Devil's Peak (26 page)

* * *

Petunia Street was in uproar. Under the streetlights stood a couple of hundred spectators, so that he had to drive slowly and wait for them to open a path for him. In front of number 23 rotated the blue lights of three police vans and the red ones of an ambulance. Forensics and the video team’s two Toyota minibuses were parked halfway up the pavement. In front of the house next door were two minibuses from the SABC and e.tv.
He got out and had to push his way through the bystanders. On the lawn a colored constable in uniform tried to stop him. He showed his plastic ID card and instructed him to call in more people for crowd control.
“There aren’t any more, the entire station is here already,” was the reply.
Griessel walked through the open front door. Two uniformed members sat in the sitting room watching television.
“No, damnit,” Griessel said to them. “The crowd is about to come in the door and you sit here watching TV?”
“Don’t worry,” one answered. “This is Bishop Lavis. The people are curious, but decent.”
Anwar Mohammed heard his voice and came out of an inner room.
“Get these people outside, Anwar, this is a fucking crime scene.”
“You heard the inspector, hey?”
The men stood up reluctantly. “But it’s
Frasier,
” said one, pointing at the screen.
“I don’t care what it is. Go and do your work,” said Mohammed. Then, to Griessel: “The victim is here, Benny.” He led the way to the kitchen.
Griessel saw the blood first—a thick gay arc of red starting on the kitchen cupboard door and sweeping up, all the way to the ceiling. To the right against the fridge and stove was more blood in the distinctive spatters of a severed artery. A man lay in a fetal position in the corner of the smallish room. The two members of the video team were setting up lights to film the scene. The light made the reddish-brown blood on the victim’s shirt glisten. There were a few rips in the material. Beside him lay an assegai. The wooden shaft was about a metro long, the bloodied blade about thirty centimeters long and three or four centimeters wide.
“This is not the assegai man,” said Griessel.
“How can you know?”
“Whole MO is different, Anwar. And this blade is too small.”
“You better come talk to the girl.”
“The girl?”
“Nineteen. And pretty.” Mohammed gestured with his head to the door. He walked ahead.
She was sitting in the dining room with her head in her hands. There was blood on her arms. Griessel walked around the table and pulled out the chair beside her and sat down. Mohammed stood behind him.
“Miss Ravens,” said Mohammed softly.
She raised her head from her hands and looked at Griessel. He could see she was pretty, a delicate face with deep, dark, nearly black eyes.
“Good evening,” he said.
She just nodded.
“My name is Benny Griessel.”
No reaction.
“Miss Ravens, this inspector has been working on the assegai case. Tell him about the others,” said Mohammed.
“It was me,” she said. Griessel saw her eyes were unfocused. Her hands trembled slightly.
“Who is the man in there?” he asked.
“That’s my dada.”
“You did that?”
She nodded. “I did.”
“Why?”
She slowly blinked her big eyes.
“What did he do?”
She was looking at Griessel but he wasn’t sure she was seeing him. When she spoke there was surprising strength in her voice, as if it belonged to someone else. “He would come and sleep with me. For twelve years. And I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone.”
Griessel could hear the anger.
“And then you read about the man with the assegai?”
“It’s not a man. It’s a woman. It’s me.”
“I told you,” said Mohammed.
“Where did you get this assegai?”
“At the station.”
“Which station?”
“The station in Cape Town.”
“At the station flea market?”
She nodded.
“When did you buy it?”
“Yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” queried Mohammed.
“And then you waited for him to come home tonight?”
“He wouldn’t stop. I asked him to stop. I asked him nicely.”
“Did you two live here alone?”
“My mother died. Twelve years ago.”
“Miss Ravens, if you only bought the assegai yesterday, how could you have killed the other people?”
Her black eyes moved over Griessel’s face. Then she looked away. “I saw it on TV. Then I knew. It’s me.”
He put out a hand and rested it on her shoulder. She jerked away and in her eyes he saw momentary fear. Or hate, he couldn’t differentiate. He dropped his hand.
“I called SS,” said Mohammed quietly behind him.
“That’s good, Anwar,” he said. Social Services could handle her better. He rose and led Mohammed out by the elbow. In the kitchen, beside the body, he said: “Watch her. Don’t leave her alone.”
Before Mohammed could reply, they heard Pagel’s voice in the door. “Evening, Nikita, evening, Anwar.”
“Evening, Prof.”
The pathologist was in evening wear with his case in his hand. He shuffled past the video team and squatted down beside the man on the floor.
“This is not our assegai, Nikita,” he said as he opened his case.
“I know, Prof.”
“Benny,” a voice called from the sitting room.
“Here,” he said.
Cloete, the officer from Public Relations, walked in. “Hell, but it’s busy here.” He looked at the victim. “He’s copped it.”
“Oh, so now you’re a pathologist too?” asked one of the video men.
“Look out, Prof, Cloete’s after your job,” said the other.
“That’s because Benny’s sober now. One less job opportunity for Cloete.”
“But Benny doesn’t
look
better.”
“Shit, but you’re funny tonight,” said Griessel. To Cloete: “Come, we’ll talk in there.” He saw Mohammed following them. “Anwar, get someone to watch the girl before you come.”
“Will she try to escape?” asked Cloete.
“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” said Griessel, and sat down on a chair in the sitting room. The television was still showing a situation comedy. Laughter sounded. Griessel leaned forward and turned it off.
“Did you see the television people outside?”
Griessel nodded. Before he could say more the cell phone in his pocket rang. “Excuse me,” he said to Cloete as he took the call: “Griessel.”
“It’s Tim Ngubane. Joubert says you’re looking for bait. For the assegai thing . . .”
“Yes.” A little surprised at the friendly tone.
“How does a Colombian drug lord who’s got a thing for little girls grab you?”
“It sounds good, Tim.”
“Good? It’s perfect. And I’ve got it for you.”
“Where are you?”
“Camps Bay, home to the rich and famous.”
“I’ll come as soon as I can.”
Before he could put the phone away, Cloete forged ahead. He pointed outside: “Someone told them it was Artemis. The papers are here too. I had to hear it from them.” Accusing.
“I just got here myself.”
“I didn’t say it was you, but the fuck knows . . .”
“Cloete, I’m sorry about yesterday. It was one of my team members that talked to the media. It won’t happen again.”
“What do you want, Benny?”
“What do you mean?”
“The day you apologize is the day you want something. What’s going on here?”
“This is a difficult one. Nineteen-year-old girl stabbed her father with an assegai because he molested her. But she didn’t commit the other murders.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“How do you want me to handle this?”
“Cloete, there are politics involved with the assegai thing. Between you and me, the girl in there was partly inspired by our murderer, if you know what I mean. But if you tell the media that, the commissioner will have a stroke, because he’s under pressure from above.”
“The minister?”
“Parliamentary Commission.”
“Fuck.”
“You must talk to Anwar, too, so we all have the same story. I feel we should only mention a domestic fight and a sharp instrument. Don’t let on about the weapon for now.”
“That’s not the thing you want from me, Benny, is it?”
“No, you’re right. I need another favor.”
Cloete shook his head in disbelief. “The fuck knows, I am nothing but a whore. A police prostitute, that’s what I am.”

32.

T
he town was too small.
He couldn’t reconnoiter. This afternoon when he drove down the long curve of the main street there were eyes on him. The eyes of colored people in front of a few cafés, the eyes of black petrol attendants at the filling station, which consisted of a couple of pumps and a dilapidated caravan. The eyes of Uniondale’s few white residents watering their dry gardens with hosepipes.
Thobela knew he had only one chance to find the house. He wouldn’t be able to look around; he wouldn’t be able to drive up and down. Because here everyone knew about the Scholtz scandal and they would remember a black man driving a pickup—a strange black man in a place where everyone knew everybody.
He had to be content with a signboard in the main street indicating the road. It was enough. He took the R339 out of the town, the one running east towards the mountain. As the road curved around the town, he saw there was a place to park with pepper trees and clefts in the ridges beside the road where he could leave the vehicle in the dark. He drove on, through the pass, along the Kamannasie River, and at twelve kilometers he filled up with petrol beside the cooperative at Avontuur.
Where was he going? asked the Xhosa petrol attendant.
Port Elizabeth.
So why are you taking
this
road?
Because it is quiet.
Safe journey, my brother.
The petrol attendant would remember him. And that forced him to drive back to the main road and turn right. Towards the Langkloof, because the man’s eyes could follow him. If he deviated from that route, the man would wonder why and remember him even better.
In any case he had to pass the time until dark. He made a long detour. Gravel roads, past game farms and eventually back via the pass. To this spot above Uniondale where he stood beside the pickup in the moonlight and watched the town lights below. He would have to walk through the veld and over the ridge. Sneak. Between the houses. He would have to avoid dogs. He must find the right house. He must go in and do what he had to do. And then come back and drive away.
It would be hard. He had too little information about the lay of the land and the position of the house. He didn’t even know if they would be home.
Leave. Now. The risk was too great. The town was too small.
He took the assegai from behind the seat. He stood on a rock and looked over the town. His fingertips stroked the smooth wooden shaft.
He had all night.

* * *

Between Bishop Lavis and Camps Bay his cell phone rang twice.
First it was Greyling from Forensics: “Benny, your man drives a pickup.”
“Oh, yes?”
“And if we are not mistaken, it’s a four-by-two with diff lock. Probably a double cab. Because the imprint is from a RTSA Wrangler. A Goodyear 215/14.”
“What make is the pickup?”
“Hell, no, it’s impossible to say, the whole lot come out of the factory with the Wrangler—Ford and Mazda, Izuzu, Toyota, you name it.”
“How do you know it’s not an ordinary pickup?”
“Your ordinary one comes out with the CV 2
000
from Goodyear, which is a 195/14, the G 22, they call it. Trouble is, nearly every minibus-taxi comes out with the same tire, so it’s chaos. And your four-by-four is a 215/15. But this print is definitely a 215/14, which is put on the four-by-twos. And eighty per cent of your four-by-twos are double cabs or these other things with only two doors, the Club Cabs. Which also means our suspect is not a poor man, because a double cab costs the price of a farm these days.”
“Unless it’s stolen.”
“Unless it’s stolen, yes.”
“Thanks, Arrie.”
“Pleasure, Benny.”
Before he had time to ponder the new evidence, the phone rang again.
“Hi, Dad.” It was Fritz.
“Hi, Fritz.”
“What’re you doing, Dad?” His son wanted to chat?
“Working. It’s a circus today. Everything is happening at once.”
“With the vigilante? Has he nailed someone else?”
“No, not him. Someone else who thinks they are the assegai man.”
“Cool!”
Griessel laughed. “You think it’s cool?”
“Definitely. But I actually wanted to know if you listened to the CD, Dad.”
Damn. He had completely forgotten about the music. “I only realized last night that I didn’t have a CD player. And there wasn’t time today to get one. It was a madhouse . . .”
“It’s okay.” But he detected disappointment. “If you want it, I’ve got a portable CD player. The bass isn’t too great.”
“Thanks, Fritz, but I must get something for the flat. I’ll make a plan tomorrow, I promise.”
“Great. And then let me know.”
“The minute I have listened to it.”
“Dad, don’t work too hard. And Carla sends her love and says yesterday was cool.”
“Thanks, Fritz. Give her my love too.”
“Okay, Dad. Bye.”
“Sleep well.”
He sat behind the wheel and stared into the dark. Emotion welled up in him. Maybe Anna didn’t want him anymore, but the children did. Despite all the harm he had done.

* * *

The dramatic difference between the crime scenes at Bishop Lavis and Camps Bay was immediately apparent. In the wealthy neighborhood there were practically no onlookers, but at least twice as many police vehicles. The uniformed officers huddled on the sidewalk as if they expected a riot.
He had to drive down the street a bit to find parking and walk back up the slope. All the houses were three stories high to see the now invisible view of the Atlantic Ocean. They were all in the same style of concrete and glass—modern palaces that stood empty most of the year while their owners were in London or Zurich or Munich, busy raking in the euros.
At the steps a uniform stopped him. “Sorry, Inspector Ngubane only wants key personnel inside,” the constable said.
He took out his identity card from his wallet and showed it. “Why are there so many people here?”
“Because of the drugs, Inspector. We have to help move them when they are finished.”
He walked up to the front door and looked in. It was as big as a theater. Two or three sitting areas on different levels, a dining area and, to the right, on the balcony side, a sparkling blue indoor swimming pool. Two teams of Forensics were busy searching for bloodstains with ultraviolet lights. On the uppermost level, on a long leather couch, four men sat in a neat row, handcuffed and heads bowed as if they felt remorse already. Beside them stood uniformed policemen, each with a gun on his arm. Griessel went up.
“Where is Inspector Ngubane?” he asked one of the uniforms.
“Top floor,” one indicated.
“Which one of these fuckers messed with the girl?”
“These are just the gofers,” said the uniform. “The inspector is busy with the big chief. And it’s not just about
messing
with the kid.”
“Oh?”
“The child has disappeared . . .”
“How do I get up there?”
“The stairs are there,” pointed the constable with the stock of his shotgun.