by Martin Steyn
It rang.
“Hello?”
His mouth wouldn’t move. His whole body was trapped in a spasm. Only his heart was thumping. Rommel’s eyes did not leave his for a second. “Hannes?” His voice cracked in the middle.
“... Dad?”
The only voice that could call him that. “Ja, it’s me.”
Silence on the other end.
“I ...” His heart thudded with such intensity that he heard the echo in the receiver. But he only looked at Rommel. “Hannes ... I am sorry. About your mom. It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do.”
Still only silence. The voice had been so close when he’d answered, as if he were just in the next room, but now it felt even further away than England.
“I don’t want to go on like this any longer, son.”
He couldn’t even hear Hannes breathing on the other end.
“I want to fix things between us. But I don’t know how.”
What if Hannes didn’t say anything? But he hadn’t put down the phone yet.
“Help me. Please.”
It remained silent. Perhaps he was not listening. “It’s not that easy. I know Mum was very ill. I know she would never have been healthy again. But you killed her.” His voice was very soft.
“Your mom was the bravest person I’ve known. She fought as hard as she could. But she had so much pain. The whole time. She was constantly on medication. She could do so little for herself. She just couldn’t anymore.”
“But it still didn’t give you the right.”
“Do you think I wanted to, Hannes?” Tears burned in his eyes and he struggled to get his voice out of his throat. “I miss your mom every day. Every day. She asked me to help her, because her body was done fighting.”
“But you told me nothing. You send me shopping as if it were just ... And when I get back, it’s done.”
“We didn’t want to involve you.”
“I wasn’t a child anymore, Dad!”
The pain in Hannes’s voice cut through him. Why was he so inept with his own son? There had always been this space between them, a distance, a step that remained even when he tried to take it. Even before Hannes had gone to high school. “I didn’t know how.”
“So you just sent me away as if everything were fine. As if there were more time.”
The realization hit Magson.
“I didn’t have the opportunity to properly say goodbye. Because I thought I still had more time.”
Emma would’ve known what to say. All he could say, was, “I am sorry.” About a lot of things. “I tried to do the best I could.”
The silence had turned into a finely woven spider’s web, pulling, pulling ...
Magson heard a female voice calling something. Christine.
“I have to go. We have a thing.”
Magson didn’t know what he was feeling. He heard himself say, “All right.” It was barely above a whisper.
Hannes had not hung up yet.
He swallowed to try to open his throat. Just enough to ask, “Are you well?”
“Yes. I got a raise a few weeks ago.”
He tried to say he was glad, but all that came out was a strangled sound.
“I really have to go.”
Magson gripped the receiver tightly, pressing it so hard against his ear that it hurt. He didn’t want to lose this connection. He wanted it to continue for as long as possible before the dead tone came, like a heart monitor after—
“Perhaps you can ring again.”
He couldn’t keep the tears at bay any longer, even if he wanted to. They were the five most beautiful words he had heard in a very long time.
Rommel pressed his muzzle against Magson’s leg. He bent down and stroked him.
The telephone rang. The sound dragged him out of the darkness. He reached, feeling for the phone and finally found it. He brought it to his ear while he inhaled deeply, rubbing his face with the other hand.
“Magson.” He kept his free hand over his eyes, resting his head.
“Mags. There’s another one.”
“What?”
“Another girl is missing.”
Seventeen
It was just after ten. A section of the street was cordoned off with glimmering yellow police tape. Blue lights flashed and reflected off the dark, wet tar. Police officers moved around, their breath creating wisps of vapor. Magson showed his identification card to gain access to the scene and walked over to Captain Kritzinger.
“... pain in the arse,” he heard the captain of LCRC saying, “but we’ll do what we can.”
“Thanks,” said Captain Kritzinger, and nodded to Magson. “Nanette Reid. Sixteen.” He pointed with a finger. “That’s her poegie.”
Magson looked at the scooter. An LCRC member was examining it with a flashlight.
“The taillight is broken,” said Kritzinger. “Bumper is damaged. Looks like someone hit her from behind. Not hard. Doesn’t look like she fell. No sign of blood.”
“Did anyone see anything?” asked Magson, scanning the surrounding area.
“Not as far as we know. I’ve sent a couple of uniforms on a recon, but nothing yet.”
Magson sighed. How was it that there was never anyone around to see anything?
“She went to buy pizza. Parents got worried. Dad went looking and found the poegie. He is here on the scene.”
“Did someone phone the hospitals? Just because there isn’t blood, doesn’t mean she wasn’t hurt.”
“Parents did. And she has a cellphone. Which is off.” Like the other girls who’d had phones with them.
“All right. Where is the father?”
Magson followed Kritzinger to a man standing with a cellphone against his ear. He was wearing dark chino trousers, a shirt with a collar and a thick jacket zipped up. “... taking so long ... Listen, the police want to talk to me ... Yes, I’ll phone again later. Bye.” He ended the phone call.
“Mr. Reid,” said Captain Kritzinger, “this is Warrant Officer Jan Magson. He is the investigating officer.”
“Warrant Officer,” said the man, extending his hand. “Norman Reid.”
“Mr. Reid.” The man had a firm handshake. “I would like to go through the details with you.” Magson took out his notebook.
The man nodded. There was a deep crease between the angular eyebrows. He looked worried, but in control. “Nanette said she was in the mood for pizza.” His voice was strong. “She offered to go to Debonairs. She left around seven, just before the News. When she still wasn’t back by quarter to eight, my wife got worried.”
“How far is Debonairs from your house?”
“Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen if there’s traffic. My wife tried to phone Nanette on her cell. It rang and then went to voicemail. I told her Nanette was probably on her way back, that’s why she didn’t answer. But by eight o’clock she still wasn’t back. My wife phoned again. This time Nanette’s phone was off. It went straight to voicemail. Her phone is never off. Especially when she goes out. It’s a rule. I phoned Debonairs and they said she’d left there long before. That’s when I got in the car and came looking for her. And found her scooter. A dog was eating pizza from the box when I got here. Growled and barked at me.”
“All right,” said Magson, “so then it happened on the way back.”
“I saw there was damage to the scooter. I thought someone had hit her. Maybe she got hurt and the person took her to a hospital. My wife phoned all the hospitals and clinics in the area. I asked at the houses here, then drove around the area. But nothing. And then I phoned the police.”
“Does Nanette have a boyfriend, Mr. Reid?”
“Yes. We phoned him, but he doesn’t know anything, either.”
“How is their relationship? Do you know if they argued recently?”
“Was there any indication that something was bothering Nanette? Did she mention anything?”
“No. She’s happy.”
“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Nanette, or who might have a grudge against you?”
Norman Reid shook his head. “No. Nanette is popular, and I get along well with my colleagues.”
“If there is anything, Mr. Reid.”
“There isn’t.”
“Do you have a photo of Nanette?”
“Not on me.” He looked away, as if embarrassed about it.
“All right. I would like to stop by your house later to get one. What was she wearing?”
“I didn’t really notice. My wife says jeans and she thinks a light top. And a windbreaker for the scooter. A light violet one. And of course her crash helmet.”
“That wasn’t here? The helmet?”
“No.”
“I just want to look around a bit and hear if they’ve found anything, then I’d like to go home with you and get a photo of Nanette.”
“I’ll go and get one.”
“Oh. Good. That would be very helpful.”
Norman Reid looked at him for a moment. “Please, Warrant Magson.”
Magson looked into the eyes, the same desperation as Sarisha Uys’s mother, and nodded. Norman Reid turned and walked off. Magson returned to the scooter, where an LCRC member was showing Menck something at the broken taillight.
“Did you find something?” asked Magson.
“Looks as if there are two different colors paint,” said Menck.
“It’s difficult to see by flashlight.” The LCRC member pointed. “One is darker and the other lighter, metallic. Gold or silver, most likely.”
“Silver,” said Magson.
“But sprayed a darker color,” said Menck.
“Interesting. What else?”
“No blood,” said the LCRC member. “Pieces of the taillight on the road over there.” He directed the flashlight’s beam to a marker some distance away. “So it happened here. And the key is still in the ignition.”
“So he follows her,” speculated Menck, “hits her from behind so that she stops, and forces her into his car.”
“All right. We’ll assume it’s the same guy until we find out differently,” said Magson. “Why two girls in two days?”
“They were both in his area. Sarisha Uys in Bellville. Now Durbanville. And the same type of victim, white teenage girls.”
“But why two so quickly, one after the other?”
“Perhaps something went wrong. Maybe he had to kill Sarisha, but he still wanted his kick. This reminds me a lot of the Romburgh girl. Perhaps Nanette Reid was also a victim of opportunity.”
“Both at night.” Magson nodded. “So he’s driving around, sees a girl on a scooter and follows her. Sees an opportunity and grabs it. Spur of the moment.”
“Or ...” Menck’s eyes narrowed and he looked at Magson. “Or he saw her at the pizza place.”
“Maybe because he was there for pizza, too.”
Magson and Menck were discussing their theory with Captain Kritzinger when Norman Reid returned with a photo of Nanette.
Blonde hair in a ponytail, one lock hanging down her cheek. Round face. Eyes apart. Wide smile with shiny teeth. A pretty girl.
“Thank you, Mr. Reid,” said Magson.
“This morning’s paper,” said Norman Reid. “There was something about another girl who’s missing. Bellville, I think. Have you found her yet?”
“No.”
“They say it might be the same man who murdered the other girls. The girls who were hanged.”
“It is only a possibility at this stage. We don’t know.”
“Do you think ...” It was the first time his voice faltered. “Do you think it was him? Do you think he’s the one who took Nanette?”
“It’s still too early to say, Mr. Reid,” said Kritzinger.
“What does he do to them?”
“We should focus on getting Nanette back.”
Norman Reid nodded. “You’re right.”
“We will do everything we can to get her back safely, Mr. Reid,” said Magson. “The Debonairs where Nanette went, where exactly is it?”
The man explained. Magson thanked him again, and walked to the Corolla, Menck in tow.
Menck studied the photo. “Have you noticed that missing and murdered girls always leave behind pretty photos? Smiling. Happy. Healthy.”
Magson started the engine and drove down the street, turning at the bottom.
Debonairs was located in the Palm Grove Center, on the corner of Main Road and Church Street. It was closed for the night.
Loud music and a red glow poured from Stones on the top floor. A club directly above, and on a Friday evening as well. Fantastic.
It required several phone calls, but eventually he reached the manager of Debonairs and convinced him to come.
While they waited, he replayed his conversation with Hannes. And his chest tightened again, because he couldn’t remember whether it had actually happened. The few hours prior to Captain Kritzinger’s phone call had been the first he’d really slept since Sarisha Uys had disappeared. And he had taken two Adco-dols for his head. Had he dreamed it? He didn’t know, and it made him feel cold inside. And claustrophobic.
Menck wandered off, saying something about cameras.
Magson had left his private cellphone at home, otherwise he could’ve checked the call history. He tried to remember. Tried to recall everything Hannes had said.
“Mags. Are you listening?”
He looked up and saw Menck watching him. A cigarette glowed between his fingers. “What?”
“There are two cameras,” said Menck. “One there, above Steers—” he pointed to the takeaway restaurant on the left of Debonairs “—and one over there.”
Had he phoned Hannes?
“Real cameras, hopefully,” said Menck. He joined Magson against the Corolla. Dragged on his cigarette. “He might have sat right here, waiting for her to leave, and then followed her. Maybe luck is on our side for once.”
He had phoned Hannes. It was a feeling that convinced him. Hope. Because Hannes had said he could phone again.
“And if he had come out of Stones and seen her,” said Menck, “the cameras would’ve caught him, as well.”
A metallic red Golf rounded the corner at the pharmacy and stopped in front of Debonairs. A man got out and walked towards them. Probably in his late thirties, neatly dressed in a thick brown jacket. Highlights in his hair. “Brent Pollard. I’m the manager of Debonairs.”
Magson and Menck introduced themselves and shook his hand.
“Who is this girl you’re looking for?”
“Nanette Reid,” said Magson, showing him the photo.
“Reid, yes. They order quite often. What happened?”
“We found her scooter about halfway between here and her home. We suspect someone may have followed her from here.”
“And she’s just gone?”
Magson nodded. “Do you have any form of record of the people who bought pizzas from you this evening?”
“Shit.” He looked up. “Well, we take the surname and number of the customers who order over the phone. Write it down. I can get that info for you. But customers who just come in and order ...” He shook his head. “Come, let me open up.”
The restaurant was rather small, perhaps two meters between the door and the counter stretching across its width.
“We’ll also need the names and contact details of everyone who was on duty tonight,” said Magson.
Pollard nodded. “Bu
t there is a Steers next door. Stones above us.”
June 14, 2014. Saturday.
“Hey! I’m talking to you and you’re sleeping.”
Menck’s head moved slightly against the car window. “I’m tired. I don’t function well with too little sleep. You’re supposed to know this by now.”
“Ja, well, the sun is up,” said Magson, wondering how he was still awake. “Time for sleep is over.”
“Man, it’s like being in school again.”
“I said, we need to contact panel beaters. For silver BMWs sprayed metallic red.”
Menck gave a drawn-out yawn, not bothering to cover his mouth with his hand. “Five minutes. To rest my weary head. Hmm? You could’ve told me this when we get there.”
“And any metallic red car that comes in for damage to the front bumper.”
“You don’t even need me to have this conversation.”
“He’ll probably go to a backyard mechanic or someone who won’t tell us. But we can always hope.”
On the security camera recordings from the Palm Grove Center, they had seen Nanette Reid leaving on her scooter. Two cars had left shortly after her and they had managed to trace both. One was a matric boy with a learner’s licence who had come with his mother in a metallic blue Opel Astra, the other a family with two children of primary-school age in a gold C-Class Mercedes. Neither vehicle had any damage. And none of the occupants had seen anything of note.
Nanette’s cellphone had disappeared off the air shortly after her mother’s first phone call. At that stage, it had still been in Durbanville. But there the trail ended.
Magson parked in front of the apartment building and nudged Menck’s shoulder, not bothering with any finesse.
They got out, found the correct apartment number and knocked on the door. A girl opened. She looked at them. “You must have the wrong flat.”
“I’m Warrant Officer Magson. This is Warrant Officer Menck. Are you Wendy Slabbert?”
“No.”
“But this is Wendy Slabbert’s address?”
“Wendy is my flatmate. Why are you looking for her?”