by JT Lawrence
"Put it out of its misery," he'd say. "No point in keeping substandard stock." As if the weak calf was a faulty product you could dispose of, just sweep off the shelf and into the bin.
And yet here the creature is, in her lap, gulping down the milk from the bottle Susman had prepared; its survival instinct stronger than life's inherent cruelty. Damaged goods, Susman thinks. She can relate.
When the phone rings, Robin knows it is De Villiers. He’s one of the few people who have her number. She also knows that someone has died.
“Who is it?” she asks him. “Who died?”
“We’re not sure if she’s dead.”
“Okay,” she says. What she means is: You’ll see.
“Perfect case for you,” says the captain. He makes it sound as if she enjoys learning about missing women. As if she’ll jump at the chance to drive into the savage city that took everything from her.
Robin turns and gazes out of the window. Red soil, cloudless sky. “It’s calving season.”
De Villiers hesitates. “Will you come?”
“There’s a calf here that needs me.”
“There’s a missing woman here that needs you more.”
What Susman doesn’t say: The calf is still alive. I can make a difference to the calf.
Ex-detective Robin Susman arrives in Johannesburg feeling resentful and tired after the drive. She's getting older; the journey is getting harder. She rubs her knees. Since when did driving make her knees ache? She spends a moment feeling powerless against the relentless surge of time; a torpedo with miniature grapple hooks that pull at your skin, hair, muscles, bones, psyche. What is the point? she wonders, as she takes in the visage of the smoky grey city. What is the point of anything?
De Villiers meets her at a coffee shop and greets her with a nod. It means: I appreciate you coming. I would hug you if it didn’t make you flinch. I wish you lived here in the city instead of on that fokken farm of yours in the middle of godforsaken wherever.
“How are you?” Robin asks when they sit down.
“You know,” Devil says, eyes bloodshot. “Overworked, underpaid.”
“Same as always, then,” says Robin.
Devil nods. “Same as always.”
He opens a file and spreads the photographs on the café table. “Felicia Heddon.”
The missing woman smiles at Robin, but the smile does not reach her troubled green eyes.
“This time, it wasn’t the husband,” said De Villiers. “She’s single.”
She was single, thinks Susman. “Signs of a struggle?”
Devil shakes his head.
“Threats? Restraining orders?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“So, Felicia Heddon just disappeared into thin air?”
It was true that missing people fascinated Susman. How a human body, seventy-or-so kilograms of flesh and blood could vanish, seemingly without a trace. Children snatched away from parents; women who are never seen again; men who go to work one day and never come back. But no matter how careful the abductor was, no matter how meticulous the killer was, there was always a trace left behind, some kind of arrow, some clue. Magnetised iron shavings pointing in the direction she needed to look. Whether they were fortunate enough to find the clue was another story altogether. Susman blinks at the captain. “Have we got anything at all?”
"Nothing," says Devil. "Nothing was missing from her house as far as we could tell, not even a toothbrush. And no apparent reason for her to leave. Stable job, no excessive debt. No obvious stresses. We've asked for her medical records."
He orders another round of coffees.
“Friends?” asks Susman.
“What?”
“Did she have friends?”
“None that we could find.”
“Who reported her missing?”
“Her colleague, or her boss. Not sure. Someone at work.”
That’s sad, thinks Susman. No one to report you missing except the person who needs their email responded to. Almost as pitiful as a woman with achy knees who bought a sheep farm in the middle of the Free State to escape her demons. Of course, demons have a way of following you, even if you sell everything you own and start a new life somewhere else. Demons like the dark nights in the country, where the night is as thick as molasses. They have more power in the long quiet nights of nothingness.
“Susman? You okay?”
Robin snaps out of it. “I’m just thinking.”
“What are you thinking?”
“No one would miss her. Maybe her killer knew that.”
Robin feels a heaviness in her lungs; a boot stamping down on her chest. Her hand moves up to her throat. Darkness leaks into everything. She tries to push down the cold blackness so that she can breathe.
“She’s underground.”
“A basement?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Maybe she was buried. Or suffocated.”
De Villiers knows better than to ask Susman how she knows that. He's used to her unnerving hunches; relies on them.
“Who are we interviewing?” she asks.
Devil looks at the scuffed face of his watch. “Carlos Amada. The ex-husband.”
Susman and De Villiers pull up to a security complex in Sunninghill Estate. It’s modest, with paint streaked by rust and rainwater. The guard gets Amada on the phone, and the black gate rolls open. Felicia Heddon’s ex-husband waits for them in the sun-baked parking lot. He’s wearing a shiny tracksuit, and Robin gets the feeling that he has dressed down to appear unworried. Looking anxious might make the cops suspect him, so he’s gone for athleisure, despite it being the middle of a workday.
“Day off?” Susman asks him. He peers at her, eyebrows meeting in the middle of his tanned forehead, trying to size her up; perhaps trying to determine if she’s a threat.
"Working from home," he replies. He invites them in and offers them coffee, which comes out of an espresso pod machine. Susman feels grateful and judgemental at the same time. Good coffee is a rare and prized possession, but as the used tin pods tumble into the rattling canister, she knows they'll end up in a landfill and take centuries to melt back into the earth. Carlos Amada cares more for his own personal comforts than he does for others. Susman wouldn't be surprised if he ordered bottled water at restaurants instead of tap water.
The house is cluttered with children's things—backpacks with fluffy keyrings, inside-out jerseys, a tablet with a cracked screen. Bright orange grinning jack-o'-lantern buckets still cradling cheap sweets. Four bedrooms and an office. The decor is mismatched and dated. Amada has money, but not enough. He'd like a bigger house, for one, and more domestic help. He'd like to have more space and tablets without cracked screens.
They settle on the patio beneath a garden umbrella. The small lawn is a tangle of toys.
“When is the last time you saw Felicia?” asks De Villiers.
Carlos bites his top lip while he thinks. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“We don’t see each other much.” He taps his fingers on the table and then holds his chin. “Actually, to be honest, we actively avoid each other.”
“She reverted to her maiden name,” says Susman.
“Can’t say I’m sorry about that.”
Susman doesn’t break eye contact. “So you’d describe your relationship as acrimonious?”
"In polite company, yes," Amada says and chuckles to De Villiers, who doesn't return his mirth. Amada wants male solidarity; an unspoken agreement that women are more trouble than they're worth. De Villiers' face is stone.
“Why was your relationship problematic?” asks Susman.
"Honestly?" he says and ruffles his hair. "Felicia's a total bitch. When I heard she was missing, the first thing I thought was good riddance."
Susman blinks at him. “You were happy to hear she may be in trouble?”
"Look, lady," Amada says. "If you knew her, you'd understand. Felicia's always in
trouble, and it's all her own doing. Yes, I was happy. I thought she'd finally moved away. Better for us. Better for everyone. It's not the first time she's just left without telling anyone where she was going or when she'd get back. I don't know where she's gone, but I'm hoping she'll stay away."
“She’s been missing for six days,” says Devil.
Carlos Amada gulps his coffee. "It's different, now. Obviously, I'm a bit worried now."
Now that you’re the prime suspect, thinks De Villiers.
“I remember now,” Carlos puts his mug down. “I know when I last saw her because we had an argument. A big argument. In fact, I can tell you the date, because it was on Halloween.”
“What was the fight about?”
“Ugh,” Amada says, pulling a face. “It was just Felicia being Felicia. She showed up drunk, wanting to take the kids trick-or-treating. It happens sometimes. She gets these romantic ideas in her head that she’s a good mother and then shows up out of the blue after sucking down a bottle of wine at lunch.”
“So, you told her she couldn’t take the kids.”
"Let me put it this way. Felicia poisons everything. Not even a pot plant is safe with her; she couldn't keep a freakin' weed alive. On Halloween she was three sheets to the wind, jingling her car keys," he says, shaking his head. "There was no way I was letting the kids get into the car with her."
“Was she often drunk?” asks Devil.
Carlos snorts. “Is the Pope Catholic?”
“Alcoholism is a disease, you know,” says Susman. “It sounds like she needed help.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Carlos says, then checks his phone. He’s had enough of the interview. “Are we going to be much longer? I need to call into a meeting at eleven.”
"We'll have a quick look around if you don't mind."
There is a hesitation. They all know there is no search warrant.
“Sure,” Amada says. “Knock yourself out.”
De Villiers and Susman walk through the house slowly, their eyes trawling for details. Carlos stays outside, his foot bouncing in its running shoe. When they find a door to what looks like a basement, Susman takes a sharp inhalation and jiggles the handle. She gets that feeling of pressure on her chest. “It’s locked,” she whispers to De Villiers.
De Villiers gives the handle a forceful turn, but the door remains in place.
“Let me get that for you,” says Carlos, from behind them, making them both jump. The pressure in Susman’s chest gets tighter as her adrenaline spikes. She pictures Amada pushing them into the basement; imagines falling down the stairs and hitting her head, only to regain her consciousness and see Felicia in a cage. Her dry mouth tastes of stale coffee and bile. Armada pushes past her.
Robin swallows hard. “Why do you keep it locked?”
“Dangerous stuff down there,” he says, grimacing as he turns the key. “Need to keep the kids out.”
She realises she can’t go down into the basement with him and looks at De Villiers, who reads her expression immediately.
"You stay up here," he tells her. Usually, she hates it when De Villiers tells her what to do, but this time she nods and lets him go. There is no fall down the stairs and no yelling from below. When he comes back up, he looks satisfied. "Let's go."
“It’s his workshop,” Devil tells her in the car.
“What kind of workshop?”
“Wood,” says De Villiers, taking a corner in his slow and measured way. “Carpentry. It’s his hobby.”
“But why in the basement?”
De Villiers shrugs. “No space for it in the rest of the house.”
“And it didn’t feel weird down there?”
“You mean Fritzl-weird?”
“Yes. Or any kind of weird.”
"Not that I could tell. I did swipe some wood shavings, though," he says and taps his jacket pocket. They didn't have a warrant, so they wouldn't be able to book it into forensics. Yet.
“You also get a feeling from him?” asked Susman. “A guilty feeling?”
“Ja,” he says, looking at her. “He’s hiding something.”
The human condition, thinks Robin, as they exit the highway near the station.
“Susman!” says Blom, the tall Dutch detective. “What brings you to this hellhole of pestilence and plagues?”
Seko throws a scrunched-up piece of paper at him, which bounces off his chest. "Ignore the Flying Dutchman," says the sergeant. "He's learning advanced English and using big words to irritate us."
“I’m enlarging my vocabulary,” says Blom.
“Sies, man,” says Khaya. “Get a room.”
“Susman’s here for the Heddon case,” says De Villiers.
“The boozer?” asks Blom.
“The missing woman,” says Devil.
“Don’t speak ill of the dead,” says Khaya, and Blom looks suitably apologetic.
“See?” says Susman to De Villiers. “Everyone knows she’s dead but you.”
“What’s wrong with being optimistic?” asks the captain.
“Optimism gets cops killed,” says Susman. “Besides, it doesn’t suit you.”
They gravitate to De Villiers’ office and perch amongst the piles of brown boxes.
“Did you nab the husband?” asks Blom.
“Ex-husband,” says De Villiers.
“Not yet,” says Susman.
“But it’s him?”
“Probably.” Susman stretches and sighs. “He admits to having an altercation with her on October 31st.”
“Altercation,” says Khaya. “There’s a big word for you, Blom.”
The Dutchman ignores the jibe. "But Heddon only went missing on the 5th of November.”
“Correct,” says De Villiers.
“Perhaps they met up and fought again,” says Blom. “Or perhaps he didn’t do it.”
“Both are possible,” says Susman. “It’s a shame she didn’t have any friends. I would have liked to ask them what her state of mind was after that argument.”
“No need,” says Khaya. “She was admitted to Park Lane hospital for alcohol poisoning on the 3rd of November. Looks like she was on a three-day bender and her liver didn’t keep up with her.”
“Maybe it was a bender. Maybe it was a cry for help. Or a suicide attempt.”
“That would line up with her medical records,” says Khaya, passing Susman a folder. “Bipolar, with severe depressive episodes. Refuses to take medication.”
“Medication doesn’t agree with everyone,” says Susman.
De Villiers rubs his face. “Blow-up on the 31st. Hospitalised on the 3rd. Disappears on the 5th.”
“Maybe she ran away,” says Blom. “Or maybe she’s lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”
“Again, possible,” says Susman.
The captain’s phone rings. He answers and thanks the person on the other side of the line.
“Steenkamp is here,” he says.
Robin and Devil walk into the interview room while Blom and Khaya watch from the other side of the two-way glass. The man stands up. He’s young, brown-haired, and wearing spectacles. He’s sweating.
“Glen Steenkamp?” asks De Villiers, and the man nods.
“You’re the one who reported Felicia Heddon missing?” asks Robin, once they’re all sitting down.
"Yes," he says, pale against the grey wall behind him. "Felicia misses work sometimes, and I cover for her. But this time it's been too long. I'm worried something has happened."
“What could have happened?”
“That’s the thing about Felicia,” says the young man. “Anything could happen.”
“She has a drinking problem,” says Devil.
A shadow of guilt winged over his face. Was it because he was in some way responsible, or was it because he didn’t want to talk badly of Heddon behind her back?
“You were friends?” asks Robin.
“Colleagues,” says Steenkamp. “As far as I could tell, Felicia didn’t have many friends
.”
“You used to talk, though?”
“Not often,” he says. “Only when she needed to. It was always about her.”
“You thought she was selfish,” says Susman.
Steenkamp shrugs. “No one’s perfect.”
“What do you think happened to her?” asks Robin.
He shrugs again and avoids eye contact. “I don’t know.”
“If you had to guess,” says De Villiers.
Steenkamp stared at the wall a little longer. “I’d say … I’d say her ex had something to do with it.”
Susman sits up a little straighter. “Her ex? Carlos?”
“Ja,” says Steenkamp. “They had an … unhealthy relationship.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“I don’t know. It seemed twisted. Co-dependent. Toxic. That day she got hospitalised?”
“Yes?”
“He sent her something that morning. Something that made her go off the rails.”
“What do you mean?”
“He couriered something to her house.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do you know this, if she wasn’t at work?”
"The hospital phoned me when they admitted her for alcohol poisoning. Felicia had given my details for her emergency contact; I don't know why. I guess it was because I listened to her problems. She didn't have any friends, and she wouldn't have wanted her ex to know."
"So you visited her in the hospital?"
Steenkamp nods. “That’s when she told me about the parcel from Carlos.”
“You have no idea what it was?”
“No,” says Steenkamp. “I was distracted. The doctor told me she almost died. That she needed to stop drinking or she would die. As if I was responsible for her.”
“Did you feel responsible for her?” asks Robin.
"I didn't want to," says the young man. "But in a way, I guess I was."
Khaya finds the courier and waybill number. “I triangulated the date and address. A bakkie delivered a large parcel to Felicia at home, and she signed for it.”
Devil grabs his jacket. “Let’s go.”
He drives a little faster than usual on the way to Felicia Heddon's house. They find the courier's packaging stuffed inside the garbage wheelie bin. A quick phone call to the courier company confirms it was sent from Carlos Amada.