by Martin Steyn
Magson looked at him.
Malherbe shifted in his chair and gazed through the glass table top. His eyebrows were bunched together, his lips taut.
Magson kept looking.
Malherbe placed his hands on the table, palms up. “All I want to do is play in a good band. I just want to play my bass in a decent band.”
At this point Menck would have said or asked something to take Malherbe on a detour. “Do you think Ystersaag is a ‘decent band’?”
“Yes.” With conviction. “Kempen has talent. Our fan base is growing and we’ve even been talking to a record company. We’re just looking for a breakthrough.”
“So where does this CD come from then?” asked Magson. “If you’re not with a record company yet.”
“We recorded it on our own. And then we sell it mostly at gigs.”
“That must have cost a pretty penny. How did you pay for it?”
“We saved up, everyone chipped in. You have to take that chance, back yourself and take the plunge. Get your music out there. One of these days it will start giving back. Kempen says payback’s not a bitch, it’s a willing groupie. You just have to be patient and take the punch.”
“This picture,” said Magson, tapping the CD case, “is this the way you like your ‘groupies’?”
“What? No. That’s just ...”
“What?”
“It’s just a cover. Kempen wanted a cover with meaning.”
For a few moments Magson just looked at the young man across from him. Unlike Kempen Luckhoff, Malherbe yielded, looking down at the table. Magson slid the photo of Danielle’s body next to the other one.
“Shit! Is that ...” Malherbe’s eyes flitted between the two photos.
Magson added another photo, a close-up of Danielle’s face and the furrow around her throat. He wished her eyes were completely open so she could stare at Malherbe.
Malherbe pushed the photos away. “I don’t want to see it.”
“Why does it bother you so much, Mr. Malherbe? I would think someone who chooses this kind of cover for his CD wouldn’t be so sensitive.”
“It’s not the same. That cover is fake. But she ... Just the other day I was talking to her. And now she’s just dead. And her neck ...”
“It’s interesting that you describe your cover as ‘fake’. I had a long discussion with Mr. Luckhoff about how he despises ‘fake’ musicians.”
“I didn’t ...” Malherbe sighed and looked at his lap.
Magson picked up the photo of Danielle and held it in front of Malherbe. “Look here, Mr. Malherbe. I said, look here.”
Malherbe raised his head reluctantly and looked at the photo.
“Danielle Ferreira. Young. Full of life. This is how she looked on Friday when she got into that kombi with you, Mr. Luckhoff and Mr. Keyser. I know this because I have a security video that shows it happening. And that was the last time she was seen alive.”
Magson took the post-mortem close-up of Danielle in his left hand and held it next to the other one in front of Malherbe’s face. Malherbe looked down. “I said, look here!”
Malherbe only raised his head halfway, peeking from underneath his eyebrows.
Magson shook the photo. “This is what she looked like the next time she was seen. Before ...” He shook the photo of the living Danielle “... and after!” The dead Danielle again. “She was fifteen years old. She was tied up. She was tortured. She was hanged. And all of that happened after she got into your kombi!”
“No ...”
“Nobody saw her again. And not one of you has a proper alibi.”
“I had nothing—”
“Shut up!” Magson jumped to his feet, the chair falling back against the wall. He grabbed the folder and dumped all the scene and autopsy photos onto the table. Malherbe cringed. “Look at her!”
Malherbe stared at the images.
“And look at your CD!” He snatched the case and smacked it down on top of the photos. “It’s all rage and revenge. And it’s always aimed at a girl.”
Malherbe’s eyes were large. He raised his hands. “I swear. I swear. I did nothing to her. Nothing. It’s all—”
There it was. “It’s all—?”
“Shit,” said Malherbe, looking down.
Magson leaned across the table, placing his hands on top. “You have one question to answer, Mr. Malherbe. Are you willing to go to prison, for murder—for murder—to protect someone else? It’s twenty-five years. That’s before aggravating circumstances are taken into consideration. You can forget your dreams of making music. This CD is all you’ll ever have.” He grabbed the CD and hurled it like a frisbee past Malherbe. It smashed into the wall, shattering onto the floor. “By the time you get out, your life will be over. Or you can decide—now, here—to help yourself.”
“I don’t know whether he did anything to her,” Bertus Malherbe told his lap. “He just told us they had sex.”
“Mr. Luckhoff?”
“No. Hugo. Hugo is obsessed with sex. He’s always trying to pick up chicks at our gigs.” He glanced at the photos, closed his eyes and dropped his forehead into his hand. “He told her he would take her to Hout Bay. But he really just wanted to take her home and f—uhm ... have sex with her. We dropped her off at Hugo’s.”
Magson just looked at him for a moment. Menck would have been proud of his performance; he did enjoy some drama during an interrogation. Menck who seemed to think he could decide how long someone was allowed to mourn his wife, while he had no idea what it felt like. He realized he was glaring at Malherbe. “So what’s this story about Voortrekker Road then?”
“Kempen phoned us. He said the police had come to talk to him and we should say we dropped the girl at the Eskom building on Voortrekker. Then all three of us have the same story and you’ll move on quicker. Otherwise you’ll try to nail Hugo.”
“So. You and Mr. Luckhoff dropped Danielle Ferreira off at Hugo Keyser’s residence.”
“Yes.”
“And that was the last time you saw her?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure? Don’t let me catch you in more lies, Mr. Malherbe.”
“I am sure.” Malherbe looked up, into Magson’s eyes. “That was the last time I saw her. And she was completely okay. I swear it.”
“Did Danielle go with Mr. Keyser freely?”
“Yes. She was glad about the lift.”
Lambs to the slaughter, thought Magson. “And what did you and Kempen Luckhoff do after you dropped them off?”
“He dropped me at my place.”
“And then?”
“Then he left.”
“Where did he go?”
“Home. I think he went home.”
“When did you see Keyser and Luckhoff again?”
“The next day. We had a band practice and that night we played a gig.”
“Did one of them say anything about Danielle?”
“Kempen asked and Hugo said they had sex.” Malherbe frowned, his eyes turning to his left. “But ...”
“Ja?”
“He didn’t go into detail the way he usually does.”
“What about Sunday? Did you see them on Sunday?”
“I slept late on Sunday. Had a hangover. And I was just at home the whole day.”
“Alone.”
Malherbe’s head dropped and he nodded.
With Bertus Malherbe’s statement at Captain Kritzinger—so that he and Menck could complete the applications for search warrants—Magson was back in the interrogation room. With the third man who had been in the kombi with Danielle Ferreira.
Hugo Keyser had short dark hair, a goatee and a ring in his left eyebrow. His black long-sleeved T-shirt had no design or words on it, but a black string with a silver bullet hung around his neck. He had difficulty ke
eping his right leg from bobbing up and down while he nodded that he understood his rights.
“Would you say that out loud, please, Mr. Keyser?”
“Ja.”
“All right. Friday, May 16. You and Mr. Kempen Luckhoff and Mr. Bertus Malherbe are on your way from Knysna when you pick up this girl outside George.” For the third time he placed Danielle Ferreira’s smile on the table. “Is that correct?”
“Ja.”
“How were you sitting?”
“What?”
“In the kombi. Who sat where?”
“Hmm ... Kempen was driving. Bertus sat next to him. We were in the back.”
“What did the girl say?”
“Hmm ... She was going to her dad. She said he lives in Hout Bay.”
“Did she say why she was going to him?”
“No.”
“It’s several hundred kilometers from George to Bellville. Is that all she said?”
Keyser shrugged and scratched his neck. His knee was still bobbing up and down. “I can’t remember. We just chatted.”
“Where did she get off?”
“Bellville. We dropped her on Voortrekker Road.”
“Where on Voortrekker Road?”
“At the Eskom building.”
Magson nodded. “And when was this?”
“The afternoon. Probably around three, four.”
“What did you do then?”
“Kempen dropped me off. I’m always first, because it’s such a mission with my drum kit.”
“And what did you do then?”
Keyser looked at the wall, rubbing the underside of his nose. “I hung around. Later the evening I went out for a bit. Why does it matter? By then we’d dropped her off a long time ago.”
“So you saw Danielle Ferreira the last time in front of the Eskom building on Voortrekker Road?”
He licked his lips. “Ja.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Keyser?”
“Ja.” But he didn’t sound entirely sure. He didn’t look at Magson and his fingers were fiddling with each other.
Magson looked at him a while longer and sighed. “That’s a shame.”
Keyser looked up. “Why? Why is that a shame?”
“It’s a shame, because your friends have changed their story in the meantime.”
“What ... what did they say?”
“Why don’t you rather tell me what really happened, Mr. Keyser. While you still have a chance to fix things.”
The young man hesitated, looked away again. “No. We dropped her at the Eskom building. That’s what really happened.”
Magson looked at him and shook his head. “No, it’s not. You told Danielle Ferreira that you would take her to Hout Bay. She believed you and got out with you at your residence. But taking her to Hout Bay was the last thing on your mind, wasn’t it, Mr. Keyser?”
Keyser did not reply, but he was staring straight at Magson. His eyes were larger and his lips pressed tightly together. His fingers did not move. Even his leg had stopped bobbing.
“You had a different plan for her. This pretty, young girl you picked up at the side of the road. Because you like sex. You’re always on the hunt. Maybe you would’ve taken her to Hout Bay. But first ...”
Keyser still remained silent, but he didn’t seem to be breathing now.
“First you took her inside your flat. And that was the last time Danielle was seen alive.”
“No.”
Magson stuck his finger in Keyser’s face. “You are the last person who saw Danielle alive.”
“No ...”
“That is your friends’ testimony. And this is what Danielle looked like when we found her.” Like a card dealer, Magson placed photos in front of Keyser on the table, crime-scene photos, close-ups of Danielle Ferreira’s face, wet from the rain.
Keyser looked pale. He swallowed. “I didn’t ...”
“This happened after she got out with you, after she went into your flat with you, after you closed the door behind you.”
Keyser was swaying back and forth. His eyes flitted about the photos, blinking. He shook his head. “No. No, I didn’t do anything to her. I swear. I did—I admit it—I did want to ... have sex with her. But she didn’t want to. I told her it was such a long trip, I just wanted to rest for a while. I chatted with her. Then I made my move. She freaked out. She just completely freaked out. Ran out of the flat. I tried to stop her. I told her I’m sorry; I’ll take her to Hout Bay. But she wouldn’t listen.”
Magson looked at him. Took a deep, slow breath so that Keyser could hear it, sighed it out slowly. “I want to believe you, Mr. Keyser. I do. But now we have a problem. It’s never a good idea to lie to the police. Because lies—” he shook his head “—lies have this nasty habit of coming out. And now that I know you lied to me, again and again, even after I gave you the opportunity to tell the truth, it is very difficult for me to believe anything you say.”
“It’s the truth. I swear it is.”
“Just a few minutes ago the truth was that you dropped Danielle off on Voortrekker Road.”
“It was Kempen! He said we should all say that.”
Magson drummed with his fingers on the glass. He looked at Keyser. “Let me tell you what I think happened. You invited Danielle into your flat, maybe gave her something to drink, talked a bit. Then, when you wanted more, she—like you said—‘freaked out’. And suddenly you’re trapped in this situation.”
Keyser was following every word.
“You tried to stop her. You just wanted to calm her down. But situations like that—it’s adrenaline and everything happens so quickly—and here you have her now, and she is pressed against you, and you want her, and before you know it, it’s too late.”
“No.”
“You don’t know what to do. You can’t just let her go. So you phone Mr. Luckhoff. Because he will know what to do.”
“No.”
“I don’t think you wanted to kill her. I think you were trapped in a situation that got out of hand, and you were afraid. But Mr. Luckhoff said it was the only way.”
“No. No. She freaked out and ran out of the flat. I just tried to kiss her, that’s all. I didn’t do anything else to her.”
“Do you want to take this whole thing on you? Because that is what’s going to happen. Your friends sat in that chair where you are sitting now and pointed their fingers at you. You are the one who will be put away for this and they will go on with their lives. Is that what you want?”
“But I didn’t do anything!” Keyser slapped his hands against his thighs. “I didn’t do anything to her!”
“Danielle Ferreira was fifteen years old.”
Keyser swallowed. “I don’t want to answer any more questions. I want to phone my dad.”
Magson nodded. “I hope your dad has a lot of money. Because you are going to need a good lawyer, Mr. Keyser.”
Half the afternoon was gone, but they were finally in the Corolla, heading to Kempen Luckhoff’s residence. They drove in silence. Menck was staring out the window. Magson was watching the road. The only sound was the Corolla’s engine and the tires on the tar.
Magson felt drained after the interrogations, but at the same time there was the adrenaline of a search warrant and solid suspects. His hands were itching to go through Luckhoff’s stuff.
He could feel Menck brooding beside him. He who still had everything. Who knew nothing of loss. Who didn’t understand how quickly, how deeply it could change you.
Daniël Ferreira had learned that. Was that why he had ended up in Gugulethu? Had he decided to go find justice for Danielle on his own? He’d just been a father who had loved his daughter.
And poor Danielle. Who had tried to get away from one sex offender just to walk straight into another one. Had Kempen Luckhoff’s f
ace been the last thing she had seen? His eyes emotionlessly watching her life drain away?
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?
Too many. Far, far too many. And the photos were nothing compared to the crime scenes. A woman, naked and half-eaten by maggots, raped, throat cut. A father who had shot his three children in their beds before botching his suicide. A man who had beaten his girlfriend’s one-year-old boy to death with a pan because the child, whose nappy had been soiled, wouldn’t stop crying. It had been ten years and he still remembered that terrible smell of blood in the Sizzlers massage parlor.
You know what I’m talking about. I can see it in your eyes. I can see you’re not happy.
He had been. Once upon a time. He had been happy. They had been happy.
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 glanced at his left hand gripping the steering wheel, the gold band on his ring finger. Luckhoff might see a lot, but he saw less than he thought. And the thing with people who thought they were clever was that after a while they started to believe it.
And that was when they fell.
Kempen Luckhoff’s home was untidy, but remarkably clean. There were almost no dirty dishes in the kitchen and the entire place looked like it was cleaned often. Magson was not particularly surprised. The bodies had predicted as much. LCRC would go through every room in any case, searching for forensic evidence—vacuum cleaners and cleaning products had their limitations. But Magson was more interested in the victims’ missing belongings. The killer kept their underwear and jewelry because the items had personal value for him. He would keep them somewhere, even though he knew how risky it was to do so. All Magson needed was Maryke Retief’s gold necklace or Dominique Gould’s sports panties marked with her initials.
He looked around. Clothes. CDs. Sheets of paper containing scribbled lyrics. Some guitars and other sound equipment. Hi-fi. Large speakers. Music magazines. PlayStation beneath the TV, controller on the carpet. Several video-game cases. Everything looked relatively new and like products of high quality. Luckhoff had to get money from somewhere.