by Martin Steyn
Back at the table he pushed the docket away. He placed his elbows on the table, rested his temples against his palms and stared at the grain of the wood. Emma had bought this yellowwood table with her inheritance. It was meant to become an heirloom, Hannes’s, before South Africa had turned into a country young people wanted to leave.
In England, Hannes had met Christine. Her name had begun popping up with increasing frequency during phone calls. One evening Emma had remarked with a smile, “Now it’s always ‘Christine-and-I’.” When Hannes had finally visited, he’d brought Christine along. Emma had immediately liked the dark-haired girl. Magson had, too. At the end of the first week, Hannes had taken them to Cattle Baron and announced that he and Christine were engaged. Emma had been delighted at the prospect of gaining the daughter she’d never had. Magson had been glad to see Hannes so happy, but he had still held onto the hope that his son would someday return to his country of birth. After that visit, they had only seen Christine once more, when they’d gone overseas for the wedding.
He picked up his cellphone, typed in the international code for England, followed by the number. He stared at the little green telephone icon. One button away.
How did you ask forgiveness for such a thing? How did you earn the right to ask for forgiveness?
And what if you asked and it was not granted?
Like so many times before, he pressed the red telephone and watched the number disappear in an instant.
In the end, the only way to help Emma, had been to break everything.
He placed the phone on the table, pushed it away and folded the cloth open in front of him.
He picked up his service pistol. Z88. South African version of a Beretta design. The standard pistol of the South African Police Service since the late 1980s. A good, dependable firearm, but important to keep clean.
He removed the magazine, pulled and locked the slide, checked that the pistol was safe. His old fingers knew the movements to take the weapon apart so well: remove the slide, place the pistol grip on the cloth, remove the recoil spring and rod from the slide, finally the barrel. And there all the components were spread out on the cloth.
The cleaning always started at the barrel. Until it was bright silver on the inside, the grooves clearly visible. Then a touch of oil. He wiped the other components clean and reassembled the pistol.
He slid the magazine into the grip and smacked it home against his palm. Cocked the slide.
He had never taken a life with this pistol.
His work phone rang next to him, startling him. He put the weapon down and answered. “Magson.”
“Warrant Magson. It’s Karlien Pretorius ... Am I bothering you?”
“No, Karlien. Did something happen?”
“No. I just ...”
“Did you remember something else?”
“No. I wanted to know if maybe ... I made batter, for pancakes, and I wanted to invite you. For coffee and pancakes. It’s my granny’s recipe. They’re the best pancakes ever.”
It was so unexpected that Magson had no response. Why would she invite him?
“I’m sorry. You must be busy. I shouldn’t’ve called.”
“Pancakes would be very nice,” Magson heard the words coming from his mouth.
“Awesome!”
She sounded so genuinely pleased that he smiled.
Of course the smile was replaced by closed eyes and a shake of the head as soon as the call ended. What did she want? A progress report? He rubbed his face. Or did she and her mother want to ensure the investigation remained a priority? Why had he said yes? What did he have to tell them?
He rose with a sigh. Washed his face, brushed his teeth and put on a clean shirt.
In his car he turned the key and immediately shut the engine off again. What had he been thinking? He would just have to phone back and say that something had come up.
But she’d sounded so pleased ...
He couldn’t do that to her. Especially not with a lie.
He shook his head, turned the key once more and pumped the petrol pedal. Reversed all the way out to the edge of the street. Got out and shut the garage door and the gate. Put on the chain. He missed with the lock and it dropped to the ground.
“Ag, donner, man!” He had to remove the chain again to open the gate. “Because you have to lock everything and you have to do it on the inside so it looks as if you’re actually at home.” What had happened to this country? There had been a time when he would sometimes drive into town without bothering to close the garage door.
With the gate finally locked, he got back into the Jetta. He drove more slowly than usual. Why did she have to phone?
He parked in front the Pretorius home. Gazed down the street. He really did not want to go inside. But he got out and locked the door.
A Vibracrete wall separated the property from the street. There was a wooden gate for vehicles at the driveway and another one for pedestrians. All of it was about the height of his shoulders and both gates were kept locked. Karlien’s attacker must have climbed over when he’d brought the box containing her school books, but LCRC had been unable to lift any fingerprints. He didn’t hesitate to take risks and yet he remained careful.
Magson pressed the button beside the smaller gate. A few moments passed before he heard the front door open and light footsteps approaching.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Warrant Magson.”
The lock clicked and the gate opened, revealing a smiling Karlien Pretorius. This was the first time he had seen her not looking traumatized or terrified. Of course it was merely lurking beneath the surface, but still, he was glad.
“Sorry. I had to make sure.”
“You’d be in trouble if you didn’t.”
She smiled again. “Come in.”
He noticed her mother standing at the front door, watching them. It had to be hell for her to have her daughter out of her sight for just a second.
Karlien locked the gate and they walked to the house.
“Evening, Warrant.”
“Mrs. Pretorius. Thank you for the invitation.” She was wearing jeans with a cream-colored jersey. The same color hair as Karlien, but a different face, rounder and fuller.
“Come in.”
“We always eat pancakes in the kitchen,” said Karlien. “I hope you don’t mind. But it’s best to eat pancakes hot out of the pan.”
“I don’t mind.”
The kitchen walls were painted white, but the rest of the color scheme consisted of blue and yellow with a touch of green. A blind made of fabric covered the window—yellow and blue flowers, green leaves—blue oven mittens, blue-and-yellow dishtowels. It rendered the space cheerful, even in the unnatural glow of the fluorescents.
They sat at the table next to one of the walls. Karlien took up position at the stove. Magson glanced at the woman across the table, smiled and looked at his hands.
“I hope you didn’t have to leave your wife alone at home.”
“No. My wife has passed away. I just still wear the ring.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled. “It says a lot about her. That you’re still wearing her ring.”
He nodded. “She was very special.”
“The first pancake is now going in,” announced Karlien from the stove.
The batter sizzled in the pan.
“Can I pour you some coffee?” asked her mother.
“Please. That would be nice.”
He remained at the table. Hannes had always loved pancakes. Emma would mix the batter, after which she would leave it to rest—to Hannes’s exasperation—and only then would she start baking, one after the other, sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, rolled and packed close together on an oval plate. The plate would go into the oven with additional
pancakes added in groups of three. Hannes would watch his mother throughout—naturally devouring a few along the way—until she was done. Then they would feast. Magson had always liked the ones that had been in the oven for a while, the sugar melted to a cinnamony syrup.
Karlien’s mother put a mug of black coffee in front of him, along with a sugar bowl and some milk. There were handpainted flowers on all the crockery.
“Thank you.” He added milk and sugar and stirred. It was percolated coffee. “It smells very good.”
“Karlien is a coffee pot. When we do our shopping, half the time is spent in front of the coffee shelf.”
“This is House of Coffees’ Java Seduction,” said Karlien. She placed a plate with a neatly rolled pancake and a fork in front of him. “It’s my favorite.”
“Thank you.”
“Please don’t be all proper and wait. Cold pancake is not on.” She returned to the stove. There was a lightness to the way she moved.
He picked up his fork and took a bite. Hot, spongy, and despite the crunch of the sugar between his teeth, it was indeed a particularly delicious pancake. He told her so.
She looked at him and smiled.
Magson took another bite and fumbled for something to say. He felt uncomfortable eating alone. “Have you been living here a long time, Mrs. Pretorius?”
“Oh, no, you can’t be so formal while eating pancake. I’m Marina.”
“... Jan. But everyone just calls me Mags.”
“That’s much better. To answer your question, Jan, about seven or eight years.”
When last had a woman called him “Jan”? Probably his sister-in-law, at Emma’s funeral.
“I was in Grade 3,” said Karlien. She placed a plate in front of her mother. “So it’s seven.”
“Thanks, Kars.” Using the side of the fork, she sliced the pancake into squares. “But we’re putting the house on the market.”
Magson looked up. “Where will you go?”
“Just somewhere temporary at first, while we decide. I like my job and Karlien has good friends, but maybe ...” She looked at her daughter rolling a pancake. “Maybe we need a complete change.” Her eyes turned back to him. “Unless you can guarantee that you’ll catch him soon?” she asked, her voice low.
He looked down. “I wish I could.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but Karlien delivered a fresh pancake to Magson’s plate.
“Why are you talking so softly?”
“We’re just enjoying your pancake. It really is delicious.”
“Ouma Lien’s recipe is the best.”
After the sixth pancake, Magson declined any more.
Karlien started brewing a fresh pot of coffee and sat down with them, three pancakes on her plate.
“Do you want to write?” he asked. “Or is it just a hobby?”
“I’d like to write. It would be awesome to see my book on the shelf at Exclusive Books. But I simply enjoy writing stories, even if no one reads them.”
“Karlien is very creative,” said her mother, looking at her daughter with a smile. “She draws as well.”
“I like making things.”
“I think the coffee’s almost done. Why don’t you go in the TV room and show some of your drawings.”
“Mom.”
“I’d like to see them,” said Magson.
“I’ll bring the coffee,” said her mother.
Karlien led him to the TV room, left and reappeared a short while later with a black portfolio bag, about A2 in size. She opened the zip all the way round and folded it open. She removed a sheet of paper and held it for him to look.
It was a landscape, a green valley nestled between two mountains, blue sky overhead. Although the colors were quite intense, the style was wispy, giving the scene a dreamlike quality. Magson knew little about art, but he liked it.
“How did you do this?”
“It’s pastels,” she said. “You get oil pastels, kind of like a good-quality version of wax crayons, and soft pastels. That’s what this is. Soft pastel is more like chalk. Powdery. Serious artists would freak out if they heard what I’m comparing it to.”
“The colors are very rich.” He had no idea what the correct word was.
She smiled. “It’s so vivid. It’s one of the reasons I’m so fond of soft pastels. And you can easily rub and blend it with your fingers. It gets really messy.”
“I like it. I wanted to say you should open a coffee shop, but it looks like you should rather do exhibitions in art galleries. Do you have more?”
Karlien showed him more drawings. More landscapes and also flowers in vases with that same dreamy quality. Emma would have liked the flowers, but one of the landscapes ... He stopped her when she wanted to move on to the next one. It was a forest scene, darker greens and brown trunks, the light shimmering through in a few areas onto simple yellow flowers. It looked as if someone had walked through the foliage.
“Do you sell them?”
“No.” She shrugged.
“I’d like to buy this one. If you’re willing to sell it.”
“Oh.” She smiled. “You can have it.”
“Thanks, but I want to buy it. It’s too beautiful to be free. And besides, a policeman is not allowed to accept gifts.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He finally managed to convince her to accept five hundred rand.
After their coffee was finished, he stood. Karlien rolled the drawing into a tube and tied it with a piece of string.
“Just untie it and put it down on a flat surface, then the curl will go away.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Karlien walked him out, to open the gate, while her mother remained in the doorway.
“Thanks for coming, Warrant Magson.” Karlien hesitated, as if making a decision. “I was able to feel safe for a while.”
“I enjoyed it. I haven’t had pancakes in a long time. You’re a brave girl, Karlien. You’ll be all right.”
She nodded.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
At home Magson locked the front door and switched on a few lights as he made his way to the dining room. He unrolled the drawing on the table and stared at it. His. This was the first time he had bought a piece of art. He realized he’d never asked Karlien whether it was a place that actually existed. It was as if he could peer into the scene, follow the bruised leaves, where the feet had stepped ... It would look really beautiful once it was framed and hung.
Hung.
Was that why he hanged the girls? To watch them while the life drained from their bodies. To watch the life draining from them? With rapt attention from a distance, rather than in the struggle of throttling ...
He shoved the thought away. He didn’t want to lose the feeling inside. Instead, he wanted to remember Karlien’s smile when he’d told her he wanted to buy one of her drawings.
Without thinking, he picked up the phone and pressed the number.
It started ringing.
What was he doing?
And ringing.
His heart thumped and his chest tightened. But he was frozen, the phone pressed hard against his ear.
It felt like a weight hitting his chest. “You have reached John and Christine Magson. We’re not in at present, but please leave a message and we’ll ring you back.”
His son’s voice, but strange. He sounded like an Englishman.
It was just a recording. He realized he was not breathing and had to consciously begin again.
His son was not Hannes anymore.
Now he was John.
Magson put the phone down.
May 9, 2014. Friday.
Mark Ellwood had been quite positive about the identikit. Except that the man wearing the Ecko Unltd. cap had had a beard. A
brown beard, which Ellwood said had definitely been more than a week old.
So it seemed like Guthrie’s CJ and Ellwood’s Ecko were the same person. But where did that leave Karlien’s clean-shaven attacker? Guthrie and Ellwood had both described his hair as longer than depicted on the identikit. Moderately curly, as well.
The only fingerprints on the Graça wine box belonged to Karlien and her mother. Which meant he must have wiped the box down. The results of the contents were not back yet.
Magson stared at the wall in the operational room. Three photos. Three girls. Three smiles. They deserved better. Karlien, too. She didn’t deserve having to leave her home, her school, her friends, perhaps even this province, behind.
Once again the voice, simultaneously strange and familiar, echoed in his head.
You have reached John and Christine Magson.
He turned away from the wall.
It was almost half past eight. He was sitting on the sofa, a glass of KWV brandy in his hand, the bottle on the coffee table. He had never been much of a drinker. His uncle had taken care of that as he’d been growing up, each time Magson had witnessed him stumbling around, trying to pronounce the nonsense spewing from his mouth. The sickly sweet stench clinging to him had been the worst, which was why Magson never drank his brandy with Coke as the other detectives did.
After supper Emma had usually retired to this sofa to watch some TV. She had loved her stories, speaking about—and to—many of the people on the screen as if they were family friends. On some evenings, particularly after the country had changed, he would bring dockets home and so he had stayed at the dining table. Otherwise, he would join her here on the sofa, usually falling asleep with her against his shoulder. Such a lot of time with her that he had wasted by sleeping.
He gulped down the remaining brandy and poured more into the glass.
Detective work used to be different. The police had commanded respect, had made a difference. There had been time to investigate every docket. There had been a braai grid in the boot of every unmarked vehicle and time to use it for the odd impromptu braai. Nowadays a person’s life was often worth fifty rand. A policeman was a means to obtain a pistol. You tried to catch the stupid and inexperienced criminals as quickly as possible so you had more time to spend on the clever, cunning ones. You managed to close one docket, only to receive two new ones in its place. They received a prison sentence, only to be released after serving a fraction of it. Meanwhile, you were working overtime, without the remuneration you deserved, instead of spending time with your wife. You thought there would be time later. Your retirement was not so far off and then there would be time. But then she got sick and there was nothing the doctors could do and you watched her slowly being eaten from the inside while there was no longer a death penalty for those who deserved it. She asked you to help her, because she was but a shell and all she felt was pain or medication and she couldn’t anymore. You helped her, even though it was terrible, because you had looked into her eyes when she’d asked you, when after three decades of marriage she’d had enough trust in you to drop all her defenses to the ground, to stand before you with nothing left to reveal. Because you had seen she knew what she was asking. Because you loved her. But neither of you realized that there would be a hidden cost. Like regret, it arrived too late, when your son stood behind you after the funeral, telling you he knew what you had done. And then you were alone. Everywhere there were holes that would never be filled and you learned that you had never really been sad before. All that remained was your job. Because there would always be another senseless murder.