Dark Traces

by Martin Steyn

  “Mr. Reid, I ask you to please reconsider and work with us.”

  “Mr. Reid’s decision regarding this matter is final, Colonel,” said Kleinguenther.

  Hattingh sighed. “That is a pity.”

  On their way back to the office, Hattingh was practically foaming at the mouth. Magson opted for a strategy of listening in silence.

  “Fucking rich people. A ‘team of highly qualified investigators’. Who the hell does he think he is? Oh, but they will provide us with all ‘relevant information’. They’ll keep ‘detailed records’ of all the information their crack team of Sherlocks uncovers. Fucking lawyers. We’ll see what the court has to say.”

  They drove a block or two in silence. At the speed the unit commander was maintaining, it passed in no time.

  “Now we have to waste our time on this shit. While we have two missing girls to find.”

  Another block slipped past in silence.

  “And if we find that girl’s body and catch the killer with information someone phoned in to them and the court throws it out and the bastard walks, who will get the blame? The police. Then we are the ones who fucked up the investigation.”

  They had almost made it back to Bishop Lavis when Hattingh’s cellphone rang. He answered.

  At first Magson didn’t follow the unit commander’s words, but then realized what the conversation was about.

  “But, General, they are directly interfering in our investigation. How are we supposed to make progress?” Hattingh pulled onto the side of the road.

  From the corner of his eye Magson saw Hattingh’s taut face reddening.

  “But, General, with respect ...” Hattingh’s face grew even redder.

  Magson turned his head to look out the window.

  “Yes, General.”

  It was silent for a moment.

  “You know what the problem is with cellphones? You can’t slam the fucking things down.” Hattingh was glaring at the phone and finally sent it sliding across the dashboard, all the way to Magson’s corner. “Lieutenant General Zalu is ordering us not to interfere in Norman Reid’s private investigation. He has complete confidence that they will collect the information in a professional and transparent manner.” Hattingh pulled away and did not say another word until they reached the SVC office.

  Menck looked up from behind his desk, grinning. “Did you have a nice outing?”

  “Oh yes,” said Magson, dropping into the chair. “And the general has taken our hands and tied them neatly behind our back.”

  Menck raised his eyebrows.

  “We are not to disturb Norman Reid’s private investigators. But they will let us know if they find anything.”

  “Must be nice to have money and know the right people.”

  “Ja.”

  “So. Two hundred and fifty thousand rand for information that assists in getting his daughter back. More if the person who has her returns her safely.”

  “Good idea. Except, if our suspicion is correct, nobody will see Nanette again. If anyone saw anything, it would have been on Friday evening. There where she was abducted.”

  Menck took out his pack of cigarettes, sniffed deeply and returned it to his pocket. “Well, at least we’re not the ones who have to listen to all the shit stories the masses will be phoning in. Because with that amount on offer, you know everyone saw something.”

  Magson shook his head. “I can’t blame Norman Reid. It’s not as if we have anything.”

  “I suppose we can always hope he loves money. She might still be alive. I just don’t know what condition she’ll be in.”

  Magson sat up and smacked his right fist in his other hand’s palm. “I want the fucker. I want to cuff his hands and read him his rights. I don’t want him making some kind of deal with Norman Reid and disappearing into the sunset. He has to die in prison.”

  Once again Magson went through the security recordings of the evening Nanette Reid had disappeared. He watched her parking her scooter, getting off and walking to Debonairs. He watched her tying three pizza boxes to the scooter, getting on and exiting the parking area. The matric boy got into the Opel Astra. Magson knew his mother was waiting for him in the car.

  The matric boy ...

  Magson paged through his notebook. Here. One of the witnesses had mentioned a young man in his twenties looking at Nanette. The matric boy barely looked old enough to be in Grade 12. Who was this young man? He scanned the statements and his notes. No one else they’d spoken with had mentioned him.

  Magson rewound the recording and watched again. He saw nobody fitting that description leaving Debonairs during the period Nanette entered and exited again, not even during the twenty minutes that followed. Only the matric boy and a couple of men, and even on the recording Magson could clearly see they were much older.

  He rewound again. Studied the footage closely. There was Frans Rheeder, the one who had mentioned the young man. Nanette was still inside. The matric boy was still inside. Magson frowned. Nanette exited. He hadn’t seen Frans Rheeder leaving the parking area. Rewind. Frans Rheeder walked out of Debonairs, carrying a couple of pizza boxes and disappeared off the screen. Magson scanned his notebook. Rheeder had said he drove a blue Audi A4, but he’d fetched the pizzas with his wife’s white Renault Mégane. Nanette exited and no Mégane, or any white car, had left.

  Magson switched to the second camera’s footage. Finally he located Frans Rheeder. His car was not clearly visible on the screen and it was far from the camera, but it was definitely not white. Nor was it a Renault Mégane. Rheeder pulled out of the parking space. Magson squinted, pressing his face almost against the screen. It was no Audi, either. Rheeder disappeared from sight, leaving via the other, narrow exit.

  In a BMW.

  Eighteen

  Frans Rheeder. Magson thought back. Rheeder had been the one with the house Menck had fancied. Who’d invited them in. After his wife had come to the gate. His wife ...

  Magson took out his cellphone and selected Menck’s number. “Do you remember Frans Rheeder?”

  “I remember when people said ‘hello’ when they phoned and asked after you well-being.”

  “Man, this is important. Do you remember him? He was with Nanette at Debonairs. You liked his house.”

  “Yes. What about him?”

  “Do you remember his wife?” asked Magson.

  “Hmm, yes. She wasn’t so friendly. But pretty. Why?”

  “What color was her hair?”

  “Blonde, I think. What have you found?”

  “Rheeder said he drives an Audi, but he went to fetch the pizzas with his wife’s Renault. I’ve now got him on camera. On the one side. In a BMW.”

  “Well, well,” said Menck. “It’s not metallic red, by any chance?”

  “It’s definitely not white like he said it was.”

  “And a blonde woman. You’re thinking of the couple who visited Lola.”

  “That too, but mostly the hair on Maryke’s clothes.”

  A few hours later the group of detectives had assembled in the operational room. They hadn’t been able to obtain a lot of information on Frans Rheeder. Magson had already checked over the weekend whether he had a criminal record, which he did not. But neither did he have a permanent job. His wife’s record was clean, as well. She was employed at a dentist’s office. Did she support the household while he was out hunting for schoolgirls?

  Azhar Najeer shook his head. “No magistrate will sign anything based on this.”

  “The wife is the key,” said Menck. “We have to work through her.”

  “Jeanine Rheeder.” Captain Kritzinger stood in front of the wall, looking at the photos. “The question is, how exactly is she involved?”

  “If she’s helping Rheeder because they’re a killer couple, we could provide her with an opportunity to help herself by
turning on him. And if she is afraid of him, or if he’s coercing her in some way, we can offer her a means of escaping the situation.”

  “The problem,” said Najeer, “is that we have basically nothing. The only thing you can frighten her with is that they are suspects.”

  “The girls may still be alive,” said Patrick Theko. “If there is a chance, we must take it.”

  “Not even a lawyer who scraped through on crib notes would be concerned about what we have.”

  Menck hopped off the table. “The way I see it, we don’t really have that much to lose. She can think about it and decide to give him up. Or she can tell him. We can keep an eye on him and see how he reacts. I think the chances of one of the girls still being alive are slim, but he might still have to dump the bodies, and then we could grab him there.”

  “And if he knows we’re watching him,” said Theko, “he may wait a while before he goes looking for a victim again.”

  “Colin and I can go talk to her, Captain,” said Magson. “Get her at work, away from her husband.”

  Captain Kritzinger was still looking at the murder mosaic. He scratched his chin, nodded and turned around. “Go. We’ll follow up further. And let you know if we find anything.”

  The waiting room had that smell that all dentist’s waiting rooms seemed to have, presumably some kind of disinfectant. On the sofa, a young woman was massaging her cheek. A small boy was creating chaos on the floor with the available toys. Another woman was sitting in a chair, reading a magazine.

  Magson walked to the counter and showed his identification card. “We’re looking for Jeanine Rheeder.”

  “Jeanine?” asked the receptionist. “Is there a problem?”

  “Mrs. Rheeder might be able to help us with an investigation. Is she here?”

  “She’s with a patient.” The receptionist glanced at the clock. “But she should be done any moment now. Just a few minutes.”

  It was indeed just a few minutes. A door opened somewhere deeper inside the practice and a man entered the waiting room.

  “I’ll go tell her you’re here,” said the receptionist.

  “We’ll come along,” said Magson.

  She opened the first door in the corridor. A plaque read ORAL HYGIENIST.

  “Jeanine, there are police detectives here who want to talk to you.”

  Jeanine Rheeder looked up. She was pretty, as Menck mentioned, but not exceptionally so. Her blonde hair was tied back, with one lock hanging down each side of her face. Dark blue eyes and a pointed chin. Average height. A body that probably often jumped around in aerobic classes.

  “Mrs. Rheeder. Can we speak a moment in private?”

  “Thanks,” said Menck to the receptionist, closing the door.

  “I told you on the weekend already that my husband went to get the pizzas. I don’t know anything else.”

  Magson nodded. “We still haven’t found the girl, Mrs. Rheeder. And we’ve gone through all the information again and found some discrepancies.”

  She said nothing, but looked at him.

  “We just want to get our facts straight. We would really appreciate your help.”

  She tucked one of the loose locks behind her ear.

  “With which car did your husband drive to Debonairs?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He told us that he took your car, a Renault Mégane.”

  “Then that’s probably what he did. I didn’t notice.”

  “You see, we went over the footage from the security cameras again and there was no white Mégane in the parking lot. So maybe he was mistaken and he actually took his own car?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know.”

  “What kind of car does your husband drive, Mrs. Rheeder?”

  “Why don’t you rather talk to him?”

  “We don’t have Mr. Rheeder’s cell number, and the girl is still missing, so we don’t want to waste time unnecessarily. You understand, don’t you?”

  She nodded, looking at the floor.

  “What kind of car does your husband drive?” asked Magson again.

  “A BMW.”

  “BMW? Your husband told us he drives an Audi.”

  “Yes. It’s an Audi. I always get confused.”

  “I don’t understand why he would lie about that,” said Menck, addressing Magson.

  “I just said I made a mistake.”

  “No, Mrs. Rheeder,” said Magson, “you were correct. We have your husband on camera in his BMW.”

  “Unless he’s got something to hide,” said Menck.

  “It must be a misunderstanding,” said Jeanine Rheeder.

  Magson looked at her for a moment. “A misunderstanding?”

  “I’ve never met a man who doesn’t know what kind of car he drives,” said Menck.

  “Here are the facts, Mrs. Rheeder. We know the person who abducted Nanette Reid drove a BMW. We know this person followed her from Debonairs. We know your husband was with Nanette Reid in Debonairs. We now know he drives a BMW. And we know he lied about it.”

  She looked at him and then turned her eyes away. “Frans went to collect the pizzas and came back home. That’s all I know.”

  “You don’t have children?”

  “No.”

  “Did you have guests on Friday evening?”

  “No.”

  “But you ordered three pizzas,” remarked Magson.

  “We always order an extra one for the next day.”

  “How long was Mr. Rheeder away while he went to fetch the pizzas?”

  “Not long and I think it is absurd that you would come in here and accuse my husband of abducting some girl! Just because he drives a BMW and we like pizza. I have patients waiting and I’m not going to answer any more of your questions. I want you to leave now.”

  “Do you have a contact number for your husband?”

  “No. His cellphone fell into water and he hasn’t got a new one yet.”

  “Here’s my contact card. You can phone me any time.” He looked her in the eyes while he said it, keeping his voice softer. She didn’t take the card, and Magson placed it on a cabinet. “Any time, Mrs. Rheeder.”

  Magson and Menck walked past the receptionist, who clearly could not wait to ask Jeanine Rheeder what the police had wanted to talk to her about.

  In the parking area, Magson rubbed his face. “Too subtle?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Menck. “The seed has been sown without shoving anything down her throat. Without the gag reflex, the chances are much better that she might consider it.”

  “I hate it that we can’t just go into his house.”

  “I think that receptionist can hear Jeanine Rheeder’s brain working all the way from her counter.”

  They got into the Corolla. Magson stared out the windshield. “If it is Rheeder ... Colin, we were inside his house. We stood there and chatted to him while at least Nanette was still alive.”

  “I know,” said Menck quietly.

  “We know he killed Danielle two days after he took her. Dominique’s estimate is about the same. Almost all the girls disappeared on a Thursday or Friday.”

  “Weekend fun.”

  “Weekend fun,” repeated Magson. “The weekend is over.”

  It was a little before six when Magson and Menck entered Durbanville. They drove past the Palm Grove Center and Debonairs, left the town center behind and entered a residential area. Houses, driveways, walls. Magson parked behind the white Mazda some distance to the right of Frans and Jeanine Rheeder’s house.

  Patrick Theko got out of the Mazda and walked over to inform them that the woman had already come home in a white Mégane. No one else had arrived since their conversation with Jeanine Rheeder.

  Three quarters of an hour later no other vehicle had stopped at t
he Rheeder residence. The only visible activity had been a light or two being switched on or off. It had become quite dark.

  “So. How is your housemate doing?” asked Menck.

  “Too well. He is so at home, I’m beginning to feel as if I’m the one staying with him.”

  Menck grinned. “My housemate has decided we have to go to a hydro.”

  “What’s a hydro?”

  “It’s like a spa, but they have all sorts of well-being treatments. Like skin treatments, massages, detox, these weird Eastern techniques.”

  “Sounds unChristian.”

  Menck laughed. “That’s not a bad point. If only I was more devote, I might’ve been able to use it.”

  Headlights turned into the street. Approached. Continued on.

  “So I take it you don’t want to go with her.”

  Menck sighed. “No. Not particularly.”

  “So why doesn’t Kathy take a friend? It sounds more like the kind of thing meant for women, anyway.”

  “Because the friend has already gone, dragged her husband along, and has returned to poison Kathy’s mind with wild tales of how wonderful and healthy they both feel. Their stress has simply evaporated and they are effervescent with renewed energy. They’re practically two walking Energade bottles. With fizz.”

  “I wouldn’t mind feeling like a bottle of Energade.”

  “Yes, well, I have no desire to have my face painted with cucumber, or to have needles poked into me, or to have my equilibrium calibrated with a handful of magical stones. Besides, I’m a smoker. It’s like going to hell.”

  “Ah. Here we arrive at the truth. He doesn’t want to betray old JR.”

  “If only that was all. They have this disturbing thing called hydrotherapy, where they basically rinse out your colon. It is a critical part of the detox.”

  Another car approached, but Magson could tell it was a four-by-four. It drove past. “So people go to this place to get enemas?”