‘Now listen to this, Bella …’
‘What, Quentin?’ He’d been on her mind more than usual. Tomorrow she was going away and she was already missing him.
‘After Curly was identified at the mortuary I asked if I could take his T-shirt and track pants that had been stuffed in a bag. They said I was welcome as there was nothing inside them.’ Philander chuckled. ‘They were wrong. I checked the pockets again at home, and there it was …’ He placed a thin, stringy line about eight centimetres long on the desk, its whiteness contrasting against the dark wood.
‘So,’ Bella said, staring at it, ‘it looks like used dental floss … the expanding kind, all fluffy.’ She shrugged. ‘Or it could be from a pocket lining that’s frayed.’
‘To most people, yes, but it’s actually ghost cotton.’
‘Ghost cotton?’
Philander took it by the ends and stretched it into a thin, straight line. Miraculously the fluffiness disappeared. ‘Fishermen use it to stop bait from flying off during casting, and so that fish don’t take it off the hook too easily … marvellous stuff.’
‘It doesn’t mean he was fishing when he died, Quentin, this piece could be old.’
‘Maybe, but it would have shown more wear after being washed in detergent a few times. This looks like it’s been in the sea. I mean, it’s made for the sea so that it doesn’t fall apart quickly.’
‘Maybe you’re clutching at straws, or string in this case?’ she smiled, not wanting his hopes dashed. ‘What are you going to do?’ She thought it was a creepy name – ghost cotton. She picked it up and felt its elasticity. Philander wasn’t a man to let go of a clue until he had ‘interrogated’ it fully.
‘I think it calls for a little trip,’ he said sitting down.
Bella thought about her own journey tomorrow. ‘I won’t be here for a while … I’ve got that SAPS course and then straightaway Wayne, Bokkie, Greg and me are off to the Breede River mouth – first holiday in years. But I’m doing duty over Christmas, so I have to be back. Be careful, Quentin, whatever you do.’ She’d be away from the comforting crackle of the radio, away from the Flats, and this man. A feeling of dread swept over Bella – deep and murky so that she couldn’t fathom the reason for it. It brought an edge to her love for Philander, and it turned the drab little office into a refuge, and her promise to herself never to tell him, into a burden.
Bella got up and walked around the desk to where Philander was sitting, his mind on his trip. ‘Quentin, please would you stand up.’ Philander looked up not because of what she said – Bella was his superior – but how she said it. He got up, slightly startled. ‘Quentin, please hold me.’ Philander pulled back instinctively, she was in uniform with multiple pips on her shoulder. Bella went on her toes, pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. Philander uttered a long sigh, and surrendered. They didn’t talk. So much had been said between the lines for too long.
She placed her head on his shoulder. ‘We won’t see each other for a while. Quentin, promise me that at the right time you’ll get help, not go it alone.’
‘Still only hunches, Bella, but at least there’s something to work on.’
‘Remember, you’re not Rambo, you’re SAPS,’ she said and held him tighter.
•
From the station Philander drove in a south-westerly direction in an unmarked car and in his civvies, his thoughts alternating between Curly and Bella. It was a day for dark glasses as the sun glared off False Bay onto the road hugging it – the grandness of St James behind him, quaint Kalk Bay now coming into view. Colourful wooden bathing huts lined the small beach on the other side of the railway line. Further out a few surfers were riding the point break near the Brass Bell. Kalk Bay was postcard pretty, peaceful as if crime could not happen there. But Detective Warrant Officer Philander knew better than to be fooled by pretty places and faces. The small harbour came into view. At around one o’clock its brightly painted fishing fleet would return for the daily fish ‘auction’. Philander resolved to be back in time to buy snoek or kabeljou for dinner. His teenage daughters, Trisha and Lucy, had taken over many of Bettie’s duties, including the cooking. Philander cared for them and they cared for him – an unspoken understanding since Bettie’s brutal death as if the girls knew that without them Philander would quietly and slowly waste away.
The wide beach at Fish Hoek was already shimmering in the heat when Philander drove through the town. At Simonstown, Philander thought how strange it was that Gatiep and Curly had been found dead not far from each other but far from Lavender Hill – Gatiep by cleaners on the train at Simonstown, and Curly at Miller’s Point four kilometres south. It was highly likely that they had died elsewhere – the railway line was long and so was the coastline and there were strong currents. Even so … Philander shook his head. One thing at a time, he told himself. He needed to concentrate on Curly, except Bella wouldn’t let him. The wordless intensity with which she had walked into his arms had taken his breath away. Philander lived with a terrible guilt – he had loved Bella even before Bettie died. Keeping it to himself, not breaking up Bella’s family or her heart had given him solace – until the other night. Without a single word, and in a matter of minutes, their passion had sprung as if from a prison, leaving them with its attendant dangers. Bella would return, and then what? All Philander knew, now that he had felt her love, was that he could not possibly carry on fighting it.
•
Philander took the turnoff to Miller’s Point where Curly’s body had washed up among the massive boulders protecting the tidal pool. He parked and walked down to the lawn at the edge of the beach. To his left False Bay unfolded in a vast semi-circle finishing opposite him across the water at Cape Hangklip, awesome but depressing to Philander because at its heart lay the Flats. To his right the peninsula jutted into the ocean to a sharp, rocky point like a giant primitive stone weapon. In front of him the natural pool was filling up with the tide, shimmering invitingly. Soon Miller’s Point would be overrun with revellers but today nothing seemed to jar, not even the shrill warning to a couple on the beach from an African Oystercracker protecting its nest, or the excited cries of black-backed gulls hovering over the incoming fishing boats. Another pretty place, Philander mused as he drove back slowly to Main Road, pulling the pieces together in his mind.
Curly had washed up at Miller’s Point but he could have drowned kilometres away given the currents. With Lavender Hill 30 km to the north, Curly most likely came by car but there’d been no reports of unclaimed vehicles parked along the coastline. That is if Curly came alone. The problem for Philander was that if Curly had been in a car with others they could have gone to any number of spots. The fact that Miller’s Point fell outside the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve meant nothing – Curly could have drowned inside the reserve, anywhere up Cape Point. Philander knew that the Benguela current pushed around the Point into False Bay, and because the water ran deep so close to the rocks the tow was strong. So it was more likely that Curly drowned south of Miller’s Point than north of it. South of Miller’s there were three spots before the reserve’s boundary and one on the boundary. Two of those, Partridge Point and Smitswinkel Bay, were inaccessible to cars. But once inside the reserve there were parking facilities for Venus Pool, Bordjiesrif, Rooikrans, and others. Curly could have driven, or been driven, to any one of these inside the reserve. People enjoyed many activities there, all of them requiring equipment of some kind except for walking. But none had been found, and the likes of Curly wouldn’t come all this way just to walk. Lastly, there was the ghost cotton in his pants that pointed to fishing.
As he approached the entrance to the reserve Philander wondered again if Curly’s death had been accidental or planned. Many an angler had misjudged the deep water rising up and slamming against the rocks and ledges. Curly’s mates, assuming they were fellow gangsters, would have wanted it to look like an accident. But if so, they would have left something behind. If he had been murdered there would have
been a motive – not difficult with gangsters.
Philander was feeling depressed. There were many more questions than answers. He had hoped something new would emerge from his trip but it now seemed unlikely. All it had done was to make him realise the enormity of his undertaking. A wild, windswept place like this would cling to its secrets like barnacle to rock. He would drive back with only his snoek from Kalk Bay, and there’d be no Bella.
As Philander pulled up at the gate to the reserve he thought of how Bella had stepped into his arms and into his life, changing it forever – a single act conveying a thousand words. He thought of his workload – 150 dockets on his desk at various stages of investigation, all active until closed, and that he had no help. Bella often wondered how he coped. Philander had only 48 hours to lay a charge failing which he had to release suspects, there were inspection dates for each docket so he couldn’t neglect any one of them, he had to attend long court sessions, fetch suspects who’d been out on bail, and there was the relentless paperwork. Did he really need a case that was not his officially? But he thought of Bettie, the terror she must have felt even before the car was set alight with her in it. Did she pray, plead, scream, or was she silent, unable to grasp the horror of what was happening?
Philander parked to the side of the gate and beckoned the attendant. It was quiet this weekday. The man came out – middle-aged, overweight from sitting so much yet seemingly reluctant at the prospect of motion. He had a pained look on his beaten face. ‘Ja, meneer, what is it you want?’
Philander took out his police ID and held it up for him. The man’s manner became instantly more respectful. ‘Ja, Sarge, is there anything I can do?’ his weary look gone.
Philander smiled inwardly. Coloureds referred to cops as ‘sarge’ regardless of rank. It was done mostly in ignorance but amongst gangsters the purpose was to demean, bring cops down. Constables didn’t mind it, captains and colonels did.
‘As a matter of fact, you can. Not many cars come through here during the week this time of year, is that right?’
‘That’s right, Sarge. Soon they will, though.’
‘Were you on duty the week before last?’
‘Hmm, let’s see … ja, I was.’
‘Okay, think hard … what’s your name by the way?’
‘It’s Cyrus … Cy to my choms, Sarge.’
Philander shook his hand. ‘Call me Quentin. Now, Cy, think … do you remember any guys coming through that week, not tourist types you understand, but okes like us?’ Curly’s body had been found on a Saturday, and he’d been dead no more than a few days.
Cyrus’s face squeezed together. It was black-brown and dried-up like the husk of washed-up redbait. ‘I’m thinking Sarge … gimme a minute.’ Baboons barked nearby, always on the lookout for tourists who didn’t bother to read the warning notices. An eagle floated above Philander. ‘Not many come through here …’
‘That’s the point, Cy, if there’re not many then is there nothing you can recall – faces, conversation, cars, anything?’
‘Minute, Sarge, you say cars? There were some guys, looked like ouens vannie Toun …’
‘From the Flats, how many?’
‘Two, I’m not sure. As I was saying, Sarge, this car … it had woelage wheels, a sound system that klopped mal, and a dinges on the back. Ja, I remember now, it was like the wings of an angel.’
Philander suddenly became aware of the south-easterly tugging at the fynbos, at his shirt, at the entire desolate hill he was standing on. ‘Nuh, Cy, and how many came back in it?’
‘Ah, Sarge, I was too vedala to remember … long day, you see.’
On the way back Philander could feel the heat of the midday sun through the roof of the car – it had no air-conditioning. It did nothing to melt the arctic blue of his eyes as he followed the winding road.
Twenty-four
Sarai stood in line with the other girls waiting for the man to pick one of them. The top of his head was bald and grey like a boulder. Lower down, above his ears, the remaining hair had formed a half wreath, his flushed face – Viagra? – filling in the missing half. He trembled as he scrutinised the women. A depressing sight, Sarai thought, probably his first time in a brothel. But she could no longer afford to be fussy – the johns were increasingly choosing other girls, forcing Sarai to say yes to handcuffs, blindfolds, whips, video cameras, drugs, sex without condoms, and her worst, anal sex.
The large lounge and dining area was filled with couches and soft chairs for girls to drape themselves over – an arousing sight to any man walking in. A flat-screen TV was permanently on the Series channel. When the girls weren’t having sex they watched soapies and reality shows. In the kitchen they made tea and coffee, and those who lived in like Sarai prepared basic meals for themselves – at their cost. High walls, a steel gate on the street with a wooden door behind it and a video camera above it kept what went on inside private, and to a degree, safe. It was men’s wallets that opened the gate. Once inside, the release of pent-up lust often came with violence – Sarai had been hit, choked, and raped, had knives put to her throat. Rough sex was the least of it. The pimps offered some protection but inside the bedrooms a lot could happen before help came. Fines were a different kind of harassment – the girls were fined regularly for being drunk or cheeky, fighting amongst themselves, not cleaning rooms after sex, and falling asleep in working hours. One of the girls was fined R5 000 for staying away because of a cyst in her vagina, another for not pitching up after her father died. They were expected to work even when they had their periods. Those who lived in had to work seven days a week. Client fees ranged from R200 to R1 000 a shot, the charge for travel and a sleepover was anything from R1 000 to R3 000. The girls paid the brothel owner 50% but what the girls kept went on rent, toiletries, food, condoms, paying for ads in local newspapers, fines, and drugs. The drugs were what made them stay – on their own the women could not keep their habit going. With Sarai there was an additional reason – her passport had been taken away and she was in the country illegally.
The man’s green-brown eyes were now on Sarai. She stood in her high heels and short skirt, hands on hips, meeting his gaze hoping her hooded eyes would do the rest. He walked over to the head pimp, Tyrone Jones, and whispered in his ear. Tyrone had the appearance of a choir boy – innocent eyes, a face foreign to razors, hair flattened on his forehead. He wore ill-fitting jeans and a faded checked shirt that looked like someone’s hand-me-downs. Tyrone’s boyish appearance merely emphasised his brutality – he was gay and could mete out punishment while not in the slightest bit interested in them as sex objects. It made him feel nothing – the girls were there for the taking but he got others to do that while he watched. Instead of lashes he ordered gang rape depending on the transgression. He was worse even than Cupido, Sarai thought, if that were possible. To customers he was Tyrone, to the girls, Evil Boy.
Evil Boy called Sarai over and said quietly, ‘He says okay if you give him the schoolgirl treatment … you know, uniform, hat, and all that. But no condom, he wants the innocent virgin thing.’
She had a customer, and one who wanted fantasy! She looked at him hoping he’d prove to be impotent. Acting without fucking – it would give her a break, allow her mind to roam free while she played his games and imagined she was back on her island basking in the warmth of her family and her friends and the endless summer.
She smiled at him, nodded, and took him by the hand.
•
When you had to fuck for a living there was no such thing as private space or private parts. Sarai worked and slept in her room consisting of a double bed, a chair, towels, a box of condoms, and lubricating jelly. It wasn’t her own like her bedroom on Koh Samui – it was invaded by strangers every day who had sex with Sarai or, if she didn’t make it in the line up, with other girls using Sarai’s room. Evil Boy believed that a bedroom standing empty was as wasteful as a bus travelling empty. But it was the constant invasion of Sarai’s innermost spaces tha
t was slowly killing her. It wasn’t from any disease that she was aware of – the girls were tested regularly – it was more a dying of the soul that made her body shrivel up like a flower without sun and rain and air. The mirror never lied. In less than six months her hair had lost its shine, her skin its glow, and her body its fullness. What stared back at her was a face sinking in below high cheek bones and around the mouth so that she looked forty not twenty. Even her teeth were going bad. The last time she felt beautiful was with Lena. Oh, how could she have given up those nights in bed with Lena in her little house! There she experienced togetherness of the kind men were incapable of giving, intense desire without the threat of violence. It was the closest thing to love Sarai had ever felt. She thought of going back but knew there would be no money or sympathy for her dangerous habits and that before long their little world would be filled with her screaming and her urge to destroy. She had nightmares about killing the one person she loved apart from her family.
She was trapped here, between the line-ups, the bed and the bathroom. In the beginning Evil Boy had allowed her to go out accompanied by a pimp, as often as she wanted. He appeared to be kind and she was grateful but he had known too that she was fearful of the outside world and soon would not want to go out, too afraid of being caught and sent to prison where she’d have no drugs and go mad and never see her family again.
She felt like a bird in a cage with the door open but incapable of flying out.
•
It was in the morning that the stranger walked in, when the girls were still blow-drying their hair, putting on their make-up, and watching TV squashed up on the couches. He was the kind they’d consider going to bed with for no fee, the kind that probably had never needed to pay for sex. He wasn’t cute or overly handsome. It was more the touch of animal about him. Through the haze of smoke they stared at him, their unsaid words hanging in the air, ‘What’s someone like you doing here, at this hour of the day?’ Sarai was the only one who ignored him – six months earlier she would have had the confidence to engage him, now she had no hope.
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