The Serpentine Road (4 page)

He stares up at the Mountain. Here, beneath it, the scale of it, so often unprocessed by his brain, is awe-inspiring. All his life, it has stood sentinel. He wonders at the atrocities it has witnessed; what has played out in its gloomy shadow in the last few hours? He thinks about Taryn Holt, wonders, beyond the hastily assembled sheets of biography he has scanned, who she is, and what caused her to be killed so brutally.

He hears a sound below, sees Don walking up the steps, taking one at a time, quickly, but deliberately.

‘What is it?’

Don waits until he is one step beneath De Vries, their disparate heights over-emphasized. He speaks quietly: ‘I would like permission to interview her. In her room.’

De Vries tilts his head.

‘Why?’

‘She is very shocked and I think . . . You always say to play to our strengths. I think she will talk to me.’

‘Rather than to me?’

Don pauses.

‘Maybe.’

De Vries smiles.

‘Go on then.’

He watches Don take the steps down carefully, looks back up to the house and then follows his Warrant Officer, stopping a few steps from the bottom. Then, repeatedly glancing back up at the house, he climbs them again, one by one. About halfway up, there is a view of the house, and he can see the open door at the far end of the bank of windows from the living area. This is the lowest point of her quarters from which the maid could see that a window was open; he wonders why she would come this far up the staircase in the middle of the night.

As he walks back up to the main house, he searches for lights, but finds only cheap solar lanterns widely spaced along the length of the steps. He squats down and examines the one nearest the house. It is old and worn, and he doubts that it works. He looks away, looks at nothing, his mind already full of questions.

‘You have everything up and running . . . ?’

‘Within five hours of the initial call.’

Director Henrik du Toit nods slowly, views De Vries with mild surprise.

Du Toit says: ‘Another long weekend ahead.’ He watches De Vries shrug. ‘The rest of your team may not be so unconcerned.’

‘You’re right. We should ask people to be more considerate: kill on a Monday.’

Du Toit looks around, through the window which separates De Vries’s office from the rest of the squad-room, and back again.

‘You almost seem cheerful,Vaughn.’

‘You know me, sir. Death enlivens me.’

Du Toit does not smile.

‘Tell me what we have?’

‘The usual nothing. In a few hours, we’ll have too much. We think that Taryn Holt was killed between 10 p.m. Thursday and 1 a.m. this morning. No apparent motive. Warrant February spoke with the maid, says she seems loyal and reliable. She’s upset, probably for her job, but she says she can’t see anything missing. She claims she scarcely slept because of the smoke and the fear that the fires might spread to her street. She heard noises in the night, but put them down to the wind. When she woke at 5 a.m. she decided that she would not sleep, so she walked up through the garden, saw open windows and went to investigate. She found the body, and called it in at 5.14 a.m. Looks like the alarm had not been set. Central were there by 5.35 a.m. and it then came through to our desk. Warrant February was there by 6.40 a.m. I was there thirty minutes later . . .’

‘Any trouble with the Central guys?’

‘Not really.’

Du Toit leans back.

‘You handled it diplomatically?’

‘Probably not.’

Du Toit coughs.

‘Any thoughts from the scene?’

De Vries scratches his ear.

‘You know I don’t like doing this . . . She was shot, several times, close range. Maybe there is nothing missing, and then we have a very rich single woman murdered seemingly without motive – until you think about the money.’

Du Toit nods.

‘And, I can tell you now: whoever it was, he’s not going to leave us anything.’

‘Meaning?’

‘It doesn’t appear spontaneous.’

‘Then you’re exactly where you should be.’ He rises, and De Vries mirrors him. Du Toit moves towards the door of the office, turns back to him.

‘Bad timing if this gets complicated.’

‘Your leave?’

‘A week in Pretoria for some damn conference . . . Then, hard-earned leave. Keep me informed of major developments.’

De Vries nods, and turns to open the door.

Du Toit says:

‘You were serious, weren’t you? You’re pleased you have your murder?’

De Vries gets through the door and turns back, says blankly:

‘It’s why I get up in the morning.’

Although the building in the centre of town which houses the Special Crimes Unit and Administrative offices was built in the eighties, the Pathology Lab on the lower ground floor looks more like something from the fifties: iron where you might expect aluminium; fluorescent tubes on chains where you might expect recessed LEDs.

De Vries knocks on the office door, lets himself in and glances immediately towards the two desks. One is empty but, behind the other, sits a short, very slim woman wearing a headscarf, head bowed over a keyboard. De Vries instinctively sighs, but she does not raise her head. He waits in silence until she stops tapping, looks up at him.

‘Good morning, Doctor.’

Doctor Anna Jafari studies him calmly.

‘I am sure it is not. You are disappointed to see me, but that is beyond my control.’

‘Not at all . . . That is . . . We have a break on the Holt murder. She was discovered a lot earlier than the murderer might expect. I want to maintain that advantage.’

Doctor Jafari leans back in her chair.

‘So, you tell me, Colonel de Vries . . . Shall I move your victim ahead of the four I have in the queue?’

De Vries smiles thinly, tries to stay calm.

‘There might be a significant advantage in obtaining PM results quickly.’

‘But not with these other victims . . .?’

‘I don’t know who or what you have to examine today, but I know that I’m here, we have a team assembled and we need information fast.’

Jafari shakes her head slowly.

‘You know the procedure. If you want to lobby General Thulani, that is not my concern, but try if you like. Tell him that you want your white victim moved ahead of the four black boys I have here . . .’

De Vries feels the blood pump in his cheeks, attempts to suppress it.

‘This unit was set up to deal with priority crimes . . .’

‘. . . And, because you are a small unit and your victims are relatively few,’ Jafari says, without looking up from her reports, ‘we also process certain additional victims in the Central area.’

De Vries sighs, knows that the men she will examine will be victims of drug crime, of gang wars; that what killed them will probably never be discovered, their killers never bought to justice. He takes a deep breath.

‘I would appreciate your attention as soon as you possibly can, Doctor. Perhaps you will call my office when you begin?’

Jafari stands up. She is very small.

‘I will do that.’

They stand facing one another for a moment. De Vries is the first to turn away.

De Vries wishes he had driven. Don February drives fast and well but, like so many Capetonians, changes lanes constantly. He gains no advantage, but the sour coffee in De Vries’s belly slops from side to side. He knows this is not good when he can actually hear it.

‘It’s bad news we have Jafari.’

Don says: ‘Why, sir?’

‘She won’t do us any favours and, more importantly, if we need her in court, she doesn’t stand up well . . .’ He chuckles. ‘. . . Literally – and as an expert witness. She volunteers doubt all the time. She’s a defence attorney’s wet dream.’

‘She has done well though,’ Don says. ‘A Cape Coloured woman to become a pathologist. That is an achievement.’

De Vries sighs.

‘And a Muslim.’

‘That’s the problem, isn’t it, in the new South Africa? She may have done well for someone from her background but she’s still not as good as her white counterparts. So, what do we do? Patronize her that she’s done okay, or judge her as we would anyone else?’

‘Doctor Jafari has passed the exams. She has qualified?’

‘The exams, yes. The new exams. Listen, Don, her achievement may be commendable but if she’s useless to us, none of that really means anything. The system deteriorates, and it keeps deteriorating.’

Don glances at him.

‘You think I’m politically incorrect? You should know: the colour of a man’s skin means nothing to me, only how he does his job.’

‘. . . Or her job?’

De Vries closes his eyes.

The room is white; sun coruscates through tall windows, bleaching thick white stripes, diamonds of shadow within them cast from the frames of smaller panes of glass. The woman is sitting up in bed, staring out of the window, her left eye bloodshot. She is naked, her nightdress torn to reveal her breasts and vagina. Her stomach is bruised; a scar runs down her thigh. Her expression is blank, mind seemingly empty, the look in her eyes hopeless. De Vries balks.

‘Who the fuck would buy this?’

Don February shakes his head slowly, avoiding looking back at the canvas, and steps back from the gallery window.

‘Something happened here.’ De Vries gestures down the length of the shop-front. The final floor-to-ceiling window is missing and the space is boarded with plywood. In front of it, there are half a dozen refuse sacks; beyond them, broken glass across the pavement and in the gutter. He turns back to Don. ‘Ring again.’

Don February presses the bell push once more. They hear nothing from within the darkened gallery.

De Vries looks across Bree Street. This top end of town is in the process of being gentrified: houses and flats are being developed, warehouses converted to offices; design shops and trendy bars form little courtyards. He turns back, cups his hands either side of his eye sockets and pushes his face against the window. Inside, the space is huge. He can just make out the subjects of the big canvases: more nudes. He turns away from the New Worlds Gallery, beckons Don to follow him across the road to the Bree Street Bakery.

At the door, they are welcomed by a young black waitress, who offers them the choice of sitting inside or upstairs on the balcony above.

‘It’s shady?’

She nods, and De Vries lets her lead them to the upstairs balcony, which looks back over the road towards the gallery. They sit at a painted metal table set with autumn flowers, order two coffees. It is still far too hot for the time of year – an Indian summer of no end. When the girl returns with their order, De Vries shows her his ID.

‘You know the woman who owns that place?’ He points at the gallery.

‘Taryn? Yes.’

‘How well do you know her?’

‘She comes here for coffee.’

‘She there on her own?’

‘No. There’s a guy who works with her. Dominic. And a couple of other girls, but I don’t see them often.’

‘She ever come in here with anyone?’

The waitress considers for a moment.

‘Not when I’ve been on duty. Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve only spoken with her when she’s come to take coffee away.’

He gestures across the street.

‘Do you know what happened to the window?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No.’

The woman smiles.

‘They opened that new exhibition on Wednesday. You know, with a party and . . . what do you call it . . . ? A private view, for all the rich buyers. But, there is a demonstration, because of the paintings. Have you seen them?’

De Vries nods.

‘There is a women’s group, and they were protesting . . . And some guy from the church in Saint Jerome Street. It was quiet enough at the start, but then more people arrived and they started singing and chanting and blowing their vuvuzelas. Some heavy guys came out of the gallery and there was a lot of shouting, and then somebody threw a stone, a brick, I don’t know, at the window, and all hell breaks loose.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Your guys turn up . . . You don’t know this?’

‘Different unit. Did you see Taryn Holt?’

‘No.’

De Vries nods at her name badge.

‘That you?’

She looks down, smiles.

‘Yes.’

‘Dayo.’ He seems to consider the name. ‘Thank you. Before you go, the police: did they talk to you about the demonstration?’

‘No.’

She checks both their faces, turns and walks away.

De Vries looks over to Don, silent but aware. De Vries is about to speak when Don says: ‘Look, across the road.’

A man is unlocking the front door to the gallery. He slips inside when it is open only a crack and locks it behind him. They finish their coffee and De Vries glances at the little bill slip which came with them, snorts and leaves sixty rand on the saucer.

When they reach the gallery, the lights are still off and there is no sign of the man who entered. De Vries rings the bell, knocks on the glass door firmly. After a few moments, he sees a figure peer at them from the back of the shop. He holds up his ID, shouts:

‘Police. Answer the door, please.’

As the figure approaches, De Vries sees that he is a man in his thirties, red-haired, sporting a goatee and a moustache with the ends twirled.

‘Are you here about Taryn?’ His voice is clipped, a pitch higher than De Vries was expecting. He takes the safety chain off the door.

De Vries says: ‘Who are you?’

The man steps back, opens the door for them.

‘Dominic van der Merwe. I worked with Taryn. I guess I was the manager here.’

‘We need to talk to you.’

‘I thought you might.’

He swivels, leads them to a long black desk at the rear of the gallery, gestures for them to sit, walks around it to face them. He presses a switch under the desk and three small lights glow in the ceiling, cast three crisp beams through the floating dust. It is not light which illuminates anything but small circles on the glossy surface of the desk. In the gloom, De Vries observes that the man’s eyes are red, his face rigid.

‘How did you discover the news, Mr van der Merwe?’

‘After the incident on Wednesday night, I was worried about her. They were threatening her . . . Both of us . . . And, when she didn’t answer her cell-phone this morning and then she didn’t arrive here, I drove round to her house. I saw the scene, spoke to an officer.’