Dark Traces
Page 26
He turned around. Captain Kritzinger approached. “I have news about Daniël Ferreira. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Ja?”
“Last Friday he withdrew the maximum amount from an ATM in Hout Bay.”
“Have they found his car yet?”
Kritzinger shook his head. “Still searching. Volschenk has an alibi for the whole of Friday, so it doesn’t look like it was something between them. The theory is that it was a carjacking.”
“Maybe. But I can’t help thinking he was doing something.”
“Something that went wrong.”
Magson shook his head, turning back to the wall and the photos. “Kempen Luckhoff looks very good to me, Captain. Almost all his music is about a girl who wronged him in some way and his revenge on her. And now we know he likes throttling. Pain connected to sex.”
“He collects female underwear.”
“Easy access to teenage girls.”
“Vehicle that’s convenient for transporting bodies.”
“And even if he does only use all that stuff in his closet on himself, serial killers enjoy reliving their murders. I don’t doubt it for a second, Captain, he is definitely capable of doing it.”
“What about Keyser?” asked Kritzinger.
“I don’t know. He is insisting he only knows about the drugs. That is his and his father’s story and without something new to push them into a corner with, they’ll just stick to it. My gut says he is lying. He and Luckhoff are partners. Malherbe could go either way.”
“It is interesting that his flat was clean.”
“Hmm. He has to know about the drugs, but in any case, Luckhoff is the one. I went through the profile again and he fits. I would actually really like to talk to that girl who was there on Saturday. Find out what he does with her.”
Kritzinger looked at the wall. “What we need is evidence. Something concrete.”
“Luckhoff doesn’t look concerned at all. As if he knows there is nothing in his home for us to find. He does it someplace else.”
“He enjoys torture. He burned Danielle with an iron. She would’ve screamed.”
“And he would’ve wanted to hear her.” Magson looked at the photo of Danielle on the wall. The smile. He turned around. “Where do they practice? They can’t do it at one of their homes, because they make a massive amount of noise.”
Captain Kritzinger nodded. “They must have someplace to practice. And if it’s soundproof ...”
“No one would hear a girl screaming.”
May 28, 2014. Wednesday.
“Do you play any kind of musical instrument, Mags?”
Magson glanced at Menck and turned his attention back to the road. “No.”
They were driving down Modderdam Road, heading towards Parow Industria. It was not far from the SVC office.
“Do you?”
“I can play a bit of piano,” said Menck.
“Piano?”
“Yes. What is the reason for that shocked tone?”
“I just wouldn’t have thought. What is ‘a bit’? ‘Chopsticks’ with one finger?”
“Well, I haven’t tried in years, so I have no idea how it would go if I sat down at a piano now, but I could play with all ten fingers.”
“Well, well,” said Magson, “I am impressed.”
“My mom had me take lessons for a few years in primary school.”
“Why did you stop?”
“Because boys tend to think playing the piano is an activity lacking any merit. Then you grow up and you regret it.”
They entered the industrial area. Magson started scanning the signs. “You can always start again.”
“Yes ... The motivation isn’t really there, though.”
Magson saw the name he was looking for. “There’s the place.”
Menck held up his hands, studying them. “I don’t exactly have piano fingers anyway.”
Magson parked the Corolla and they got out. There was a huge triangular sign with the name ROOF TRUSST on the wall above the entrance. The shriek of a saw cutting through wood came from inside. Magson asked one of the workers and was directed towards the owner, Rudolf Nolte.
“Come to my office,” said Nolte in a loud voice. “Otherwise we’ll have to yell at each other the whole time.”
They followed him down a corridor to an office. He closed the door and motioned for them to sit.
“So you’re here about Kempen Luckhoff’s band?” He had blond hair curling crazily and a matching blond beard, which conspired to make the reddish hue of his face more pronounced. His voice was deep and resonant, someone used to giving loud orders.
“That is right,” said Magson.
“Are they in trouble then?”
“It’s just something that came up in an investigation. We would like to know more about the room where they practice.”
Nolte nodded. “Look, my main business is roof trusses, but my son wanted to be in a band. Obviously, this was a couple of years ago when he was still at school. His mother couldn’t stand the noise, and they couldn’t find any other place to practice, so I put up a kind of soundproof room here next to the factory where he and his friends could make as much noise as they wanted. Other kids heard about it and so I built another room and started renting it out. Because the kids all want to play in a band and it’s electric guitars and drums and everything makes a hell of a racket, so the parents are only too happy to get them out of the house. So now I’ve got three basics, ideal for the school kids. And then I’ve got two larger ones, with better soundproofing and a bit more ... let’s say luxurious, for the more serious bands. So that’s where Kempen and his band always practice.”
“And what is your opinion of Mr. Luckhoff?”
“Look, I’m not really a fan of this dreadlocked hair and rings in all sorts of strange places, but I don’t have a problem with the guy. He is always courteous. Never any problems with payments. The place is always clean when they leave. You know, some of these people think, because they’re in a rock band, they have to bugger the place up. No, this is a band that’s always welcome.”
“Do they practice in the evenings, too?”
“Not the school kids, because see, we’re not here then. But the real bands, let’s say, can make arrangements if they want.”
“Does Mr. Luckhoff ever make such arrangements?” asked Menck.
“Ja. Look, I’ve known them for some time now, so it’s not an issue to arrange something.”
“Do you keep a record of when the rooms are rented out and to whom?”
“Ja. Have to anyway, for the books.”
“All right, Mr. Nolte,” said Magson. “Can we have a look at the practice rooms?”
The man nodded and rose. They followed him back through the corridor, out of the factory, and around the corner. He unlocked one of the smaller practice rooms, showed them around, and then they moved on to one of the “luxury” rooms. The soundproofing here was definitely of professional quality, making it ideal for torturing someone. But there was no way to hang someone in here.
“All right, thank you, Mr. Nolte. We’ve seen what we wanted to. If we could just get copies of the records, please?”
“How far back?” Rudolf Nolte led them back to his office.
“How far back do your records go?”
“It’s all on the computer. Years.”
They each had a takeaway Wimpy coffee, Menck with a cigarette and Rudolf Nolte’s printed records, Magson with his notebook. They already knew Ystersaag had practised the Saturday after they’d picked up Danielle.
“All right. Maryke Retief. February 27.”
Menck scanned the pages. “February. 26 Ystersaag. 27 Ystersaag. 28 Ystersaag. Then again in March. The fourth.”
“All right. Dominique Gould was October 16. That’s 2013.”
“Ja.”
“Nothing. There’s Ystersaag on the tenth. And then only in November again. The fourth. That whole week.”
Magson clicked his tongue.
“I’m not convinced they do it there anyway. They can’t hang the girls in that room.”
“They don’t necessarily rape and hang the girls at the same location. The profile says the hanging is important, but what if it’s not? Maybe they’re only really interested in the sex and torture, and they only kill the girls so they can’t be identified. Maybe it is just easier for them to put a rope around a girl’s neck and kick her off a chair than strangling her with their hands.”
“I feel like a pony on a merry-go-round,” said Menck. “Just going up and down, round and round, and I can’t get free.” He blew a ring of smoke.
Magson watched as the smoke fizzled out and dissipated.
“Why did they have an iron?”
“What?”
“Danielle was burnt with an iron,” said Menck. “If she was tortured at Roof Trusst, why did they have an iron with them?”
His phone rang. “Magson.”
“Mags.” It was Captain Kritzinger. “We have a problem.”
“What?”
“We have now gone through all the flyers found in Luckhoff’s residence. They weren’t here when Dominique Gould went missing.”
“Maybe they printed the flyers, but didn’t go?”
“No, Mags, we checked. They were in Knysna, Plettenberg Bay and George that entire week. All three of them.”
Magson ended the call, sat for a moment, and hit the steering wheel until he registered the pain in his knuckles.
Menck flicked away his cigarette butt. “I hate bad news.”
Magson drove to the University of Cape Town’s Medical School. You had to know your way to get to the Falmouth Building. He entered and pressed the button at the security door.
“Yes?” came the voice over the intercom. “May I help you?”
“Afternoon, Mrs. Behrens. It’s Warrant Officer Magson for Doctor Killian.”
The lock clicked open and he walked down the stairs, turning left. The secretary emerged from her office, an older woman, always smart, always smiling.
“Good afternoon, Warrant. You can come through.”
“Thank you.”
She knocked on the door before opening it. Beneath Doctor Killian’s name was a picture of Garfield, his claws extended: Don’t upset me—I’m running out of places to hide the bodies.
He smiled and entered. The pathologist closed a file she’d been busy with. “Sit. Coffee?”
“No, thank you, Doc. I just wanted to get your opinion on something.”
“Okay.”
“Our suspects have a strong alibi for Dominique Gould. Is it possible that Dominique and Maryke were murdered by one person and Danielle Ferreira by someone else? Maybe someone who read about Dominique and Maryke in the papers and copied it?”
Doctor Killian considered it, but the scepticism was apparent on her face. “It’s highly unlikely. The similarities between all three victims are just too great. And it’s not as if the papers published that many details.”
Magson nodded. “That’s my feeling, too.”
“There are dissimilarities with each victim, but nothing that is inconsistent. The same abrasions on their wrists. The sodomy corresponds, but it escalates. And it’s not just that they were hanged, it is also the manner in which they were hanged. Apart from this case, when it comes to hanging we only really see suicides, and the knot appears in different places. In most cases though, it’s on the side. By contrast, all three of your victims were hanged with the knot at the back, basically in the center. They were hanged with great precision. In every instance, the rope is the same thickness, the same thread. And of course the panties being kept every time.” The pathologist shook her head. “It’s the same person’s work. It’s like a good artist. Once you’ve studied his work, you recognize his style.”
He took a deep, slow breath. “Ja. I knew it really. These suspects are just such a good fit for Danielle’s murder. So many pieces fit.”
“It’s difficult to let go.”
He nodded. Especially Kempen Luckhoff. He would love to look into those eyes as he arrested him. The drug-related charges were not good enough.
“How strong is the alibi?”
“Better than dammit.”
She looked at him. “How are you?”
“All right.” He shrugged. “I just wish we could get a breakthrough. I really don’t want to stick another girl’s photo to the wall.”
Doctor Killian looked at something on her desk. “These cases are different. Because you know the killer won’t stop on his own.”
“No.” On the shelf behind her was a photo of a blond boy looking at the camera from beneath his eyebrows, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “How old is he?”
She turned to the photo. “Four.”
“He’s cute. What’s his name?”
“Marius. Like my dad. He is a handful. Also like my dad.”
“Then he is normal and healthy. Your dad probably too.”
She looked at him and smiled.
To the right of the photo were books with titles like Forensic Pathology, Post-mortem Procedures and Practical Aspects of Rape Investigation. “Can I ask you something, Doc?”
She nodded.
“What do you tell him you do—for a job?”
She pulled a face. “So far I’m getting away with, ‘I’m a doctor, but I help the police.’ But the other day he asked me why policemen get sick so often that they need their own doctor. ‘Is it because they have to catch the crooks at night?’”
He laughed.
She shook her head. “I’m still figuring it out. Can you imagine him standing up at the nursery school, saying, ‘My mommy cuts up dead people’?”
Rommel was waiting for him at the gate, all teeth and runaway tail, when Magson stopped and got out. He opened the gate and couldn’t help but smile at the wiggling body. “Hello, Rommel.” He stroked the brown head. “Are you happy to see me?”
The dog barked and panted excitedly, as if he understood.
“Well, I have good news. You had your last drink from a bucket. Now you have your own dish for water, and another one for food.”
Walking to the front door, he noticed how tall the grass had actually grown—Rommel had literally run a number of pathways through it, tunnels really. There was a sound at the Koertzen house, and the dog dashed off with a bark, a stirring through the grass with a brown head and ears emerging every now and again. He leapt against the wall, uttering several indignant barks, before looking back. To see if Magson was watching. The performance was for his benefit, then. He smiled.
“Come, Rommel!”
In the kitchen he filled one of the shiny new dishes with pellets, the other with water, and set it down against the wall outside. For a while he watched Rommel eating and then took Hannes’s old tin plate inside.
For himself he had bought a packet of pork chops to put in the oven tonight. With some stir fry. Pellets crunched outside. Rommel would enjoy the bone, something to keep that set of teeth busy.
May 29, 2014. Thursday.
“How was your week?”
Doctor Hurter had kicked off her shoes and folded herself into a comfortable position in her chair. She tucked the loose lock of hair behind her left ear. Her eyebrows stole his attention every time—it was seldom that you came across a woman where they were naturally this prominent, or at least left that way. Emma used to make hers darker with make-up, usually while expressing her desire that she had been born with them that way.
“It started well. We had a
few strong suspects, but in the end it wasn’t them. Otherwise, it was all right.”
“Are you still taking the pills?”
“Every day.” Even though he disliked the idea. He still found it hard to believe that he was on chronic medication for psychological problems. “I think it’s beginning to work.”
She nodded. “Do you feel different?”
“I feel ... more.” He disliked this conversation as well. “With the interrogations, for instance. It’s been like I am sitting there and ...” He didn’t really know how to talk about this. “It’s like driving. You do all the right things that you’re supposed to do, but you’re not completely there.”
“You ask the right questions, but you’re not really involved. Not on an emotional level. You’re just going through the motions.”
“Ja. But this week it was different. I even had a fight with my partner.”
“What about?”
“Ag, he is actually a good guy, but sometimes he talks out of turn. And it came out that he thinks I should’ve been over Emma by now. Moving on with my life. But what does he know? He’s married to a good woman. There are no real problems there. His children are at home, one in primary school, one in high school. So what does he know? He hasn’t lost his family yet, so what gives him the right to judge?”
“He still has what you have lost, and then he thinks he can tell you how you should feel.”
“He has no idea what that illness takes from you. It didn’t just take Emma. It took the rest of our life together. It took a piece of me. It took my son.”
“He doesn’t realize how much you have lost.”
“No. He still has everything and I had to watch Emma get so weak and have so much pain that she would rather—” He stopped on the very edge of the precipice and realized at the same time how loud his voice had become—his words still hung in the air.
“Emma would rather go.”
“She wasn’t the kind to give up, but she couldn’t—” he had to swallow “—she couldn’t take it anymore. She was so weak. And the pain ...”
“Emma couldn’t do it alone.”
He shook his head. He couldn’t look at her. “She asked ...” Now his voice was barely above a whisper.
“And that is what is holding you back. That you helped her.”