Gallows Hill (31 page)

‘Do you know what these are?’ asked Clare,

‘Looks like import/export permits to me,’ said Lilith. ‘You need them if you exhibit outside the country. For tax. So that you don’t launder any of the small change you might
earn in sales.’

‘Your mother exhibited overseas,’ said Clare.

‘I suppose she must have,’ said Lilith.

‘These values are really high, thousands of rand,’ said Clare, going through the paperwork. ‘It’s all dated 1987 and early 1988.’

‘Weird, that. As far as I know, no one was buying much South African art in the 80s,’ said Lilith. ‘All those boycotts. Sanctions, and stuff.’

‘Yes,’ said Clare. ‘I wonder how this worked. Looks like these were for sculptures, mainly.’

‘Not Suzanne, then,’ said Lilith, losing interest. ‘She only ever painted.’

Clare went through more of the papers, several of which were marked with red asterisks. A list of artworks sent over, another list of works being returned.

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ said Clare. ‘The numbers here, on these
invoices, they’re the same as the numbers written around the miniatures in her sketchbook.’

‘Some kind of visual diary, maybe. Artists keep them, and they usually make no sense to anyone else. Anyway, numbers never make any sense to me,’ said Lilith, turning to Mrs le Roux. ‘But what makes even less sense is why you didn’t give me her things, Ouma. I ached for her, just for something to remind
me of her. Of home.’

‘Look at the other stuff in the box,’ said Mrs le Roux. ‘Nobody’s touched the box since then. Maybe I packed some of your toys. The social workers said it was a good idea.’

Lilith pulled out books, wooden blocks, a child’s drawing book, crayons. A teddy bear, too, with a zip in its tummy for storing pyjamas.

‘Why did you hide this?’ Lilith looked up at Mrs le Roux.

Forbidding, implacable, the old woman leaned on the walking stick that had left welts on the backs of Lilith’s legs when she was a child.

‘It was better to cut all ties, my child,’ she said. ‘Better to start over again. Tell me, what is to be gained by harping back on the past all the time? Best just to pretend it never happened. Especially, given your circumstances. That is what I believed.’
Mrs le Roux switched her cane to her other hand. ‘You can take it now, Lilith. Maybe it will bring you some peace. Maybe I was wrong, I don’t know any more. Take it all. These things have weighed on me all these years, these things of hers.’

Lilith took the bear out of the box. It was heavy, hand-stitched, lumpy in her hands. She opened the cavity, and a stone clattered to the floor.

Clare picked it up. It warmed to the touch. ‘It’s just like the stone I picked up in the quarry on Signal Hill last night while we were shooting. That stone’s distinctive, it’s granite that was quarried and then rolled down the hill by slaves who built the Castle.’

Clare held the stone out to Lilith. ‘Where would you have got this from, Lilith?’

‘The same place, I suppose. The quarry. I
used to walk there with my mother.’

Lilith closed her fingers over the stone lying in the centre of her palm.

‘There was a tunnel, I remember. A storm-water drain, it must have been, for winter rains. It may be blocked off now, but it used to take you under the road, to De Waterkant. From there, it was a hop and a skip into Green Point.’

‘I always forget that Cape Town’s much older
than cars,’ said Clare. ‘It’s often quicker to walk somewhere than to drive.’

‘I loved it,’ said Lilith, a smile transforming her face. ‘I used to feel like Alice in Wonderland, tipped down a rabbit hole, when wewent there. It felt forbidden, but safe, being there with my mother.’

Clare smiled at Lilith. Then she put a hand on a sketchbook and faced Mrs le Roux. ‘I’m curious. Why did you
keep the sketches all these years, if they bothered you so?’

‘Where would you get rid of something like those books?’ Mrs le Roux drew her mouth into a severe horizontal. ‘I couldn’t ask my gardener to burn them, what if he saw them? God forbid. And I couldn’t throw them away.’

Lilith walked out of the kitchen, past the wilting marigolds, and out of sight.

‘I should have helped her,’
said Mrs le Roux, staring through the kitchen door, ‘but I never had my own children, so I suppose I didn’t know how. She was so hard to love as a little girl, when one could have loved her. And later, well, you know about later.’

‘Did you ever hear from Basson again? Or see him?’

‘No,’ the old woman replied. ‘Never. But one of the young men who came to tell me Suzanne had been buried,
he asked about Lilith. He said she had hidden in her room and wouldn’t come out.’

‘How did he know her?’ asked Clare.

‘He was there that night with Basson, when they went to arrest Suzanne,’ said Mrs le Roux. ‘It was his case.’

‘And he didn’t do anything about it?’

‘No, Dr Hart. None of us did anything.’

‘Hard to live with that knowledge, Mrs le Roux,’ said Clare, taking leave
of her at the front door.

‘That was worse than I thought it would be,’ said Lilith, opening the passenger door of Clare’s car.

‘I’m so sorry for that.’ Clare put her hand on Lilith’s shoulder, felt a tremor. Hate, heartbreak. Two sides of the coin that life had tossed her way. ‘It was worth it, though,’ she added.

‘What did you get?’ demanded Lilith. ‘All I have is a jumble of memories
– shards of glass that shift, becoming a different pattern each time I look at them. A sound here, a smell there, the sound of ice in glasses, those records, hands tucking me into bed, a soft lap, a necklace sharp against my cheek. My mother, that is all she is, bits of glass in a kaleidoscope. That tunnel I look through into the past, each time I turn it, the pieces shift, they shine, they glint,
but they never make a picture.’

‘There’re still some pieces missing,’ said Clare. ‘When we have them all, it’ll fall into place.’

‘This stone,’ said Lilith, opening her hand. ‘When I used to hold it, even now while I hold it, I feel this tug, as if my skin knows something that I should know. Something I must know.’

‘It’ll come,’ said Clare.

‘When?’ demanded Lilith. ‘My whole life
I’ve had this feeling that something important has eluded me.’

‘Just one call,’ said Clare. ‘I have to check something.’

‘What?’ asked Lilith, rolling the stone across her palm.

‘That Carnarvon Trading,’ said Clare. ‘It’s bothering me.’

She found Tony Gonzalez’s number and waited for him to answer.

‘Where’s the name from?’ asked Lilith.

‘It was one of the names painted
onto the warehouse wall,’ said Clare.

‘Where you found my mother?’

‘There, yes. Hello, Tony?’ said Clare, holding her hand up to Lilith in apology. Eight-hour time difference between South Africa and Sydney.

‘It’s late,’ she said when he picked up. ‘I apologise.’

‘Not too bad,’ he said. ‘You want to ask me more questions? Am I still a suspect?’

Clare chuckled. ‘Well…’

‘Okay, what’s your question?’

‘I thought there was an off-chance you might remember a detail or two about the tenants at Gallows Hill –’

‘Well, you know, ever since your call, my wife and I’ve been talking about it. She’s reminded me that all the tenants were new,’ he said.

‘Carnarvon Trading,’ said Clare. ‘That’s the one I’m interested in.’

‘I don’t remember them coming to the
site. Let me check with her, she’s back home, right here, actually.’

Clare could hear him speaking, a woman’s voice responding.

‘Hello?’

‘I’m here,’ said Clare.

‘She said none of them came to the site,’ said Gonzalez, ‘but she did meet one of them. Here she is, she’ll tell you herself.’

‘Dr Hart? Lydia Gonzalez here. Yes, so terrible this business. You were asking about the
tenants. About Carnarvon Trading?’

‘You remember them?’

‘I met them once,’ said Mrs Gonzalez. A man came to the site office. He wanted something done to their storage space, said they’d do the job themselves.’

‘Did they say what it was about?’

‘Not that I remember,’ she said. ‘I just remember that they had a lot of security.’

‘Do you remember any names?’ Clare glanced through
the papers she’d found at the back of the sketchbook. Only numbers were listed, together with brief descriptions of the artworks.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Gonzalez. ‘I don’t remember much at all. Just a man I met once. A tall man. Short army haircut.’

‘Thank you,’ said Clare. ‘You’ve been very helpful.

‘So, did they tell you who did it?’ asked Lilith.

‘No,’ said Clare, patiently.

‘Can you maybe tell me who did it?’

Not yet,’ said Clare. ‘But I will, trust me.’

‘Just get me home,’ said Lilith. ‘Please.’

‘Sure,’ said Clare, switching off the phone to preserve the dying battery. ‘We’re out of here.’

As Clare started the engine, she glanced into the rear-view mirror. Mrs le Roux was standing, leaning on her stick, silhouetted against the dark interior of
the house.

Clare turned the corner, and she was back on Laingsburg’s main road and onto the highway.

Next to her, Lilith leaned her head against the window and watched the telephone poles whip by. Her reflection stared back at her from the car window. She wiped her mouth clean of its red slash of lipstick.

She did not say another word until they got to Cape Town.

Riedwaan was surprised to find his motorbike waiting for him in the airport parking area. It had not been stolen. The key was there, taped under the seat. His helmet was still attached.

‘What’s the world coming to?’ he said to Du Randt. ‘Everything’s as it should be.’

‘It’ll soon be opgevok again. Just giving you a false sense of security.’

‘How much do I owe you, bro?’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Du Randt. ‘I haven’t paid tax for so long that I owe the government one.’

‘I’m not exactly the government,’ smiled Riedwaan.

‘Maybe I wouldn’t hate them so much if you were,’ said Du Randt, slapping him on the shoulder. Riedwaan winced.

‘Sorry, man,’ said Du Randt. ‘I forgot I shot you.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Riedwaan. ‘But if you’re ever in Cape Town, let
me know. I’ll catch you some crayfish.’

‘Lekker,’ said Du Randt. They shook hands. ‘Good luck, hey, Captain.’

‘I need more than luck,’ said Riedwaan. He opened the throttle and the motorbike surged forward: 120 in the 60km zone, 180 on the highway. He counted the off-ramps, turned left at the fourth one.

Riedwaan skidded to a halt, showering gravel in front of Ballistics. Only Shorty
de Lange’s car there on a Saturday morning.

‘You said you had something,’ said Riedwaan, pulling off his helmet.

‘The whole police force is out looking for you.’

‘That means they found Mtimbe and his Hond?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘Too fokken right they did,’ said De Lange. ‘Those two and some fat lawyer with half his head blown away, a couple of Hond’s pimprollers. Looked like a fokken
horror movie. Why didn’t you wait for the okes up north to fetch you?’

‘They’d have shot me. The politicians own the cops up there – personal army kind of thing. After what I got on them, there was no way they’d let me go. The premier, the head of police, the ministers. Neat little business they have going. They were out to get me, and they have one-track minds.’

‘Every cop’s been instructed
to get you, Faizal,’ said De Lange. ‘You think you’re any safer here?’

Riedwaan pulled a blood-streaked package from his inside pocket. ‘Rita died getting this recording,’ said, handing the iPod to De Lange. ‘Get it to Phiri. If you don’t, I’m dead.’

‘You look half dead already,’ De Lange said, taking it. ‘And if I’m caught, I’ll be fokken completely dead.’

‘Listen. Ask Phiri to say
nothing, maybe I’ll have long enough to make sure Clare’s safe.’

‘It’s a big ask, Faizal,’ said De Lange.

‘You’re a big man,’ said Riedwaan. ‘And if Clare phones you again, tell her I’m here. I’m okay. She sent me a message, but I don’t want to use a phone. They’ll have got a position on it already.’

‘I’ll lose my job and my pension if anyone even finds out I was talking to you.’

‘Just give me what you’ve got, and I’m gone,’ said Riedwaan.

‘Your clever girlfriend emailed me before all this shit happened,’ said De Lange.

‘She’s too sharp for her own good, that woman,’ said Riedwaan. ‘So, what she say?’

‘February 1988 two bergies were shot. Bodies found in Ebenezer Road. It was linked to a whole string of shootings of homeless people then. Landed up with the
Psychological Crimes Unit. It irritates them because this is one of the few serial killers they haven’t caught, but that’s why the records survived.’

‘What’s this got to do with Clare?’

‘She asked about those two murders a few days ago. Said some guy in Australia who’d worked on the Gallows Hill site told her about them,’ said De Lange. ‘I didn’t think about it then so much, but when this
happened I thought I should check.’

‘It’s the same gun?’

‘The same fokken 9 mil,’ said De Lange. ‘I checked, but it’s not registered on the firearm licence system. Never was, so I ran the test-fires through the ballistics system again. That’s what I found, then nothing. Then a couple of records for unsolved murders in the 90s.’

‘Nothing again?’ said Riedwaan.

‘Not until now,’ said
De Lange.

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Fokken lot of things – the owner retired, or he was in jail in between. Or the gun was sold.’

‘You said it’s been well looked after,’ said Riedwaan.

‘I did,’ said De Lange. ‘It is.’

‘So, I’d go for retired,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Then called back to active service.’

‘Great minds,’ said De Lange. ‘That’s why I’ve just run some more checks. Southern
African database too.’

‘What did you find?’

‘Two matches. One in Swaziland, one in Botswana. Both cases in the late 80s. Both political murders of exiled South Africans. Neither case solved.’

‘Anything else on them?’

‘Nothing,’ said De Lange, ‘except for the Botswana case. So littlehappens in that country that they can keep track of things. There’s a note saying that both victims
– husband and wife – were shot in the head. And that there was a witness who didn’t live long enough to testify. Note says she was killed in a hit and run.’