“She’s done nothing.” Anna reached for a torn page under her pillow, her movements painful to watch. “Andrew Morgan. Give him this. He was kind to me once. Maybe he will be again.” Anna’s words slurred, her tongue thick. “Ask him to remember Anna Richter of Vergelegen.” Her body slackened against the pillows, the page still clutched in her hand. Her crusted lips had a bluish tint, her eyes staring at nothing, as if she was surprised to find it there at the end of her days. The baby cried, somehow understanding that there was no hope for comfort left to her, her face turning red, her limbs fretting loose from the blankets.
Sarah reached for the child.
The figure of a woman merged with the shadows of vines and trees, enveloped by night, a complicit friend, a small bundle tied in a blanket to her back. She stayed away from the road, her movements furtive, only stopping once she had crossed the river that bordered the property. Daylight sauntered steadily over the hills ahead, where shelter lay in hidden places, only known to people who lived on this land long before any white faces forged their way in blood. Only once she was far enough away from the house did Sarah dare to look back. The thick white walls betrayed no sign of the turmoil inside, but in the distance, the dust of approaching horses billowed. Sarah wondered what the soldiers would make of the things they found within those staid walls, the earth mounds among the grapevines, the bloodstains between the floorboards that no amount of scrubbing could remove.
Sarah touched the front of her dress, comforted by the piece of paper hidden next to her skin. She had read the sparse words scrawled on it over and over, struggling with her decision, while the baby cried against her chest.
Dear Anna, it read in thick lines, I will pray every night that you can one day forgive me for what has been done to you and yours. It was signed Lance Corporal Andrew J. Morgan.
In the end, Sarah had known that leaving the child behind would haunt her forever. She adjusted the bundle on her back before continuing her journey. For the first time in her life she felt like she had power—to change something, to choose.
2
Thursday
DECEMBER 9, 2010
“There you are.” Captain Mynhardt stood in the archive doorway, coffee mug in hand.
Alet turned, knocking her pen off the desk. “What is it, Captain?”
“I forgot to tell you, a call came in this morning.” Mynhardt bent down to pick up the pen. He studied the silver engraving for a moment: To Alet from Pa.
“Graduation present.” Alet took the pen from him.
“You made the old boy proud when you decided to follow in his footsteps, you know.”
Alet bit her lip. “Ja. I know.”
“I sent him the parade photos I took. There’s a few good ones of you with the children.”
“Thanks.” Alet wasn’t sure what pictures of a parade would do to mend her relationship with her father, but it was kind of Mynhardt to try.
“Ansie and I are heading to Port Elizabeth early Saturday. You need a ride?”
Until she transferred to Unie, Alet didn’t even know that her father knew Captain Mynhardt, never mind well enough for Mynhardt to get an invitation to his wedding. She imagined the uncomfortable conversation in the car on the way to PE, arriving early, dealing with the faffing women and the tipsy old men, being forced to stick around at the reception, making small talk with strangers about how she fit into the new family dynamic. “Thanks, Captain,” she said. “But I’m on shift till noon. I’ll drive myself.”
“Don’t be late, hear. He doesn’t tolerate that kak, not even from you.”
Alet nodded. “You said there was a call?”
“Ja. Right. Teacher from the farm school. Something about a girl saying the Thokoloshe came to her house. Nonnie Kok. Her mother is the local working girl.”
Alet sighed. The Thokoloshe was a myth, a tiny evil sprite possessed of a voracious sexual appetite. The older black people still raised their beds on bricks so he couldn’t assault them at night. Kids talking about the Thokoloshe visiting was usually a sure sign that something bad was going on at home. None of the men at the station wanted to deal with domestic cases, especially if abuse was suspected, so they always got relegated to her.
“Shouldn’t social services deal with it, Captain?”
“We don’t need another child in the system unless we’re sure there’s really a problem. Go pay the mother a visit tomorrow. Feel things out. But go home now. There’s no overtime in the budget.”
“I’m just finishing up.” Alet pushed her chair out from the desk.
“What’s this?” Mynhardt stepped closer, squinting at the computer screen.
Alet felt like she had been caught with her hand in the till. “I thought I’d go through missing persons, Captain,” she said nonchalantly. “See if we can identify the victim on the mountain.”
“This isn’t your case, girlie. You’re still on probation.” Mynhardt had chronic halitosis. His lunch of stale coffee and sausage pie had made it worse.
“It happened in my patrol area, Captain. I know the people.” Alet balled her fists in her lap, wondering how long she would have to do penance with traffic duty before she would be trusted with real police work again. She needed to get the hell out of Unie, get her career, her life, back on track. Solving a murder could be her ticket to a transfer.
“You think the coloureds up there will give you anything?” Mynhardt put his coffee cup down on the desk. “Let me tell you something, my girl. You’re an outsider, white police, and a woman. They will lie to your face and sort things for themselves.”
“They won’t talk to Mathebe, you know that. Please, Captain. I already spent the whole bloody day on that mountain bagging evidence. I might as well work the case.”
“Find anything useful?” Mynhardt sat down on the desk, the grip of the Rap 401 on his hip disappearing beneath a fold of flesh.
“Rubbish. Bags full. It’ll take days to sort through it all.”
“Catalog that if you want to help, then.”
“Give me a chance, Captain. I did the detective training, I can handle this.”
Deep lines formed a fleshy M between Mynhardt’s eyes. “When I started in the force there was no detective training at college, girlie. You learned the job by doing the kak work like fingerprints and worked your way up to robberies and the serious stuff. That’s how your dad and I did it. The old-fashioned way. The right way. Don’t think you’re too good for it.”
“Ja, but—”
“These days you young laaities want to start at the top. Think you know everything because you read it in a manual. You know nothing. You don’t understand about seeing evidence for what it is, sniffing out witnesses and working them. No book teaches you that.”
“How am I supposed to—”
“Evening, Captain.” Sergeant Hein Strijdom stood at the door. He was a sturdy middle-aged man with a buzz cut, a thick, boorish face, and a permanent scowl.
“Naand, Hein.”
Strijdom briefly looked in Alet’s direction and dipped his head slightly before returning his attention to Mynhardt. “April books off at five. We’re waiting for briefing and parade.”
“Ja. Right.” Mynhardt picked up his coffee cup, leaving a wet ring on the desk.
“Captain?” Alet smiled, aware that Strijdom was watching them. “Think about it?”
“It’s better that you stay on traffic duty for the time being, Alet. Sergeant Mathebe is CID. He’ll request your help if he needs it.” Mynhardt patted her shoulder. “You’re doing okay here, girlie. Don’t mess it up, see?”
Strijdom lingered in the doorway after Mynhardt left. “Too good for traffic duty, hey?” He crossed his arms. “You’re not special here, Berg. No matter who your pappie is. Remember that.”
Alet stifled her anger as he walked away. Strijdom was in charge of road operations. She had pulled shift with him in her first month, saw him taking a bribe from a truck driver. Strijdom had caught her looking as he palme
d the money and had been on edge around her ever since. He tried his best to get to her, implying that she was incompetent during parade, and getting her stuck on service desk duty. She had thought about going to Mynhardt, or the Hawks, but it was her word against Strijdom’s. Anyway, getting a senior officer suspended or fired would not win her any friends.
Alet got her backpack from her locker and checked her cell. One missed call, no message. Boet Terblanche’s number appeared on the monochrome screen. Alet stepped out the station’s back door and sank into one of the faded plastic chairs in the backyard. Half-smoked cigarettes lined a rusted coffee can on the ground next to her. She stared at the can for a moment before reaching in and retrieving the longest butt, dusting the sand off, and pinching it between her lips. A squad car pulled into the yard, Mathebe behind the wheel. Alet quickly flicked the butt into the grass.
Mathebe was dressed in a clean office uniform, pressed long-sleeved white shirt, dark blue tie and pants, navy peaked cap with the yellow eight-point star emblem of the SAPS on the front. He’d probably gone home to shower and change after they transported the body to the clinic. Layers of stink and filth itched Alet’s skin. She couldn’t wait to go home and soak in the tub until her fingertips shriveled.
Mathebe headed for the station entrance, a manila envelope under his arm. “Good evening, Constable Berg,” he said curtly as he passed her.
“You know you can call me Alet, right, Johannes?”
Mathebe nodded and kept walking.
“Johannes, wait a second.”
“Constable?”
“Listen, I spoke to the captain. I mean, I’d like to help with the case since I know the farmers and the area.”
Mathebe seemed to clutch the envelope a bit tighter, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. “Captain Mynhardt approved this?”
“He assigned the crime scene evidence to me. And you’re going to need help canvassing the area too, right?”
Mathebe nodded. “I will talk to the captain about this.”
“It’s just that they’re busy with parade right now, hey. But sure, check with him when they’re done. No worries.” Alet glanced at the back door. “Look, I was just about to knock off. How about we go get a drink and you can catch me up on the case?”
Mathebe studied her for a moment. “We can do it here.” He sat down on the plastic chair, his back preacher-straight. He took a file out of the envelope and held it on his lap.
“You sure you don’t want to get a drink?”
“No. Thank you.”
Alet pulled up a chair next to him. “So what’s new?”
“I have the preliminary autopsy report from Dr. Oosthuizen.”
Alet held her hand out. “Can I see?”
“The victim is female, approximately one-point-five meters tall, weighing forty-three kilograms.” Mathebe recited the facts without opening the file. “Estimated age of fifteen.”
A soft grunt escaped Alet’s lips. She tried to remember herself at fifteen, barely knowing up from down, meeting her father, her mother’s death. Even though it felt like everything was falling apart, there was still the promise of time, of a life ahead of her. Fifteen was too young to die, much less to die like that.
Mathebe paused briefly, his expression taut. “The time of death is estimated between twenty-three hundred and oh-two-hundred. From the preliminary examination, the victim appears to have suffered extensive fourth-degree burns. Probable cause of death, asphyxiation due to inhalation of smoke and subsequent thermal burns.”
“Is there anything to identify her by? I didn’t find any fifteen-year-old girls in missing persons.”
Mathebe’s features briefly betrayed annoyance. “Dr. Oosthuizen took an X-ray of the victim’s teeth. We will search for a match.”
“No race, hair color, nothing? No offense to Oosthuizen, but he probably treats HIV with beetroot and African potato. Isn’t there anyone else we can call in? Maybe someone in Oudtshoorn?”
“Dr. Oosthuizen is qualified.”
Alet hid her frustration. “Must be one of the worker kids, you think? Why else would she have been on the mountain?”
“We will go door-to-door at the Terblanche farm in the morning.”
“It’s going to be a hell of a job getting to everyone, Johannes. It’s Friday tomorrow. Most of them knock off early for the weekend. Even if we split up it’s still—”
Mathebe stood up. “No. We stay together.”
Alet smiled. “Whatever you say, Boss. Pick you up at seven?”
“Askies, Mies.” Maria’s voice rose an octave above the din in Zebra House’s packed dining room. Alet stepped aside. The woman sidled past her with a tray laden with plates, a whiff of curried lamb rising from the spread. Alet’s stomach growled. She lifted one of the plates off the tray.
“Looks lekker. Dankie!”
“Aikona! It is not for you. I will get you your own, now-now.”
“Put it on the bar with a brandy and coke and you have a deal,” Alet said. She put the plate back on the tray. Maria walked away, her enormous bottom canting back and forth like two pit bulls fighting in a bag. She stopped at the table of an unfamiliar couple. The woman was mousy and pale, the man had dark hair and glasses. Snippets of an American accent carried above the din in the room as they thanked Maria. Tourists. They probably thought Unie would be an authentic place to stop on the way to Cape Town and expected more than they got. Join the club.
Alet scanned the room. The tables were packed with locals. Boet Terblanche sat at the bar, talking to Petrus Brink, who ran the farmers’ co-op. Boet’s arms were crossed, his attention focused on Petrus, who gestured with puffy hands, two empty beer cans lined up next to a huge glass stein. Boet wore a crisp button-down shirt, a tan line visible just below the rolled-up sleeves. Alet remembered his pale skin from the neck down and the elbow up and looked away.
“Hey, sexy!” Joey Joubert suddenly stood beside her. Joey was the local theater-degree dropout. He managed Joyboys, a coffee shop nestled in the old vestry of the Dutch Reform Church. Alet had spent many entertaining lunchtimes there, catching up on local gossip. Nobody in town could poep without Joey knowing something about it. Plus he made the best iced coffee she had ever had.
Joey kissed her on the cheek. “You clean up nice.” They almost bumped heads. Alet could never remember if one or both cheeks was the fashion now. At least Joey didn’t insist on kissing her on the mouth like the older people did.
“The uniform doesn’t do much for my social life, hey.”
“I don’t know that dressing up is going to work for you here, doll,” Joey said. “Only old farts around.”
“Ja, well …” Alet shrugged, uncomfortable in her low-cut blouse. It was the only thing in her closet that didn’t feel too tight at the moment.
Joey tapped her on the arm. “So, I hear you found a body?”
“How do you know about that?”
Joey rolled his eyes. “Please. Everyone knows. It’s the most exciting thing that’s happened here since Petrus’s wife ran off with that educated coloured from Grahamstown. So? Who died?”
Alet recognized the pleasure in Joey’s voice, the way he leaned in, his big-eyed anticipation. She felt off balance, strangely protective, as if discussing the girl’s death would violate some secret bond they had. “Don’t know yet,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Nobody has been reported missing.”
“Well, that’s no surprise. The blacks have so many snot-noses running around, I don’t think they’d even notice if one was gone.” Joey glanced around the restaurant and waved at someone. “Listen, I’m meeting my dad to discuss the Church bazaar. They want to get someone to perform at Joyboys for a fund-raiser. You want to come sit by us for a drink?”
At a table in the back, Dominee Joubert, the Dutch Reform Church’s minister, sat talking with a middle-aged man, a half-empty bottle of red wine between them. The elder Joubert gave Alet a curt “Goeienaand” through tight lips. She sigh
ed inwardly. Her lack of any effort to attend church since moving here was clearly frowned upon. She had always thought of God as a dirty, voyeuristic old man, who seemed to watch her every move. She kept this thought to herself in Unie, though. Here, Sundays were devoted to stiff necks and hypocrisy, led with perverse pleasure from the pulpit by the esteemed Dominee.
“Neels Burger. I’m a deacon,” the other man at the table volunteered. “I organize the school’s participation in the bazaar.”
Alet wondered why he felt the need to explain his presence. “You teach high school, right?”
“History, grades three through seven. And I’m hostel master.”
“So you know all the kids?”
Neels nodded, a sudden air of authority lifting his sad-sack expression. “The whole lot.”
“Did any of the girls not show up this week?”
“Alet’s investigating the murder, you know,” Joey said.
Minister Joubert looked up from studying the wine in his glass. “Terrible thing,” he said in a monotone. “We will pray for her soul.”
“Rather pray that we get the guy who did this,” Alet said.
Minister Joubert pursed his lips, a look passing between him and Joey.
“It’s hard to tell.” Neels fingered his silverware. “You know, if there isn’t enough money to pay for a ride into town, the farm kids don’t show up for the week. And then there’s the ones who drop out because fruit-picking pays better than going to school. They don’t let us know, they just don’t show up one day.”
Alet got impatient. Neels was obviously slow on the uptake. “I need to know if anybody didn’t show up today.”
Neels paused. “Two girls from the hostel, I think.”
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