Dark Traces

by Martin Steyn

  “Don’t feel bad. It’s their job. Those bakkies aren’t so uncomfortable. The important thing is you’re safe.”

  “They can’t protect me every day.”

  “No. But I’ll make sure they drive past regularly. And you have my number.”

  “I’m just so scared.”

  “I know,” he said softly. “But you were very brave. To step on his foot like that—it took guts.”

  “My uncle showed me. My mom’s brother. He was in the army, but now he’s in private security. Actually, I only played along when he showed me the self-defense stuff. The last time he visited. Now I wish I’d taken it more seriously.”

  “You remembered what you needed to.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Maybe you should go and talk to someone,” said Magson. “It helps.” He glanced at the prescription, got up and walked away.

  “I remembered something.”

  He stopped walking. “What?”

  “When he opened the boot. There was stuff inside.”

  “What, Karlien?”

  “I don’t know if it means anything, but you said anything could be important.”

  “You’d be surprised how often it is something small that helps catch someone. What did you remember?”

  “There was a bunch of video-game boxes in the boot. Xbox games. But they were wrong.”

  “What do you mean, ‘wrong’?”

  “Xbox games come in green boxes, but these were all clear.”

  Magson was not sure what to make of this information. He knew nothing about video games.

  “The whole thing keeps churning around in my head. I can’t shut it down. My mom wants me to take a sleeping pill, but ...”

  “Maybe that’s not a bad idea,” said Magson. “So you can get some rest. You need rest.”

  “Maybe I’ll take one. But the games. My friend Gerhard has an Xbox. He told me many guys at school buy pirate copies, for much cheaper. But he prefers to buy games at the shop, even if it means he has fewer, because he says pirate copies are stealing. Maybe that’s why the boxes weren’t green. Maybe they were pirate copies.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Could it help?” She sounded so full of hope.

  “It’s definitely something to look at. I can’t make any promises, but I’m glad you told me. Really, anything you remember, Karlien, phone me.”

  “Thank you, Warrant Magson. You make me feel better.”

  He looked at the phone for a moment, before he slid it back into his pocket.

  May 3, 2014. Saturday.

  Magson took his seat at the counter, a bowl of Weet-Bix in front of him. His eyes still automatically turned to the white stinkwood, searching for the Cape robin. To the sawn-off branch on the feeding tray where he’d always perched, casting mournful glances in the kitchen’s direction when there was nothing for him.

  At first Magson had been skeptical about these “wrongly colored” video-game boxes, but his mind had kept on turning the idea around. Even if Karlien Pretorius was correct, and the games were pirate copies, why would a serial killer busy himself with such things? For the money? How much money could be made from selling pirate video games? Magson couldn’t believe it would be a particularly profitable venture. Or was it a way in which to make contact with schoolchildren? Perhaps a “valid” reason to be close enough to watch high-school girls, depending on where the transactions took place.

  Perhaps it was just the thread he needed to pull in order to make the whole thing come undone. He wanted to speak to Karlien’s friend this morning. If he didn’t know where the children bought the pirate copies, he would at least know someone who had bought them in the past. Why hadn’t he asked for this friend’s details last night? He didn’t want to phone too early and wake her.

  It was just after half past nine when Magson was sitting across from the boy in his parents’ sitting room. Gerhard Cronjé had shy, but intelligent, eyes.

  “Karlien told me about the video games at school,” said Magson. “The pirate copies.”

  The boy frowned.

  “I’d like to know where they get them from. The children at school.”

  “A man tried to kidnap Karlien and you’re worried about pirate Xbox games?”

  The boy might be shy, but he obviously liked Karlien.

  “No, Gerhard, I’m a detective with the Serious Violent Crimes Unit. I don’t care about pirate Xbox games, but it might be important.”

  The boy was still frowning. “Okay. I haven’t bought any myself, so I don’t know all the details, but I know they buy it from a guy in Grade 11. I don’t know where he gets it.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Wayne. Wayne Guthrie.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  The boy shrugged. “Not much. He’s English. If you’re not one of his customers, it’s best to stay out of his way.” It seemed like he had more to say.

  “What else?”

  “Look. I want to help Karlien. And I’m no fan of Wayne Guthrie. But I still have to go to school there.”

  “Gerhard. I have no reason to mention your name. But the more you tell me, the more I can do.”

  The boy cast his eyes down towards the carpet. After a while he looked up. “Well, pirate copies aren’t the only thing he sells.”

  “Drugs?”

  “There’s a rumor. Everyone knows about the games, but the drugs could just be a story.”

  “But you believe it.”

  The boy’s silence was answer enough.

  May 5, 2014. Monday.

  “The guy who can get you stuff,” said Menck. “A couple of buddies and I once washed a shitload of cars to buy a Scope from this guy. Brand new.”

  “And was it worth the effort?” asked Magson.

  “Oh yes. Not one of our dads bought the Scope. After school we used to drool over the covers in the café. Until the old Greek chased us away.” Menck shook his head. “He sold us cigarettes without a word, but we weren’t allowed to look at his naughty books.”

  “What was it with old Greeks and cafés? We had one in town, too. Extremely hairy—and oily—but he made the best bloody chips. Slaptjips, salt and vinegar, wrapped in newspaper.” Magson’s stomach actually groaned as he recalled the sharp smell of the vinegar rising from his memory. “I wonder what happened to all those Greeks.”

  “Ruined by supermarkets and Seven-Elevens. But that was a different time, hey? When the female body was still this mysterious thing. Nowadays you don’t even need to wonder or invest any effort at all. Hell, you can just leaf through your mom’s Fair Lady or Cosmopolitan. And they don’t even bother with stars.”

  “Not to mention the internet and cellphones,” said Magson. “The thing is, we had to use our imagination with everything, not just girls. My dad made me a toy gun from wood. When you see a child with a gun today, it’s a plastic AK that looks exactly like the real thing.”

  “Sometimes it is the real thing.”

  “Hmm.”

  Menck sighed. “Yip, children today have all this stuff. Clothes with labels, TVs in their rooms, cellphones and iPads, internet, don’t have to work for pocket money. But I think we had the better deal.”

  Magson nodded and pressed against his cheek. “Ja. Won’t change it.”

  “I hope you’re not trying to self-medicate that thing with Sensodyne or something. You know those ads lie.”

  “I use plain common Aquafresh, if you must know.”

  “Well, no wonder your tooth is falling apart. Everyone knows Colgate is the number one toothpaste, according to dentists.”

  “I like Aquafresh.”

  “They got you with the different layers, hey?”

  Magson sighed.

  “I’ll make an appointment for you.”

 
“I can make my own bloody appointments, thank you. I don’t need you to be my secretary.”

  “Ve-ry sensitive. So what’s the plan with Guthrie?”

  “Let’s hear what he has to say first,” said Magson, relieved to move on to a new subject.

  The address was only a block further. The gate was open and they followed the driveway. The same bricks swept up some steps, twisting upwards to the front door. Small trees in pots, the trunks entwined, marked every fifth step.

  As Magson rang the doorbell, he hoped they would have more success than they’d had with Lola earlier. Her reaction to the identikit had been a shrug and a “could be.” More than that she had not been able—or had not wanted—to say, despite his best efforts.

  A tall boy with wild hair and a pointed chin opened the door. Loud music poured out around him. The boy looked annoyed. “My parents aren’t home.” He started closing the door, but Magson held it open.

  “Are you Wayne Guthrie?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  Magson could understand why Gerhard Cronjé would rather not end up on the wrong side of this boy. His attitude made it clear he had a fair amount of power at school and was used to getting his way, by force if necessary. Self-assured. Arrogant. Not afraid of confrontation. The teachers must love him.

  Magson shoved his identification card into the boy’s face. “We’re from the police.” Quick and loud. “SVC. Are you Wayne Guthrie?”

  The boy flinched, a nervous look washing over his features, but he regained control. “Yes, I’m Wayne Guthrie. What do you want?”

  “Can we come in?”

  “No. What do you want?”

  “Your supplier,” said Magson. “Where do you get your pirate copies?”

  “My what?”

  “The Xbox games you’re selling at school.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He started closing the door again.

  Once more Magson held it open. “Do we really have to turn this house upside down before you’ll become a good citizen?”

  “You can’t just do that. You need a search warrant.”

  “Aah, someone watches the cop shows and thinks he’s getting clever,” said Menck. “You shouldn’t believe everything you see on TV, Wayne. Besides, this isn’t America.”

  “We have enough for a warrant, anyway,” said Magson. “Meanwhile, Warrant Officer Menck here will take you to the station and store you in a cell until I come back. We don’t want you to accidentally pervert the course of justice.”

  “What? You can’t just lock me in a cell.”

  “Actually, we can.” Menck produced his handcuffs.

  The boy’s eyes flitted between them.

  Menck stepped forward.

  “Wait! You can’t just arrest me!”

  Menck hesitated, seemed to contemplate the situation, turned to Magson. “If he cooperates, it can save us a lot of time and effort.”

  “Ag, I don’t know,” said Magson. “Let’s just lock him up, shake the house and see what falls out. Where are your parents?”

  Guthrie, who had followed their discussion like a tennis match, opened his mouth, but Menck interrupted him. “What kind of toothpaste do you use?”

  “What?” asked Guthrie.

  “Toothpaste, Wayne. You do brush your teeth, don’t you? Hey?”

  “Yes ...” The confusion on Guthrie’s face diluted the irritation that had risen in Magson.

  “So? What brand do you use?”

  “Colgate, I think.”

  Menck nodded. “So then you don’t have any dental problems.”

  “No.”

  “You see, my partner here chooses not to use the number one toothpaste as recommended by dentists. As a result, he has a sore tooth. This makes him extremely irritable. In fact, at present the man has no patience whatsoever. So you can imagine what effect your attitude is having.” Menck had built up speed and was rollicking along now.

  Guthrie only looked at him.

  “But here’s the thing, Wayne. You see, you’re just a little peanut. We’re really interested in the big nut. The Brazil nut. The guy you get your pirate copies from. But if you’re going to continue down this path, we’ll have to take you in and call your parents and it’s going to turn into an extremely unpleasant situation. For you, that is.”

  “No.” Magson shook his head. “It’s too late. He’ll sing soon enough once he’s in a cell. Especially after he’s met the gangsters. We don’t have any empty cells, so you’ll have to share.”

  “No,” said Guthrie to Magson, licking his lips. “Wait.” He looked at Menck. “I don’t know who he is.”

  “Please tell me you’re trying to be funny,” said Menck, “because if you’re going to treat us like idiots ...”

  “I’m not. I don’t even know his name. I don’t know anything about him.”

  “You don’t know anything. So you’ve never seen him, never spoken to him. Are you a Red Indian, Wayne?”

  “What?”

  “Well, you must be communicating through smoke signals.”

  “We use email.”

  Menck made a rolling movement with his hand. “Go on. How does it work?”

  “It works like email. He sends me a list of games. I let him know which ones the kids want.”

  “How do you get them?” asked Magson.

  “On my phone. I use gmail and I get it on my phone.”

  “The games. How do you get the games?”

  “Oh. He ... drops them off.”

  “Here?”

  “No,” said Guthrie.

  “Then where?”

  “He lets me know.”

  “And then you meet him?”

  Guthrie nodded.

  “But then you have seen him,” said Menck, his voice loud and angry.

  Guthrie stared at his shoes.

  “What’s he look like? And be specific.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not into guys.”

  “Ag, enough of this,” said Magson. “He’s just wasting our bloody time. Cuff him and let’s go.” He started turning.

  “Brown hair. He’s got brown hair and he’s about your height.”

  Menck threw his hands in the air. “That’s it? I’m trying my best to keep your arse out of a cell and you tell me he’s got brown hair?”

  “I don’t know,” said Guthrie. “I don’t look at him that way.”

  Menck sighed. “Does he have a beard? Is he fat? Does he speak with an accent? Does he have a scar or a tattoo? Is one of his fingers crooked?”

  Guthrie’s eyes had brightened. “He does have a beard. And he’s Afrikaans, but his English is good. He doesn’t have any tattoos on his arms, but I don’t know about the rest of his body. And he’s always got a cap on.”

  “What kind of cap?”

  “Different ones. But he’s always wearing one.”

  Magson unfolded the identikit. “Is it this man?”

  Guthrie looked for a long while. “I don’t know. He’s got a beard.”

  “If this man had a beard?”

  “Maybe. It’s difficult. He’s got a beard and cap. It could be.”

  Fantastic. Another “could be.” “What kind of car does he drive?”

  “Usually a BMW, sometimes a ... I thinks it’s a Hyundai, maybe an i20.”

  “Color?”

  “The BMW is silver.” Right color. Pity Karlien Pretorius had not been able to identify the manufacturer.

  “Give me your phone.” Magson held out his hand.

  Guthrie stared at the open palm as if it held a poison capsule. “Why?”

  “Because that’s where you get his emails.”

  “I deleted them.”

  “Surely his address is still there,” said Menck.
/>   “Yes ... I don’t have it with me.”

  “So go fetch it.”

  “You can’t tell him you got it from me.”

  Menck clapped his hands. “You could’ve been back already.”

  Magson watched Guthrie disappear into the house. Of course, he would have wanted to go along, but they were already talking to him without his parents’ knowledge or presence.

  “I hope that was the last of your Colgate campaign.”

  Menck smiled as if he were an actor in one of their adverts. “Come on, that was classic. I should write it down for my memoirs.”

  “Memoirs.” Magson shook his head.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be in there, as well. Mags, my moody sidekick.”

  “Sidekick.” Magson sighed. Loudly.

  Menck found it hilarious.

  Magson peered into the house. Guthrie appeared around a corner and dragged his feet all the way to the front door, a small black phone in his hand.

  “What took you so long?” asked Magson.

  “I had to use the bathroom.”

  “What’s his address?”

  The boy went through a sequence of taps and swipes on the screen. “Here.” He turned the phone, but Magson took it from him.

  “What does ‘CJ’ stand for?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s his real name.”

  “Why email?” asked Menck. “Why doesn’t he just phone you?”

  “He says the government tracks you and listens in.” Guthrie shrugged.

  “When was the last time you had contact with him?” asked Magson.

  “Last week.”

  “All right.” Magson handed the phone back to the boy. “This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to contact your buddy CJ and order some games. And then we’re going to wait for him when he comes to deliver them.”

  Guthrie shook his head. “No. Do you know what he’ll do to me if ...”

  Menck held up his hands. “Wayne, Wayne, Wayne, listen to me. You’re selling pirate video games. That’s a crime. And once we start investigating you, we’ll be digging around everywhere in your life. We’ll find the other stuff you’re into as well. Your future is screwed. This plan is your chance to help yourself.”