The Serpentine Road (10 page)

She heads directly to the living room, pushes aside some magazines and retrieves the large gold lighter in the shape of the spirit of ecstasy on the bonnet of a Rolls Royce. She waves it at him.

He allows himself a smile.

‘You want a glass of wine?’

‘Why?’

De Vries shrugs.

‘One for the road?’

‘There’s no point,Vaughn. I don’t need to be wooed. You want to see me again: you have my cell number. We both know what we want. Let’s not complicate it.’

Now De Vries laughs. She waves a finger, mock-scolding: ‘You guys. You think you’re the only ones who want what you want.’

She pockets the lighter, comes up to him and kisses him on the lips.

‘Not that you even know what you want.’

She smiles at him again, strides to the front door and opens it. De Vries follows her, opens the gates with his remote, watches her walk quickly away from him; he wonders how she knows what he doesn’t know himself.

Saturday morning dawns grey with bright slashes of white sun. As he rounds Hospital Bend, he sees the peak of Lion’s Head clear of cloud. No rain yet, but Capetonians will welcome even some cloud cover. The water in the docks is choppy and matt.

De Vries has fought frustration to find sleep. As he closed his eyes, he remembered the painting in the gallery which seemed to foreshadow Taryn Holt’s murder, and could then think of nothing else. At 6 a.m. he sent an SMS to Don February to set up a meeting with the artist. He has received no reply.

He drops down through the centre of Cape Town, swings into the underground garage, sees the receding figure of David Wertner, the head of the Internal Investigation Unit, who scrutinizes everything he does and has done, seeking a transgression significant enough to bring about his downfall. It reminds him that he – and his unit under Henrik du Toit – are unwelcome in the new, sanitized SAPS. Where there are old, experienced white officers, the administrators and politicians who control the service from afar crave young, university-educated black officers. As if it were not enough to fight for justice for his victims, he must be alert to the constant threat from within. It is exhausting him, but he knows that he must concentrate on each case as it comes along; he will not waste time worrying about his future.

Sally Frazer is where he left her the previous night, by the whiteboard, phone tucked under one ear and speed-reading reports. A cursory glance reveals to De Vries that little more of substance has been added. He stalks to his office, closes the door, slumps in his chair; he looks out over the squad room and notes that everyone who should be there, is. He is about to call Don February, when he sees him exit the elevators, squint in the direction of De Vries’s office and then approach at speed, knocking on the glass door at the same time that he is opening it.

‘I have,’ Don starts, panting slightly, ‘set up a meeting with Jessica Templeman, the best friend, and then after that, if you wish to travel to Franschhoek, Dazuluka Cele, the artist of the paintings in the gallery, says she will be in her studio all day and is prepared to speak to us . . .’

‘Good . . .’

‘But there is something more, sir. The officer Ms Botes reported as being in charge of the police officers. I made a call: there was one unit from Metro and one from Central, headed up by Lieutenant Nkosi.’

De Vries’s eyes widens.

‘I do not understand why he would not have told you that he attended the scene the previous evening at the gallery.’

‘I don’t think,’ De Vries says, ‘he was in a co-operative mood. I’ll have to speak to him too.’

‘One piece of information, sir, from last night at the neighbour’s house. The girl said that she saw Taryn Holt arriving at 10.35 p.m. and that a “black man” was waiting in his car and was let into her house. No better description, and no information on when he left.’

De Vries nods.

‘Okay, this is just before the estimate of time of death. Liaise with Frazer about that and, Don, find out who that is. If she let him in, she knew him.’ De Vries glances at his watch. ‘I want to get going, Don. Time is passing and everything is happening too slowly.’ He stands up, opens a drawer in his desk and closes it again, pats his pockets. ‘There’s no time for distractions. You or Frazer talk to Templeman again. We need information about the boyfriends and she’s the most likely person to know. I want to go see this artist woman. You’ll give me directions?’

Don February hands him a handwritten note.

‘She’s off Main Street, a turning to the left, fifty metres before the bank.’

‘Good.’ He ushers Don out of his office, locks the glass door. ‘If we let this stall now, we’re in trouble.’

The drive to Franschhoek takes De Vries past the airport and, having turned off the freeway by the Cape Town film studios, into the Winelands towards Stellenbosch. Every time he drives this way he notices how much more development there has been, as the views of the mountains become ever more cluttered by gated communities, retail parks and golf estates. In the old days you would visit a wine estate and the owner would appear at the doorway, dogs at his feet, and invite you into his home or across the courtyard to his cellar, and personally pour you samples of his wine. Now, you are more likely to be tapped for twenty rand by a youngster with a name-badge on her uniform and herded into a tasting room via a gift shop.

He takes the ring road around Stellenbosch and heads up the Helshoogte Pass, which still boasts breathtaking views of the rolling vine-clad hillsides. The cloud cover is no more than fifty per cent here and the sun illuminates bright patches around him, moving horizontally across his field of vision.

Eventually, he reaches the turning into the Franschhoek Valley and the road that leads him into the old Huguenot Town. As he approaches, the dramatic mountains on either side of the valley converge, making the town seem nestled in their folds. He slows to look for the turn off to Uitkyk Street, notices signs on the lampposts advertising a beer festival in Greyton – a remote artist’s village a few kilometres from the top of the Franschhoek Pass. De Vries likes Greyton; he and his ex-wife went there years ago, several times, to escape the city and walk the leafy streets hand in hand at dusk, eat in a romantic restaurant and retire to the soft beds of the Greyton Lodge guest house. He has a ticket for the festival, a room booked just outside the town; one afternoon, one night off after weeks without a break. On Thursday. He wonders whether it will go to waste.

Behind him, a towering SUV honks, and Vaughn realizes that he is holding up the traffic behind him. He takes the next turn, finds it is Uitkyk Street, drives up the steeply rising tree-lined street, past perfect Cape Huguenot properties with English gardens and, at the top of the road, turns right along a gravelled driveway towards a pair of modern buildings that might be barn conversions. He checks the address again, unfolds his legs from the car and rings the bell at the gates which guard the courtyard. A woman’s voice answers and, when he identifies himself, the gates open. He gets back into his car, drives forward, hearing the crunching of gravel under his tyres, and parks in the shade of a Pepper tree.

* * *

Dazuluka Cele is a small, black African woman, with a slim figure and a shaven head. She proffers her hand, glances down at it, and smiles warmly.

‘It is paint, but it’s dry. I am Dazuluka.’

‘Colonel Vaughn de Vries, SAPS.’

‘It is terrible news. I cannot believe it. Only on Wednesday night, she was so full of life, so happy that so many people had come to my exhibition.’

Her voice is high, French-accented; it sings. She leads Vaughn towards the nearest of the buildings.

‘Come with me. We can talk in my studio, and you can tell me what happened to Taryn.’

She leads the way into the building, up a wood and metal spiral staircase to the first floor. At the top, De Vries sees that the entire floor is a single white room, illuminated by windows on both sides, with multiple easels set up on one side, angled so that the light falls on them. On the other, there are four life-size figurative sculptures in a light wood, the last with an aluminium ladder next to it, its face only half finished. A narrow, elongated table runs down the center of the room for its entire length. It is covered in artists’ materials: paint, pastels, pencils, brushes and jars of water, solvents and brush cleaners.

‘You work here with others?’

‘No. Only solitude provides inspiration.’

‘For multiple pieces at once?’

She leads him the length of the room over broad wooden planks to the far end where she has two tiny sofas around a dark, carved wood table. She opens a cupboard behind her, pulls out two glasses and an unopened bottle of mineral water, dispenses liquid into both and places the glasses on the table. She sits lightly on one sofa, curls her legs up around her, gestures to De Vries to take the other.

‘I used to paint only one canvas at a time but, as soon as I start one painting, I have an idea for the next and I cannot concentrate on what I was going to paint. So now, when I have an idea, I start the piece and then I can go back to it when my head is calm.’

‘How long had you known Taryn Holt?’

‘Not long. She saw my work at an exhibition I had about five years ago in Maputo, in Mozambique. She liked the work and, when I moved to South Africa, it was obvious that she should show my work here.’

De Vries glances back around the gallery.

‘I want to ask you about your work.’

She smiles.

‘That is unexpected. A policeman who wants to talk about art.’

‘Your pictures may be connected to Taryn Holt’s death.’

Dazuluka Cele stands up.

‘No. No. Do not say that. How can you say that?’

De Vries gets up too, follows her towards the first of the sculptures. She runs her hand over the form and, now, De Vries can see what it represents: the carving is of a woman, doubled over, clutching her stomach, crying.

‘Your paintings, this sculpture. They are very powerful. They upset a lot of people.’

Cele turns, looks up at him. He sees she is distressed, her eyes pink.

‘Good. That is what art should do. For the last two years, I worked on this collection. It is what is in my heart. It shows the world how men treat women on this continent.’ She takes a step back and indicates the sculpture. ‘This woman was pregnant with a child her husband did not want. He had been told by some fortune teller that it would be a girl and he wanted only a boy. So, what did he do? He beat her stomach with his fists and kicked her until he killed her baby and then, when he had finished, he raped her to make her pregnant with the child he wanted.’

De Vries has heard such stories before. Whenever he hears stories of deviance and evil, he reflects, he has always heard worse. He waits, out of respect for her emotion. Then, he says: ‘You painted a picture, in your exhibition, which shows a white women lying on a bed. The bed is bloodied and she has a giant phallus in her mouth . . .’

‘Yes. That is another story which I can tell you . . .’

‘Is it about Taryn Holt?’

Cele looks confused.

‘No. It is about a woman called Margaret in Maputo.’ She frowns. ‘Why do you ask if it is about Taryn?’

‘Because Miss Holt was shot on her bed, and she had a black phallus in her mouth.’

He sees the information processed and the reaction which follows. Cele slumps back down on her chair, eyes blinking, shaking her head.

‘I do not understand. That is not possible.’

Vaughn sits back down opposite her.

‘What happened to this woman in Maputo?’

Cele looks up at him.

‘Her husband was a drunk, a very violent man. When he suspected that his wife was having an affair with a black businessman, he took out his shotgun and killed her on their bed.’

‘What about the black phallus?’

‘That,’ Cele says, ‘was to tell the story. I only read about the woman’s story in the newspaper and I was moved to paint the picture.’

Vaughn knows that any connection between the original subject of the painting and his investigation is spurious.

‘Was the painting here before it was displayed at the gallery?’

‘Yes. I painted it maybe . . . a year ago. It would have been here, first on an easel and then stacked against the wall there.’ She indicates a series of canvases, each divided from the next by what looks like old bed-sheets.

‘Who would have seen it?’

‘Many people. Visitors to the studio here, and everybody who attended the gallery.’

‘You notice anyone paying particular attention?’

‘I notice that women look deeply at it, study the woman’s eyes, examine her body. Men, they look between her legs and at her face and then they look away.’

Vaughn’s mouth twitches. He takes a breath.

‘Your work is passionate; personal?’

Cele nods vigorously, wiping her eyes.

‘I have nothing but my gift from God. I use that to tell the story of women in Africa and what they suffer.’

De Vries gestures around her studio.

‘You live here too?’

‘Yes. The other building is my home. The space below is a second studio. It was used by another artist, but she died.’

‘Still,’ Vaughn says, ‘you have done well.’

‘This is not mine,’ Cele says sadly. ‘This belongs to Taryn. She owns the property. As one of her artists, it became mine to work in, to live in. But now, now I do not know what will happen.’

‘You were fond of Miss Holt?’

‘Of course, yes. Without her support, I would never have been able to mount such an exhibition, would never have sold my work to important, influential people. I owe her everything.’

‘Did you know about Miss Holt’s private life? About who she was seeing?’

‘No. She was a private person. But, I can tell you this, all the time we were setting up the exhibition, she was excited about someone in her life.’

‘A man? A boyfriend?’

‘Yes,’ Cele says uncertainly. ‘I could see in her eyes that it was something like love . . . I think too she had plans for something that excited her. She worked hard on my exhibition, but I thought that she was thinking about something else.’