Dark Traces

by Martin Steyn

  “Why?”

  “I’m just a bit concerned about Mr. Ferreira.”

  “Concerned that he might do something to Bruno?”

  “Mr. Ferreira is very emotional at the moment.”

  “I’ll talk to Bruno, but he won’t want to go and hide.”

  “There’s another reason I phoned, Mrs. Volschenk. We received information that Danielle might have been seen at a petrol station near Swellendam. The security videos are on the way and I’d like you to have a look and identify Danielle if it’s her. And see if you notice anything else.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  He looked at the photo of the girl. Why did so many mothers struggle to believe their daughters when they said that a father or stepfather was molesting them? And Danielle had known her mother would not believe her. How alone she must have felt. Of course it was not impossible that Bruno Volschenk was innocent—it didn’t take long for a murder detective to develop a cynical character, and he had been doing this job for far too long. Still, the letter had an authentic feel.

  Doctor Michelle Hurter’s office was slightly larger than his, but much better furnished. They sat in leather chairs directly opposite each other. The chair was comfortable enough to sleep in and awake without any pain. Magson estimated her somewhere in her late thirties, perhaps early forties. She was wearing a blue knitted polar neck, the sleeves covering half her hands. The thick dark eyebrows immediately drew attention to her dark eyes. Her hair was tied back, except for one lock she kept tucked behind her ear. She didn’t wear much make-up, and she didn’t need it. Her shoes lay on the carpet in front of her chair, and she was sitting with her right arm on the armrest, her legs tucked underneath her, as if she were ready to listen to a friend’s story. A juicy story, because she was leaning forward, her attention completely focused on him.

  Magson sat with his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come back.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “I started taking the pills.” He looked down. “Last weekend.”

  “Any side-effects?” As if he had been supposed to start then.

  “No.”

  “How are you at the moment?”

  “All right. We found another girl on Monday.”

  “I saw in the paper.”

  “What the paper doesn’t say is that she wrote a letter to her dad before she ran away to come see him. Because her stepfather had started molesting her. She wrote the letter and posted it in case she didn’t have the courage to tell her dad. But then a serial killer crossed her path.”

  “You see a lot of injustice.”

  For a moment he looked at her, the dark eyes. “I see only injustice. Do you know why she ran away? Not because her stepfather was molesting her. Because she couldn’t talk to her mother. Her mother doesn’t believe what she wrote in the letter.”

  “This girl had no one who listened to her.”

  “No.”

  “What about you? Do you have someone who listens to you?”

  He looked at her. Then down, at the carpet, at her shoes in front of the chair, the one lying on its side. “I always talked to Emma.”

  “Emma is another injustice.”

  “Emma didn’t deserve to suffer like that.”

  “And you?”

  He looked at her.

  “Did you deserve to suffer along with her?”

  He opened his mouth, but didn’t answer.

  “Emma was the most important person in your life.”

  He nodded.

  “Every day you work with death and heartache and people at their very worst. Emma provided balance.”

  She had.

  “She was your anchor. And now that she’s gone, you’re just adrift.”

  That was exactly how it was. And his boat was rusted. With a hole in the hull.

  “Tell me about the people in your life.”

  “Well ...” His throat was stuck and he had to clear it. “There is my partner.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He’s younger. He turned forty last year. Wife, two children. Good detective. Good partner.”

  “Good friend?”

  “We’re not bosom buddies, but ... ja.”

  “Who else?”

  “Just people at work.”

  “And your son?”

  “He’s in England.”

  “How is your relationship?”

  “It’s difficult. The distance and ... he works hard.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s in IT. Doctor Hurter, I don’t want to offend you, but I can’t see how this is going to help.”

  She smiled. “Do you know what the most important thing is when you lose your anchor? To look up, out at sea. So you can see where you should row to.”

  “I see nothing.”

  “You saw me. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m just an empty ship. But what if I’m a lighthouse ...”

  May 23, 2014. Friday.

  As Magson pulled the Jetta into the garage, his thoughts returned to Daniël Ferreira, who still wasn’t answering his phone. Was he trying to drink away the pain? The recordings from the security cameras at the Buffeljags BP would arrive tomorrow and he wanted Danielle’s father to be there too. It bothered him that the man was not answering.

  He locked the gate and walked to the porch. Perhaps he should ask Hout Bay to send a couple of uniforms around to look in on Daniël Ferreira.

  “What the hell?”

  There was a dog sitting on a blanket, its leash tied to the handrail next to the steps. Magson looked around. Was this Menck’s doing? Had he suffered a sudden impulse to clown around again? Magson saw no one and turned back to the small dark-brown creature.

  “How did you get in here?”

  A bag of dog food leaned against the wall. He looked at the dog and up at the dark sky. He really didn’t want to deal with this. If this was Menck’s handiwork ...

  He took out his phone and selected the number. At the first sound leaving Menck’s mouth he set off, “Is this your idea of a joke?”

  “You’ll have to be more specific, but I am sure I’m innocent.”

  “The dog.”

  “What dog?”

  “The dog on my porch.”

  “Is there a dog on your porch?”

  “Ja. Did you put it here?”

  “Mags, I didn’t put a dog on your porch. What kind of dog is it?”

  “I don’t know. Did you really not do this?”

  “No.”

  Magson rubbed his face. This was worse, because who else would have done such a thing?

  “All right. See you tomorrow.”

  It wouldn’t have been the Bradleys. No. It had been too long ago, and besides, these days they maintained an uneasy relationship comprised mostly of nodding.

  The dog was watching him. Its long tongue—pink with a bluish purple blemish—moved up and down. It had some seriously long teeth, as well.

  “What kind of dog are you, anyway?”

  The dog was slightly larger than a Jack Russell, the body perhaps a bit too long. Its fur was dark brown with darker patches, like distorted stripes. There was a kink in its tail.

  “Several kinds, by the looks of it.”

  There was a silver disc on the collar. The owner’s details? A telephone number?

  “All right.” He went down on one knee. “I’m just going to have a look at the disc around your neck.”

  The dog just sat, watching him, its head cocked to the left.

  He reached for the disc, slowly. “Don’t bite me. I have a gun.”

  The dog got up and came closer, sniffing his hand. It looked friendly enough. Magson petted its head. The fur was softer than he expected. He moved his hand down the side
of the dog’s head and took the disc between his thumb and index finger. Rommel.

  “Rommel.”

  The dog barked, its multicolored tongue bobbing up and down.

  “All right. So I’m assuming that’s your name.” Who would name a dog Rommel? Rubbish. He turned the disc over, but there was nothing on the back. Fantastic.

  He looked at the dog, the deep brown eyes, the constantly moving eyebrows. He sighed. “I suppose you can stay here tonight. After all, this probably wasn’t your idea. But don’t get too comfortable. And you stay outside.”

  He untied the leash and led the dog around to the back garden. It trotted alongside him, happily enough, sniffing here and there. Magson clicked the mechanism to remove the leash and the dog jogged around the small lawn and in the garden, investigating and sniffing everything. It lifted its leg and marked the white stinkwood.

  “I said don’t get too comfortable.”

  Magson walked back around the house, took the blanket and food inside. He hunted around the kitchen until he spied the light blue tin plate in one of the cupboards. Hannes’s, from when he’d had that friend whose father had been an ex-soldier and had taken them on a couple of camping and fishing trips. After the first one, Hannes had returned to explain to them how to start a fire using flint, before demonstrating all sorts of knots he had learned and describing how you could get fresh water from leaves as the grand finale. He put the plate on the counter. Now he just needed something for water.

  At last he settled for the plastic bucket and opened the back door. The evening air touched his face and ran cold fingers down his neck.

  The dog rose, wagging its tail.

  Magson filled the bucket with water and the tin plate with pellets. As he placed it next to the bucket, the dog licked his hand.

  “You’re welcome.”

  The dog started eating with gusto.

  Magson watched for a while. He laid out the blanket against the wall.

  After he had eaten as well—boerewors and mash—he switched on the television and sat down on the sofa. It was chilly and he fetched a jacket. On his way back, there was a bump against the back door. The dog. It was rather cold. And hadn’t the paper forecast rain for tonight?

  He unlocked the back door. The dog was standing on the mat, tail wagging, eyes staring up at him.

  “All right. You can sleep in the kitchen. Just because it’s bloody cold and it might rain.”

  He moved the blanket to the corner of the kitchen. The dog remained on the doorstep.

  “Come in.” He patted the blanket.

  The dog entered and looked at him. He locked the door and unfolded a newspaper, positioning it so one half was upright against the door.

  “Listen, because this is very important. This is your spot if you need to do your business. If you lift your leg against the fridge or the food cupboard, I’m burying you in the garden tomorrow.”

  The dog looked at him with its cocked head, wagging its tail.

  Magson felt bad. And ashamed. “That was a horrible thing to say. I’m sorry. But don’t lift your leg against the fridge, all right?”

  He left the dog there and returned to the sofa. The television programs nowadays left much to be desired, particularly these stupid reality shows. Why these things were so popular, he could not understand. He longed for a good old Jan Scholtz series, like Die Binnekring or Die Vierde Kabinet. Emma had loved it and he had remained awake until the end of every episode. Then they would discuss it and speculate about what might happen next week.

  Something pressed against his foot. The dog was lying on the carpet, its head on his shoe. He reached down, stroking behind its ears, and noticed the white on the sides of the snout.

  “Ja, so here we are, hey? Getting old alone, left behind by our people. I just don’t understand why they named you Rommel.”

  The dog raised its eyebrows at the sound of its name, lowered it again.

  May 24, 2014. Saturday.

  “I wonder where Daniël Ferreira is,” said Magson behind the Corolla’s steering wheel.

  “Some people just want to shut the world out,” said Menck.

  “I’d feel a lot better if he would just answer his phone.”

  “Well, we saw the Volschenks this morning, so we know he didn’t do something stupid.”

  Ronel Volschenk had watched the security recording and identified the blonde girl getting out of a kombi, walking to the restroom, entering the shop next to it and pausing at the birdcage before getting back into the kombi as her daughter. There had been three men with her in the kombi. One with short hair and a goatee, one with long braided hair and a full beard, and the third with dreadlocks. They appeared somewhere between twenty and thirty years old. Ronel Volschenk had never seen them before.

  The kombi was an older Volkswagen model. Tinted windows on the side. Trailer. But Magson had been much more interested in the licence plate. CY. Bellville.

  Music oozed from the flat. Menck knocked louder in order to be heard above the crunchy electric guitars. Eventually, the door opened, revealing a man staring at them. He was wearing only jeans, not properly buttoned. His dreadlocks hung onto his bare shoulders. There was a tattoo on the left side of his chest, a symbol of some kind, and something resembling a thorny rose vine twined around his right forearm. A silver ring curled around the center of his lower lip.

  “Kempen Luckhoff?” asked Magson.

  “Who are you?”

  “Warrant Officer Magson. This is Warrant Officer Menck.”

  The man had no interest in their identification cards. “What do you want?” He dug his hands deep into his pockets.

  “Do you want to go put a shirt on?”

  “No. I want to know what you want.”

  “Do you know this girl?” Magson showed him the photo of Danielle Ferreira.

  “No. Is that all?”

  “Are you sure, Mr. Luckhoff?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  The music’s volume decreased. Inside the flat a girl appeared around a corner. She had long black hair and held the duvet wrapped around her to her chest. Magson looked past Luckhoff’s shoulder.

  Luckhoff noticed, but didn’t look around. “Is that all? Because I’m busy.”

  “I’m afraid we’ll need to clear this matter up first.”

  “I told you I don’t know her. So there. Matter cleared up.” He started closing the door.

  “Mr. Luckhoff, we have a security video of you getting into your kombi with this girl at the BP outside Swellendam. Last Friday. There were two other men with you.”

  Luckhoff sighed, looked at Magson and at the photo once more. “Last Friday.”

  “Yesterday, a week ago,” said Magson.

  “Me and my band came back from a couple of gigs in Knysna last Friday. We picked up a girl, somewhere outside George, I think. I guess this could be her.”

  “And what happened to her?”

  “I don’t know. She got off on Voortrekker.”

  Magson just looked at him.

  “Is that all?”

  “Mr. Luckhoff, this girl is dead. She was murdered.”

  “Oh. Shit.” He said it without emotion.

  “You don’t look shocked.”

  “Why should I? I didn’t know her. To stand here now making a scene would be fake. Life hangs by an ephemeral thread that could be cut at any moment.”

  “Who are the other two men who were with you?”

  “They won’t be able to tell you any more.”

  “We’ll have to talk to them anyway.”

  Luckhoff sighed. “Bertus Malherbe and Hugo Keyser. We’re just a rock band.”

  “What is your band’s name?” asked Menck.

  “Ystersaag.”

  Hacksaw.

  May 25, 2014. Sunday.


  Magson was up to his elbows in suds and dishes when the dog started barking and ran out the back door. Moments later the bell rang. He shook off most of the foam and went to open the front door. Menck waved from the sidewalk. The dog was standing on its hind legs, paws against the gate, barking. Magson enjoyed the scene for a few seconds before walking to the gate.

  “Ja, all right now,” he told the dog.

  “So this is the famous dog-on-the-porch,” said Menck. “Looks a bit like a mongrel.”

  “There’s no need to be nasty.” He opened the gate.

  Menck bent down to stroke the dog’s head. “Does he feed you?” And to Magson, “We definitely need to look into this rock band.”

  “I sincerely hope you didn’t come all the way just to tell me that.”

  “I asked Ben if he knows them. He’s seen them live a couple of times.”

  “Well, given your taste in music, I’m not surprised.”

  “You know, I see your lips moving, but I can’t hear a thing you’re saying.”

  Magson motioned for Menck to enter the house. The dog threaded between their feet.

  “Anyway, Ben says they’re a post-grunge nu-metal band, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.”

  “Coffee? Beer?”

  “I won’t say no to a beer.”

  They went to the kitchen and Magson took two Windhoeks from the fridge.

  “Thanks.” Menck took a good mouthful, swallowed and shivered. “Shit, it’s cold.”

  “Because the bloody fridge’s thermostat doesn’t work properly. Now that it’s winter, the thing is practically a freezer.”

  “Must be hell on your tooth.”

  Magson gave him a look. “If you came here to pester me about my tooth, you can take your beer and go.”

  Menck laughed and slapped his leg to make the dog jump up against him. He stroked the brown fur and read the name tag. “Rommel.” He looked at Magson. “Rubbish or Nazi?”

  Magson shook his head. “Didn’t your mother teach you the concept of tact?”

  “Have you figured out where he came from yet?”

  “No. In case you forgot, I’m investigating a series of murders.”

  “Why don’t you just keep him? He looks at home already.”

  “Didn’t Casey want a dog?”