by Martin Steyn
Late in the afternoon Magson was back at the mortuary. With him was Daniël Ferreira. Possibly to identify his daughter. Magson would much rather spend all day attending autopsies while the drain was blocked than perform this particular task. They filled in the necessary documentation in a separate room. Magson recalled another waiting room, where he would wait while Emma ...
“We’re ready.”
The pathology officer was standing in the doorway.
“Mr. Ferreira,” said Magson.
The man looked at him for a moment, his face pale and drawn. He rose, his hands kneading each other.
The officer led them down the corridor. It was open on the right-hand side, where there was a garden, green and vibrant. In spring it was a sight to behold, when the flowers were in bloom. At the end of the corridor they entered a small room. A washbasin hung on the left wall. The officer held a door open, leading to one of the viewing rooms.
“She is behind the curtain,” he said. “When you’re ready, you can just let me know and I’ll pull it back.”
Daniël Ferreira entered and stopped. He looked at the grayish green curtain, rubbing his hands. Against the wall were two benches covered in the same grayish green. Dark Cs curled in a swirling pattern on the fabric. The walls were white.
“Thank you,” said Magson softly. “It’s all right. I’ll wait with Mr. Ferreira.”
The officer nodded and followed the corridor back to the reception area.
“Take your time, Mr. Ferreira. Whenever you’re ready.”
“I don’t think I can.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
Magson placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. Opening that curtain erased all hope.
Daniël Ferreira swallowed. His throat was so dry that Magson heard it. The man reached with one unsteady hand, touched the curtain. The hand hung there. The fingers quivering.
Another dry swallow.
He pulled the curtain.
On the other side of the window the girl was lying on a steel trolley. A white sheet covered her body from toe to chin. Her face was turned towards the window. Her dark blonde hair had been draped on both sides of her head, hiding the ugly furrow in her throat.
Emma had looked peaceful. After everything she had gone through, the physical pain, the emotional struggle, the medication, the ... After it had been done, she’d looked peaceful. Beautiful.
The shoulder started shaking beneath Magson’s hand.
“It’s her. It’s Danielle.”
All he wanted to do was go home, perhaps get something to eat on the way. But he had told Emma he would try. And so he got out of the Jetta and walked into Pick n Pay. It might be his last opportunity before Thursday’s appointment with Doctor Hurter, because Danielle Ferreira’s mother and stepfather would be arriving from George tomorrow.
The world had slowly, furtively, become plastic. Shopping baskets and trolleys used to be metal. Milk bottles had been made of glass, and there had been the cartons he preferred because the milk had had a creamier taste. Coke and Fanta had come in glass bottles you could return to the café for twenty cents or something. And those cents had had value beyond merely increasing the uncomfortable bulge in your wallet. Toothpaste tubes had been manufactured from a soft metal that had always metamorphosed into a warped mess towards the end. Early in their marriage, Emma had made the executive decision that they would be using separate tubes. This was one instance where plastic was definitely an improvement.
He removed the shopping list from his pocket and started packing strange products into his basket: yellow and red peppers, sage, thyme, cayenne pepper and bay leaves, chicken stock, and a sausage called chorizo, the appearance of which gave him pause. Also a couple of chicken breasts, onions, tomatoes and garlic. He read the list of ingredients in the neat female script once more. There had been a time when it had not been unusual for him to wander through the aisles with just such a list in his hand. Rice was about the only thing he had at home.
He handed the cashier his credit card—even money was plastic—and carried his bag to the Jetta. It had rained again.
As he drove home, the wet streets reflected in the headlights. The blonde girl in her wet clothes returned to him. The drops on her skin. Her mother was the last known person to see her alive, on Friday morning in George. It was suspected that she had run away, presumably to her father in Hout Bay. But that route should not have led through the killer’s Bellville-Brackenfell-Durbanville triangle. How had she ended up there?
Magson recalled the shoulder starting to shake beneath his hand. The shattered voice asking ...
He shook his head. No. Not tonight. Tonight he was going to cook and not think about death.
At home he pulled the car into the garage, locked the gate and the front door, and took the shopping bag to the kitchen. He locked his pistol in the safe. Next to the revolver. And put on more comfortable clothes.
In the kitchen he unhooked Emma’s old violet apron behind the door and tied it around his waist. He poured a glass of KWV, added some water, and read the recipe. Almost everything needed to be diced. That was going to take a while. He’d only really started cooking when Emma had no longer been able to move around easily on her own. Prior to that, he had sometimes helped to peel potatoes and so on, and of course barbecue duties had been his domain, but otherwise his cooking had been confined to breakfast on Emma’s birthday and Mother’s Day, and when she had had the flu or something.
First, the onion. Then the peppers. The tomatoes were supposed to be skinned and pitted, but he was not entirely sure how—he just knew Emma had put them in boiling water. Well, a tomato’s skin and seeds had never bothered him, so he decided to simply dice them. At last all the vegetables were ready. While everything except the tomato was frying, he cut the chicken into smaller pieces and then the chorizo—which he still didn’t trust completely—into slices. He’d been too lax with the stirring, and the onions and peppers had burnt a bit. But it wasn’t too bad. He added the chicken and chorizo. Hunger had begun to gnaw at his stomach. Water was boiling for the chicken stock. The meat was gaining some color. Herbs and spices. Tomato, tomato purée and stock. And now it had to simmer.
He paused for some brandy. The kitchen had not smelt this good in a long time.
The rice was the final addition. Stir and simmer for twenty minutes.
The hunger was no longer just gnawing.
After twenty minutes he lifted the lid. Still a lot of fluid. He stirred. Studied a spoonful of rice. It didn’t look completely cooked yet.
He replaced the lid and gave it another ten minutes.
This time the rice looked much better, but there was still too much fluid. He frowned. Well, too bad. He got a plate. The aroma of the chicken, chorizo and exotic spices went straight to his stomach. For a few moments he just stared at the rising wisps of steam twirling around each other.
At the dining table he glanced at the pastel drawing on the buffet. He really should make time to have it framed. With closed eyes, he drew the aroma of the hot food deep into his lungs and took his first bite. Needed some salt.
He doubted whether the jambalaya was how it should be, but it was the tastiest plate of food he’d had in a very long time.
May 21, 2014. Wednesday.
“I have a new philosophy in life,” announced Menck.
They were in the Corolla, heading to the guesthouse to talk to Danielle Ferreira’s mother and stepfather.
“Some days you’re the pigeon and some days you’re the statue.”
“So that’s the sentence you recite to yourself as you start your day,” said Magson.
“Life is what it is.”
“And where did you discover this insight?”
“My sister emailed it to me.”
“I am amazed that anyone gets any work done with all these emails they send around all
the time.”
“They have to make time for Facebook and Twitter, as well.”
Magson shook his head.
“We’re living in the Information Age, Mags.”
Magson preferred the previous one, whatever it had been. “I wouldn’t mind having a pigeon day. For once.”
Menck looked at him. “Who do you want to go perch on? Or do you want to go on a bombing run?” He turned his hand into an airplane and whistled.
Magson hesitated. “He asked me whether she had suffered. Daniël Ferreira. After he identified his daughter. ‘Did he hurt her? Did she suffer?’ I wish someone would tell me how you’re supposed to answer such a question. Do you tell him a man sodomized his daughter? With so much force that he tore her open? That he burned her with an iron. And then he hanged her and even that wasn’t quick. Is that what you should tell him? Or do you lie? So that in a year’s time, or whenever the case finally goes to court, he can sit there and find out exactly what the bastard did to her. So he can realize that little bit of comfort he’d clung to was all just a lie.”
“What did you tell him?” asked Menck.
Magson grimaced, took a deep breath through his nose, let the air out slowly. “I told him she didn’t have an easy time before she died. But no one can hurt her anymore. It’s who she was that’s important, not what someone did to her.”
“That’s nice.”
It still sounded false, though. And most likely he would have to answer that same question again in a few minutes’ time. He parked at the guesthouse. They got out and met Bruno and Ronel Volschenk in their room.
“Mr. and Mrs. Volschenk,” said Magson, “we are very sorry about Danielle.”
Her mother nodded.
“It’s important that we understand the circumstances under which Danielle disappeared. Friday was the last time you saw her?”
“Yes,” said her mother. It was from her that Danielle had gotten her dark blonde hair. But not her eyes. “The morning. I took her to school, but she never went to her class. And she must’ve gone home, because her bag was gone. A backpack. We only realized it a couple of days later.”
“Did she say anything that morning?”
“No. She didn’t really speak. But Danielle’s been moody recently. We didn’t ... always get along.”
“Did you argue?”
“Yes.”
“What about?” asked Magson.
“It could have been anything. Small things.” She looked down at the brown-speckled carpet. “You just couldn’t talk to her anymore. Except Odette, her sister. They got along really well.”
“Is Odette here? Did you bring her with you?”
“Yes. The hostess is watching her. Not that she really wants to be away from us since ...”
Magson nodded. “Do you have any idea what really bothered Danielle?”
“It was just the normal teenage things,” said the stepfather. He had dark hair, almost black, and a moustache crawling halfway over his upper lip.
“It seems like she was on her way to her father.”
“They’ve always had a good relationship,” said her mother. “She’s had him wrapped around her pinky since she was born.”
“So you have no idea why she ran away?”
She shook her head. “No. She really was very moody recently, but I don’t know. I thought it was just something at school. It’s a difficult time at work, too. I’ve been very busy.” Her eyes grew wet and she looked down, dabbed with a tissue.
“You only reported her as missing on Saturday,” said Menck.
“We thought she was at a friend’s,” said the stepfather. “They’re busy with an assignment. We only noticed the next morning that she never came home.”
“Her phone was off,” her mother elaborated. “We phoned all her friends, but no one knew anything. That was when we realized she was never at school on Friday.”
There was a knock on the door. Bruno Volschenk opened it. Daniël Ferreira did not look good. The two men greeted each other with a nod. First names were stiffly exchanged between Danielle’s parents. Magson received a handshake, as did Menck when Magson introduced him.
“All right,” said Magson. “Now that everyone is here. The thing that bothers me is what Danielle was doing in the Durbanville area. It makes sense that she was heading towards you, Mr. Ferreira, but by whatever means she was traveling—by bus or maybe hitchhiking—the way from George to Hout Bay follows the N2 all the way to the M3 in Cape Town. The alternative is to go along the coast, Mitchells Plain, Muizenberg. But no road goes through Bellville or Durbanville.”
“Why did Danielle have to be in Bellville or Durbanville?” asked her father. “Just because he left her there ...”
“Danielle wasn’t the first victim, Mr. Ferreira.”
Her mother made a sound and wrung the tissue in her hands.
“The other girls all disappeared in that area.”
“Other girls,” said her father. “How many?”
“Three.”
“He has murdered three girls and you haven’t caught him yet?”
“We are doing everything we can, Mr. Ferreira,” said Menck. “The problem is he leaves very few clues behind. That’s why we need your help.”
Daniël Ferreira ran both his hands over his face. “Three girls. And Danielle.”
“Did Danielle have any friends in the direction of Durbanville?” asked Magson.
“No,” answered her father. “We usually went to Tyger Valley, but Danielle had no friends there. She had one or two in Hout Bay.” He looked at Magson. “Why didn’t you tell me yesterday that there were more girls?”
“I thought you had enough to handle.”
“It was in the paper this morning,” said Bruno Volschenk.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” asked his wife.
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Do you know of anyone Danielle might have known in the Durbanville area, Mrs. Volschenk?” asked Magson.
“No.”
“Would she have hitchhiked?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has she hitchhiked in the past?”
“Not as far as I know. She wouldn’t’ve. Not easily. She knows it’s dangerous.”
“I still don’t understand why she ran away,” said her father. “What happened, Ronel?”
She didn’t reply. Merely shook her head. Didn’t look at him.
“Come on, Ronel. Something must’ve happened.”
“I don’t know, Daniël! Why don’t you know? You’re the perfect parent.”
“Why didn’t she phone me?” he asked no one in particular. “I would’ve come and fetched her.”
“Typical. She is working on an important assignment, but the White Knight will just rush in and take her away.”
“At least I never drove her away.”
“I didn’t drive her away.”
“She ran away. Whose fault is that?”
“This is not—” Bruno Volschenk attempted to step in.
“Oh, yes, of course it’s my fault. Because everything is my fault. I was also the one who made you jump into your secretary’s bed.”
“Ten years ago, Ronel. That has absolutely nothing to do with this.”
“You’ve never been able to say no to Danielle. Whenever she didn’t get her way with me, she ran straight to you.”
“Danielle is dead and you’re badmouthing her? What kind of mother are you?”
“The one who had to do the hard work of raising her. It’s easy to point the finger when you’re only playing dad two holidays a year.”
“I would’ve taken her any time. Any time.”
“Now all of a sudden. Ten years ago you were only too happy to leave her with me.”
“And that was a huge mistake
.”
“That’s enough, Daniël,” said Bruno Volschenk.
But Daniël Ferreira ignored him. “What did you do, Ronel?”
“Nothing,” she said softly.
“You must’ve done something! Because she ran away from you! And now she’s dead! Have you gone to look at her, Ronel? She’s lying in a fucking mortuary!”
“Mommy?”
The voice was small and scared behind them. No one had noticed little Odette Volschenk opening the door.
Magson tongued the cavity in his tooth. The thing was less troublesome lately, since he had learned to chew on the right side. It was only drinking fluids, either too hot or cold, that hurt. The sharp edge slit his tongue and he sucked in his breath. He realized that Menck was watching him, shaking his head.
“You are the most stubborn person I know.”
“Ag, don’t start again.”
“It’s pointless,” said Menck and shrugged. He closed the empty KFC packet and took a few swallows of his Coke. “There are none so deaf as those who will not listen.”
Magson sighed. “You should rather worry about that Coke you’re gulping down.”
“What is wrong with Coke?”
“You can use it to remove deposited grime.”
“Deposited grime?” asked Menck, smiling, eyebrows raised. “Can’t wait to hear.”
“If you take a piece of metal with grimy deposits on it and you leave it in a glass of Coke, after an hour or so it’s clean and shiny.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It even removes rust. Is this the kind of thing you want to have running through your body?”
Menck laughed. “My body could do with some grime removal.”
“Then you’ll have to start snorting it. Because it’s your lungs that need cleaning.”
“Warrant Officer Magson, are you advising me to start snorting coke? What the hell kind of policeman are you?”
Magson dropped his head backwards against the seat and exhaled slowly. “Let’s go talk to the little girl. I need an intelligent conversation.”
Menck laughed and took a big mouthful of Coke, swirling it around.