by Martin Steyn
“Casey wants a horse. No other animal will do.” Menck placed his hands on both sides of the dog’s head, shaking it left and right. The dog had its paws on Menck’s wrists, baring its impressive teeth, growling. Menck growled back. “But he sure is cute. Yes, you are.”
Magson looked at the muscled body stepping on its hind legs.
Menck pushed the dog away and dug in his jacket’s pocket. “Look what I found.” The dog jumped back up against his leg. Menck held a CD case in his left hand.
Magson took it and looked at the black-and-white cover. A girl on her knees. She was wearing a simple, shapeless white dress, her long dark hair hanging over her face. A medieval manacle was clamped around her left wrist. She held the chain and tried to free herself with a hacksaw. The saw’s red handle was the only color.
“Where did you get this thing?”
Menck swallowed some beer and grinned. “I’m a detective, don’t you know.”
Magson gave him a look. “I see your point, but these things always have unpleasant covers. For shock value, to draw attention.”
“Read the lyrics.”
The dog had given up and trotted out the back door. Or maybe it had gone to lift its leg ...
“It fits,” said Menck, raising the bottle to his lips. “They live in the right area. They don’t have fulltime jobs. And when it comes to picking up teenage girls, what could be easier than being in a rock band?”
Magson nodded. “What about Karlien Pretorius? That was definitely not one of these three.” He looked at the photo on the back of the CD. Luckhoff, dreadlocks and black make-up around his eyes, wearing a straitjacket, the other two flanking him further back.
“We’ve always just suspected it was connected to the others. Maybe our suspicion was wrong.”
“Maybe.” Magson thought for a while. “One of them, Keyser, did seem a bit uncomfortable.”
“He did.”
Menck gulped down the last of his beer and placed the empty bottle on the counter. “Listen, I have to go help Casey build the Eiffel Tower. Using nothing but my astounding ingenuity and recyclable materials from around the house.”
“Sounds exciting. Is that why you brought me homework as well?”
“We are partners, aren’t we?”
Magson saw Menck off, locked the gate and the front door. His beer was still unopened in the kitchen and he returned it to the refrigerator. He finished washing up. Pellets and clean water for the dog.
He took the CD case, opening it on his way to the TV room. He inserted the disc into the hi-fi’s tray and pressed Play. The first song started serenely and then exploded. Electric guitars and drums. A male voice alternating between singing and screaming. Mostly just noise, thought Magson. He removed the booklet and started reading the lyrics. And saw what Menck had meant. Negative aggression. Dark focus. And all of it directed at a female “you.”
freefall
fall through the air
without wings without hope
grope at you at you but you turn away
fall to the ground
without chute without word
call to you to you but you walk away
you take everything
you take everything
you make me nothing nothing nothing
fall through clouds
without wings without hope
search for you for you but it’s too late
fall to the ground
without scars without death
spit on you on you on your face
now i take everything
i take everything
i make you nothing nothing nothing
Fourteen
May 26, 2014. Monday.
In the interrogation room, Magson took his seat in the chair. He glanced through the glass table at Kempen Luckhoff’s faded jeans, torn open on the knee. Luckhoff’s hands lay still in his lap and he leaned back in his chair. He looked bored.
“Mr. Luckhoff, you’re not under arrest, but I want to explain your rights to you.”
Luckhoff listened without reaction.
“Mr. Luckhoff, do you understand these rights?”
“I think there’s a song here.”
“Do you understand your rights as I have explained it to you?”
“Yes. I don’t have to say anything and I can get someone to come hold my hand if I want. Can we move on? I have things to do and nothing to contribute to your investigation.”
“I appreciate your willingness to help, Mr. Luckhoff.”
Luckhoff looked around the room again and sighed.
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask,” said Menck. “How do you get your hair like that?”
“With a comb, my hands and dread wax.”
“Dread wax?”
Luckhoff looked up at the ceiling. “You buy it in a shop.”
“Someone told me you dip it in the ocean.”
Luckhoff turned to Menck. “Only if you live off the land.”
Magson placed a photo of Danielle Ferreira on the table. “So on Friday, May 16, you and Bertus Malherbe and Hugo Keyser picked up this girl by the side of the N2 outside George. Is that correct?”
Luckhoff looked at Magson. “So it is like on TV. You do actually have to say the same thing over and over and over again.”
“Is it correct, Mr. Luckhoff?”
“Yes, I think so. I didn’t really pay attention. I was driving, after all.”
“Mr. Malherbe and Mr. Keyser recognized her.”
“Well, then you already have your answer, don’t you?”
“And you dropped her off later that same Friday?”
“Yip. And she was very much alive.”
“Can you wash it?” asked Menck.
Luckhoff looked at him. “Yes. Can you believe it? You can wash it.”
“How?”
“With shampoo and water, twice a week.”
Menck was beaming. “That’s what I love about this job. I learn something new every day.”
“Where did you drop off the girl?” asked Magson.
“Voortrekker Road,” said Luckhoff. “In Bellville.”
“Where on Voortrekker Road?”
“At the Eskom building.”
“At what time?”
“I don’t know. I don’t wear a watch.” Luckhoff pushed up his sleeve to corroborate his claim. “Modern people are way too obsessed with time.”
“There’s a song,” said Menck.
Luckhoff glanced at him, clearly irritated by the remark.
“You must have some idea,” said Magson. “Afternoon? Evening?”
“Afternoon.”
“It’s quite a distance from George to Bellville. What did you talk about?”
“What people usually talk about when they drive a long way. Bullshit. I mostly just listened to the music.”
“You must remember something?”
“I can’t even remember her name. She stood by the side of the road. We had space in the kombi. I stopped and we gave her a lift. I didn’t go on a date with her.”
Magson placed a second photograph on the table. Danielle’s body at the crime scene. Luckhoff looked at it. He had no discernible reaction.
“Her name was Danielle, Mr. Luckhoff.”
Luckhoff looked Magson in the eye. “Each one of us has a number. When it’s up, it’s up. Car accident. Cancer. Murder.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?” asked Menck.
“It’s part of the human condition. People are born. People die.”
“No, man. I’m talking about that ring in your lip.”
Luckhoff sighed and rolled his eyes.
“I think it would really irritate me.”
“Then it’s a good thing you don’t have
one.”
“Hmm. You see, Warrant Magson here is a child of the sixties, but my teen years were spent in the eighties. All the pop stars had earrings those days. I wanted one myself at some stage, but then I joined the police.”
“There are less conspicuous places.”
“Do you have more? Just don’t show me if it’s through the nipples.”
Luckhoff opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue.
Magson looked at the silver stud and repressed the urge to shake his head.
“You can’t tell me that’s comfortable,” said Menck.
“More comfortable than a tie,” said Luckhoff.
“I wonder what my wife would say if I arrive at home with a stud in my tongue.”
“Smile. A chick is never the same afterwards.” Luckhoff jiggled his tongue. “And you can always get one for her, as well.”
Menck stroked his goatee, snapped his fingers and pointed at Luckhoff. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. A matching set, his and hers, for our anniversary.”
Luckhoff raised his hands, spreading his arms. “Glad I could help. Can I go now?”
“I listened to your music,” said Magson.
“Well, I’m impressed. But, no offense, I don’t think someone of your age would really appreciate it. It’s not exactly Rina Hugo.”
“You’re right. It’s not really my taste. But it was interesting.”
Luckhoff smiled, pushing back his dreadlocks. “Something you can’t say about Rina Hugo.”
Magson slid the CD across the table. Next to the photo of Danielle’s body. “What’s the story behind the cover?”
“I like a cover with a deeper meaning.”
“And what is the meaning here?”
“It depends on who is looking at it. That’s what gives a cover meaning. It has to be open to interpretation. It has to have different meanings for different people. Depending on who they are, what shit they’ve gone through, it changes what they see. It’s the same with a good song. When you listen to it, you have to find something in it yourself. Then it becomes your song. Then it means something. Not like this superficial pop crap they’re always playing on the radio. That’s so fake.”
“And your music is what, honest?”
“Yes. Look at these pop chicks. On one hand they’re singing about this wonderful love they have for The One. But they’re wearing almost nothing and they sell their CDs by advertising sex. In real life they fall around from one relationship to the next. Or they go all out for the slutty image. Like Miley Cyrus. Do you think that’s who she is in real life? I doubt it. They’re all a bunch of fakes. The boy bands are even worse. Always looking so pretty and wholesome and they sing their love ballads. But half of them are actually gay and the rest fuck every chick they can get their hands on. It’s all bullshit.”
Magson tapped the CD case. “Your world is very negative, Mr. Luckhoff.”
Luckhoff leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, and looked him straight in the eye. “You’re a policeman. Are you going to sit there and tell me the world is a happy place? Look at this photo. How many photos like this have you seen? And I’m sure this is one of the better ones. She still has her clothes on. It doesn’t even look as if there’s any blood.”
“Blood isn’t necessary for a cruel murder.”
“You see? You know what I’m talking about. I can see it in your eyes. They’re dull.” Luckhoff shook his head, his eyes never leaving Magson’s. “I can see you’re not happy.”
“We’re not talking about me, Mr. Luckhoff.”
“You spend every day looking at the arsehole of humanity. And then you go home to the same woman you’re probably so sick of by now, you wish you had never seen her in the first place.”
Magson had to fight the urge to grab Luckhoff, realizing that Menck was aware of him. He looked at the photos of Danielle Ferreira, tried to get Emma’s face out of his mind, tried to keep his face expressionless.
“But that’s not your world.” Menck speaking in his stead, trying to protect him. “I can’t imagine that you stay with the same girl for long, so why—”
The rage boiled up too rapidly. “What about her?” Magson asked over Menck, glaring at Luckhoff, tapping his finger on Danielle’s photo. “What did you see in her?”
Luckhoff sat back, looked at him and laughed a single note through his nose. “I told you, I didn’t really talk to her.”
Magson wanted to slap the smug expression from his face, but he snatched the CD instead, snapped it open, yanked out the booklet and tossed the case back on the table. “It says here you write all the lyrics.”
Luckhoff seemed amused. “Yes. The music as well. Sometimes with Bertus.”
Magson turned the pages to one of the songs. “They play in my head,” he read. “Dark, dark images. Turn me into a shell, a shell, a shell. But I can’t beat it. Don’t repeat it. I bleed out. And I scream out. The dark, dark images. Make me blind. Make me blind. Dark, dark images. I can’t prevent it. Don’t repent it. I yield.” Magson turned the booklet around and shoved it into Luckhoff’s face. “Your words.”
Luckhoff looked back at him. “‘A man who has not passed through the inferno of his passions has never overcome them.’ Carl Jung.”
“Danielle Ferreira was in your kombi. You were the last person to see her alive. She was tortured. Raped. Murdered.” Magson shook the booklet. “Are those the dark images you see?”
“I wasn’t the last person to see her alive,” said Luckhoff, “because I didn’t kill her. I use my music to work through my shit. I play my guitar. I scream. I write a song and get it out.”
“And that’s enough?”
“Maybe you should try it.”
“Breaking him won’t be easy,” said Menck. “We’ll have to push the other two.”
Magson turned to him. “Don’t step in for me again, all right?”
“What?”
“Ag, don’t act like you don’t know. He makes a comment about Emma and you jump in to protect me.”
“I just wanted to give you a chance to—”
“I don’t need you to give me a chance!”
“Well, I’m glad to see some fire in you at last. It’s about time.”
“I’m sorry if I took too long to get over my wife’s death.”
“That’s not what I said, Mags.”
“Not everyone has your perfect life.”
“Oh, my life is perfect, hey?”
“You go home at night and your wife is there waiting for you. Your children ...”
“And what? Am I supposed to feel guilty about it? Luckhoff is so full of shit, it practically oozes from his pores, but he is right about one thing: People are born and people die. And all any of us can do is the part in between.”
“Luckhoff is not the only one that’s full of shit.” He paused at Menck’s side. “Kathy is still alive, so don’t preach to me.” He stomped out the door and straight into Captain Kritzinger.
“I have bad news, Mags. They found Daniël Ferreira. Shot dead.”
“What?”
“Somewhere near Gugulethu,” said Kritzinger. “They found him on Saturday. No wallet. Don’t know how he ended up there.”
“What about his car?”
“No sign of it.”
Magson sighed and shook his head. Had Daniël Ferreira been busy with something that cost him his life? “Well, I need to go interrogate Malherbe.”
“Take a break first.”
He looked at Kritzinger. “I don’t need—”
“Mags. Take a break.”
Magson sat down at the table in the interrogation room again, this time opposite Bertus Malherbe. Malherbe was wearing a black long-sleeved T-shirt, featuring something resembling a fusion between a Rorschach ink blot and a skull, the word STAIND in the eye sockets. H
e sat with his shoulders hunched forward, his hands pinched between his knees, his face cast downward. His dark brown hair, a long braid, hung down the center of his back. He had a full beard and four or five silver rings in his left ear.
It was just the two of them in the room. Magson didn’t know where Menck was and he didn’t particularly care.
Malherbe looked up. “I don’t know anything else about that girl. She was alive when I last saw her.”
Magson took care of the formalities first. “Mr. Malherbe, do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let’s go back to Friday, May 16.” Magson placed the photograph of Danielle Ferreira on the table. “You and Kempen Luckhoff and Hugo Keyser picked up this girl on the N2 outside George. Is that correct?”
“Yes. She was walking and hiking. Kempen stopped and I asked where she was headed. She said she was going to Cape Town. Kempen said we’re going to Bellville, we could give her a lift there, if she wanted. She got in.”
“What happened then?”
Malherbe shrugged. “We just drove there.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I sat in front next to Kempen. She sat in the back, with Hugo. The music was on. I didn’t really talk to her that much. She said her name was Danielle and she was going to her dad. He’s in Hout Bay. We talked a bit about the band and so on, but she wasn’t all that chatty. She was ...”
Magson raised his eyebrows. “Ja?”
“She was preoccupied. As if something was bothering her.”
“Did she say what?”
Malherbe shook his head. “No.”
“Where did you drop her off?”
“Voortrekker Road in Bellville.”
“Where on Voortrekker Road?”
Malherbe’s thumb scratched beneath his lower lip. “At the Eskom building. We turned right there.”
“How would she get to Hout Bay from there?”
“I don’t know.” He scratched his beard. “Look, I don’t know anything. Can’t I go, please?”
“A young girl is dead, Mr. Malherbe. Surely you want her killer to be apprehended?”
“Yes. Obviously.”
“Good. Then you won’t mind helping us.”
“But I don’t know anything that could help.” He crossed his arms.