Daddy's Girl (24 page)

‘Clare knows her stuff,’ said Riedwaan.

‘She’s not in the force,’ said Van Zyl. ‘She’s too close to those gangsters, with the work she’s been doing.’

‘The women,’
Riedwaan corrected him. ‘Mainly the women. Anyway, my hands are tied. Do you think I’d be going about things in this way if I could help it? I thought you could have a look, see what you’ve got on record.’

‘Not much any more,’ said Van Zyl.

‘Your crime intelligence stuff?’

‘The SAPS is no longer an intelligence organisation. We’re meant to spend our time playing soccer with delinquents
and going to community meetings so people can insult us. Our research budgets were cut last time round, and the best we can do now is negative testing at the scenes we get called to.’

‘Phiri liked your research. He’s a scientist so he knows the way to keep you is to let you explore, play with expensive equipment,’ persisted Riedwaan. ‘He liked the idea of profiling the labs, finding out which
labs the drugs were coming from. So that you can charge the dealers and the owners with much bigger crimes than just dealing here and dealing there.’

‘That went nowhere fast – like most intelligent ideas.’ Van Zyl squared the papers up and handed them back to Riedwaan.

‘Phiri can squeeze a budget out of a stone,’ said Riedwaan. ‘If it’s a secret, then all the better for him. Spending as
much time in the Soviet Union as he did, makes secrecy a habit.’

‘A safe habit.’ Van Zyl zipped his racket into its cover and pulled on a white pullover. ‘Your old partner, Van Rensburg, wasn’t keen. But Phiri did manage to wheedle some money out of a bilateral agreement with the Americans. He tell you that?’

‘Well, you’re still here. You didn’t take that post in North Dakota,’ Riedwaan
shrugged. ‘Something must have kept you here other than the weather.’

‘Did Phiri send you?’

‘Not exactly.’

Louis van Zyl eyed Riedwaan closely.

‘I’ll shower in the clubhouse. Meet me at the lab in half an hour. What you want will take us a while. And it gives me a reason to avoid my mother-in-law.’

‘Your silver straw.’ Rita handed Clare a sheet of paper. ‘I checked all the repairs, all the purchases. Most involved foreigners staying at Waterfront hotels. All the others I spoke to, apart from one, claimed to have their pens in their possession. I did a record check. Nothing that I could find, unless you consider being filthy rich in a sea of poverty a crime.’

‘All except one,
you said?’

‘The second-last one on the list,’ said Rita. ‘His was stolen.’

Clare read Rita’s notes.

‘Professor Young?’

‘That’s the one. Said he was mugged on Table Mountain.’

‘You checked it out?’ asked Clare.

‘I did,’ said Rita. ‘Robbery reported a month ago. He’s an elderly man, and was alone. Told me he’d been hiking on the mountain since he was eight years old. He was
attacked by at least two men. He didn’t see them, just heard a couple of them speak. Some Mountain Men doing a patrol found him lying unconscious. A blow to the head with a rock. Camera, shoes, jacket – all gone.’

‘And the pen?’

‘That too, with a notebook. It happened near the old slave wash houses above Gorge Road.’

‘That’s right where Yasmin was kidnapped.’

‘I know,’ said Rita.
‘The Mountain Men searched the whole area. They found nothing. But it’s a place where there’s easy access to the mountain. So it’s a mugging hotspot because of that. The report’s in there. Read it through. His address is there too. And his phone number. They also did number plate checks of vehicles parked in the area. Nothing came up, though. For what it’s worth, here’s a copy of the notes.’

Clare took the slim envelope.

‘I was hoping…’ said Clare.

‘We always do, don’t we?’

It took Clare ten minutes to get from Caledon Square to Rosebank, a shabby suburb tucked below the University. The professor’s house was the last one in a cul-de-sac. The neighbours’ gardens were overgrown with unfashionable plants, and African masks and curios gathered dust on verandas sealed in
with metal bars.

Clare knocked. She recognised the Bach concerto she heard behind the door.

‘Yes?’

‘My name is Clare Hart. May I speak to you, please?’

The door opened a fraction, revealing one mild blue eye and a slice of tweed jacket.

‘Professor Young?’

A nod.

‘I have something that belongs to you. A Dunhill pen. I was wondering if I might ask you some questions about
it.’

‘Are you with the police?’

‘I suppose you could say so.’

Professor Young opened the door wide. ‘Come in, my dear. Come in.’

The entrance hall was dim; piles of books were stacked on bookshelves, and on the walls were faded pictures of young men in cricket whites.

‘Come through to the kitchen,’ he said. ‘The rest of the house has defeated me.’

At the end of the passageway,
sunlight splashed into a conservatory. A moth-eaten Labrador wheezed in the corner. The professor made a perfunctory attempt to move newspapers and tea cups out of the way.

‘Sit down,’ he said, settling opposite her. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Is this yours?’ Clare asked, taking the pen out of her bag and laying it on the table.

‘Yes, it is mine. I had just had it repaired when it was
stolen from me during an attack.’ He touched the livid mark on his right temple. ‘I’m lucky I’m here to receive it from you, Miss Hart – such a beautiful messenger, too. Where did you find it?’

‘It was given to me,’ said Clare. ‘By someone who told me she’d found it lying in a gutter in Oranjezicht – right where a little girl who disappeared on Friday was last seen.’

Professor Young turned
the pen over in his hand.

‘Well, I reported its loss at the time. Everything went. My camera, my shoes, my pen, even my notebook.’

‘Yes, I saw that in the report,’ said Clare. ‘Perhaps you could tell me what happened.’

‘I walk on the mountain every day. Or at least, I used to. I haven’t, since the attack.’ He touched the scar on his head. ‘I used to walk along the contour path around
Devil’s Peak. I’d sit and write there, above the wash houses. My wife and I often picnicked in that spot, before she passed on. She was a botanist, and ever since I’ve been on my own I’d sit there, write her some lines about what was in flower, and how things are without her.’

The dog got up and laid its head on the professor’s lap. He smoothed her ears.

‘Is that the place where you were
attacked?’ Clare asked.

‘Yes. But I don’t remember much. I’m not much of a witness. They came from behind, you see.’

‘They?’ asked Clare.

‘Oh, there was more than one. I heard them talking, in an unusual accent.’

‘Cape Flats?’ asked Clare.

Professor Young cocked his head, tuning his ear to the half-remembered sounds.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘From up-country somewhere,
I’d say. They were laughing, like boys on a school trip. They probably did it as a dare. And do you know, I had just composed a perfect haiku. A poem about a leaf, a dewdrop, and a sunbird hovering. The next thing, they bashed my skull and I thought to myself, thank you god. Now I won’t be alone any more. And I’ll be able to recite the haiku to Iris.’

To hide the tremor, he put his hand on
the Labrador’s head.

‘But here I am. Still alive. Some young fellows on bikes came past, apparently, and saved me. They didn’t see who attacked me, but they went and got help. They weren’t to know, and Sally here is happy I came back, aren’t you, girl?’ The dog whined, settling at his feet.

‘Weren’t you able to identify the men who attacked you?’

‘The police kept asking me that, over
and over. They seemed annoyed with me that I’d been coshed. I think I rather spoilt their safety record for the mountain. But I’m glad you brought the pen back. My wife gave it to me – her last gift before she died.’

The Bach had come to an end.

‘There was one thing.’

‘Oh?’

‘Only because I didn’t remember at the time. Shock, I suppose, and age,’ he explained. ‘It was distinctive
– like the way he spoke, with those rolling “r” sounds. A tattoo on the inside of his wrist.’

‘What was it?’

‘Twisted black and red snakes. I saw the tattoo when he had me round the throat, just before he bashed the rock on my head.’

‘You didn’t mention that to the police?’ asked Clare.

‘No, my dear. I only remembered it now, with you sitting here with me. Fragments of the attack
have come back to me. But that was the only bit that had anything to do with the men who tried to kill me. Here—’ He rummaged under the pile of papers and books on the table, pulling out an artist’s sketchbook. ‘I’ll draw it for you.’

He drew rapidly, the black outline, the streaks of crimson twisting around them, the snake eyes ruby slits.

‘The tattoo, as I remember it.’ He gave his drawing
to Clare. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking that those may be the men who have your little girl, my dear.’

‘See them?’ Louis van Zyl asked Riedwaan as he got out of his vehicle. He pointed to the prostitutes pacing the R303 off-ramp, scanning each car for a client.

‘That’s your tik generation. It’s a good drug. Cheap and quick. Opens those dopamine locks ten, twelve times faster than a normal high, opens them wide, and the body’s reward system roars into action. For a few hours, they rule
the world. The freedom drug, I call it. Has all the post-’94 promises in a straw they can afford. No need for any affirmative action policies, or BEE. No need to work. No need for anything except twenty bucks. Smoke it and you can be your own Mandela for a day. The first high liberates you from your self, your fucked-up circumstances, your conscience, if you have one.’

Van Zyl led Riedwaan
past the security desk where the guard was transfixed by his radio. The way to the lab was through a warren of white passages.

‘It’s changing, though.’

‘How?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘Heroin is something different. It’s a narcotic. You take it to make life bearable. It numbs you and you don’t care any more.’

‘Sounds like what I need,’ muttered Riedwaan.

‘This is the future,’ said the
chemist, booting up his computer. ‘One long downer.’

‘What about buttons?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘Mandrax? Not so much any more, it’s on its way out,’ said Van Zyl. ‘The older generation smoke it and they’re all dying at home or in jail. The younger lot go for tik. I was working on tracing that, but the method is tricky. With pure crystal meth you only have five per cent impurities. That’s not
enough traces on your baseline. The purity is a problem for the profiling. Heroin is much easier, and it’s set to be the next big thing.’

‘And the price?’

‘You give it away for free in the beginning, you’ll have no shortage of customers later.’

‘So how do you track the cases?’ Taking a folder with the case numbers he’d unearthed, Riedwaan pushed it towards Van Zyl. ‘These cases, for
example.’

A two-finger typist, Van Zyl pecked at his keyboard.

‘I had an intern from the UK. They love working here, for some reason, think Cape Town’s the Wild West. Let’s see what she’s logged.’ He scrolled through lists of numbers. ‘Ja, there’s a couple of your cases here.’

‘You got the investigating officers’ names?’

‘All the details are here,’ said Van Zyl. ‘Doesn’t look like
it was part of a big operation, though. A couple of sergeants from Maitland. One from Table View.’

‘You know them?’

‘Well enough, a bunch of s
tasie-hase
. You know, station cops that get called out for noise disturbances. Do a search, fight with a couple of kids. Find drugs on them.’

‘Funny it didn’t come to us,’ said Riedwaan.

‘Well, I’ve been away for a couple of weeks. Things
fall apart quickly.’ Van Zyl sifted through the data. ‘The intern’s flagged this stuff,’ he said. ‘Looks like it’s from the same source.’

‘You can track the heroin?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘Labs where heroin is manufactured don’t clean up like the pharmaceutical industry, so you find specific markers from specific laboratories or growing areas. Other plants, other kinds of chemicals. If you’ve
got information on the labs, then you know what’s being manufactured. You can then work out who’s buying, who’s selling.’

‘Do you do the testing?’

‘For now, it’s being done in the States, the FBI academy in Quantico, Virginia. It’s an expensive weapon in the war on drugs, tracking the unique markers on the baseline of heroin. The markers are different in different laboratories and from
different parts of the world. Helps them figure out if it’s coming from Turkey or Thailand.’

Riedwaan whistled. ‘Clever, that.’

‘Ja. The Americans do about twenty samples from the rest of the world annually. From big consignments usually, full containers. But because South Africa is a major crime centre, it wasn’t hard to convince them to bend the rules for us a bit, testing things we
send them. Usually, they only profile large consignments. Heroin in these quantities is a new thing, and it’s being branded and sold cheap. My feeling is that this is like a teaser, a taster for a new market.’

Van Zyl typed in the docket numbers Riedwaan had given him and waited a few seconds.

‘This stuff here wasn’t found in a container.’ Van Zyl pulled up the photos and whistled. ‘This
was a bust at a party.’

‘So why did you get it tested?’

‘Heroin parties are new. This one was in a security estate. A private party, like they have for cigarette promotions. Have a look at these.’

Riedwaan examined the photographs. Luxurious houses, all identical, with travertine marble and spiky desert plants. And blonde women in clingy dresses.

‘You were there?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘No,’ said Van Zyl. ‘We don’t get called in any more. We just get the photos. Look here – the place is crawling with
stasie-hase
polishing off the canapés, getting caviar down the fronts of their uniforms.’

‘Where were the drugs?’

‘In the Gucci handbag of a seventeen-year-old who didn’t speak much English. There was heroin inside it – and also condoms and a cellphone. She said she was
given the sachet when she got there. A party favour.’ Van Zyl checked the results.