Betrayed (15 page)

It wasn't until three months after we gave Captain Kotze our list of
questions that Connor phoned to tell me he had received a response. That is, if you could call it a response.

For instance, we had asked if the investigating officer had taken
possession of all the clothing at the mortuary, bagged it and sent it to
Forensics for examination, and if not, why not. Captain Kotze's written
reply was: “Any valuable evidence would have been collected from
the body by the personal [sic] of the mortuary to be forwarded.”

Connor was dismissive.

“That's a lie,” he told me. “The mortuary attendants who collect bodies aren't tasked with taking possession and securing evidence.
And the uniformed police officers that strip bodies aren't trained to do this either.”

Why, we had asked, weren't door-to-door enquiries carried out at
the surrounding compounds less than two kilometres away from
where the body was found? Kotze's reply? “People in the area was [sic]
questioned and no door to door search could be conducted as these people are living there and there was no indication whatsoever that
any of them committed the crime.”

“The answer would be laughable if this weren't such a serious
matter,” Connor sniffed. “Imagine not questioning a compound of la
bourers within two kilometres of the scene because, as the police put
it, ‘there was no indication that any of them committed the crime'. How
the hell do they know that if they don't carry out an investigation?”

We had also asked if the prostitutes who were operating not twenty
metres away from where Tracey's body was found were ever sought out and questioned. Kotze replied: “It is unknown if any prostitutes
were in the area and if they saw something they surely would have
reported it to the SAPS.”

“That's another preposterous and pathetic answer,” the PI scoffed.
“Who in their right minds believes prostitutes and their clients are so civic-minded as to report finding a body or giving evidence as to what
they saw? The last thing they want to do is call any police attention
down on themselves.”

There was much more in similar vein, from answers that avoided
the real issue to flat-out lies. The document also confirmed that although
Captain Kotze had been assigned to the missing person's case, he had
been unaware of the discovery of Tracey's body. Even though she had
been reported missing at the self-same police station that dealt with the discovery of the body, no one could explain satisfactorily why no
connection had been made between a young girl who was missing
and the discovery of a young girl's body.

Not a giant leap, I would have thought. How was I supposed to buy
the idea that the police were “satisfied with the attention afforded to the investigation”?

“If this is what is acceptable,” I said to Buddy, shaking my head, “it
doesn't say much for the calibre and dedication of our police force,
does it? I feel like asking them, ‘If this was your daughter, would you
accept these feeble responses?'”

To make things worse, the results from Dr Kloppers's post-mortem
came back from the labs at about the same time. The news wasn't
good: no definitive determination could be made on the cause of death
.
We already knew that the bad state of decomposition of the body had
meant that many of the tests that could have established cause of
death couldn't be performed. Although the small bone in her neck
wasn't broken, convincing Dr Kloppers that she hadn't been strangled,
her lungs were too badly decomposed for tests to establish whether
or not she had suffocated. All this was a bitter pill to swallow. We would have to make peace with never knowing how or when our
daughter had died.

The results showed that a small amount of cocaine had been found in her stomach tissue. This was a shock because we knew that dagga and Ecstasy were her drugs of choice. Although Dr Kloppers didn't
think it was enough to have killed her, Inspector Pearce said he was
sending the results to a professor in Pretoria to determine whether or not Tracey had died of a drug overdose, and whether she would
have been able to drive with that amount of cocaine in her system.
The answer wasn't as clear-cut as we would have liked. Apparently, depending on her drug use in the past and her individual resistance to cocaine, neither of which could be clearly established, she may or
may not have been fully functional and capable of driving. Although
it hadn't actually caused her death, it may or may not have contributed to it.

But what about the rope around her neck? If she had died of an
overdose, who tied the rope around her neck, removed her clothes
and dumped her in the mealie field? And how would someone have
known whether she was dead or in a coma? The police could give me
no answers.

And still our nightmare wasn't over. A few weeks later, when In
spector Pearce asked for progress on the rape test, he was told the lab
oratories knew nothing about it. It came to light that the police had never taken the rape test kit to the labs. Pearce eventually uncovered
the container lying leaking in the mortuary. He took it to the labs fo
r
processing, but even if evidence of rape were to be found, the chain of
evidence had been broken so it wouldn't be admissible as evidence.

Six months had passed since Tracey's murder and it would likely be another six months before we would know the results.

2004–2005

For Tracey, getting back to the real world after rehab wasn't easy, although
she was attending aftercare sessions at the Elim Clinic on Wednesday
nights, an important part of the ongoing healing process. Through aftercare, the clinic continued to counsel her about the dangers of drugs and the trig
gers, helping her remain focused on the straight and narrow. The truth was
that most of her recovery would happen after she left the intensive live-
in programme.

The first thing she wanted to do was find a job. She also had to rebuild
friendships and relationships – and she had to do it without the false courage
and bravado that the drugs had given her. A step at a time, a breath at a
time; that was going to be the only way she would get through each day.

One night she lay down on my bed and put her arms around me. Eyes tinged with sadness despite the smile on her face, she started to talk about
not having any friends and how hard it was not to have a job.

“I still miss Peter, you know. Badly. I never loved anyone the way I loved
him. And sometimes when the sadness gets too much, I think of that wonde
rful feeling Ecstasy gave me. It's hard not to have that escape anymore.”

Ecstasy is often referred to as a “club drug” because its stimulant effects
allow users to dance for extended periods. But it also produces an enhan
ced sense of self-confidence and energy, peacefulness, acceptance and em
pathy. These were what Tracey had been seeking and what she now
missed. She knew from experience, though, that once the effects wore off,
anxiety and depression would probably follow – and she didn't want to go there.

I listened to her pour out her heartache and pain. How she had always
felt people expected too much of her. Her sporting abilities and the expec
tation that she felt people had that she must always win, and how she herself
want
ed to be the best. How she put too much pressure on herself and used drugs to give her the confidence to laugh and smile and make friends because she didn't have enough self-confidence to talk to people without
something to take the edge off, to make it easier.

It was a heartrending story of loneliness, self-doubt and sadness. Yet every
one who knew her had only ever seen her wide smile and luminous eyes. She'd even fooled her family most of the time. We had seen some of her
pain, but there was a lot more she had hidden from us, protecting us, doling it out in miserly portions so as not to burden us with the enormity of it all.

Each day that Tracey didn't go back to the drugs was a blessing. All of us,
including Tracey, understood that the first few months out of rehab were the
hardest. Buddy and I were booked to go away in June but were naturally
worried about leaving her without our support less than three months after
she came out of rehab. After many long discussions, we decided we couldn't
continuously put our lives on hold. This trip had been our dream for more than twenty years and our air tickets were non-refundable. Tracey clinched it by insisting that she didn't want to live with the guilt of knowing we had cancelled the trip because of her.

A month before we were due to leave, she phoned me at work in tears.

“I phoned my dealer and went to fetch drugs!” she choked out. “Then
when I was handing the money over, I realised what I was doing and left the money and the drugs on his kitchen table and came home without touching it. But I'm so scared, Mom!”

“I'm on my way to you now. Phone your therapist at Elim Clinic and I'll be with you soon.”

I was so proud that she had had the strength to resist the temptation at
the last minute, choosing to walk away and phone me instead. I fetched
her from home and took her to the clinic. As I waited for her, my concerns
about the holiday picked up momentum again, but when she joined me
after talking to a drug counsellor, she insisted she was feeling strong again and we mustn't think of cancelling our trip.

When the time came, Tracey drove us to the airport, telling us not to worry
, she had no intention of destroying her life. She was there again to pick us up when we returned a fortnight later, a broad smile on her face.

But the homecoming wasn't all starlight and roses. Jewellery and watches
were missing from the house, including a Schumacher Limited Edition watch
Buddy had won in a competition. There was no sign of forced entry so every
thing pointed to our children being involved. Had they stolen from us to buy drugs? We confronted Tracey and Glen and they admitted they had had
people over, and that they didn't know some of them very well. They denied
taking the items, so we reported the theft to the police.

Crack! In the early hours of the morning I woke to the sound of the lounge
window shattering and what sounded like gunshot. I rolled onto the floor
and crawled to the phone, screaming to Tracey to get on the floor.

“Be careful,” Buddy called out. “They've got a gun.”

Over the dogs' furious barking we heard voices, but soon the would-be robbers fled. When the police arrived to take statements, we also told them about the earlier jewellery theft. They returned the next day to take fingerprints for both cases. It was a relief to discover that our children's fingerprints weren't on the jewellery box, but the fingerprints they did find were never matched.

Time passed and Tracey was doing the best she could to rebuild her life.
She still hadn't found a permanent job but was working at any temp job she could find. Although this was bad for her self-esteem and confidence, she
did make some new friends and they would often come over on a weekend
for a braai. Shaz and Tracey had become close and spent a lot of time to
gether. One day Tracey came home from Shaz's house with bright, luminou
s orange hair.

“Crikey, that's a pretty bold statement,” I said.

“It's awful, I know,” she grinned. “But it was a mistake. I was trying to go
a bit more blonde, but I fell asleep in the sun. It was supposed to be on for
fifteen minutes, but I only woke up after nearly an hour. Isn't it horrible?
What
am I going to do?”

“It'll certainly make an impression at your job interview tomorrow,” I said dryly.

“Oh blast, I forgot about that. Well, I'm going to have to get rid of it somehow.”

She spent the rest of the day trying to remove the orange, and attended
the interview the following day with only one bright patch on the side of her head. She got the job – though again, it was only as a temp.

Shaz's children thought Tracey was great.

“She's taught them to play baseball and now they'd far rather be outside playing with her or swimming with her in the pool than watching the Disney
Channel,” Shaz told me. “Only problem is that she's worse than them when
it's time to get them ready for supper and bed. She always wheedles an
extra half-hour out of me.”

Still, Tracey was no pushover and wouldn't allow the kids to run wild. They
would argue with their mom, but they knew if Tracey heard them they would
be in trouble. She wouldn't let them be disrespectful.