Magson considered his options, and followed his instinct that the man presented good potential as an ally. “All right, Mr. Kirstein. The truth is that Roelof might be in some trouble.”

  Boy Kirstein closed his eyes for a few seconds. “Roelf has been in trouble before.”

  Magson nodded. “We know.”

  “Is it ... the same thing?”

  “I’m afraid it’s worse.”

  “Worse?” Boy Kirstein looked down at his desk calendar. His shoulders sagged.

  “It’s obvious you care about Roelof. We don’t want to arrest him at this stage, but we do want to talk to him. You can help make sure that happens without incident.”

  “It’s really serious?”

  Magson nodded.

  Boy Kirstein shook his head. “I’m just glad my brother isn’t here to witness this day. What must I do?”

  In the morning, Roelof Kirstein drove to Kirstein Pool Services’ other premises, where he loaded the necessary poolcleaning equipment into the back of the business’s bakkie and went out on his rounds. Only on rare occasions did he come around to the store.

  Magson had listened to Boy Kirstein’s explanation of his nephew’s routine and decided it would be least suspicious if they went to the premises in the industrial area, from where the phone call would be made, and Magson and Menck would await his arrival.

  They followed Boy Kirstein in his double-cab Toyota Hilux. Magson sympathized with the man—it couldn’t be easy for him.

  “This story
fits particularly well,” remarked Menck. “Kirstein can easily drive around between pool jobs, looking for schoolgirls.”

  “He can use his job, too. He can stop next to them and say he’s looking for an address. The business’s name is painted on the side—she would have no reason to suspect anything.”

  Menck nodded. “He could even convince her to get in and show him. Otherwise, the canopy is painted white. He can force her into the back, tie her up or something, tape her mouth shut, and no one would know she was inside.”

  “Ja, so far so good, but where does he take her? He can’t take the girls to his room at old Mrs. Lennard’s house.”

  “I don’t know. But it wouldn’t be the first time horrific things happen right underneath someone’s nose.”

  “Hmm. But he’d have to get them in there in broad daylight without her noticing anything.”

  “Perhaps he takes them on days he knows Mrs. Lennard has some engagement.”

  “Still,” said Magson, “he’s got to leave the girls there the next day while he goes to work. I wonder what this outside room looks like.”

  “Well, we can deal with the details later. The uncle just has to do his part when he phones.”

  That was what worried Magson.

  Boy Kirstein turned in at the gate and Magson followed. A sign proclaimed Kirstein Pool Services in large letters. On one side of the premises were a few fiberglass swimming-pool shells. Magson had never owned a swimming pool and had never had much of a desire to, either. When Hannes had been small, he’d sometimes turned on the sprinkler so his son could run through the water. The skinny body, just legs and arms and the open-mouthed laugh of a child’s easy delight. Had Hannes ever asked for a pool? He tried to remember, but could not. He did recall when Hannes had first learned how to swim. They had been on holiday somewhere, a resort in KwaZulu-Natal, and he’d had Hannes lie on top of his outstretched arms so he could learn how to kick and put his face in the water and breathe the proper way. By the time the vacation had drawn to a close, Hannes had been able to swim.