The Monster's Daughter

by Michelle Pretorius

  “I have told you more than I should. May I ask why Mr. and Mrs. Braverman were in South Africa?”

  Bill lifted his eyes. “Mabel, she—”

  “Bill.” There was a warning in Monica’s voice.

  “Maybe it will help them,” he pleaded.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Saunders, we want to bring this perpetrator to justice. If there is anything you know …”

  Monica nodded. “You have to understand. They tried everything else.” She looked at her lap as she spoke. “My daughter was desperate and John, he loved her.”

  “I don’t understand.” Alet searched the two old people’s faces.

  “They came here for a baby.” Monica said the words reluctantly, tension tightening her mouth.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “They couldn’t have a child and they couldn’t adopt. John had a record. It’s all so stupid.”

  “Do you have the name of the adoption agency?” It was unusual for Americans to adopt black babies from South Africa. AIDS was rampant and the paperwork a nightmare.

  Monica looked at Bill. He crossed his arms and stared out the window while he spoke. “Mabel said there was a man who could help them.”

  “They were buying a baby on the black market?” Alet leaned forward. “Did she tell you how?”

  Monica shook her head. “She only told me that they had to come here and stay for the night. The contact said he’d find them. I was afraid that it might be a scam, but she wouldn’t listen. Please, Constable. You have to understand. They weren’t bad people.”

  Alet escorted them out, promising to call if anything else came up. Monica asked again if there was anything else she could tell them. Bill didn’t say a word, melting away silently as Alet shook his hand.

  “There has to be a connection.” Alet got into the police van and handed Mathebe one of the bottles of Coke she had bought at the co-op. “I’ve never trusted Wexler.”

  The van’s windows were cranked open all the way, the air inside the vehicle still stagnant. Alet pressed the Coke bottle against her cheek.

  “There is no evidence of his involvement.” Mathebe put his straw down on the dashboard and drank directly out of the bottle.

  “Mabel Braverman’s mother said that they had instructions to stay overnight in Unie. The only place they could have stayed is Zebra House. So what if that’s the way Wexler contacts them? He plays host to the tourists, whatever, nothing looks suspicious from the outside.” Alet tried to remember the previous Thursday night at Zebra House. They probably planned everything right there in front of her and she was too busy worrying about Boet Terblanche to notice anything. “I mean, seriously, have you ever wondered why anyone from overseas would want to visit Unie?”

  Mathebe considered it. “There is a problem with this.”

  “There are many problems with this.” Alet ran the Coke bottle down her neck, the condensation on her cheek evaporating rapidly. “Which one were you referring to?”

  “Where do they get babies?”

  “Are you kidding? When I worked in Jo’burg we had to haul women off the street who offered their kids for sale on the highway. Some of the Zimbabweans rent kids out to beggars for twenty rand a day. Problem is, the beggars get more money if the kids look sick, so they drug them. Finding an unwanted child is not hard. The tough part is getting them out of the country. I think that’s where Wexler comes in. He might have more people involved in this.”

  “But where is the baby now?”

  “Here’s what I think. The Bravermans meet Wexler on Thursday night and set up a meeting place for the exchange. But there is a murder in town and the police are on the lookout for anything suspicious, so they decide to hold off for a few days, do some sightseeing, whatever, until things cool down. But then the Bravermans get hijacked, so the baby gets sold to someone else.”

  “This is all speculation.”

  “It’s a theory. I haven’t heard any from you.”

  Mathebe was quiet for a moment. “The Braverman couple was here to buy a baby.”

  “Ja.”

  “To buy a baby and forge adoption papers costs money.” He turned to Alet. “Where is the money?”

  “Well, I don’t think Wexler is stupid enough to process baby payments through Zebra House’s books.”

  “The initial contact would have to be overseas. They would use foreign bank accounts.” Mathebe shrugged. “We might not be able to trace it at all.”

  “Ugh. There must be a way.”

  Mathebe looked intently at the co-op entrance. “It seems that Mr. Terblanche has bought a new irrigation system.”

  “What? How do you know that?”

  “I have been investigating this case too, Constable. Mr. Terblanche put the order in three days before we found Mrs. Pienaar. He promised Mr. Brink that he would pay in full by the end of the month.”

  “So?”

  “I had a look at Mr. Terblanche’s finances.” Mathebe reached over and opened the glove compartment. He handed Alet an envelope.

  Alet withdrew the bank statements inside. Boet’s name and address appeared at the top, and string of negative numbers and interest charges ran down the page. “The drought’s been bad. There isn’t a farmer here who isn’t struggling.”

  “Mr. Terblanche has two mortgages.”

  Alet pretended to study the bank statements. “It might be from something else,” she mumbled. “His wife’s parents might have promised them money.”

  “Perhaps.” Mathebe finished his Coke.

  “Okay. So let’s say he has something to do with this baby-buying business. We still don’t know how it’s connected with Trudie’s murder, if at all. Besides, Boet has an alibi.”

  Mathebe shook his head. “He was asleep at home with his wife.”

  “And how does Trudie fit into all of this? I mean, I don’t think she was even friendly with the Terblanches.”

  “Perhaps not. But I found something else. Mr. Terblanche only owns half of the land he is farming. He leases the property where the body was found.”

  “Who does it belong to?”

  “Mrs. Pienaar.”

  Alet looked at Mathebe in shocked silence. Could Boet be capable of murder? She didn’t want to believe it.

  “I do not know what it means yet,” Mathebe said, “but Mrs. Pienaar was murdered on her own land. It is possible she found out that Mr. Terblanche is involved with the baby trade. Mr. Terblanche could have killed her to keep her silent.” Mathebe shifted his weight. “There is also the matter of Dr. Koch’s findings.” He had that tone of incredulity again, a look of distaste. “Mrs. Pienaar being … a different species.”

  “Look, we don’t know if it has anything to do with her death, hey. It might just be this weird thing nobody knew about.” Alet put Boet’s bank statements back in the glove compartment, happy to be rid of them. “What we need is a connection between Trudie and the other Angel-killing victims.”

  “If the two cases are related, there might be a link between Colonel Berg and Mr. Wexler.”

  “Well, we don’t know that they’re related,” Alet said, aware that she sounded defensive. “Wexler is fit enough to get a body up that mountain, but he must have been in nappies when the first girl died. What bothers me is that someone felt threatened enough to shoot at me last night. Who knows that we found out about all of this? I mean, we barely know what’s going on ourselves.”

  “I have retrieved a bullet for evidence.”

  “How are you going to explain that to Mynhardt?”

  “I am holding it somewhere safe until we need it. How you are going to explain the condition of the truck to Miss Pienaar?”

  “I’ll think of something.” Alet leaned her chin in her palm and stared out the passenger-side window at a row of white pickups parked next to the co-op. What did these people have against colour? A group of young black boys hung around the entrance, their bare legs dusty, some of them wearing baseball caps back to front, trying to look like gangsters, s
howing off for girls walking by. Too young, Alet thought, too eager to grow up.

  “You have to talk to Mr. Terblanche.”

  Alet looked back at Mathebe. “Why? You interviewed him already.”

  “We did not have this knowledge yet.”

  “He’s not the talkative type, you know?”

  “That is the job, Constable. You keep asking questions until you find the right answers.”

  Alet sighed inwardly. “Ja. Of course.” The bent figure of Jakob caught her eye as he went into the liquor store down the street. “Okay, Sergeant. I’ll get right on that.” She opened the van door.

  “Be careful, Constable Berg.”

  “Ja … okay.” Alet got out of the van, suddenly feeling awkward. “You too.” As she walked down the street to the liquor store, a car horn honked behind her. Joey Joubert pulled up beside her.

  “Alet! On the job again?”

  “Haai, Joey. Ja. As of this morning.”

  “I knew all that other stuff was nonsense. The old tannies are all yapping, but I told them no, you shut up. If Alet shot someone, they deserved it.”

  “Thanks, man.” Alet glanced at the liquor store.

  “Are you coming tomorrow?”

  “Uh …”

  “André is performing. For the fund-raiser.”

  Right. It was the church bazaar weekend. “I don’t know, Joey. I’m dealing with some things at the moment.”

  “Oh come on, doll. It’s a chance to dress up and have fun. You could use some. There’s a special menu. Lemon meringue for dessert. Your favorite. And there will be booze.”

  Alet raised an eyebrow.

  “Only wine.” A sarcastic smile splayed across Joey’s pouty lips. “If it’s good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for Dominee Joubert.” He touched her arm. “I’ll save you a place at my table, okay? You can catch me up on who offed old Trudie. I know of a few tannies in town who prefer her six feet under.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Alet saw Jakob walk out of the liquor store, a brown paper bag clutched in one hand.

  “Fine. Okay.”

  Jakob turned the corner at the end of the block.

  “Starts at eight.”

  Alet waved at Joey as he drove on. She hurried to the corner. A few farmworkers stood outside the store, still in their blue overalls.

  “Do you know where Jakob went? He was here, just now,” Alet asked them.

  One of the men shook his head and looked away. Nobody else responded. Jakob couldn’t have gone far. Alet moved down the street at a walk-run. It was late afternoon and Unie was buzzing with workers coming in from the farms and people spending their All-pay government money. Later, drunken fights would break out. A few would end up in jail. But for now, all that existed was the anticipation of a good time.

  Alet stopped short as she got to the big stone church. In the distance, on the rise that snaked up the mountain overlooking Unie, she noticed Jakob’s skinny body swaying up the path. “Jakob!” Jakob turned around, smiled, waved at her with the hand that wasn’t clutched around a bottle neck, and continued up the mountain. “Ag, Jissis.” Alet ran after him. The incline was steeper than she thought, the day’s heat rising off the barren ground. She really had to do something about getting back into shape. Sweat was pouring down her face by the time she reached him. “Jakob. Fok. Stop, okay?”

  “What now, Mies?” Jakob grinned, the picture of innocence.

  Alet walked closer, trying to catch her breath. The bottle in Jakob’s hand had not been opened yet, but the smell of alcohol seeped out of his pores. “How much have you had to drink? It’s not even five o’clock yet.”

  “Nee, Mies. Is just a little happiness. Is all okay.”

  “I had a moerse time catching you, man.”

  “These legs are old but they’re fast, Mies. Just see.” Jakob started speed walking up the mountain.

  “Jakob! You come back here or I will bliksem you myself.”

  Jakob stopped. “Ai, Mies. What now? Why you so bedonnerd?”

  “I have to talk to you.”

  “Not now, Mies. Let a man have his dop in peace.” He did a little jig. “Hey, hey, it’s Friday!”

  “We can do it here or I can take you to the station for the night.”

  “Ai, nee. Ai, nee.” Jakob sank down haunches in the middle of the road, shaking his head. “You’re always ugly to me, Mies. I already tell you everything.”

  “I need to ask about Baas Boet.”

  “I don’t know anything, Mies. I told you. True’s bob. The baas is a good man. I told you, but you people never listen.”

  “He hit you, Jakob.”

  “Was nothing.” Jakob waved his hand in front of him. “Long forgot. Finish and klaar. No problems between us.”

  “Okay.” Alet walked closer to him. “Tell me, Jakob. Does Baas Boet know Baas Jeffrey Wexler?”

  “Baas Boet likes to dop at Zebra House, Mies. You know. I sometimes catch a ride when he goes to town.”

  “Did Baas Jeff ever come to the farm?”

  “I don’t know, Mies.”

  “How about Mies Trudie Pienaar?”

  Jakob dropped his bottle. He covered his head with his arms.

  Alet waited, but Jakob didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. “Jakob?” She bent down and touched his shoulder.

  Jakob jerked and he fell back, his arms swinging, trying to stop his fall. His face was wet.

  “Jakob, what’s going on?”

  “She’s dead, Mies. That’s all I know. Burned black. Black dead. Dead, dead, dead.” Jakob’s wrinkled face contorted. “She never coming back again. Never ever.”

  “You knew Mies Trudie?”

  “She was good. A good lady. Better than all of them.” Jakob gestured to the town below them. “Whole stinking lot.”

  “How did you know Mies Trudie, Jakob?”

  Jakob pushed himself off the ground. He swayed unsteady for a moment before retrieving his bottle.

  “Jakob, answer me.”

  Jakob turned away and staggered up the mountain.

  “Jakob!”

  “Just leave it, Mies,” he yelled without looking back. “Maybe another day, hey?”

  Alet let him continue his trek, determined to try again once he’d slept it off.

  She was busy changing out of her uniform when her cell rang. She sank down on her bed in only a pair of shorts, her tank top dangling over one arm, listening to Mathebe’s update. “That must be wrong, Johannes,” she said after he finished. “I thought you identified Trudie from dentals.”

  “The record was from a dentist in Oudtshoorn. I ran the fingerprints we found at her house for confirmation. The query came back this afternoon.”

  “Well, she looked bloody good for an octogenarian, is all I can say. Look, she must have used a fake ID, or there was a major cock-up when they digitized the records. Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “I do not know how to explain it, Constable Berg, but the captain is asking questions.”

  “Shit.” Alet pretended not to notice the silence on the other end of the line. “So who did Trudie’s fingerprints match up to?”

  “Lilly Maartens. Birth date, March 1931.”

  “Hold on. What day?”

  Alet heard a rustle of papers on the other end of the line.

  “The second.”

  “The date on Trudie Pienaar’s ID is the second of March ’58?”

  “Yes.”

  Alet forced a breath out pursed lips. Why would Trudie have taken the identity of someone so much older than she was? “What else do you have on Lilly Maartens?”

  “One moment.”

  There was a click as Alet was put on hold. She tried to get her top over her head, but Mathebe picked up again.

  “Place of birth, Winburg. There is a record of marriage. Nothing else.”

  “No DOD?”

  “No.”

  “And the husband?”

  Papers rustled. “Dean Kritzinger. Lawyer. So
me mention of activity in the ANC. He died during a home invasion.”

  “Okay.” Alet’s phone beeped. Call-waiting. “Look, I have to go, but I wanted to ask you something. Have you found anything that links Boet Terblanche’s foreman to Trudie Pienaar?”

  “I have not. Why do you ask?”

  “Probably nothing, but he was very upset this afternoon when I tried to talk to him. I think he knew her better than he’s let on.”

  The second call disconnected before she had time to pick it up. Mike Engelman’s number came up. Alet listened to the voice mail. Mike’s voice rambled through static.

  “Alet. I just saw the papers. I … well, I know you are working with Professor Koch, but I’d like to offer my help with the case. Please call if you need anything. Anytime. Okay? You have my number. Please call.”

  Alet had read the article online that morning, complete with a fuzzy photograph of Trudie, sensationalized with doom-and-gloom statistics about the increasing murder rate, which was the highest in a country not at war, it claimed. The reporter identified Mynhardt as the officer in charge of the case, no mention of her or Mathebe. She wondered if Mike really wanted to help or if this was his way of feeling out the waters after the other night. Either way, she didn’t want to deal with it, not right now. She turned her phone off and finished dressing. Grabbing a six-pack out of the fridge, she headed over to the main house. Tilly answered the door after a couple of minutes. A fragility hung about her, her pale skin punctuated by dark shadows.

  “I’ve got refreshments.”

  “Come in.” Tilly led the way through the house. Most of the earlier chaos had been replaced by stacks of boxes in the hallway.

  “You want something to eat? Only toast and Marmite, I’m afraid.” Tilly picked up an empty plate from the kitchen table and dumped its contents into the sink.

  “No. I’m good.” Alet took two beers out of the pack. “You’ve been busy.”

  “I’m putting the house up for sale.” Tilly took a beer from Alet and twisted the top off.

  “How are you holding up?”

  Tilly shook her head. “I thought I could make up for things if I stayed here.” She sighed, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “But that’s stupid, isn’t it?” Her voice wavered. “Anyway. Perhaps it’s time to start fresh.”