Muti Nation (17 page)

The barricade comes into view and an ongoing flurry of activity is visible as we round the last bend. The mountain is crawling with police officers in their blue uniforms. Journalists are on foot, trying to get a look at whatever’s happening inside the tunnel, while pedestrians gawk at the commotion from further away.

“Closing down the tunnel is going to cost the government a small fortune,” I say as Howlen parks his car on the sidewalk.

“At this stage, I’m more concerned over possible carbon monoxide poisoning than the South African government’s purse,” Howlen says.

A few moments later we’re standing side by side on the street holding our respective equipment bags and readying ourselves for another long day.

“This isn’t good,” Howlen says.

I’m about to ask when has it ever been good to be called out to investigate a murder, when I hear my grandfather’s voice above the din of conversations. “Help me, Lord,” I say instead.

At the mouth of the Daspoort Tunnel, dressed in his usual mortician suit with his grey hair slicked back against his head, Christiaan Snyders is arguing with Detective Mosepi.

“We best go see,” I suggest.

Howlen responds with a nod and we both amble towards them.

“Esmé.” Detective Mosepi is red-faced and clearly frustrated. “What took you so long?”

“Technically, I took the day off,” I look between him and my grandfather. “What seems to be the matter here?” I ask, but continue before either can answer: “You’re aware there are vultures circling?” I discreetly gesture over my shoulder to where a particularly interested journalist is listening in on the conversation.

“Ah, yes, very well done, Esmé.” Gramps nods, straightening his jacket. He tilts his head as he studies my face. “I was under the impression your gallivanting last night had rendered you incapable of coming into work. You look perfectly fine though. Care to explain?”

“Gramps,” I start, trying my best not to get annoyed with his preposterously British tone this morning. “Have you been watching period dramas again?”

“Perhaps.” He lifts his chin in defiance.

Howlen chuckles softly behind me and it takes every ounce of self-control not to tell them both off.

I turn to Detective Mosepi. “Shall we, Detective?”

“Please,” he answers, turning to walk back inside the tunnel.

I follow.

“This killer baffles me, Esmé,” Detective Mosepi says in a hushed tone. “He staged this outrageous scene, but to what purpose? What does a mother, a child, and a politician have in common?”

“A politician?” I ask, surprised. “Which one?”

“A nobody ANC MP, but his position won’t matter to wagging tongues. If we don’t get something,
anything
, for the higher-ups to release to the public, there’ll be a political uproar to deal with, on top of everything else. People are scared, and rightly so.”

“You’re being melodramatic, Detective.”

“Am I?” Detective Mosepi searches for his cigarette pack in his shirt pocket. With precise movements, he finds a cigarette to his liking, lifts it to his lips, and lights it as the packet is returned to its home. “I’ve been punished with a rookie detective as a new partner. There have been talks, behind closed doors, about implementing a curfew. Fuck knows what they’ll do next.” Smoke slithers from his lungs and joins its cousins in the murky interior of the tunnel. “Please tell me you have a lead on your side.”

“Unfortunately not,” I answer. “But I suspect we might find something soon.”

“I hope so.” Detective Mosepi raises his hand, holding the cigarette between his index and middle finger, and points toward the suspended body swinging from the centre of the tunnel. “Most of his innards are splattered across the vehicles and road,” he says bluntly, emotionless. The man must be as exhausted as I am. “So, watch your step.”

“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, studying the corpse. “How the hell is this even possible?”

“Ventilation shaft,” Gramps says behind me.

“There’s a ventilation shaft?” I stop, change directions to get a different point of view, and hear a squelch beneath my feet. My gaze drops to the tarmac where my red stiletto stands atop an unrecognisable organ that’s been ground into the road by eager tyres. “Well, that’s unsavoury.”

“You should watch your step around here, ma’am,” an unfamiliar voice says in a practically undetectable Afrikaans accent.

I look up to find hazel-coloured eyes staring at me. With a quick scan, I take in everything about the newcomer. I make out the shape of his service firearm holstered under his arm, his notebook and wallet sitting safely in his shirt pocket and the badge clipped on his belt. Chestnut hair gleams even without sunshine, contrasting against his grey suit. The picture of professionalism is ruined, however, by his comic book socks, which I wouldn’t have seen if he hadn’t shifted his body to move out of my way. He’s a real
boer seun,
the sort you’d likelier find on a farm than in the city. My first impression of him is polite, and I’m rather intrigued. I appreciate that in a person. “There are a lot of pieces strewn about,” he explains, holding out his hand.

I flush when I accept his hand, and carefully step out of the goo. I doubt my natural colouring is visible under all my makeup covering my bruise, but I avoid looking at the young detective anyway.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re most welcome, ma’am.”

“Chivalry is alive and well,” my grandfather announces loud enough to make a few people turn to our party of investigators. “Howlen, my dear man, you should take a page from this gentleman’s book. Maybe then you’d find a wife while you still have need of one.”

“Pops,” I hiss, after seeing both men become uncomfortable. “Wear your professional face, please.”

“Apologies,” he concedes, tipping a non-existent hat.

I swear the old man probably binge-watched Jane Austen movies the whole night. What’s next? Crime shows?

“Howlen, perhaps you should touch base with the forensics team,” Detective Mosepi suggests, grinding out his cigarette.

Howlen stalks off to where they are stationed beneath the swaying body.

“Introductions are… in order—” Detective Mosepi’s face screws up in confusion, and I turn around to see my grandfather wandering away from our group. “Should we wait?” he asks.

“Don’t mind him. Gramps is brilliant, but his way of thinking takes him on wild adventures.” I wave it off. “You were saying, Detective?”

He huffs and gestures between myself and the young detective. “Esmé Snyders, Detective Rynhardt Louw. Rynhardt, Esmé.”

“Pleasure,” Detective Louw holds out his hand for me to shake, which I take a without hesitation. His hand envelops mine. From the feel of calluses on his palms, I deduce him as being a hard working guy, not afraid to get his hands dirty.

“Likewise,” I concur.

“Rynhardt, take us through the scene,” Detective Mosepi says, acting as the reluctant mentor.

“Well,” Detective Louw starts, “I think the victim was killed off-site, though it’s difficult to be sure given that I can’t study the body up close.”

“Get on with it,” Detective Mosepi grumbles. “And keep with the facts.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, and looks back to me. “The victim’s name is Abraham Amin, age thirty-nine, roundabout ninety-eight kilograms. As you can see,” he points to the corpse, “the body is suspended by what seems to be bungee cords. We figure the killer dropped the victim, post-mortem, down the ventilation shaft in order to make a statement with all the… um… insides scattering about the place.”

“You’re more than welcome to be blunt, Detective. I’m made of harder stuff than most of your colleagues.”

His smile, however small, brightens his whole face. “Very well.”

I turn to Detective Mosepi. “I take it there’s a multitude of witnesses?”

“Fifty-one witnesses and more than half of them are traumatised schoolchildren under the age of sixteen,” he answers.

I whistle in disbelief.

“Speaking of which, I need to get back there. Would you mind if Detective Louw takes you to do your thing?”

“Not at all,” I say.

He gives us both a once over and shakes his head. “Children,” he mumbles and walks away.

“Eureka!” my grandfather shouts. “Howlen, bring your suitcase. I found a crucial piece of evidence!”

Detective Louw tries to hide his amusement by gesturing for me to walk ahead of him.

“He’s at his happiest with the smell of death in the air. Pay him no attention,” I explain. “Have you been up the mountain?”

“I have, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Esmé.” I rummage around for my cell phone as we near the body. “How did it look from up there?”

“Honestly?” Detective Louw asks.

“Please.”

“The killer’s staging is elaborate, well planned, and meticulously executed. There is a definite message being sent, but I can’t seem to grasp it. But then again, this is not the type of killer we usually find in South Africa.”

“Why would you say that?” I ready my recording app.

“We don’t have creative serial killers.” He shrugs. “This whole thing—the power play, the elaborate murders and staging, the intelligence in the design—sounds more like the things American serial killers would concoct.”

“Firstly, serial killers usually murder three or more people over a period of more than a month, but this guy doesn’t seem to need a “cooling off” period. Secondly, are you saying we’re looking for a foreigner?” I stop, turning to face him.

“Not at all. I think our killer is a local. I’ll go so far as to say he was an underachiever in school, possibly failing out before he matriculated—not because he’s stupid, but because school didn’t challenge him. There’s a clear sign of abuse in his past, judging solely from the brutality of these crimes. Also, he’s dead-set in his traditions. Some time in his life, though, he grew a god-complex. It’s peculiar.”

“Impressive.” I set down my bag on the road and look up at the high strung body. “This is off topic, but I need to get higher.”

“Higher?”

“Yes, I need to inspect the body for any anomalies while it’s still up there.”

“I can see if we have a ladder,” he says.

“Hold up. It might be easier if I rappel down. What do you think?”

“I think you’re fearless,” Detective Louw says in a tone similar to when someone speaks of the weather.

My cheeks grow warm.

“Your colleague looks upset.” He juts out his chin and I follow his gesture to where Howlen is approaching us.

Jaw set, eyes sharp, a little crease between his brows. Yes, that is Howlen’s “I’m-upset” look.

“What is it?” I ask. I look past him to where I last saw my grandfather but the spot is vacant. “Where’s Gramps?”

“He’s gone to fetch Detective Mosepi,” Howlen says. He hands me a plastic bag containing a smoothed-out leaf of paper.

I take it, turn it over a couple of times and study the chicken-scratch handwriting without reading the words.

“Read it, May.” The urgency in his voice sends gooseflesh crawling over my skin.

Esmé

You are Beautiful,

With the flower In your hair.

I’ll see you next time you visit Beaufort West.

Him

My heart jumps like a jackrabbit. The riddle, which is probably a cruel veiled threat, changes my taut muscles into jelly barely strong enough to keep me standing.

I tilt my head back to study Abraham Amin’s twisted face, caked in blood and dirt. I try to understand how a two-bit politician figures into the bigger equation.

I try, but I fail.

Chapter 21

File: case 22-ES-interview.wav

Duration: 0:35:22

Date:25/09/2012

Esmé: This is an informal interview with Hester Pieterse, a rape and muti-crime survivor. Hester’s name and voice were changed to protect her identity, as a precaution.

Hester, please, if you feel you need us to stop at any point, just say the word. Otherwise, the floor is yours.

Hester:[audible sigh] I used to be amongst the majority of people, women especially, who naively think: “it won’t happen to me,” and when it did happen to me, I desperately clung to the hope I was merely trapped in some fucked-up nightmare. Perhaps my mind was trying to deal with what was happening. I’m not sure. Hell, I still don’t know how to describe the attack without it sounding like a terrible retelling of
The Wizard of Oz
. You see, instead of blocking my whole ordeal like a regular person would, my mind warped some of my memories so badly it sounds downright absurd when I hear myself talking about it. It sounds as if I was drugged out of my mind.

I wasn’t drugged, but I wasn’t
there
either.