The Serpentine Road (21 page)

‘Who cares?’

‘You notice an expensive watch, or a fast car. You see things in the faces of white people I miss. But I understand the behaviour of people you know nothing about, sir. For a homeless man, a fresh dinner in a new box – that is noteworthy.’

‘But why does it matter, Don?’

Don stands up.

‘Sir, it matters because a short time later, Angus Lyle is dead. He has the gun that killed Taryn Holt on him, with his palm and fingerprints on it, a leaflet for the gallery, blood from the victim. You know it is all too convenient. What if someone used the promise of a meal of his favourite food to lure him to them, to plant the evidence, and try to bury the case with a disturbed addict?’

De Vries flicks the cigarette out of the window, checks that his door is closed, moves to his desk. They both sit down.

‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’

Don pauses.

‘I am not convinced and I know you, sir, you are not convinced that Angus Lyle got past the alarm system, executed Taryn Holt with a perfect shot to the heart, left no forensic evidence at all and walked away.’

De Vries says nothing; he thinks about Henrik du Toit wanting to be able to report a concluded case, wonders why he was being asked about his case nearly two-thousand kilometres away in Pretoria.

‘I agree.’

‘So, if we are right . . .’

‘If we are right,’ De Vries interrupts, ‘whoever has done this has probably killed twice. An overdose is easy to inflict. What’s more, there seems too much interest in this case, and that means someone important wants it closed and forgotten. This could be conspiracy . . . Political conspiracy, and that frightens me.’

‘Doctor Ulton feels that the evidence is flawed and contradictory . . .’

‘Don, I know.’ He rubs his temple, squeezes his eyes shut. ‘I have to think about this.’ He looks up at his Warrant Officer. ‘I’m telling you, we have to be careful. We’re going to think this over. Tell no one. No one at all. As far as everyone is concerned, we’re going through the motions of concluding the case and putting it down to Lyle. Leave it like that for now.’

‘Can we do that?’

‘We can do whatever we want. We have one goal.’

‘All right . . .’

‘Trust me,’ De Vries says. ‘Everything we do is being scrutinized even more than usual. Before we do anything, we need to know by who, and why.’

The main forensic laboratory is dark now, a couple of Anglepoise lights over desks the only illumination.

‘This my favourite time,’ Steve Ulton says, gesturing at the near-empty lab. ‘Do more in these few hours than in daylight hours put together.’

De Vries leads him over to the far side of the laboratory, where they had talked before.

‘Have you discussed your findings on Angus Lyle with anyone?’

Steve Ulton stares at De Vries, wonders why he is speaking so quietly.

‘No.’

‘Good. Were you able to analyse the greasy substance on the victim’s fingers?’

‘Chicken fat, cooking oil. Probably scavenged from a bin somewhere.’

‘That’s interesting.’

De Vries looks around but, once again, they are at one end of the laboratory, while one technician sits hunched over a microscope at the other. He turns his back to him, continues quietly.

‘Warrant Officer February and I are concerned that, together with your doubts, our own questions make this situation too uncertain to conclude that Lyle was responsible for the Holt killing.’

‘You think he was set up?’

‘If . . . that is the case, he would be an ideal candidate.’

Ulton shakes his head.

‘I agree, but why use him at all? The killer has left no evidence at the scene. The forensic trail at the Holt house is dead.’

‘Maybe the killer wasn’t certain; maybe he wanted a back-up. But I’m thinking something else: is it possible that Lyle is implicated not just to take the blame, but also to hide the motive?’

‘Meaning?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘What are we meant to be thinking?’

‘Art and sex, perhaps even race, thanks to that black dildo.’ He looks up. ‘By the way, the dildo. Was it new?’

Ulton is taken aback by the sudden change.

‘There were no other DNA traces or forensic markers on it.’

‘Angus Lyle had a leaflet with the painting of the woman with the dildo in her mouth, but you said he may never have opened it. If he did this, where did he get that dildo? He has no money. If he wanted to kill this women because he knew, somehow, that she was promiscuous, why bother? The more I think about it, the less right it sounds.’

‘Why couldn’t it have been Taryn Holt’s property?’

‘The dildo?’

‘Yes.’

‘It sounds like she was getting enough of the real thing. Why would she want that?’

Ulton shrugs. ‘Nothing surprises me any more, Vaughn, when it comes to sex.’

‘Did you find any other sex aids at the property?’

‘Possibly.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Two sets of handcuffs. Serious things, not the kind you might find in a sex shop. Heavy duty. And a riding crop. Nothing to say she rode horses, so, again, I’m inclined to think they had another use.’

‘But no dildos?’

‘No.’

‘Then I don’t think it was hers.’

‘So,’ Ulton says. ‘What? You’ll re-open everything?’

‘No.’ He glances behind him again. ‘I think we should keep this to ourselves for the moment.’

‘Why?’

‘Because there is a lot of interest from high up. An urge to close it down. I need to know why.’

‘You have always been a conspiracy theorist,Vaughn.’

‘In this country, to be a conspiracy theorist is to think with the odds. I’ve been right too often.’

Ulton smiles.

De Vries says: ‘You think we live in a country free of conspiracy and corruption, even at the very highest level? Nothing surprises you about sex; nothing surprises me about corruption and evil. But, if this is what this is, it comes from high up. We have to be very careful.’

‘My report expresses some doubts, nothing more. I’m happy to hang on to it for a while. I’m off tomorrow anyway. No one else here has dealt with more than a fraction of the analysis. Keep me posted?’

‘
Ja
. Thanks.’

‘I hope to God you’re wrong, Vaughn. Completely bloody wrong.’

De Vries walks out of his building, turns uphill, takes a couple of cross-streets until he reaches Long Street. It is the bustling heart of Cape Town’s nightlife but, even in the early evening, there are tourists sitting on the street, ambling into bars and restaurants, and locals stopping for a quick beer on the way home. He turns up Shortmarket Street and looks for the address he has been sent by SMS. He walks inside the building, nods at a security guard seated there, begins to climb a long, steep staircase.

At the top, he turns onto a glass corridor overlooking a small, modern roof terrace, then enters a tongue-and-groove panelled attic room. He sees Marantz at the bar, talking with a bartender.

‘What are you doing in town, in a bar?’

‘Meeting an American friend of mine. Poker player, here to play in a high-stakes game with some Chinese punters.’

‘The Chinese are all over Africa.’

‘They are. We should all be learning Mandarin and Cantonese.’

‘You’re not playing?’

‘Out of my league. The buy-in is a hundred thousand dollars – million rand, give or take . . .’

De Vries raises his eyebrows, turns back to the bartender, orders a Slow Beer from the country town of Darling. They take their drinks and walk out onto the roof terrace. The view makes De Vries think of Manhattan, even though he has never been there.

‘May be our last chance,’ Marantz says. ‘Cold front looming, apparently. At last. The Mountain is tinder dry. I’m afraid for my house.’

‘You have an escape plan?’

Marantz smiles.

‘Always.’

De Vries takes a long draft of beer. He rarely sees Marantz smile.

‘How do you know this place?’

‘Old drinking haunt . . . Well, towards the end, anyway. Cosy in winter. There used to be a lovely manager here: girl called Monique. I used to be last out, but now I’m the one leaving when everyone arrives.’

‘Monique?’

Marantz sighs.

‘She was just a nice girl.’

They sit alone at the far end, the bar and terrace still quiet so early in the evening.

‘Well, I’m glad you’re thinking about girls.’ De Vries gulps almost half his beer, sighs, and leans back.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Marantz says.

‘My case.’

‘I can tell,’ Marantz says. ‘All is not well.’

Don February carries a leather briefcase; it is what his wife expects of a commissioned officer in the SAPS. He crosses the wide grey stone foyer of the building, walks out onto the street, turning towards the railway station. He has not taken more than half a dozen steps when a short, young black woman approaches him.

‘Warrant Officer February?’

‘Yes?’

‘I met you this morning, sir. I am Officer Uzoma.’

Don looks her over. She is almost unrecognizable in casual civilian clothes, her hair down, face made-up.

‘What can I do for you, Officer?’

She hesitates, then says: ‘I wanted to speak with you, sir, in private . . . It concerns the man we found, Angus Lyle.’

Don is suddenly aware of how close they are to their main building. He says: ‘Let us walk down here. Maybe we can have a coffee?’

‘I agree, there is too much coincidence and the evidence is suspect, but if you investigate on your own, you are taking an enormous risk. You have no allies, no sympathy.’

‘Who can I trust?’ De Vries asks. ‘The pressure is coming from high up there. I pick the wrong one, it’ll be blown and God knows what happens to me.’

‘But,’ Marantz says, stirring his Virgin Mary repeatedly, ‘you know the fate of a lone whistle-blower is precarious, even if what he says reveals corruption and conspiracy.’

‘The conspiracy concerns me less than simply finding out who killed Taryn Holt, and why.’

‘I’ll tell you what I was thinking about, after we last met. The murder scene itself.’

‘In what way?’

‘Scenes are staged for two main reasons: the first is purely for the benefit of the perpetrator. He has an image in his head he wants to create for real, and the reality of the scene does not match his fantasy so he adjusts it to meet it. He might photograph it or store it away in his head as an enduring memory. He is likely to take a keepsake. This is an effect he wants to achieve, for himself. The second reason is also purely selfish, but the intended audience is different: you. The scene is staged to occlude the identity of the perpetrator by suggesting alternative motivations and misleading clues.’

‘So, if it suggests art and sex and racism, it won’t be those?’

‘Probably not.’

‘If the boyfriend is out of the picture, it’s not likely money. The Holt board are drowning in cash.’

‘Which leaves what? Politics?’

‘Yep.’

De Vries drains his glass, slams it down on the table, says: ‘Shit.’

They sit in the corner of the café, away from the street. Don buys her the coffee. He is not used to a junior officer wanting to confide in him.

‘Tell me what is on your mind?’

‘This morning, before we came to you after our shift, our supervisor spoke to us, congratulated us on finding a killer. We did not know that he meant Taryn Holt’s killer. I thought it was a bit of a joke. But, when we got back afterwards, a Lieutenant from Central came up to us, shook our hands and told us we had done a good job.’

‘That is all good.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Eshi Uzoma says uncertainly. ‘But, I do not think that Angus Lyle would ever shoot somebody. I do not think he was capable.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because he was a Christian, sir. He attended the chapel in St Jerome Street, and he was always reading from the Good Book.’

‘Anything else?’

‘I heard the Holt murder was a shot straight to the heart. Angus could not shoot straight, even if he had a gun, which I do not think he did. We saw him lots of times, searched him for drugs, but we never found a firearm.’

‘Why do you think he could not shoot straight?’

‘He shook. When he was angry, his whole body would shake and he would shout things. That was how he was.’

‘Why did you not tell this to Colonel de Vries this morning?’

‘It was my partner, Officer Hendricks. He told me only to answer the questions, not to give my opinion. He made me promise not to gossip, which I sometimes do. He said that a senior SAPS officer was not interested in what we thought, only what we did and saw.’

‘Well,’ Don says. ‘You did well to tell me.’

De Vries does not sleep; he stays sitting in his armchair at what was the family dining table. Awake still, he reflects that Angus Lyle felt wrong the moment he saw him, the evidence on him too perfect, too signposted. Yet, if Lyle was set up, then the perpetrator has killed twice. If he can identify him, locate him, he will surely be prepared to kill again. And there is too much attention on his case, from anonymous sources high up in the SAPS in Pretoria. Perhaps it is the Bhekifa connection; perhaps that is the source of conspiracy?

Amidst circuitous contemplation, he dozes, only to wake with a stiff neck, his mouth dry and floury. His garden is black; he sees only the reflection of his room in the French windows. The man he sees depresses him. He pushes the three empty beer bottles away from him, stretching to arm’s length to form a neat line out of range of his slumped body, and lays his head on top of the thick docket of Taryn Holt’s murder, feels his eyes closing.

He half thinks, half unconsciously dreams, about his wife: when they were together in the beginning; the sex wherever they went; the desire to see one another when they had been apart for more than a day or two; the ritual mating to reaffirm their partnership.

He wakes, lifts his head high enough from the table to run the back of his arm and hand over his lips, lowers his head back down, the paper pile seeming as soft as a feather pillow.

Time reverses: he sees the body of Angus Lyle, opened from head to groin, flat on the dull metal table, bagged and tagged, crumpled and dusty, sprawled under a hedge. Blood squirts from a syringe over his sweatshirt and jeans; an alien hand holds his hands around the hilt of a 9mm Beretta. His face convulses in panic, in agony; he struggles for breath, starts to breathe. He fights with the man who stabs him with the syringe, struggles but cannot move. He sits up, smiles as salty food hits his taste buds, picks grilled chicken from a blue and yellow box. A shadow falls across him and he looks up.