Gallows Hill (38 page)

Anwar Jacobs smoothed the little girls hair. Her eyes were closed, pain etched on her chalk-white features in a way that did not seem possible in so young a child. It was as if her very dreams were a terror, worse than the nightmare of being abandoned to such a bitter night. His large hands were swift and deft. They dwarfed the spectral
child as he tenderly unwrapped her. The tiny girls shallow breathing seemed as if it might crack her fragile ribs. Her parchment skin, bruised and filthy, was pallid with a greenish undertone.

I need to stabilise her here, said Dr Jacobs. The heartbeat, its fading fast. They erected a tent over the narrow bed. A miniature field hospital.

The oxygen mask was easy, but the hunt for a vein took
six attempts. Jacobs found a vein, the single dark drop of the girls blood swirling into the rehydration fluids the signal of success.

That list of yours giving you anything there, Clare?

Nothing yet, said Clare, scrolling through the database on her iPad. So far, no little girls fit her description. When I can talk to her

Shes not going to be conscious any time soon, he said. So shes not
going to be able to tell you what happened.

Shes going to make it, though?

That I cant say yet, he said, opening the girls tightly curled fists for the obligatory scrape under the fingernails.

Can you give me anything to work with, Anwar?

Shes been starved, said Anwar Jacobs, glancing up at Clare. Something Ive never seen in a white child in Cape Town. But theres other stuff here I havent
seen before. I need to get her to intensive care now. You coming with us?

As soon as things are sorted here, said Clare. We have to search the area, get the forensics done, house-to-house questions.

Ill call you as soon as I have something, he said. You call me when you have a name.

Her family must be freaking out, one of the paramedics said, strapping the child onto the stretcher.

Unless
it was them who did it, said Jacobs. Family. Sometimes the most dangerous people a child can meet.

The medics ducked under the whirling blades of the helicopter. In minutes, it was lifting. Then it hovered a moment, a red dragonfly above the trees. The pilot steadied the chopper in the wind, it tilted away, and the silence rushed back to fill the void.

An owl hooted, the sound tipping Clare back to last nights darkness and a little girl too weak even to walk. She had been carried here, that much her unmarked feet had revealed.

Clare knelt beside the fallen oak, reading the tiny marks and disturbances to the soil in a way that another woman might read a book. There wasnt much just a flattening of the leaves, a frightened animal seeking refuge
from the storm, perhaps. Clare looked up at the thick undergrowth that ringed the clearing. The bridle path was a narrow opening in the reeds; beyond, on the other side of the river, a forest where shadows shifted the shapes of the trees.

Clare examined the belt that had held the child fast to the fallen oak. She looked up at the bridle path. The arms carrying her had tired, perhaps, and so the
child was tethered to the fallen tree, its branches providing some protection from the sleet.

A movement drew Clares gaze. A porcupine breaking cover. The creature paused at the edge of the clearing and looked back at Clare, then it turned and ran, dropping a quill as it disappeared into the reeds.

From the other side of the reed bed came the sound of car doors slamming. The voices of the uniformed
officers floated above the reeds.

Jirre, vok. You uniforms could fuck up a crime scene in your sleep. Why your mothers didnt drown you at birth is a mystery. Ina Britz had arrived, the hapless uniformed police straggling in her wake. Secure the place; dont act like a herd of hippos on Viagra, for fucks sake.

A constable looped crime-scene tape around the trees in a wide arc. There was a photographer,
someone from forensics. The 28s fanning out, searching. A crime scene, not made to order, as on TV, but a good enough approximation.

Ina was stomping over to where Clare stood.

You managed to get rid of Cwele? Clare asked.

How many chances you think snowballs get in hell? Ina said. Well have a press conference. This is going to be big news. Maybe itll shut Cwele up long enough for you to finish
what you started. What does she look like?

Look through those. Clare handed her camera to Ina.

Ive seen a lot of sick stuff, said Ina, scrolling through Clares photographs. But what the fuck is this? Who is she? Where does she come from?

Its as if we found a ghost. Clare spread her map out on a nearby rock, but it writhed in her hands, agitated by the wind. Mandla Njobe and Ina held the map
steady. From the river, there was a radial fan of bridle paths and dirt tracks. Across from it there was a pine forest. Beyond was the expanse of nature reserve that stretched from Judas Peak across to Hells Gate, the narrow entrance to the series of dams along the spine of Table Mountain. The waterfall was visible from where they stood. In this weather, with this amount of rain, the area would be
almost impassable.

Did your Mountain Men report anything, Mandla? asked Clare.

They had two patrols out on the contour path. The storm was bad last night, even the gangsters stayed inside.

The security logs, said Clare, there might be something there.

Not many cameras this side of town, said Mandla Njobe.

Call them in, said Clare. Everything. CCTV from the whole area. Alarm signals. There
are number-plate recognition cameras in quite a few areas now. Get those too anything that might come up this way. Someone must have seen something. Also a house-to-house search for this whole area.

Wont take that long, said Ina Britz. These plots are so big you could fit a whole township on each of them.

Gypsy cocked her head and whined, looking in the direction of the trees. The roar of the
river on the other side.

Somebody carried her here, said Mandla Njobe. Ill see where Gypsy takes me.

Ina lit a Lucky Strike as she and Clare watched Mandla Njobe disappear into the trees, Gypsy at his heels. Man and dog moving as one.

Kak place to leave a laaitie to die.

If thats what the intention was. Clare held out the length of leather. She was tied to the tree. She couldnt have got away,
even if shed wanted to.

What the fuck? said Ina.

Thats what I want to know, said Clare. Like youd tie up a puppy so it wont wander. To keep it safe, maybe.

Or a lamb if youre going to slaughter it. Ina looked up at the expanse of mountain. Weve got to search this whole fucking area now, and its just trees and shit.

Its nature, Ina, said Clare. Its beautiful.

I grew up on the mines on the
East Rand, said Ina, turning her back on the mountain. I fucking hate nature.

A mud-splattered truck appeared, bumping down the track. A man driving, next to him a woman bundled up in a blanket. The driver pulled over and got out. A weather-worn face. Ina Britz blocked him at the edge of the clearing, the crime-scene tape snapping between them.

Im sorry, sir. No further.

I have to get through,
the man said. We live up the valley. The Mountain Men come our way sometimes. What happened here? Was there an accident?

A horse rider found a little girl here this morning.

Dead? he asked.

Not yet. Ina turned to a warrant officer. Let them through.

The bakkie went on towards the scatter of permaculture farms and retreats that had survived the suburban sprawl of Hout Bay. A couple of beehives,
a childs red scooter on the back, the womans face in the window, turned towards them until they vanished in the trees.

A Land Rover rounded the corner. Inside, a couple. A woman with a tumble of hair, black as Cassies, opened the door and ran across the clearing. The girl fell into her mothers arms, able to cry at last. The woman helped her child into the vehicle, as the girls father led the
horse away.

A straggle of onlookers: riders, dog walkers, drifters. The tabloid that miraculously materialised at every accident and crime scene, the writer and photographer like some nicotine-stained yin and yang.

You and you, Ina was bellowing at the uniformed officers closest to her. Get rid of these people. Block the access road. Tell the journalists theres a Community Forum later thatll
double as a press conference, but for now they can fuck off.

Clares phone vibrated, Mandla Njobes name flashing on the screen.

Mandla, said Clare. Found something?

The uniforms had blocked the gathering crowd and were moving forward, herding them back down the path.

Looks like someone maybe a couple of people were up on the contour path last night.

Can you see which way they went? asked
Clare, walking away from the noisy onlookers.

No tracks, Doc, said Mandla. Not after all that rain.

Give me the exact position, said Clare. Im coming up.

Whats Njobe found? asked Ina as Clare tucked her phone into her jacket pocket.

Looks like someone, maybe a couple of people, were up on the contour path last night, said Clare. Says he saw a place where they seem to have hung around a while.
The rest of the tracks were washed away by the rain.

Njobe can track anything, said Ina. Says the Bush War taught him.

Ja, though he never says which side he fought on.

Dont think it matters any more, said Ina.

Clare walked swiftly between the trees. She took a footpath that vanished up Judas Peak, where Mandla and Gypsy were waiting. An unfurling of crows caught Clares eye, and she glimpsed
turrets protruding from the pine forest. The replica of a Black Forest castle, a rich mans folly that had recently changed hands, according to the
Peoples Post
.

The surrounding terrain was a nature reserve, with a ravine that led up the back of Table Mountain. Further down, an exclusive estate, each house positioned for privacy as well as security. Razor wire twirled atop perimeter fencing that
backed onto the forest and the river. Clare paused to catch her breath. Had the little girl perhaps wandered away from the estate?

She filed the thought for later, pushing on through the trees, soon reaching the firebreak that cut into the face of Judas Peak. Clare checked her orientation and took a short cut towards the contour path, a neglected track where encroaching undergrowth scratched
at her. A gate with a gleaming new padlock blocked her path. She ran her hand along the chain, its links icy to the touch. The electric fence spat like an angry cat. The fence was also new, as impenetrable as a game fence. There was live current running through it, the voltage lethal, said the warning signs.

You looking for something? The mans eyes were as cold and grudging as the sky. His right
hand rested on his holstered gun with the familiarity of a husbands hand on his wifes thigh. The Jeep parked on the other side of the fence was camouflaged, though Clare should have seen it.

Yes, I am, in fact. A child that was found down the valley this morning. Clare fished out her ID and handed it to him. Clare Hart. This road is public access.

Im sorry. Joburg accent. But Mr Savic has security
issues.

Did you see anyone last night?

No, said the guard, not too quick, not too slow. Just the helicopter this morning. The cars. The dogs and you, Miss Hope, he said, handing back her ID.

Hart, said Clare.

Miss Hart, he said. Can I open for you? Drive you through?

Thanks. Thatll save me time.

And effort. The terrain is rough here. The guard unlocked the gate. There was a spiders web
of scars at the back of his neck, the skin puckered and pink in places. He turned his collar up. After you.

The track looped up towards the back of the castle. Two women were walking through the trees. With the forbidding turrets against the heavy sky, they looked medieval. Perhaps it was the long coats, the capes pulled up against the rain.

A gate appeared, opening at the touch of a button.
They drove along a road that had been freshly graded, alongside the electric fence.

Theres your colleague, said the guard.

Thanks, said Clare.

Clare scrambled down the hill to where Mandla Njobe and Gypsy were waiting. She could feel the mans eyes on her, between her shoulder blades. It was a relief to hear the Jeeps engine start up.

There was somebody here. Njobe squatted down. A chocolate
wrapper glinted in a nearby bush. You got some gloves?

Clare handed him a pair, her size, but he got them on. He picked up the cigarette butts and examined them Someone who sat here for a while. Two people, maybe. And not too long ago.

Could be anyone, said Clare. Hikers, walkers.

The view down to the bridle path was clear. They could see Ina Britz and the others moving purposefully round the
crime scene. Mandla Njobe stood up and flicked mud from his trousers.

Hikers dont smoke ten Stuyvesants, Doc.

Available now

I am grateful to Kathryn Smith, crime artist and muse. To Prof Alan Morris and Dr Jacqui Freidling who taught me so much about forensic anthropology and deciphering skeletons. To Prof Vince Philips for lessons in oral pathology and forensic dentistry. To Mr Tim Hart, for lessons in the archaeology of Cape Town. To Madeleine Fullard and her colleagues who made me dig and who
taught me so much about graves and their secrets.