Dark Traces

by Martin Steyn

  “Miss Slabbert may be able to help us with an investigation. Is she here?”

  “She’s sleeping.” The girl looked from Magson to Menck and back at Magson. “I’ll go tell her you’re here.” She shut the door.

  Magson glanced at Menck. “What happened to those days when people still invited the police inside? When we were the good guys and they wanted to help us?”

  Menck leaned against the wall. “Long gone. These days we’re only welcome if they really need us.” He closed his eyes.

  The door opened a while later. A girl of student age regarded them with worried eyes. Her blonde hair looked finger-combed and her clothes picked up off the floor.

  “Wendy Slabbert?”

  She crossed her arms. “Yes?”

  “Warrant Officer Magson. This is Warrant Officer Menck. You were working at Debonairs last night, is that correct?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you see this girl there?” Magson showed her the photo. “Her name is Nanette Reid.”

  “Yes. She was there. The Reids order quite often.”

  “Was she alone?”

  She pushed her fringe to the side, frowning. “I think so. Someone phoned and she came to get the pizzas. If I remember correctly. We’re quite busy on Friday evenings.”

  “Did you notice anyone talking to her, or watching her?”

  “Except Bernoldus?”

  “Bernoldus?”

  “The manager.” She rolled her eyes. “He tells everyone his name is Brent, but actually he’s Bernoldus.”

  “Did Mr. Pollard—”

  ”Wait. Did something happen to her, or what?”

  “She is missing.”

  “Oh. I don’t think Brent had anything to do with that. I mean, he is a bit icky, and touchy, but ...”

  “Was Mr. Pollard there the whole evening?”

  “Yes. Until closing time and a bit later. He always locks up.”

  “At what time did you leave?”

  “We close at ten, but on weekends it sometimes goes a bit later. Somewhere between ten past and half past.”

  “And then?”

  “What do you mean, ‘and then’?”

  “We were here last night and there was no answer,” said Magson.

  She frowned and crossed her arms again. “I was out. At a club.”

  “Was there anyone else who stood out for some reason?”

  Her forehead remained creased. “I can’t think of anyone. But Friday evenings are busy.”

  “Thank you, Miss Slabbert. Here’s my card. If you think of anything ...”

  “Okay.”

  They walked back to the Corolla. “I had a look at Pollard’s Golf last night,” said Menck. “More or less the right color, but no damage.”

  “He would’ve had to drive right after Nanette and the cameras show he didn’t.”

  “Yes. That, too.” Menck yawned, but didn’t let it prevent him from speaking further. “So that was the last of the personnel. Who’s next?”

  “We have Van Zyl and Rheeder.”

  “I went out with a Van Zijl at school. Spelt with an I-J. Rienke van Zijl. Quiet girl. Decent. Excellent kisser.”

  “Interesting what things your brain thinks of when you’re tired.”

  “She had beautiful eyes. She looked at you, as if she really saw you.”

  “So what happened?” asked Magson.

  “Her dad was not impressed that a half soutie was hanging out with his pure-bred Afrikaner daughter.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have trusted you with my daughter, either.”

  “Ah,” said Menck, reaching behind his back, “another knife for my collection.”

  Magson opened the Corolla’s door and got in. “I keep waiting for the phone call.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one saying they have found Sarisha Uys’s body.”

  “Now this is the kind of house I like,” said Menck. “White and modern and angular. But I want large windows.”

  “Which you’d have to bolt shut with steel bars.”

  “And on the beach.”

  They got out and walked to the black gate.

  “I want a cottage on the West Coast,” Magson surprised himself. He hadn’t thought of that in a long time.

  “I remember. Mags wanting to spend his golden years pulling his supper straight from the ocean.”

  “That was our plan. Emma and I. When we retire. A cottage on the West Coast. Far away from murder.”

  Menck pressed the intercom button. “My dad would’ve liked you. Now there was a man who loved the sea. I wish I had gone fishing with him more often. But at the time I thought it was boring.” He shook his head. “You’re so bloody stupid when you’re a child.”

  “Ja?” answered a female voice, a combination of tin and plastic.

  “Mrs. Rheeder?” asked Magson.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s the police. May we speak with you, please?”

  “What about?”

  “It won’t take long, Mrs. Rheeder.”

  “Okay. But I’m not dressed yet.”

  “We’ll wait.”

  “Do you think you’ll miss it?” asked Menck. “The job?”

  Magson shook his head slowly. “No. It’s just too much nowadays. People kill too easily. Just because.”

  “A person’s life is the only thing that gets cheaper in South Africa.”

  “I think Rommel would like the beach.”

  Menck was watching him, but the front door opened and a young woman approached. She was wearing jeans and a loose black jersey with sleeves covering her hands. She stopped on her side of the gate, crossing her arms. Magson introduced them.

  “What do you want?” asked the woman.

  “Did you buy pizzas at Debonairs last night?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Did you see this girl while you were there?” Magson showed her the photo.

  “My husband went to collect the pizzas.”

  “Oh. Is he here?”

  The wind whipped her hair into her face and she tucked a blonde lock behind her ear. “Yes.”

  “May we speak with him, please?”

  “I’ll go call him.” She turned around and walked back to the house.

  “And once again we are not invited inside,” said Menck. “I’d really like to sit.”

  “You’ll just fall asleep again,” said Magson.

  “When we’re done here, we have to stop somewhere for coffee. And cigarettes.”

  A while later a man exited the house. He was wearing blue jeans, a shirt and a brown jacket reaching halfway down his thigh. At the gate he adjusted his dark hair before opening it and nodding. “I’m Frans Rheeder. How can I help?” He was probably in his early thirties.

  Magson shook the firm hand, introducing them. “You bought pizzas at Debonairs last night?”

  “That’s right. Come in.”

  Menck glanced at Magson, nodding with raised eyebrows. They walked to the front door and into the house. Again the man fixed his hair and turned to them.

  “Did you see this girl while you were at Debonairs?”

  The man took the photo from Magson and studied it. He nodded. “Yes. She was there. Why? Did she do something wrong?”

  “She is missing.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did she come in before or after you?”

  “After. We order over the phone, but I like my pizza fresh and hot, so I go early. She came in while I was waiting.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did you notice anyone talking to her or watching her?”

  “Hmm.” He scratched his head and tidied his short dark brown hair with his fingers. “You know,
there was a guy who was checking her out.”

  Magson took out his notebook. “Can you describe him?”

  “Well, not really. I just remember he stared at her arse. It was obvious he would rather have her arse in his pizza box. But I didn’t really look at him, you know. I think he had brown hair.”

  “Long? Short?”

  “Shortish, I think. Not as short as your partner’s.” He pointed in Menck’s direction.

  “Age?”

  “Twenties, maybe?”

  “What about his build? Tall? Short? Thin? Muscled?”

  He raised his hands and dropped them. “I don’t know. Not short, not fat. Just average.”

  “Did anything about him stand out? A scar or a tattoo or anything unusual?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing I noticed.”

  “What about his clothes?”

  “Listen, I really didn’t notice. I just went to fetch the pizza. And a man doesn’t really check out other men, you know?”

  “Mr. Rheeder, this girl is missing. Anything you remember might help.”

  “I wish I could describe him in more detail.” He raised and dropped his hands once again.

  “Was the girl still there when you left?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “And the man?”

  “Think so. Listen, wasn’t there another one in the newspaper yesterday morning?”

  “One what, Mr. Rheeder?”

  “A missing girl.”

  “We don’t know whether the two incidents are connected.”

  “The paper said it might be that serial killer, the one who hangs the schoolgirls.”

  “Journalists like to write front-page stories,” said Magson. “Sometimes they’re a bit too enthusiastic. Do you follow the story, Mr. Rheeder?”

  “Well, every time it happens, it’s in the paper for weeks afterwards. It’s hard not to follow it. Do you have any idea who it is? The serial killer?”

  “The investigation is still ongoing.”

  “Yes, I suppose you can’t really talk about it. It’s a pity—I like the cop shows.”

  “What do you do, Mr. Rheeder? Your occupation.”

  “I’m in marketing.”

  Magson nodded. “Oh. Before I forget. May I also ask what kind of car you drive? We’re trying to eliminate the vehicles seen by witnesses.”

  “An Audi A4. Blue one. But last night I took my wife’s car. It’s a white Renault Mégane.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Rheeder.”

  “Yes. I wish I could do more. They’re still so young. I’ll walk you out.”

  He escorted them to the gate.

  “Do you think they’re still alive? The girls.”

  “We’re hopeful,” said Magson.

  “Yes. Well, good luck. I hope you find them. Would be nice to see a happy story on the front page for a change.”

  Back in the Corolla, Magson turned the key and pulled away. “I want to take another look at the parking area.”

  “Good idea. We can get coffee there, as well.”

  They drove in silence. Magson turned onto Main Road.

  Menck looked around. “You know, when you look at the CBD, you wouldn’t think Durbanville is a rich man’s suburb. Doesn’t look much different from Kuils River.”

  “I wouldn’t walk around here proclaiming that opinion, if I were you.”

  Menck shrugged. “It’s true.”

  Magson turned into the entrance to the Palm Grove Center, followed the narrow road to the parking area.

  “Stop here. I’ll go get coffee.”

  Last night Nanette Reid had walked out of that door, hungry and excited by the garlic and oregano and cheese rising from the hot pizza box in her hands, without an inkling that her life would be in danger only minutes later.

  Perhaps you can ring again. Hannes’s voice offering a sliver of hope.

  He wanted to get her back. Sarisha Uys, as well. Perhaps then he would deserve another chance with his son.

  The door opened and Menck got in. He held one of the paper cups beneath Magson’s nose. The steam slipped seductively across his cheeks.

  Magson took the cup, closed his eyes and breathed in the aroma. He took a mouthful, scorching every taste bud on his tongue, and had to pant with an open mouth.

  Menck watched him, blowing on his own coffee. He shook his head, grinning.

  The exit of the parking area was next to Tong Lok, another takeaway restaurant to the right of Debonairs. Magson drove up the rise into the street behind the center, and stepped hard on the brake pedal.

  Menck’s coffee spilled in his lap. “What the hell, man!” He tugged at his trousers. “You did that on purpose.”

  Magson grinned.

  “Okay. Okay. Laugh, bastard. We’ll see who gets the last laugh.”

  Now Magson was laughing.

  A Volvo was parked diagonally across the street, next to the sidewalk. The laugh died in his throat.

  “He could have sat right there, waiting for her.”

  Menck looked as well. “Yes. If we’re right about the Debonairs connection. Perhaps he saw the cameras and drove here to wait for her to leave.”

  “Like a predator.”

  June 16, 2014. Monday.

  The alarm clock began its monotonous beep and Magson smacked the button on top. He swung his legs out from under the blankets, inhaling deeply, and rubbed his face. Outside, in the dark, it was raining. Monday. It was Monday. The weekend was over. If the man who had taken Sarisha Uys or Nanette Reid, or both, was the same man who’d killed Lauren Romburgh, Dominique Gould, Maryke Retief and Danielle Ferreira, they were dead now. They were probably lying somewhere with furrows around their necks, clothed but without panties and jewelry.

  He sat with his elbows on his knees, head hanging.

  They had driven all over last night. Magson and Menck, the other detectives, dozens of klagtebakkies. Driven around the areas surrounding Durbanville and Bellville. Looking for cars parked by the side of the road. Hoping they would catch him while he was dumping the body or bodies.

  Rommel entered the room, wagging his tail, excited about the day ahead. Magson wished he could get a smidgen of the dog’s energy. But it had been too long since he had really slept.

  He sighed and got up. His old body was stiff and sore and tired. It took longer and longer to get his spine loose. Rommel accompanied him to go and fetch the paper.

  Back inside Magson removed the newspaper from the bag and unrolled it.

  “Missing girl’s father offers reward”

  He closed his eyes.

  The moment Magson entered the SVC building, he received a message to go straight to the unit commander’s office. He knocked, heard the “In!” and opened the door.

  Lieutenant Colonel John Hattingh had the phone against his ear and the conversation was serious. It was not the first time Magson was glad this office did not belong to him.

  Hattingh replaced the receiver in its cradle. He lifted Die Burger off his desk. “You’ve seen this?”

  “I have, Colonel.”

  “You know.” He tossed the paper onto the desk. “I have sympathy with the parents, but sometimes the family is just a pain in the arse. Especially if they have money.” He sighed. “Look at my ashtray. You and I have to go and talk to the man. See if we can somehow salvage the situation.”

  Magson stared out the windows while they were driving. Streets, cars, people.

  Hattingh parked next to the sidewalk in front of the Reids’ home. They got out. The high wall was bright white, bearing no sign of the weekend’s rain. Hattingh pressed the button next to the pitch-black gate and identified himself and Magson.

  Norman Reid came to the gate. “Colonel. Warrant Officer. I thought you would want to talk to me, altho
ugh I was expecting a phone call. But come in. My attorney is here, as well.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Reid,” said Hattingh.

  Again Magson couldn’t help looking at the house. It had to have been an impressive amount of money that had been spent here, on the building and the interior decorating, and of course the garden. There had been some speculation that Nanette might have been kidnapped for ransom, but any experienced South African detective knew that such kidnappings almost never occurred in this country. Unlike sex crimes, which flourished. Besides, a kidnapper would probably have made contact by now.

  Norman Reid led them to his study. A man was waiting there. He introduced himself as Max Kleinguenther, Norman Reid’s attorney. His suit was shiny and looked as if it had been tailored specifically for him. The black leather of his shoes had a luster, as well. He had small eyes, too close together, and a long, thin nose.

  “Mr. Reid,” said Hattingh, “I have no objection to the presence of your attorney, but I want to talk to you directly. We want the same thing, after all, getting your daughter back safely.”

  “But it’s not the same, Colonel,” said Norman Reid. “Because it’s your job. But Nanette is my daughter.”

  “Of course. But it is the police’s duty to apprehend offenders, to arrest them and collect the necessary evidence to prove their guilt in court. To offer a reward without at least consulting us, and then hiring private investigators to manage it all, makes our work very difficult.”

  “I have respect for the police. I understand you have a thankless job. I also understand that you are completely overwhelmed with cases.”

  “We have a team of detectives that is currently only working on this case.”

  “That’s good, but I only care about one thing—getting Nanette back safely. Anything else is of minor importance. I am more than prepared to pay the person who has my daughter, and even see him go free, if that means she sleeps in her own bed tonight.”

  “Mr. Reid, I have children of my own. Believe me, I understand what you are doing. But the manner in which you are doing it is interfering with a police investigation. It amounts to obstruction of justice. I don’t want to go down that road.”

  “All relevant information will be passed on to the police, Colonel,” said the attorney.

  “And who decides what information is relevant?”

  “Colonel Hattingh, view it as a helping hand. A team of highly qualified investigators assisting in your investigation, at no cost to you. Time is a critical factor. Nanette has been missing for three days and we are not aware of any progress in your investigation. Rest assured that detailed records will be kept on our side.”