The Man in the Wind

A novel by Vernon W. Baumann

Copyright (c) 2014 Vernon William Baumann

Published by the Paper Corporation 2014

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Although Coffee is based on an actual place (Koffiefontein) the people and circumstances are entirely fictitious. I apologise to anyone I may have inadvertently offended. All the characters (unless otherwise stated or previously arranged) are likewise fictitious in nature and any resemblance to persons, alive or dead, is purely co-incidental. . I apologise for the liberties I took with the landscape, lay-out and naming regarding this pleasant town.

Although I take great care to do the proper research, especially with regards to police and criminal procedure in the South African context, sometimes –as an author – I need to bend the rules. I apologise for those instances where I did not provide an accurate depiction of legal and police procedure. You will understand that the narrative demanded – at times – a certain leniency when it came to verisimilitude. I hope no-one, especially employed within these sectors, takes offence at these necessary “tweaks”.

Cover design: Johann Saaiman / www.123rf.co.za

Acknowledgements

I want to thank the Dear Lord, God in Heaven for giving me the talent, the discipline and the inspiration to finish this book. Praised be your name. Forever and ever.

I want to thank my wife, Rouxlien; for listening to my ideas, for providing insight and suggestions and for putting up with my foul moods. Thank you. Again and again.

I want to thank Major-General Sharon Schutte (retired) of the South African Police. Your help and guidance was absolutely invaluable. Thank you for putting up with the endless questions of an insistent author. This book would have lacked the proper authenticity without you.

I also want to thank Colonel Sandra J Weber for her initial help with my research. Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions. Thank you also for your patience.

I wish to thank Linda Sparks for her assiduous and rigorous editing of this manuscript. You have helped me so much before. Your assistance becomes more and more valuable with each new book. Thank you. I hope we can both soon start enjoying real success. (Watch out for her books on Amazon!)

I want to thank all of those who took an interest in this book. Thank you for wishing me well and enquiring after my slow progress. It’s finally done!

As always, this book is dedicated to my wife, Rouxlien.

Your love is my home.

Friends who became a part of this book

A posting on Facebook resulted in an interesting experiment. These are the people who lent their names to the characters in my book:

Alte Bismarck – Alte Kuhn

Shaun Hertzog – Shaun Young

Alistair Rockcliff – Alistair Pritchitt

Lizelle Blomkamp – Lizelle van Wyk

Lloyd Botha – Lloyd Minter

Johann Trudouw – Johann Saaiman

Michelle Bismarck – Michelle Liebenberg

Nadine Rockcliff – Nadine Smith

Carol-Ann Botha – Carol Ann de Bruin-Snyman

Linda van Wyk – Linda Sparks / Prof Arlys van Wyk

Miranda Kirsten – Miranda Gouws

Fred van der Merwe – Fred Scott

Elizabeth Trudouw – Elizabeth Tsakani Macleod Mashava

Marike Strydom – Marike Potgieter

List of Characters

Michelle Bismarck – First teen to disappear

Constable Joost van der Merwe – Rookie cop in Coffee

Dawid Bismarck – Police station commander

De Wet Bismarck - Doctor

Alte Bismarck – Wife of De Wet

Wouter Bredekamp – Suicide victim

Shaun Hertzog – Leader of detective unit

Jools van Sant – Detective

Dog Doober – Detective

Chaz Bosman – Detective

Jannie Duvenhage – Detective

Jack Strydom - Butcher

Marike Strydom – Wife of butcher

Frans Joubert – Local pastor

Lloyd Botha – Mayor of Coffee

Carol-Ann Botha – Wife of mayor

Lizelle Blomkamp – friend of Michelle Bismarck

Linda van Wyk – Aunt of Michelle Bismarck

Manie Botha – Second teen to disappear

Fred van der Merwe – Friend of Manie Botha

Elizabeth Trudouw – Third teen to disappear

Johann Trudouw – Wealthy farmer, father of Elizabeth Trudouw

Tony Bredekamp – Son of Wouter Bredekamp

Alistair Rockcliff – Wealthiest man in Coffee

Nadine Rockcliff – Daughter of Alistair Rockcliff

Ronny Kirshenbaum – Victim #1

Josh Katz – Victim #2

Susan Billing – Victim #3

Miranda Kirsten – Social Worker

Table of Contents

Friends who became a part of this book

List of Characters

Once Upon a Time ...

A Town called Coffee

Let us go then ...

Part One

The Vanished, the Suicide and the Mannequins

Part Two

The Spectre from the past

Part Three

The Confession and the Barbecue Bloodbath

The Confession

On the Trail of a Killer

The Child

The Social Worker

The Bloodbath

Epilogue

About the Author

Once Upon a Time ...

The girl clawed her way up the steep slope of the mine dump. She whimpered softly as her torn fingers left bloody indentations in the sooty gravel of the artificial mountain. As she desperately assailed the gradient a stroppy breeze scattered her fierce whispers into the cool night air. ‘Oh dear God please ... oh dear God please ... oh dear God please ...’

And then she reached the summit – a flat plateau that extended endlessly into the darkness of a sickle-moon night. She immediately fell flat on her stomach. Trying to merge with the grungy darkness of the mine gravel. Her long blond hair – heavy with sweat and blood – was plastered to her scalp. She turned her head and the soft light of the crescent moon washed over her features. In another age – in another place – she may have been described as beautiful. But her face was too long; her nose too aqua-line; the contours of her visage too sharp and angular to be recognised as true beauty.

Her chest heaved and fell with suppressed panic. Her breath blasted naked hollows into the compacted surface of the dump summit. Alarm boiled over into uncontrollable terror. And sobs racked her body. She forced a shaky hand – caked with blood and gravel – to her mouth in an attempt to blunt the sounds that escaped from her broken mouth. Her torn cotton dress flapped and twittered in the wind. Its rose motif appearing like blotches of dark scarlet blood in the mitigated moonlight.

And then she heard it.

The unmistakeable sound.

(deargodno)

They were here.

‘No ... no ... no ... no ...’ she whispered with mounting frenzy, whimpering with despair. Digging her chin into the sharp gravel she scuttled backwards, leaving crab-like swirls in the stony surface.

She couldn’t stay here. They would find her.

She couldn’t hide. They would find her.

There was only one thing to do.

Run.

And escape.

She moved backwards with rising terror, squashing her body into the gravel. Thinking with irrational fear that it would serve to conceal her. Ever backwards she slithered. Away from the sound.

Away from death.

She felt the dip that marked the end of the summit. Moving slowly she pushed herself down the slope. Careful to make no sound whatsoever.

When she reached level earth she squatted silently. Waiting and watching for any kind of movement. When she was satisfied she slowly rose to her feet. And shifted noiselessly in the degraded light of the crescent moon. The grotesque shadow of the mine’s solitary tower engulfed her as she staggered towards a distant fence that designated the boundaries of the open-pit mining operation. Beyond that was endless veldt. Beyond that. Freedom.

She took a slow tortured step, her hand inserted into a ragged tear in her dress. The violence of earlier that evening had torn the elastic of her bloodied panties. And she had to hold it up with her hand. The very last vestige of dignity.

She crouched low. And prepared to hurry across an open stretch. A distance that would expose her completely.

But then the darkness rushed towards her. And a cold metal surface collided with her head.

She fell to the ground. Bright explosions of noise filled her vision. Fresh blood spurted from her head in sync with her frenzied heartbeat. ‘No ... no ... no ... no ...’

With blind panic constricting her throat and squeezing her chest, she tried to scurry away. Tried to escape the dark shape that loomed over her, a shovel cradled in one hand.

Despite her frenetic breathing. Despite the roaring rush of blood in her ears. Despite the scraping sounds of her broken fingers tearing at the ground. Despite all this she could hear the awful crunch of gravel with each of his footsteps as he calmly stalked her. She tried to increase her speed but he reached her. And planted a heavy boot in the small of her back. Violently shoving her bruised body onto the sharp and angular pebbles. The impact forced the air out of her lungs. She lifted her head. ‘Please don’t ... please ... I beg you ... please don’t ...’

The man remained motionless. And silent. Staring down at her. A nightmare become flesh.

Behind him. In the muted moonlight. Standing at the summit of the mine dump. The dark shapes of four men were silhouetted against the angry sky.

A Town called Coffee

Let me introduce you to the little town of Coffee.

Quaint, pleasant. Bucolic. About halfway between Luckhoff and Petrusburg. At the very heart of what makes the Orange Free State ... the Orange Free State. The pace is sedentary. The lifestyle, pedestrian. The disease known as the rat race doesn’t exist here. For most, it is just that ... an affliction of far-away places.

Coffee is a town not unlike a hundred others spread across the width and breadth of Apartheid South Africa. And, unfortunately, just like so many others, Coffee had been experiencing some major challenges recently. In fact, to say that Coffee had fallen on hard times would be facetious optimism – not much tolerated in these parts of late. Add to that the devastating effects of international sanctions against the Apartheid government of P.W. Botha (and the economic disinvestment which it demanded) and the political picture was looking bleak. These were tough times to be at the sharp point of the world’s outrage.

For now, however, the problems of the world were relatively (and thankfully) distant. The ANC’s bombs were exploding in the urban powerhouses of the Transvaal. The border wars were taking place in other countries. Although significantly more than a hundred explosions, assassinations and other incidents of political violence had already rocked the country that year (and it wasn’t even July), for now, in Coffee ... things were relatively quiet.

For now, in the parochial streets of Coffee, life went on. Quietly. Slowly.

As it always had. As it always would.

Because, surely, Coffee was not unlike other small towns across the vastness of South Africa. Surely. On its surface especially, it appeared exactly like these other small towns. It even smelled like other small towns. Except, of course, that Coffee was nothing like any other town you have ever come across in your entire life.

But come now. Surely Coffee is populated by people that are (by and large) not so different to the people you may meet in small towns across the world. They have the same interests and needs (provincial to be sure) as those people. Old men sitting on faded porches, compiling bucket lists of what-could-have-beens. And they have the same fears. Small-town fears. Except, of course, that the people of Coffee are not anything like the people you would ever wish to meet. God forbid that you should.

You see, there’s something terribly wrong in the small town of Coffee. It’s dark. And it’s dreadful. And it’s about to erupt.

But it’s not what you think.

Let us go then ...

Let us go then, you and I, while the sun is splayed out against the rye.

Let us go then, to a place called Coffee.

Let’s fly across the serpentine route known as the N8 as we head for Kimberley – arguably the world’s most famous mining town. Through sprawling grasslands, golden and eternal, sun-soaked and wind-wiped, we head ever westwards; past open expanses and salt lakes, where horizons never meet earth and earth never meets end; past a thousand spread-out farms, past Oom Dries and Oom Koos, which brings us to Petrusberg where we now divert to the south, on the lonely R48 all the way to Coffee. The landscape changes hardly at all except that the flatlands give way to ridges and koppies (hills). The closer we get to Coffee the more these koppies begin to acquire a conical peculiarity, which is both idiosyncratic and striking. As if the ancient hand of God had tried to pluck these hills from the earth but growing bored then decided to leave it exactly so, for the future people from this district to admire.

Here lies Coffee then.

To navigate its main street we need to cross the old rusty-red iron bridge that spans the fluctuating waters of the Modderrivier (Mud River). At the entrance to this town we are greeted by the world’s largest coffee-pot (according to the Orange Free State Tourism Guide of nineteen-eighty-six) from which pours a constant stream of water into what – one can only assume – must be the world’s largest coffee cup.

Let us fly then over Coffee’s main street, past the OK Bazaars supermarket and the Bosveld Restaurant across from it; past the PEP Stores and the Standard Bank; past the co-op and the liquor store; past the Caltex filling station. And now we take a sharp left and fly over the centre of the town; beautiful and lush, open and amiable... immaculately maintained. One almost cannot believe that this chic manicured landscape is part of the same town that includes the slightly seedy main street from which we just came. But, of course, like all towns (and cities) in Apartheid South Africa, there are different parts reserved for different ethnic groups. The question is how do you take your coffee? Black or White? The town centre is where “White” Coffee “gets down”. The main street area is mostly reserved for Nie-Blankes.

Non-whites.

Dotted along the periphery of what is known as Hoffman Square (inexplicably named as the town centre is composed of a gargantuan traffic circle covered by a verdant lawn) you’ll find Avbob Undertakers here, the First National Bank there and the new police station somewhere in the middle. To one side a huge steepled Dutch Reformed church towers over this pleasant communal area. On the other side of Hoffman Square is a strip mall containing a Spar Supermarket, a Spur franchise restaurant, an Edgars retail clothing store, a hardware store and a pharmacy. Another half a dozen or so small businesses, situated along the edges of Hoffman Square, complete the commercial hub of this Orange Free State town. Here in the heart of Coffee, as one enjoys the verdant and garden-rich vistas of the town centre, one could almost be convinced that Coffee is not a place that conceals a dark secret. But we cannot dwell here. For the sake of our story we must vacate the pleasant environs of Coffee’s town centre and head up ... up, towards the north-eastern part of town – where some of Coffee’s wealthiest reside. This is the area that lies in the shade of Signal Hill with its gigantic cross that lights up at night. Coffee doesn’t have an “upmarket” suburb. It’s too small for that. No. It has only an upmarket street. Only one. And this is where we are now heading. Towards Kruger Street where the town’s movers and shakers live side by side. At the end of Kruger Street we spot something strangely out of place. Two bright yellow police vans are parked outside a beautiful Cape Dutch house – broad and expansive. A police sedan with the words “Blitspatrollie” (Flying Squad)  emblazoned on the side is parked in the double-lane driveway next to an ’86 C-Class Mercedes Benz 200.

The house is a hive of activity. Constables and Sergeants everywhere. The station commander is taking a statement from his own brother – no less.

Something strange has happened. Something ominous and terrible.

At this stage they don’t yet realise that a dark thing has entered their lives. But they soon will. Just like the rest of Coffee.

And it will change everyone’s lives ... forever.

Let us rise again and leave them momentarily as we now head towards the town’s north-west. Towards the cemetery.

Something has happened here too. Something bizarre and inexplicable. If possible, it’s even stranger than that which was taking place at number forty-five, Kruger Street.

It’s strange, to be sure, but it’s certainly not isolated.

Now we must leave the town environs and travel south, to a smallholding about three kilometres outside of Coffee.

This is the house of a man ... with a dark secret.

We enter the house by the front door. It’s a cliché, but yes, it’s never locked. Not in a place like Coffee. We walk towards the study at the back of the house. A vile stench assails our nostrils. We become gradually aware of a buzzing noise. As we turn the corner we observe the source. Literally hundreds of blow flies crowd the space. They cake the windows and desk.

In a chair, drawn up to the above mentioned desk, sits a man. Impossibly still. The desk and double window are covered in blood and gore. Already brown with age.

In his limp hand hangs a revolver.

This is the house of Wouter Bredekamp. He is a man with a dark secret. He is not the only one. But this secret will stay his forever.

It will be another few days before his putrefying corpse is discovered.

This is a strange day in the normally uneventful town of Coffee. Three terrible things have happened. Unfortunately they are all connected.

There’s a serpent in the small-town Eden of Coffee.

But it’s not what you think.

Part One

The Vanished, the Suicide and the Mannequins

Vengeance is mine, and retribution. In due time their foot will slip; for the day of their calamity is near. And the impending things are hastening upon them

Deuteronomy 32:35

One

‘So, you’re from Bloemfontein then?’

‘Uh-huh.’

The burly South African Police Sergeant towered over the reedy and bespectacled Constable whose sharp Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he spoke.

‘Well, as long as you shout Vrystaat and not Province or Northern-Transvaal,’ Sergeant Lubbe said, referring to some of the country’s provincial rugby teams, ‘you should be fine.’

‘Oh hell,’ Constable van der Merwe said, guffawing loudly, ‘only an idiot would shout for Northern-Transvaal.’

Rugby.

Together with the church (the Calvinist Dutch Reformed church to be specific) and the state, rugby completed the trifecta that dominated and defined life as a modern-day Afrikaner in the beleaguered state of Apartheid South Africa.

‘Ja. You keep thinking like that and you’ll be oraait.’

All right.

‘So what made you decide to apply for a posting in Coffee?’ The Sergeant shielded his eyes from the sharp glare off an approaching police sedan’s windshield. Although winter mornings and evenings could get helluva cold in Coffee, the days themselves were hot and sunny.

‘Well, uh, I wanted to serve a small community, you know, Sarge,’ the Constable said, lying.

‘I hope you didn’t come here expecting an easy ride.’ Lubbe watched as Major Bismarck climbed from the passenger seat of the police sedan. Both men stood to attention and nodded curtly as the station commander of Coffee marched past them, oblivious to their presence.

‘Oh no, no ... of course not, Sarge,’ van der Merwe said, lying.

‘Watch the lawn there, Constable.’

‘Oh, sjeez ... sorry, Sarge.’ The Constable lifted his gangly legs in the air and made a great show of stepping away from the immaculately manicured lawn of number forty-five, Kruger Street. He looked at the beautiful and shiny-white Cape Dutch mansion of Doctor De Wet Bismarck. ‘So, Sarge, the boys tell me we got ourselves a missing person case.’

‘That’s correct, Constable.’

Van der Merwe stared at the house. ‘Sjeez, who would’ve thought we’d get a missing person case on my first day.’

‘Don’t jump to any conclusions, van der Merwe,’ Lubbe said, casting a stern eye at the Constable. ‘That’s the first principle of investigation.’ He cleared his throat authoritatively. ‘Besides, they’re not so rare. We get quite a few of those each year.’ He nodded his head to his left, indicating the area beyond the Cape Dutch house. ‘Mostly from the township ... you know.’

Van der Merwe chuckled. ‘Ja ... the blêddie kaffirs?’

‘The official police appellation, Constable, is Non-White,’ Lubbe said with stern reproach. Even in Apartheid South Africa there was a measure of political correctness. Van der Merwe blushed, sufficiently reprimanded. ‘Most of these cases turn out to be false alarms however. You know, the usual. Binge drinking. Family disputes. Fathers trying to escape their familial duties. That sort of thing.’

Silence.

Van der Merwe nodded. ‘So ...?’

‘The missing person is the chief’s niece, Michelle Bismarck.’ Van der Merwe nodded with the appropriate gravity. ‘Though ... like I said, at this stage it’s too soon to draw any conclusions.’ Lubbe cleared his throat, casting a surreptitious eye at the Bismarck house. ‘Unfortunately, Michelle has a bit of a ... a reputation,’ he said. ‘And that’s putting it politely.’

Van der Merwe grinned lewdly. ‘And if you weren’t being polite, huh Sarge?’ He elbowed his superior gently in the midriff.

‘You’re being very familiar on your first day on the job, aren’t you ... van der Merwe.’

The Constable stood to stiff attention. ‘Sorry, Sergeant. Sincere apologies.’

Sergeant Lubbe nodded, narrowing his eyes with admonishment as he stared down at his subordinate. ‘Hmmm.’ Van der Merwe glared self-consciously at the manicured lawn. ‘In any case,’ Lubbe said, leaning forward with conspiratorial subtlety, his erstwhile reprimand forgotten. ‘She’s a ... a bit of a wild one, you could say. Gave the Doc a hard time while she was growing up. Expelled from Coffee High School ... as well as Luckhoff High. She ended up attending school in Bloemfontein, stayed in a school hostel over there.’ Lubbe looked over his shoulder. ‘Didn’t help much. Got into all sorts of trouble. There’s even a rumour the Doc had to help her out with a little ... situation.’ The Sergeant cradled his arms in front of his abdomen and swung it to and fro. ‘Know what I mean?’

Van der Merwe looked on with incomprehension until the light dawned in his eye. ‘Bliksem!’ His eyes grew large as he contemplated the rumoured medical procedure – something that was highly illegal in 80’s South Africa. ‘You’re not serious, Sarge.’

Lubbe watched his eager subordinate. ‘You would do well not to get involved in all sorts of rumour mongering, Constable,’ Lubbe said sagely. ‘Don’t go spreading unfounded gossip.’ Van der Merwe nodded with excitement.

For a moment the two police officers stood in the sun, basking in shared conspiracy.

‘In any case, this whole thing is just a courtesy call,’ Lubbe said, indicating the two police vans, the sedan and the half a dozen policemen on the street and inside the house. ‘Since Michelle was in Bloemfontein at the time of her ... disappearance, the case will be handed over to a Bloem unit of detectives.’ He watched van der Merwe from the corner of his eye. ‘If it’s even a case at all. If you ask me, our little wild child is probably holed up in some ducktail’s caravan, getting high on Dagga.’

Marijuana.

Van der Merwe nodded. He looked over at the Bismarck house. ‘Shame. Poor Doctor Bismarck.’

Two

‘Alte.’ Major Dawid Bismarck, station commander of the town of Coffee, nodded a curt greeting to his sister-in-law.

‘Dawid.’ Alte Bismarck did not meet his gaze, her eyes cast down towards the deep mahogany floor of her dining room.

Major Dawid Bismarck turned towards his brother, seated at the heavy stinkwood dining room table. The policeman stared at his brother mutely, sharp angular features riding a thick moustache hiding thin pursed lips. Behind his omnipresent Ray-Ban sunglasses Major Bismarck’s expression was intractable, indecipherable. Cold, surly and taciturn. ‘De Wet.’

Doctor De Wet Bismarck looked up, irritable and impatient. ‘Can we get this over with, Dawid?’

Major Bismarck glanced over at Alte Bismarck. Her face was pinched into a tight mask of anxiety. ‘Of course.’ Doctor Bismarck tapped an ill-tempered rhythm on the dining room table. ‘I just need to take a preliminary statement. The division in Bloemfontein will be handling the investigation.’

Silence.

‘Well, what do you need to know?’ Doctor Bismarck exhaled in sharp irritation. He was certainly the better looking of the two brothers. His neatly trimmed auburn hair and soft clean-shaven features gave him a “nice boy next door” appearance.

‘When last did you hear from Michelle?’

‘I ... we never speak.’ He pointed in the vague direction of his apprehensive wife. ‘She usually communicates with Alte.’

Major Bismarck turned to his distraught sister-in-law. ‘Alte?’

She glanced up at the tall policeman. ‘We speak about twice a week.’ She wrung her hands, fidgeting anxiously. ‘The last time we spoke was about four days ago. I haven’t heard from her since. That in itself is not so unusual ...’ She averted her eyes. ‘Except that she missed two days of work.’

‘And that’s why you think something is ... wrong?’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘This time.’

‘Oh please. For God’s sake.’ The Doc slammed a palm down on the mahogany surface. ‘How many jobs has she lost because of her whoring and boozing?’

Alte shot her husband a look of recrimination. ‘It’s not just me,’ she said, frowning at him. ‘Linda is ... just as worried.’

‘Linda is your sister in Bloemfontein, right?’

‘Yes. Michelle has been staying with her for the last few weeks. She last saw Michelle on Friday. That’s the same day I spoke to her.’ Alte Bismarck bit her upper lip. ‘She went out with friends that night and ... and she hasn’t been back since.’

‘I tell you now, she’s off in some township shebeen (tavern) getting pissed and conceiving some labourer’s bastard child.’ De Wet Bismarck’s attractive face was contorted into an ugly grimace of malevolence.

‘De Wet!’ Alte Bismarck looked at her husband with outrage. ‘If you took the time to speak to her ... you would realise things have been different the last few months. Your daughter has grown up.’ De Wet snorted with derision. Alte turned to Dawid Bismarck. ‘Linda agrees. Michelle has turned over a new leaf.’ She gave her husband a pointed stare. ‘She’s a new person. People can change, you know.’

‘You know what.’ Doc Bismarck stood up. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I have patients to see.’ He stomped out of the room. ‘I can’t believe I’ve wasted so much of my bloody time with this ... bullshit!’

In her dark corner, Alte Bismarck broke into tears, sobbing quietly.

Major Bismarck stood for a while in the frigid room. Silent. Impassive. ‘I will alert the Bloemfontein authorities immediately.’ He turned and walked away.

Outside, a police Inspector approached Bismarck. ‘Sir, we got a situation at the cemetery.’

Bismarck stared at the police officer, betraying nothing behind his Ray Bans.

Three

The police cruiser and the bright yellow van pulled up outside the wrought iron gates of the B.J Vorster Cemetery (named after the National Party leader who had been incarcerated here during World War II following subversive activities as part of the Ossewa Brandwag). Bismarck stepped from the Toyota Corolla and with long determined strides entered the grounds of the graveyard, heading for a cluster of policemen. Fast on his heels were Sergeant Lubbe and the rookie, Constable van der Merwe. Upon seeing the police chief, one of the officers detached himself and hurried over towards his approaching superior. He met Bismarck a few yards from where his colleagues stood. ‘Sir, I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve never seen anything like this.’ Bismarck said nothing, never once decreasing his resolute pace. There was good reason for his grim determination.

They followed a path through dozens of grave sites. People, long dead. Long absorbed by the cold embrace of an undiscriminating earth. Memories of people. Mute witnesses to fresh horrors.

The group of policemen parted to allow their boss a place between them. Bismarck stared at the tombstone, a look of distaste hardening his jaw. Then he looked down.

They all stood, silent.

‘Dear God. What is the world coming to?’

They all stood. Around the hole. Six-feet deep. A grave. Freshly excavated.

The policemen stared into the grave, dumbfounded.

‘Who would do something like this?’

Silence.

They stared, stunned, into the dark depths of the grave. At the bottom of the grave, veiled in darkness, lay a prostate figure.

‘Is that –?’

‘No.’

‘It’s a mannequin.’

Silence.

‘What in God’s name is happening to the world?’

Bismarck leaned forward to obtain a clearer view. ‘Get that goddamned thing out of there.’

Two of the police officers stared uncertainly at each other. Sighing, one of them carefully lowered himself into the dark pit with the other’s help. A few seconds later he hoisted the mannequin to the surface.

Several of the officers inhaled sharply.

It was a mannequin. Yes.

Or what remained of one.

The retail dummy had been viciously mutilated. The right leg had been torn off just below the knee. The left arm had been hacked off. A part of the abdomen was missing.

When the mannequin was turned over, the policemen received a further shock.

Crude and garish make-up had been viciously applied to the dummy’s head. Thick smears of lipstick covered its mouth, chin and nose. Bright blue eye-shadow coated the eyes. Dark crude smudges. Black mascara stained the lower forehead above the eyes. Embedded in the mannequin’s cranium was a rusty steak knife.

‘What kind of sick joke is this?’

The kids of today. It’s all the violence on TV.’

‘It’s that talking car. It’s satanic.’

Major Bismarck was a stone-faced monolith behind his shades.

Constable van der Merwe elevated himself on his toes to get a better look from behind the circle of policemen. ‘Hey look, sir.’ He pointed at the tombstone.

J.R. BISMARCK. DEARLY DEPARTED FATHER AND HUSBAND. 1901 – 1979.

‘Isn’t this your father’s grave, sir?’ Van der Merwe asked.

‘Shut up, Constable.’ Bismarck turned and walked away. ‘Destroy that damned thing.’ The graveyard cops looked after him. ‘And cover that fucking grave.’

Four

For the next two weeks, in the rural enclave of Coffee, life went on. If by life, of course, you mean a community rocked by a mysterious disappearance and a bizarre gravesite desecration. Because try as he might, Bismarck couldn’t delay the inevitable and the word quickly got out. For the next few days, teens from across the area made macabre pilgrimages to the grave of Johannes Rudolf Bismarck, erstwhile father to De Wet and Dawid Bismarck and loving husband (we are told) to Anna-Mart Bismarck, now interred next to her husband – whose grave remained empty ... although filled once again with cold earth.

But a policeman’s work is never done. As was soon discovered when Magda Mohapi, tired but loyal domestic worker travelled to the house of Wouter Bredekamp for her Thursday work duties. There – to her great horror – she found the bloated and rotting corpse of her dead employer in his rancid study. She ran from the house screaming and promptly relocated to Welkom, on the OFS goldfields, to go and live with her sister. The body was hurriedly dispatched to the OFS capital where it would become the Bloemfontein pathologist’s problem.

So, despite a series of truly bizarre intrusions into the parochial community of Coffee, life ... well, went on.

The two Bloemfontein detectives assigned to the missing person’s case of Michelle Anna-Mart Bismarck made little headway. Initial interviews and other avenues of investigation yielded nothing. In addition, the poor missing girl’s prior history of indiscretions hardly fuelled their investigative ardour. Two weeks later they were starting to admit to each other that maybe Michelle hadn’t so much vanished as simply ... relocated. They never said it openly but certainly started forming a conclusion. Maybe the wild Bismarck girl simply didn’t want to be found.

Alte Bismarck’s anxiety and sorrow, on the other hand, increased with each new day. She and her sister communicated several times a day. Two visits to Bloemfontein did nothing to dispel her growing disquiet. As for Doctor De Wet Bismarck, he busied himself healing the sick and unwell of Coffee and the surrounding towns. Some called him stoic in his commitment to carry on with daily life despite the mysterious disappearance of his only daughter. Others used less flattering names.

Although the disappearance of Michelle Bismarck was troubling to many, there were many more who wondered if the wild child of Coffee wasn’t holed up somewhere with yet another bad boy, enjoying life while her poor mother was withering with grief. Yet others, more attuned to the currents of people and things, were facing a growing trepidation; a dark intuition that told them a shadowy thing had indeed boiled to the surface, right in their midst, and that this was only the beginning. They sensed

(correctly)

that dark days were ahead.

It was only these more ... intuitive people who realised that the events of the last few weeks were all inextricably linked.

Before we move on to the next crucial chapter in our dark story, we must first pay a visit to the official notice board of the Dutch Reformed Church (known by the Afrikaans abbreviation of NG amongst the people of Coffee). This is where we encounter a completely overlooked footnote to the sinister saga that was busy unfolding.

In a town called Coffee.

On the morning after Major Bismarck’s visit to his brother’s house, Tannie Martie Malherbe eagerly hurried to the NG (Nederduits Gereformeerde) church notice board. She was eager to pin a promotional flyer to the board advertising a special price on her famed koeksisters (a sweet and syrupy Malay delicacy that Afrikaner tannies like Mrs Malherbe had made their own). In a few weeks it would be the quarterly NG church Bazaar and cheap imitations from all over the district would be flooding the local koeksister market. Tannie Martie was hoping to sell at least another dozen or so batches before that time. Imagine her indignation when she discovered the greater part of the notice board crammed with an A4 poster that seemed to serve no use whatsoever. The poster contained a close-up picture of a young girl. Underneath, in large Times New Roman script, a single word.

WHY?

Filled with the firm conviction that bored teens from the town were playing a practical joke – and unshakeably convinced that her koeksister advert was of far greater importance anyway – she hurriedly tore the poster from the notice board ... after making sure no-one witnessed her little indiscretion, of course. If tannie Martie had taken more time to actually study the bizarre poster she would have realised the picture featured the missing Bismarck girl. Another cursory glance would have revealed to her that the girl in the photograph was in great distress indeed. And that (barely visible at the bottom of the picture) her hands were bound.

But tannie Martie didn’t do any of these things. She was far too concerned with the cutthroat realities of the koeksister business. On her way out, she neatly dumped the crumpled-up poster into a dustbin.

Keep South Africa beautiful.

She was, after all, an upstanding citizen.

Sad. Unfortunate. That she did this.

Maybe more lives would have been spared.

About two weeks after the disappearance of Michelle Bismarck the unthinkable happened.

Five

Manie Botha was a good boy.

He loved life. He loved his parents. And he loved the town of Coffee. Not necessarily in that order.

Manie Botha was also a good son. If the first part of that year was anything to go by he was going to be at the top of his grade ten class. There was no reason to assume he wouldn’t be head-boy two years from then. Just like his father. Manie didn’t only excel at school. Although he was one of the youngest players he had been nominated as the captain of Coffee High School’s under-eighteen cricket team. No mean feat as the cricket team had for quite some time been the town’s pride and joy. The rugby team was, unfortunately, a different story (not discussed in polite society). In addition to his achievements on the cricket pitch, Manie was also a star tennis player. This was more of an extra-curricular activity as the size of Coffee’s only (white) high school prohibited it from offering tennis as a sport. It didn’t matter though. With the dedication and drive that characterised all of the men of his family, Manie had already progressed so far with his extra-curricular tennis that he wanted to try-out for OFS colours before the end of the year. Who knows ... there’s every reason to suspect he would have passed the try-outs with flying colours.

It’s difficult to say. Because Friday, the thirteenth of June, nineteen-eighty-six ... was his last day on earth.

Manie spent the afternoon playing a game of tennis with his best friend, Fred van der Merwe – no relation to our rookie constable. Although Manie was by far the best player of the two, Fred won that Friday’s game in straight sets. Manie seemed distracted and depressed. Fred couldn’t understand why. There was more than enough reason to be excited, after all. Trudie Gerber was hosting a party at her house that night. After much old-fashioned courting (there is no other kind in a place like Coffee) Fred had managed to secure the affections of Miss Gerber. They were officially going “steady” and that night would be their first evening spent together. The possibilities of some sort of physical intimacy (and by that we mean an innocent kiss or two and nothing else) was virtually certain. Manie was invited too. So, yes. There was much reason to be excited. Who cared that it was Friday the thirteenth?

So why was Manie so upset?

The last few months had been an exciting time for Manie Botha. School was going well. His sporting activities were going according to plan. And in a few months it would be his eighteenth birthday. Who knew what wonderful gifts his wealthy parents would materialise this time. It’s after all not every day the son of the Mayor of Coffee turns eighteen.

But there was yet another reason why the previous few months had been an exciting time. You see, Manie had also been seeing someone. But unlike his more demure friend, Manie’s relationship had gone a whole lot further than just a few innocent kisses.

Who was this mysterious girl that Manie had been seeing for the last few months?

Fred had tried on more than once occasion to get the “dirt” from his friend. But without success. Try as he might, Manie simply wouldn’t tell his best friend who the enigmatic love interest was. ‘I can’t tell anyone. It’s someone my father wouldn’t approve of,’ was all that Manie revealed time and time again.

‘I’m not your father,’ Fred would say. ‘Come on, tell me.’

‘If you paid more attention to your serve rather than my love life, maybe your game would actually improve.’

‘You’re not dating a meid from the township, are you?’

Meid.

An extremely derogatory Afrikaans name for a black woman.

‘I don’t date my friends’ mothers.’ The reciprocal insult would be followed by a particularly vicious serve that invariably added yet another point to Manie’s score.

You see, Manie wasn’t being particularly truthful. It wasn’t only his father (or his mother for that matter) who would disprove of his mysterious girlfriend. If the secret got out ... well, let’s just say the community of Coffee would be shocked to its very core.

Because just like everyone else in Coffee (it seemed), Manie was harbouring a dark secret. It’s no wonder then he revealed nothing. To no-one.

Could this be the reason why Manie was so despondent on that fateful Friday? Fred certainly couldn’t understand why his friend’s mood was so dark on that day. Especially considering the sketchy details Manie had been providing him over the last few months.

Whatever the case, the two friends had agreed to meet at Trudie Gerber’s party later that night. After the game the friends parted ways. Fred went to his modest house in the south-western part of town. A shower. A light meal. And a lazy early evening on the couch watching an episode of Airwolf his mom had recorded on the old Sony Betamax. And Manie? He told Fred he was going to meet a friend. Who was this mysterious friend? Fred had no idea. It was yet another relationship that he kept secret from Fred. What the hell was Manie’s case?

Fred went home. While Manie walked away.

And disappeared into the dark gaping maw of the world.

Never to be seen again.

Later that night Fred arrived at Trudie’s party. Reeking of his father’s Brut. The evening was everything he had hoped for. And those innocent kisses? Well, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell – so to speak – but let’s just say Fred was more than satisfied. Maybe it was because of this that Fred only started missing his friend much later that night. Sure. He knew Manie was off to see his mysterious friend – cue Twilight Zone music – but was it so difficult to tear himself away from his new friend and join his best bud at the party of the year? Seriously.

That night, Fred went home without having seen his friend at all.

At the Botha house, Manie’s mother and father were none the wiser. As far as they were concerned, Manie was sleeping over at Fred’s place – an arrangement that had been made several weeks before.

When the morning sun swept the bucolic landscape of Coffee the next morning no-one was the wiser concerning Manie’s mysterious disappearance. However, when the fiery orb rolled across its zenith and there was still no word from their – generally – responsible son, Carol-Ann Botha (Manie’s mother) became concerned. After a call to Fred’s house revealed her son wasn’t there and that Fred hadn’t seen him the previous evening either, her concern exploded into full-blown anxiety. This simply wasn’t like her son. When several dozen calls to numbers across Coffee produced nothing her anxiety became outright panic.

Being the mayor’s son, Major Bismarck was immediately contacted and search parties were organised that same afternoon. Being a small town where everyone knew everyone else, virtually the entire town became involved in the extensive search. Further alerts were sent to police stations across the region.

Immediately an unpleasant suspicion began to grow in the hearts of the good people of Coffee. At first no-one spoke about it openly. But that didn’t prevent it from growing like wild fire. And when the afternoon became evening and the evening rolled into the bitterly cold morning hours, the suspicion had acquired a permanent home in the minds of the search volunteers and the other residents of Coffee.

Could it be ... could it possibly be ... that the disappearance of Manie Botha was somehow linked to the earlier disappearance of Michelle Bismarck? And was it then at all possible that “wild child” Michelle was not holed up in some drug den, once again derelict and AWOL? Could it be possible that some singular dark force was responsible for the disappearance of two of Coffee’s most privileged offspring? At first the realisation was only spoken of in hushed tones, in isolated clusters. But as the sun rose over that Sunday morning, the hushed tones were being replaced by open speculation ... and wild “rumour mongering”.

Yes. Indeed. What if the disappearances were linked?

It was a realisation that sank a cold dagger into the hearts of Coffee’s residents.

And then of course, something else happened. Something which pushed the dagger even deeper. And twisted it. Violently.

That next morning the first shift of the search party – Major Bismarck is nothing if not a consummate organiser – was busy heading home. Around breakfast tables the second group of volunteers were getting ready for the day’s activities. It was Sunday. On Sunday nothing happens in Coffee. Only church, of course. The NG church to be specific. (The Afrikaans language hardly contains any translations of Catholic terms simply because there aren’t any Afrikaans Catholics – that’s how thoroughly protestant the Afrikaner nation is.) All the businesses are closed and the pace gets even more sedentary – if that is at all possible. After church people disperse to their houses – or those of extended families – for the legendary Sunday roast. This Sunday would be different, however.

It was still a quiet Coffee Sunday though. And, on that morning, when Hannes van der Walt, team leader of the second volunteer shift drove through the early morning streets of Coffee, not a soul stirred the landscape. Which must have made his horrendous discovery all the more eerie – and sinister.

The second shift was supposed to meet at the Caltex garage on De Beers Street. That morning Hannes drove through the quiet streets of Coffee in his ’83 Toyota Hilux, sharing the general mood of disquiet that had settled over the town the previous day. He lived slightly outside of town, on a wreck-strewn smallholding to the east of Coffee. As he entered De Beers Street, the main street of Coffee, his mind was on the day’s activities. And the strange events of the last two weeks.

Which was why he only saw it well past the OK Bazaars Supermarket.

Hannes braked hard. And immediately jumped from his bakkie (pick-up).

‘Dear God.’

Hannes clambered back into the cabin of his Hilux, his face ashen. And raced towards the house of Coffee’s police chief.

About fifteen minutes later – everywhere in Coffee is a five minute drive – Dawid Bismarck and Mayor Lloyd Botha were standing in De Beers Street, in front of the OK Bazaars Supermarket. By now others from the morning volunteer shift had come across the spectacle. About half a dozen cars were parked along this stretch of De Beers. About two dozen people had now gathered in Coffee’s main street. Watching with stunned disbelief.

All the business premises at the southern tip of Coffee had been covered with posters. Every conceivable available space on every wall and every window had been pasted with posters. The entire southern CBD of Coffee had become one giant notice board. Whatever had happened at the NG notice board two weeks before wasn’t going to happen again.

The people of Coffee stared in mute shock.

There were at least two thousand posters. Two thousand copies of the same poster.

The A4 posters featured a blurry photograph of Manie Botha. From his tortured expression it was clear he was obviously in extreme distress. Large terror-stricken eyes stared at the people of Coffee. At the bottom of the photograph his hands were visible. They were tightly bound.

Underneath, in large Times New Roman letters, the single word:

WHY?

A mute horror drifted across the people on Coffee’s main street.

‘No-one must find out about this.’ Mayor Lloyd Botha turned to Dawid Bismarck as he spoke. His hushed tones barely concealed his rage. Next to him the station commander remained stony behind his dark shades. He nodded in mute agreement. Mayor Botha stepped forward. And addressed the people from the second volunteer shift. ‘Vat af hierdie fokken kak.’

Take down this fucking shit.

He turned and glared at the station commander. For a moment the two men stood. Sharing an unspeakable truth. Then the mayor turned and climbed into his Mercedes Benz. Dawid Bismarck remained on the sidewalk. Sharp angular features casting shadows across his face. He stood looking at the volunteers as they slowly started taking down the shocking posters. Behind his Ray Bans he was an immovable wall, betraying no emotion whatsoever.

Six

The volunteers quickly set about taking down the offensive posters. Major Dawid Bismarck revoked the alerts sent to the region’s police stations, informing them that the matter had been “resolved”. The search parties were cancelled.

It seemed as if the mayor’s enigmatic command that ‘no-one should find out’ was about to be flawlessly executed.

That was until a completely serendipitous event changed everything.

On that same Sunday morning that the Coffee volunteers were hard at work tearing down the mysterious posters, Jan Treurnicht came rolling down the R48 heading back to Bloemfontein. He had spent the weekend hunting at a Luckhoff game-farm and his Leyland Land Rover was packed with strips of Kudu meat that he intended to turn into Biltong – another famous South African delicacy known as beef jerky in other parts of the world. Noting that his gas-guzzling 4x4 was low on diesel, Treurnicht decided to enter the town of Coffee and head for the petrol station. Catching sight of the posters may have produced no consequences at all. Except for the fact that he was the Orange Free State Minister for Safety and Security. As he passed the giant tin coffee-pot he noticed that a large group of people were milling around in the street. He pulled up alongside the group of Coffee residents and watched with perplexed curiosity as they were going about their mysterious activities.

‘Dagsê,’ he greeted jovially.

Good day.

One of the elder residents detached himself and walked towards the Land Rover, guarded and suspicious. He shifted his hand clutching a crumpled-up poster slightly behind his back. ‘Dagsê,’ he said, returning the greeting.

‘What’s going on here?’ The minister asked, smiling politely.

The elderly man looked over his shoulder and back again. ‘Why don’t you just be on your way, friend? This doesn’t concern you.’

The minister’s smile vanished. He pulled the latch of his door and stepped from the Land Rover. ‘I tell you what, friend. My name is Jan Treurnicht and I’m the Minister for Safety and Security. And maybe you haven’t noticed ... but there’s a national state of emergency.’ He pointed at the group of people, all who had stopped working to witness the growing spectacle. ‘So why don’t you tell me exactly what the hell is going on here or I will have every single one of you detained under the Public Security Act.’

There was silence as the citizens from Coffee stared at the bigwig from the OFS capital. If Bismarck or Botha had been there with their vastly superior political skills ... things may have turned out differently. The volunteers gathered there that day were anything but experienced in the shady art of politics however.

A portly man with a balding pate stepped forward. ‘Sir.’ He looked with uncertainty at the others. ‘Two youngsters from Coffee have disappeared in the last few weeks.’

The minister looked on with astonishment. ‘In the last few weeks? What in God’s name are you talking about, man?’ He glared at the group. ‘Have our Bloemfontein offices been informed?’ The group exchanged puzzled glances. The minister cursed softly. ‘Jy praat van blanke kinders wat vermis is?’

Are these white kids that are missing?

The elderly volunteer looked at his colleague next to him. He nodded slowly.

‘Good God, man. Were you really hoping to deal with this thing on your own?’ He pointed in the vague direction from where he had come. ‘Do you know what de dônner is happening out there? It’s a state of emergency, gentlemen. Our country is under attack from all sides.’ He looked up the street. ‘Where’s the nearest phone?’

The portly man pointed at the Caltex garage up the street. ‘You can phone from the office, sir.’ The minister cast one last reproving look at the men then climbed into his Land Rover and raced towards the petrol station. One frenzied call led to another and another. And another. Eventually the phone in the residence of the National Commissioner of the South African Police began to ring.

Meanwhile, to the north-west of the town something bizarre yet strangely familiar had happened. No-one had yet noticed. But another grave site had just been desecrated.

Seven

In the heart of Pretoria, at number seventy Church Street to be precise, is located the Pretoria Murder and Robbery Unit. Situated right next door is the historic Paul Kruger House Museum. If you happened to be admiring the former house of one of South Africa’s most famous – and pugilistic – historical figures on the morning of the seventeenth of June, you may have heard the insistent ringing of a telephone coming from the building’s western wing.

It was one of those desert-beige government-issue telephones with a large round dial. Like a cockroach it is designed to survive a nuclear war. Like a cockroach you simply can’t ignore it once it catches your attention. From the hallway that connects this corner office to all the others on the third floor, a tall man with pale features entered the office. He had a pleasant open face and a shock of thick black hair neatly gelled into place. In his hand was a mug of coffee which he placed on the ample desk. He grabbed the phone. ‘Captain Shaun Hertzog.’ His eyes narrowed as he listened to the speaker on the other side. ‘Hm-huh. Hm-huh.’ He paused. ‘I see. Yes, of course, sir.’ He listened intently. ‘Yes. Right away.’ Behind (Detective) Captain Shaun Hertzog another man entered. Their appearances couldn’t have been more different. Lieutenant Jools van Sant had a youthful freckled face framed by black horn-rimmed glasses and a thick unruly bush of curly hair that resembled a red 70’s afro. He was sipping on a coffee as he entered the office, looking at Hertzog with narrowed eyes. Not taking his eyes from his superior officer, Detective Jools van Sant seated himself at one of three desks in the small office. ‘Absolutely. You have my word, sir.’ Jools caught the other Hertzog’s eye. He lifted a palm up to the ceiling. Hertzog nodded in grim confirmation of their wordless communication. ‘I’ll get it organised. Thank you, sir.’ And with that he ended the call.

‘And?’ Jools leaned back in his creaky swivel chair.

‘Pack your bags, detective. And inform the boys to do the same.’ Hertzog smiled mysteriously. ‘We’re going on a little holiday.’

‘Durbs?’ Jools asked, referring to Durban, South Africa’s sub-tropical capital of fun and sun.

Hertzog picked up his mug and sipped thoughtfully. ‘I was thinking more of the Orange Free State.’

Van Sant leaned forward, distaste across his face. ‘Holiday? Sounds more like Hell.’

Hertzog eyed his right-hand man with surprise. ‘Come now, Jools. A beautiful pristine part of the world. Characterised by undulating hills, magnificent sprawling flatlands and idiosyncratic koppies. Not to mention some of the most hospitable people you’ll ever meet.’

‘You sound like the world’s worst travel agent.’

Hertzog chuckled. ‘I always look forward to getting away from the city and heading for the platteland.’

The countryside. Literally the flatland.

Hertzog winked at his partner. ‘Don’t you?’

Van Sant grunted as he picked up his phone’s receiver and dialled. He waited a moment. ‘Dog? Get the boys together. We got a hit.’ He listened to the cop on the other side of the line. ‘Uh-huh. We’re leaving ...’ Jools looked at Hertzog for confirmation.

‘Tomorrow.’

‘...tomorrow ... yeah. And guess what? We’re heading for your neck of the woods.’ Jools chuckled softly. ‘What? I thought you were a plaasboer from the Free State?’

Plaasboer. Farmer.

As Jools finished the call two middle-aged men entered the office. Both cops immediately recognised Colonel Hans Maartens, Deputy National Police Commissioner. Only Hertzog recognised Dawie Malan, Deputy Minister of Law and Order.

It was widely rumoured that Malan was soon going to be asked to join the notorious State Security Council. South Africa might have nominally been a (Whites-only) democracy, but in reality more and more of the important functions of the Apartheid state were being handled by the SSC. In the final “Total Onslaught” years of the 1980’s the State Security Council had powers which approached the USSR’s Politburo – the very mechanism the SSC was designed to combat.

Hertzog smiled amiably at the two men. Jools rose lazily to his feet.

‘... and here we have the Major Crimes Unit, specifically division three,’ Colonel Hans Maartens said as he entered the office, leading the political VIP by the arm. ‘It’s a specialised unit we founded some ... uh ...’ He looked at Hertzog.

‘Two years ago, sir.’

‘Yes, that’s right. Two years ago. Division three specialises in helping rural police stations – without the necessary expertise – solve serious crimes.’ He nodded at Hertzog. ‘Detectives, I’d like you to meet Dawie Malan, a member of President P.W. Botha’s cabinet.’ He looked at the politician. ‘This is the head of the unit, Captain Hertzog.’

Malan held out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He paused. ‘You’re not possibly related to ...’

‘No, sir,’ Hertzog said, laughing. ‘No such luck.’ Malan was, of course, referring to J.B.M. Hertzog, the famous Anglo-Boer War general and later Prime Minister of the Union of South Africa. ‘I may very well ask you the same question.’

The rising NP star laughed heartily. ‘Oh goodness, no.’ Hertzog was, of course in turn, referring to D.F. Malan. The very first National Party Prime Minister. The man who is broadly accepted as the political founder of Apartheid. ‘To quote one of our best detectives, “No such luck.”’

‘You’re too kind, sir.’

‘Oh,’ Colonel Hans Maartens said, pointing to Jools, ‘and this is Lieutenant Jools van Sant.’ Jools, making no effort to move out from behind his desk, waved absently and mumbled a greeting.

Malan smiled uncertainly. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Captain Hertzog’s team , Dawie, has been one of our unit’s busiest and most successful divisions. They have, I’m very proud to say, a hundred percent closure rate.’

‘Very impressive, detective. Anything interesting you’re working on right now?’

‘Well actually, sir,’ Hertzog said glancing at Jools, ‘we’ve just been asked to investigate a series of odd events in the little town of Coffee. In the Orange Free State.’

‘Oh my goodness. My father-in-law has a farm in the area. Nothing too serious I hope.’

‘I don’t know yet, sir. But we’re going to give it our full attention.’

‘Wonderful.’ He reached out and shook Hertzog’s hand once again. ‘Detective, it’s men like you that make this government great. You make us proud.’ Jools rolled his eyes. ‘It’s been a true pleasure meeting you.

‘The pleasure is all mine, sir.’

‘Please don’t hesitate to call if there is anything I can do for you. You should look up my father-in-law. I’ll give him a call.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Good day then,’ Dawie Malan said warmly. He waved a curt greeting to Jools. ‘Detective.’ Jools mumbled something unintelligible and plopped down into his chair. The two men exited.

‘You’re way too nice, Shaun.’ Jools leaned back in his chair. ‘Just for once I’d like to see you put one of these National Party suits in their place. You know they’re wrecking the country?’

‘No need to be cynical, my dear friend.’ Hertzog smiled patiently. ‘It’s the suits, as you put it, that ensure the continued existence of our special little unit.’ Hertzog winked at his colleague. ‘Or would you rather be doing Onluste in the townships?’

Onluste. Riot control.

‘Yeah well.’ Jools wrinkled his face. ‘So when are we leaving?’

‘Soon.’ Hertzog paused. His amiability darkened into a frown as he stared into the distance. ‘I’ve just got some ... business to take care of.’

****

He stood alone in the dusk. A bouquet of flowers grasped tightly in each hand. Behind him the falling sun cast a pink hue across the parallel rows of tombstones. Next to him a marble angel with folded wings and hands clasped in prayer cast a silhouetted shadow across the two grave mounds. The two mounds of earth over which he stood, looking down in anguished silence.

Two mounds of earth. A silent rebuke. A double condemnation.

Neither earth – nor the dead – speak. But a troubled conscience makes it so.

He stared down at the twin graves. His lower lip quivered. And his eyes moistened.

He squatted between the two parallel graves. And gently placed a bouquet before each headstone. He sat for a moment. Silently praying. His lips moving with feverish intensity. Then he reached out an arm towards each of the beautifully carved marble monoliths. And placed a hand on each.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Captain Shaun Hertzog paused, eyes tightly shut. ‘Please forgive me.’

Eight

If you were standing next to the N12 just outside Kimberley, on Wednesday, the eighteenth of June, nineteen-eighty-six, you may have observed nothing at all. Or you may have seen a convoy of two Land Rover (Defender) One-Ten models speed past. Painted in the idiosyncratic “Keswick Green” these vehicles were not in themselves special in any way. But their cargo was. They were transporting South Africa’s most specialised unit of police detectives. Also known as the Major Crimes Unit or MCU.

Driving the rear Landy was Jake “Chaz” Bosman, the old man of the unit. Chaz Bosman had been around when the Central Johannesburg Police Station was still situated at Marshall Square – a move which had happened in nineteen-sixty-eight. It was rumoured that Chaz had been present at the infamous Sharpeville Massacre of nineteen-sixty. A rumour that remained just that ... since he rarely spoke about his early days as a cop. Weather-beaten, stern and wizened, Chaz had what you might call “the face of a cop”. Except that his deep hazel eyes betrayed a depth and intelligence that was only evident to the most observant. And something else. A lingering sadness. A melancholic wistfulness that comes from a lifetime of witnessing the worst depravities of mankind. Chaz Bosman was almost two decades older than the rest of the team.

‘Jannie.’ Chaz turned to the detective next to him. ‘Pass me a cigarette there.’

Detective Constable Jannie Duvenhage reached for the packet of Gunston Filter on the dashboard. In his eagerness to extract a cigarette he spilled the contents onto the floor of the Land Rover. ‘Aw darn, I’m sorry, sir.’ He fumbled with grasping fingers at his feet.

‘Ontspan, seun.’

Relax son.

He took a cigarette from Duvenhage’s outstretched finger. ‘And didn’t I tell you to call me Chaz?’

‘You did.’ He smiled nervously. ‘You did ... Chaz.’ Duvenhage’s youthful features lit up as he smiled. The youngest member of the team – and the newest recruit – Jannie Duvenhage’s boyish good looks and sculpted features made him appear more like a movie star than a Pretoria cop. The attractive young man’s odd choice of career became more understandable however when it was considered his father was a high-ranking officer in the

South African Police – a Major General no less. Although some – not Bosman – had resented the rookie’s recruitment into the elite unit, Hertzog had insisted that the young man be allowed to prove himself. The Coffee assignment was the unit’s first big investigation since Duvenhage joined. His big opportunity to prove himself had arrived.

Chaz studied the youth next to him. He took a deep drag and exhaled slowly, returning his eyes to the road. ‘You’re going to be fine. Don’t worry about it.’

Duvenhage averted his face, staring at the dry landscape that flashed past. ‘I’m not worried.’

‘The boss wouldn’t have taken you on this assignment if he didn’t think you were ready,’ Chaz said, ignoring Duvenhage’s protest.

Jannie Duvenhage turned to face Chaz Bosman. ‘Really? You think so?’

‘I know so, kid. So just take it easy, okay?’ He indicated the youth’s feet. ‘And pick up the rest of my dônnerse cigarettes,’ he said, flashing Duvenhage a dry smile.

Duvenhage smiled sheepishly as he picked up the Gunston cigarettes.

Nine

Dawie “Dog” Doober wound down the Landy’s window and spat a big green ball of phlegm into the rushing wind.

‘Sweet,’ Jools van Sant mumbled in the seat next to him.

‘If you can’t beat ‘em ... join ‘em, old man,’ Dog Doober said, winking at the bushy-haired detective.

‘Uh-huh. And if you can’t join ‘em ... beat ‘em with a rusty old pipe.’

Dog chuckled, winding down the window some more. He pulled at his collar adjusting his clip-on tie. ‘Bliksem. We’ve hardly hit the Free State and I’m already kakking under all this heat.’

‘Please cool it with the language, detective.’

‘I’m sorry, boss,’ Dog Doober said casting a look at Hertzog in the rear-view mirror, genuinely contrite.

‘It’s hot, yes. However, typical of semi-arid climates you’ll find daytime temperatures – even in winter – to be unusually high whereas evening and morning temperatures are decidedly polar. That should go some way towards cooling that temperament of yours.’ Jools smirked softly earning a dagger-laden glance from Dog. ‘As we approach the first month of winter the heat should start easing a bit in any case.’

Dog nodded. ‘Yes, boss.’

In the spacious backseat Captain Shaun Hertzog sat staring pensively out of the window. The semi-arid landscape of the western Free State flashed past. A mother with a baby tied to her back and two toddlers on either side of her watched the convoy of Land Rovers pass her. One of the infants, a little boy, tugged at his mother’s protective grasp and waved excitedly at the white men in the 4x4 vehicles. Hertzog waved in reply. ‘Detective van Sant, what have you got for us?’ Although they were old friends, Hertzog rarely called Jools by his first name in front of the other detectives.

Jools flipped through a file on his lap. ‘Hmm,’ he said, scanning the contents again. ‘Okay. We’ve got two missing persons.’ He flicked a page. ‘Michelle Bismarck was last seen on Friday, the thirtieth of May. She’s the daughter of Doctor De Wet and Alte Bismarck. A very prominent family in Coffee it seems. His brother, Dawid Bismarck, is the current station commander. Their father was also police chief for a long time.’ Jools glanced up at Hertzog. ‘Like I said, a rather esteemed family. According to her aunt, Michelle Bismarck went out with friends the night of her disappearance to a place known locally as er ... Valentino’s.’ He flicked the page. ‘Local club.’ Hertzog nodded. ‘Apparently she got separated from her friends during the course of the evening. This kind of thing happens a lot I’m told. She’s allegedly somewhat of a wild girl,’ he said as an aside. ‘The proverbial black sheep of the family.’

‘Sounds like my kind of chêrie,’ Dog said, smiling salaciously.

‘In any case,’ Jools said, ignoring Dog’s comment, ‘no-one has seen her since.’

‘Hmm-uh. I see.’ Hertzog nodded in contemplation.

‘So tell me something.’ Jools turned around to face Hertzog. ‘We’re investigating these two disappearances as a single case. Even though they happened two hundred kilometres and two weeks apart?’

‘Well, it’s Colonel Jansen’s opinion that the two cases are linked,’ Hertzog said referring to the head of the MCU. ‘I happen to agree with him. More importantly, how often do two youths from two prominent families from the same small town disappear within weeks from each other?’

‘Fair enough.’ Jools turned around again.

‘You think it’s a ransom thing, boss?’ Dog asked.

Hertzog ruminated for a moment. ‘No I don’t. But only time will tell.’ He looked at Jools. ‘We need to send Chaz to Bloemfontein as soon as we land in Coffee. I want him to re-interview everyone. See what he can dig up.’ Jools nodded. ‘She was living with her aunt at the time of her disappearance? If I remember correctly.’

‘Uh-huh. That’s right.’

Dog leaned over and flipped the volume dial on the car radio. ‘Hey boss, you check out this crazy Kraut yet?’ The car’s interior was filled with the gaudy sounds of Rock Me Amadeus. Dog laughed raucously. ‘Flippin’ Germans. What’ll they think of next?’

Hertzog smiled politely. ‘I believe he’s Austrian, detective.’

‘All the same to me, boss.’ Dog wrinkled his upper lip, making his bushy moustache dance like an epileptic worm. Lovingly groomed and cultivated it was his pride and joy.

‘Is that all we have?’ Hertzog asked Jools.

‘Yep. It’s a bit thin, I know. Bloemfontein said they’ll fax us a more complete file upon arrival in Coffee.’

Hertzog nodded. ‘And the boy?’

‘Let’s see,’ Jools said, flipping through the pages of the slim file. ‘Okay. Manie Botha was last seen on Friday, the thirteenth of June. The last person to see him was his best friend, Fred van der Merwe. They spent the afternoon playing tennis and had arranged to meet at the house of a certain Miss Trudie Gerber, where a house party was to take place.’ Hertzog nodded. ‘Manie Botha never showed up at the party however. His friend, Fred, thinking that he decided to spend the evening with ... er ...’ Jools scanned the page, frowning, ‘... with his girlfriend instead, didn’t think anything of it. Only when Manie didn’t show up at his parents’ place the next day did his mother become concerned enough to alert the authorities.’

‘What about his girlfriend?’ Dog asked. ‘What did she say?’

Jools chewed his lip. ‘Well, that’s the thing. Apparently no-one knows who the girlfriend is. Even his best friend’s in the dark. He said ...’ Jools traced a sentence with his finger, ‘... “Manie didn’t want to tell me who she was.”’

‘Strange.’ Hertzog rubbed his chin slowly. ‘And for all we know she was the last person to see him.’

‘Maybe she’ll still come forward,’ Dog offered helpfully.

‘Then why hasn’t she done so already?’ Hertzog frowned. ‘Make a note, Detective van Sant. We have to follow up on this. There’s something odd about the whole business.’

‘Sure thing.’ Jools scribbled on the open page. ‘Our boy Manie is quite a different story when compared to Michelle Bismarck,’ he said when he had done. ‘Straight-A student. All round achiever. The son of Mayor Lloyd Botha and Carol-Ann Botha. Carol-Ann is, I believe, a cousin to the Bismarck brothers.’

‘Sounds like a blêddie incestuous bunch to me,’ Dog said, shaking his head.

‘Well, detective, I would say rather than being a disadvantage it’s certainly one of the benefits of living in such a small community. Yes. In a little hamlet like this ... where everyone literally knows everyone else life is characterised by a ... neighbourliness that is sadly lacking in modern urban environments.’ Dog and Jools shot each other a knowing glance. ‘A spirit of caring and sharing.’ There was a moment of silence in the Land Rover. ‘Ah yes. Despite the unfortunate circumstances I must say I rather look forward to meeting our new friends in Coffee.’

‘Well you know what they say about the Free State, boss.’ Dog paused for comic effect. ‘It’s so flat you can see two weeks into the future.’

Shaun Hertzog chuckled at the old joke. ‘What else have you got for us, Detective van Sant?’

‘Not much. The local cops haven’t given us a great deal. The boy hasn’t even been missing for a week, so I guess I don’t blame them.’

‘Well considering that half the town is related to the station commander you woulda thought they’d have something more than this sad little file,’ Dog said, indicating the folder with a nod of his head.

‘Hmm.’ Hertzog nodded in agreement. ‘Strange indeed. I get a feeling there’s a lot more to this case than meets the eye.’

A silence as wide as the landscape reigned in the interior of the Landy. Each detective lost in private thoughts. Dog kept an intermittent eye on the Land Rover to their rear, driven by the patient Chaz Bosman, while beads of sweat rolled down his swarthy features. Up ahead a green signboard indicated that Kimberley was fifty kilometres in the distance.

Jools once again turned in his seat to face Hertzog. ‘There’s just one thing that bothers me.’ Hertzog looked at him with rapt attention. ‘If these two disappearances are indeed linked then that means we’re dealing with someone who’s seriously disturbed.’

Hertzog nodded gravely. ‘That’s not the only thing that worries me, detective. It also means we’re facing an opponent who’s very focused ... and determined.’ He stared out the window. ‘If these disappearances are indeed linked – which I believe they are – then I’m afraid we’re dealing with a madman of the highest calibre.’

Ten

Time can heal wounds. Or it can aggravate them.

Time can allow things to be washed clean. Or to putrefy.

To grow. Or fester.

Time is rejuvenation. Time is pollution.

If the life of the universe could be compounded into a single day, then during the last fraction of the last second, two Land Rovers rolled into a little place called Coffee.

On that Tuesday afternoon the usual people were milling around in the main street of Coffee, De Beers Street. Yes. It’s named after the same company that has a virtual stranglehold on the diamond market.

On an average weekday you’ll find white housewives, itinerant businessmen, shopkeepers and the odd school child. The majority of the pedestrians are from the local township however. Women, men and children. In the large parking lot of the OK Bazaars you’ll find the usual crowd of black children begging from the white shoppers.

On that afternoon, there was more than the usual to attract the attention of the practised beggar. It’s not every day you see two Land Rovers parked in the main street of Coffee. If that wasn’t enough, their Transvaal licence plates made them even more conspicuous. These were big city cars. And the people inside offered the tantalising possibility of big city wealth.

A tall man climbed from the back seat of one of the Land Rovers. Groomed and neat, he was at the same time serious-looking yet approachable. The gaunt figure was immediately surrounded by a swarm of children. ‘Oh my goodness.’ He laughed as a dozen outstretched hands formed the universal signs of supplication. He motioned for the driver of the rear car to join him. A stout man in his fifties with a squat bulldog face climbed from the other car. The children were far less eager to approach him and most shied away from his looming bulk. ‘Okay. Okay, I’ll see what I can do,’ the first man said, laughing. ‘Just wait here.’

Detective Captain Shaun Hertzog and Detective Sergeant Jake “Chaz” Bosman entered the OK Bazaars supermarket.

‘Just say no. It’s the only way to be firm,’ Chaz said, looking at the group of children gathering at the OK Bazaars entrance.

‘I know,’ Hertzog said with a soft smile. He stopped in front of the cooldrink fridge, located in the first aisle. He lifted a two-litre Coca Cola from the frosty shelf. ‘My only vice.’ Chaz nodded noncommittally. ‘Listen detective,’ Hertzog said becoming serious. ‘We’ve got some good detectives down in Bloemfontein. And I’m sure they’re doing a stellar job. But I need someone with our unit’s “eye for detail” down there. I’ll clear it with the chief. And organise you board and lodging. Plus the full co-operation of the Bloemfontein unit.’

Chaz nodded. ‘You want me down there?’

‘Yes. You can leave tomorrow. After breakfast. And the briefing. It’s less than two hours away.’

‘Yes, boss. No problem.’

‘Good man, detective.’ They strolled casually down the other aisles of the store. ‘I want you to send me daily reports. And inform me immediately if you find something interesting. Re-interview everybody. Talk to the aunt. Talk to the girl’s friends.’ Hertzog stopped in front of a display loaded with loaves of bread. He took four loaves from the shelf. ‘I know I can count on you. You’re basically handling the entire Bloemfontein part of our investigation.’ He squeezed Chaz’s shoulder. ‘Make me proud.’

‘That’s what I do, boss.’

They ambled into place at the back of a short queue at the only available teller. ‘Good.’ The line of people eyed the strangers with interest. In a town this size anybody unfamiliar stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. ‘Darnit.’ Hertzog shook his head in self-admonishment. ‘I promised the detectives I would get some meat for a braai tonight.’

Braai. Barbecue.

‘No problem, boss. I’ll hold our place while you go get it,’ he said, taking the few groceries from Hertzog.

‘Thank you.’ Hertzog stood uncertainly for a moment while he tried to locate the in-house butchery. ‘Aha,’ he said, heading towards the back of the supermarket.

The butchery was located next to a display advertising Chaka Briquettes. It featured a short counter with a glass front and a faded sign above that read, “Butchery”. Hertzog grabbed a bag of charcoal. He turned to address the lone attendant behind the display counter. And stopped.

Who’s to say what the dimensions and boundaries of human chemistry are. Who’s to say what ineffable equations drive its foundations of attraction and repulsion. Who really knows what strange properties bridge the gaps between people and turn the ordinary into the momentous.

She wasn’t beautiful by any standard definition of the word. Her lips were possibly too full. Her features slightly too angular. Her face maybe a little too long.

She stood behind the glass counter, wearing a branded apron over unattractive white butcher’s overalls. At first she didn’t see the tall man standing motionless before her. But then she looked up. And for a split second. For a fraction of a moment. There was something almost akin to recognition in her eyes.

Hertzog stared at her. His vacant look reflected confusion. Grasping.

Forever seconds passed. Time melted. Oozed through the pores of the universe. And became glued to the moment.

There was movement behind her. A bald bearded man poked his head through the doorway behind her. ‘Marike,’ he said with terse irritation.

The moment was broken.

She looked around, startled. Swallowed hard. And made a pathetic attempt at a polite smile. ‘How can I help you, sir?’ Her voice quivered ever so slightly.

Hertzog flashed the irate man a friendly smile and stepped up to the counter. ‘Good day. I just want some chops and some wors for ... ah ... for a braai.’

Wors. Sausage.

‘Certainly, sir,’ she said, casting a nervous eye at the man behind her.’ She pointed to a pre-packaged bundle. ‘Will this do?’

‘Yes. That would be fine.’ Hertzog tried to focus his attention where she pointed but couldn’t keep his eyes off her. ‘Just fine.’

She handed him the pack of chops. Their eyes met again. She paused. Her full lips parted. And smiled.

This time it wasn’t a distracted attempt at politeness. But an awkward glimpse into her soul. Hertzog’s eyes became imperceptibly bigger. And a slight rouge reddened his cheeks. Shy and fragile the smile lingered on her lips for only a moment. Until the bearded man’s shuffling exit snuffed it out.

She reached out with flustered hands and extracted another pre-packaged roll of Boerewors from behind the counter. ‘This is really ... good.’

Hertzog smiled. ‘I’m sure it is.’

She cast a quick look behind her. Then leaned forward. ‘You’re not from here.’

‘No. I’m not. I’m from Johannesburg.’

She looked at him uncertainly. ‘You’re a businessman.’

‘No. I’m a police detective.’ He paused. ‘We’re here to ...’

‘Because of the disappearances,’ she said with wonder.

‘That’s correct’ Hertzog reached out his hand. ‘My name is Shaun Hertzog.’

The girl took his hand gently, as if receiving something precious. And squeezed it softly. ‘I’m –’

‘Marike!’ The bearded man hovered behind her, hands on his hips. She jerked back her hand. As if it had been burned. ‘How many times have I told you not to bother the clients?’ He looked at Hertzog with poorly disguised irritation. ‘Please manage the store while I’m out. And don’t mess it up again.’

Marike bowed her head in shame, blushing. ‘Yes, Jack.’

The bearded man ripped off his apron and threw it at her. ‘I’ll be back in five.’ She flinched as the bloodied piece of cloth bounced off her head. Hertzog looked down at the torn linoleum of the floor as the butcher edged past him and strutted down the aisle. When he was sure the man was out of earshot he lifted his head and looked at her. ‘You weren’t bothering me at all.’ She met his gaze and smiled with pursed lips. ‘In fact, I cannot rightly recall a more pleasant experience at the butcher.’

Her thin smile blossomed. And her whole face lit up. ‘Thank you. You’re kind.’

Hertzog cleared his throat and his blush deepened. ‘Thank you. I’m sure this will be ... wonderful,’ he said indicating the packets of meat. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you ... Marike.’

Silence.

‘You too ... Shaun.’

He nodded curtly and walked off uncertainly. At the end of the aisle he paused and looked over his shoulder. She was staring at him intently. Like a child who had been caught doing something amiss she averted her eyes and stumbled into the rear of the butchery. At the end of the queue Chaz, who had been observing the whole incident, scowled in the direction of the exit. ‘What a bastard,’ he said as Hertzog joined him.

Hertzog shrugged. But said nothing. As they reached the teller, one of the black children from outside saw him and entered the supermarket, hovering near the exit. Hertzog placed the items on the teller’s conveyer belt and took a large bag of sweets from the display. The little boy’s eyes widened and he edged nearer. The male teller cast an angry look at him. ‘Get out of here,’ he said pointing at the exit. ‘How many times must I tell you that?’

Hertzog smiled politely. ‘I’m so sorry. He’s with me.’

The teller looked at Hertzog, chastened. ‘I’m terribly sorry, sir. I didn’t know.’

Hertzog dismissed the man’s awkwardness with a wave of his hand. ‘Of course. How could you?’

‘That’s very kind of you, detective.’ Hertzog looked around. Standing behind him was a tower of a man. Although he was clean-shaven and balding, the man reminded Hertzog of an ancient Frankish warrior, mauling Muslims with Charles Martel, the granddaddy of Charlemagne. His attire, of course, confirmed the opposite. He was the local NG Pastor – a man as powerful as the mayor or police station commander. ‘I’m sorry, how rude of me.’ He extended his hand. ‘I’m Dominee Frans Joubert.’ Dominee was the Afrikaans title for NG vicars.

‘Captain Hertzog. Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ Hertzog said. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Bosman.’ Chaz nodded politely.

‘Wonderful,’ the Dominee said sincerely. ‘I’m so glad you could come to help us with our ... problem. We are most appreciative.’

‘Thank you, Dominee. I’m glad we could be of assistance.’

‘Are you a believer, Captain?’

‘Most certainly, Dominee.’

‘Fantastic. It would be an honour to see you during our Sunday services. In fact, any time you feel like talking ... please feel free to come and see me.’

‘I will do that. Thank you.’

‘Please excuse me. I seem to be holding up the line. I will see you soon, Captain.’ Hertzog and Chaz nodded in greeting.

Outside Hertzog distributed the loaves and sweets amongst the clamouring group of boys. He fought his way to the back door of the Land Rover. As he climbed in he saw the bald butcher sitting in the outdoor section of the Bosveld Restaurant across from the supermarket. The butcher was sitting next to a pretty young girl in her early twenties. He was cradling her chin in his hands, smiling at her. Lovingly.

Hertzog climbed in and slammed the door of the Land Rover behind him.

‘We heading for the guesthouse, boss?’ Dog Doober glanced at Hertzog over his shoulder.

‘No.’ Hertzog scowled at the Bosveld Restaurant through the car’s tinted windows. ‘We’ve got a scheduled stop at Mayor Botha’s house.’

‘Wonderful,’ Jools said, sinking into his chair.

Eleven

‘I just want to affirm how terribly ... pleased we are to have you in our little ... corner of the world.’ Mayor Lloyd Botha paused and flashed a practised smile. Befitting the experienced politician he was he made a point of making eye contact with all of the detectives seated in the spacious lounge of his house. ‘I am sure I speak for everyone when I say you are most welcome.’ Next to him Major Dawid Bismarck remained silent. And impassive.

‘You are most generous, Mayor Botha.’ Captain Shaun Hertzog smiled politely. He nodded his head in recognition of the bulky politician’s words. ‘We are fortunate indeed to have such magnanimous hosts.’ The smile on Hertzog’s face froze. And was replaced with a pursed gravity. He looked down at the hardwood floor then back at the large man in front of him. The mayor appeared to dwarf the wooden chair that barely supported his weight. ‘I am saddened by the circumstances that brought us together, however.’ Hertzog looked at both men in turn. Genuine regret touched his eyes. ‘May I just once again express my condolences at the terrible ... events of the last few weeks. I know you are both related to the ... victims.’

The mayor stared at the floor. For a brief moment a hybrid of emotions passed over his face. Regret. Sorrow. And something else. Acceptance? Self-recrimination? Next to him the police chief didn’t move. His expression remained stony. Intractable.

Silence.

An antique wooden clock ticked loudly on the mantelpiece behind the chairs that seated the Coffee delegates. The rattle and hum of a fridge was audible from the kitchen. Somebody cleared his throat. Outside a dog barked. One of the detectives shifted uncomfortably. The chair creaked awkwardly underneath him. Somebody else cleared his throat.

Silence.

The mayor looked up and met the detective’s eyes. ‘Of course.’

Next to Hertzog, Chaz Bosman shifted on the sofa. The leather creaked and farted. He exchanged a tortured look with Dog, sitting on his left. Both men appeared to have extreme difficulty dealing with the tea cups and saucers in their hands. On the other side of Hertzog Jannie Duvehange sat on a stiff-backed wooden chair. The young detective perched on the very edge of the chair, unsure of where to look.

As if to fill up the awkward silence, Hertzog nodded slowly. His eyes passed back and forth between the two men from Coffee. Across from Duvenhage, Jools’s posture was in sharp contrast to everybody else’s. He lay back in a comfortable Lazy-Boy, the cup and saucer balancing on his chest. He looked at Hertzog with interest. A ghost of a smile touched his lips.

‘Yes, of course,’ the mayor continued. He stared at Hertzog. ‘Tell me, detective, how long do you think you will be ... residing in Coffee?’ Bushy gray eyebrows rose above his eyes, pushing his forehead into a frown. His large ruddy face was straddled by long sideburns, as curly as the gray hair on his head.

Chaz loudly slurped his tea. The ornate little spoon rattled on the saucer as he brought the cup back down to his lap. Somewhere another dog barked.

‘Well, that is very difficult to say.’ Hertzog looked at the station commander. He smiled in friendly fellowship. ‘I’m sure Major Bismarck would agree that these investigations assume a life of their own.’ Bismarck said nothing. And did not return the smile. Hertzog carefully studied the policeman over a hovering smile.

Outside an ice cream truck slowly drove past. The slightly eerie strains of Yankee Doodle blared over the truck’s loudspeaker. Jannie Duvenhage stared with longing at the street outside.

‘Of course,’ Botha continued. ‘Perfectly understandable.’

Dog Doober cleared his throat and placed his cup and saucer on the little coffee table with a loud clank. The spoon clinked and rattled in the saucer. Hertzog took a sip from his cup.

‘So, do you have anything yet?’ Botha looked at Hertzog quizzically.

‘Anything?’

‘Any leads?’

‘Not yet.’ Hertzog smiled. ‘Of course we’re going to undertake a detailed investigation. And we’ll be investigating all angles.’ Bismarck frowned. So slightly that it was almost imperceptible. ‘In fact,’ Hertzog said placing his cup and saucer on the table, ‘I was wondering if Major Bismarck could provide us with any additional information. I would love to have access to any notes or other material from his investigation.’

Bismarck said nothing. The overhead light reflected coldly in his Ray Bans. The mayor turned to Bismarck. ‘Major?’

‘Bloemfontein has been handling the disappearance of ... Michelle Bismarck,’ he said coolly. ‘As for Manie Botha ... he was only reported missing on Saturday. Since this is only Tuesday,’ he added, placing extra emphasis on the word “only”, ‘we have not been able to gather sufficient evidence ... yet.’

Jools turned to Hertzog in alarm. It was universal knowledge that the first forty-eight hours following a crime were by far the most crucial in any investigation. Hertzog quickly buried his concerns under a friendly smile. ‘I see.’

‘In any case, the suicide of a local man has placed additional ... burdens on our limited resources.’

‘Suicide?’ Hertzog frowned. He looked at Jools. ‘Were we informed of this?’ He asked, addressing the question to no-one in particular. Jools shook his head.

‘I hardly think the suicide is related ... Captain Hertzog.’

‘There are no co-incidences when it comes to murder, Major Bismarck.’ Jools matched the policeman’s frigid tones exactly. Dog smiled while Duvenhage watched with confused interest.

Ever the consummate diplomat, Hertzog smiled to dispel the tension. ‘You are more than likely correct, Major. However, as a matter of course, I would like all the pertinent information on the person in question.’ He looked at the mayor, his magnanimous smile not once faltering. ‘I’m sure you both would like a speedy resolution to these disappearances. I wouldn’t want any ... oversights on our part to hinder the course of justice.’

The mayor gave Bismarck a cool stare. ‘I am sure Major Bismarck would be most delighted to assist you in whatever way you request.’

In the kitchen the fridge stuttered and stammered.

‘We appreciate all the help we can get. Especially from an experienced officer of the law such as the Major.’

A group of boys sauntered past in the street outside, chattering loudly. They were waving around ice lollies.

‘Naturally.’ The mayor smiled. His gray sideburns rode up on his cheeks. ‘I ask only one thing of you, detective.’ Sensing that the tortured meeting was coming to an end, Jools sat up and loudly dumped his cup and saucer on the coffee table. The spoon jumped into the air and clattered unceremoniously on the table surface. Bismarck stared cool acid at the bushy-haired detective. ‘Please keep us in the loop at all times,’ Botha continued, unperturbed. ‘Please keep us informed ... at all times ... of any new developments. You understand that this matter is very ... close to our hearts.’ He gave a sideways glance at Bismarck. ‘I also ask that you involve our police force in your investigation.’

‘Of course.’ Hertzog smiled. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed six times. Each chime was like a hammer shattering the silence.

‘Fantastic then.’ The mayor stood up and extended his hand. Hertzog rose to his feet, followed by the others. Only Bismarck remained seated.

‘It was wonderful meeting you, Mayor Botha,’ Hertzog said, shaking his hand. ‘I am delighted to be visiting your town. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to be getting away from the hustle and bustle of Johannesburg.’ Hertzog nodded amiably at the seated police chief. ‘Major.’

Mayor Botha placed his hand on Hertzog’s shoulder as he led the group of detectives to the exit. ‘Wonderful. I trust your lodging arrangements are in order?’

‘Yes,’ Hertzog said at the door. ‘Charming little guesthouse. I believe they do a legendary English breakfast.’

The mayor laughed loudly. Maybe a little too loudly. ‘Well, then you are better informed than I thought you were, Captain Hertzog.’

Hertzog laughed politely as he allowed his detectives to exit before him. ‘We will be in contact, mayor.’

‘Please, call me Lloyd.’

‘Very well then ... Lloyd.’ Hertzog turned to go then stopped. He faced Lloyd Botha. ‘Tell me something. Has anybody made contact with you ... or the Bismarck family? You know, with some kind of ransom demand?’

Botha’s smile froze on his lips. Then faded. He stared at Hertzog for a moment. ‘No.’

‘I see. Very well then. Good day ... Lloyd.’

‘Detective,’ Botha said, nodding curtly at the detective who was already halfway down the pathway flanked by a beautifully manicured lawn on both sides.

Inside the lounge, Bismarck was standing by the window. He watched the group of detectives climb into their Land Rovers through the lace curtain. Botha joined him. Both men watched the detectives in silence. ‘Do they know about the graves ... and the posters?’ Botha looked at Bismarck.

‘No.’

Silence.

‘Good. Let’s try and keep it that way.’

Twelve

‘We’re dealing with what’s – undoubtedly – the most complex case of I’ve ever come across in my career. I don’t know if you agree with me, detectives.’

Shaun Hertzog was standing in front of a large white board, balanced on an easel. The detectives of MCU were seated in front of him in a semi-circle. Two loosely arranged tables occupied the space between Hertzog and the rest. Chaz and Duvenhage sat behind one of the tables while Jools perched on the edge of the other table. Dog sat to one side, straddling a chair with its back to Hertzog. The elite policemen nodded in response to Hertzog’s statement.

‘Detective Duvenhage, won’t you please get that air-conditioner,’ Hertzog said, referring to an antiquated device built into the back wall. Duvenhage jumped from his chair and quickly crossed the floor of the sparsely furnished conference room of the Rust en Vrede guesthouse. He flipped open the control panel of the old unit. It was humming and shivering loudly in an effort to dispel the rising heat of the Free State morning. He shut it off. ‘Thanks. Much better.’

As Duvenhage seated himself an elderly lady with a pink apron popped her head through the doorway at the back of the conference room. ‘Coffee, detective?’

‘Oh no, thank you, Mrs Rabie. We’re fine. Once again, thank you for making your conference facilities available to us,’ Hertzog said, indicating the room which was little more than an empty space with a few chairs and tables and a lone white board.

‘Goodness, detective, it’s the least I can do to help you solve these terrible crimes.’

Hertzog smiled and nodded, waiting for her to leave. After a few seconds she disappeared again. He looked at his group of detectives. ‘A complex case, to be sure.’ He turned and made a large “X” on the board. ‘In the past we’ve dealt with crimes that were committed in a single, limited location. This time, however, we have two crimes ... spanning two weeks ... and two cities ... or towns, as it were,’ he said, drawing another “X” on the board.

‘If the crimes are even connected,’ Dog said.

‘Indeed. If the crimes are even connected.’ Hertzog nodded. ‘However, considering that the youths were both from prominent families from the same town, it’s safe to say – for now – that they appear to be connected.’ Dog nodded. ‘Everything in my experience leads me to believe they are.’

Jannie Duvenhage put up his hand.

‘Ah, Detective Duvenhage, it’s not necessary to put up your hand.’ Dog Doober smirked derisively. ‘Speak freely, please.’

‘Well, sir, following on from what Detective Doober said, what if the cases are not connected. I mean, in the way that we think. What if we’re dealing with ... with a serial killer.’

Silence.

Hertzog nodded slowly, contemplating the youthful detective’s words. ‘Hm-huh. Okay.’ He turned to Jools. ‘Detective van Sant?’

‘Well, Jannie, personally I think it’s kinda unlikely.’ He chewed his inner lip, arranging his thoughts. ‘In the first place, serial killers operate in a fairly limited area. Their killing ground – if you like – is usually an area in which they feel comfortable. They kill in terrains that are extremely familiar to them. It is this familiarity that allows them to hunt and kill victims without arousing suspicion. They kill where they live. They almost never select victims from distant urban areas – unless they are actually resident in these areas on a temporary basis. In the second place, the victims of serial killers are almost never known to the killer. It has happened that serial killers murder people known to them ... but these cases are so rare that they can almost be entirely dismissed. You see, Jannie, it is precisely this randomness that makes this unique category of killer so difficult to apprehend.’ Duvenhage nodded. ‘In the third place, the victims of serial killers themselves are never known to each other, as in this case.’ Jools gave Jannie Duvenhage a lopsided grin. ‘It is these considerations, old bean, which makes it extremely unlikely, in my opinion that we’re dealing with a serial killer.’ Despite Jools’s kind exegesis, the youth bowed his head and stared at the floor with pursed lips. A slight blush touched his cheeks. Dog snorted.

Hertzog looked at Duvenhage. ‘However, detective, you’ve made a very valid point. And I’m glad you did.’ Duvenhage looked up at the lead detective. ‘Assumptions are the single greatest enemy of any investigation. There are literally hundreds of examples throughout history of massive blunders that were caused by preconceived notions of guilt. The jail cells of the world are full of the unfortunate victims of those grave errors. So, yes, detective Duvenhage, you highlighted a crucial factor – we mustn’t let our assumptions dictate the direction of this case. The evidence must lead the investigation. Not the other way around. Well done, detective.’ Jannie Duvenhage smiled uncertainly. Chaz slapped him softly on the shoulder. Dog Doober yawned. ‘And just to underscore what I’ve just said, I want to amend what Lieutenant van Sant referred to just now. Yes, the victims of serial killers are never known to the killer. That’s why the older term “Stranger Killer” is in many ways – to me – a more accurate description of what these murderers do. And yes, the victims are never known – or related – to each other. However, for every fast rule of serial murder there is an exception. There was one specific case in which the victims of a serial killer were indeed all known to each other. Anybody?’ Hertzog looked around the room. ‘It’s arguably the best known serial killer of all time. Still no-one?’ He scanned the room. ‘The killer I’m referring to is, of course, Jack the Ripper. Yes. All his victims were not only known to each other, they were in fact intimately acquainted.’ Hertzog paused dramatically. Duvenhage stared at the senior detective in wonder. ‘I hope this has again illustrated how important it is for all of us to keep an open mind. Let’s not fall into that age-old trap known as hubris.’ He nodded, settling the matter. ‘Okay. Back to business. Gentlemen, the perpetrator – whether he’s a killer or merely an abductor at this stage – has a massive head-start. We are literally two weeks and two victims behind. If these cases are indeed related then we are dealing with an extremely organised and committed criminal.’ Hertzog eyed the group of men solemnly. Both youths disappeared suddenly. The abductions were clean and efficient. No witnesses. No complications. In both cases he managed to take them without arousing even the slightest suspicion. We are dealing with a highly intelligent and resourceful person.’ He paused. ‘Something that troubles me deeply.’

‘What worries me, boss,’ Chaz said, ‘is the perpetrator’s motive. If these crimes are linked ... and if the person is known to the victims, then what possible reason could he have for abducting two ... well, innocent youths?’

‘Yes, it’s a good point, detective. Once we learn the motive, we’ll be able to get a fix on the subject’s identity. However, this is not going to be an easy case. That’s why it’s important to split our resources. I’ve asked Detective Bosman to go to Bloemfontein to follow up on the Bismarck girl’s disappearance,’ Hertzog said addressing the rest of the detectives. ‘Detective, I want you to liaise with the Bloemfontein detectives. Gather as much information as you can. Remember we have a mandate from the office of the National Police Commissioner. Treat the Bloemfontein unit with courtesy. However, don’t let anything stand in the way of the investigation – especially not pride or incompetence. Detective Bosman, I also want you to pay a visit to the Bloemfontein Coroner and look into the suicide mentioned by the Major. I have received confirmation. The corpse of the suicide victim is currently there. His name was Wouter Bredekamp. And he was a long-time resident of Coffee. However, the suicide is secondary, especially until we can link it to our main investigation.’

‘Sure thing, boss.’

‘Detective Doober, I want you to liaise with the local police. Get friendly and see what you can learn. . I also want you to compile a detailed history of the Bismarck girl.’

Dog nodded. ‘Yes, boss.’

‘Detective van Sant, you and I will interview some of the local relatives of Michelle Bismarck and Manie Botha. The trail is still fresh. Let’s strike while the iron is hot, so to speak. Detective Duvenhage, you’re with us.’ Jannie Duvenhage nodded enthusiastically. Hertzog straightened. ‘Gentlemen, I feel there’s a lot more to this case than meets the eye. The – shall we say – peculiar behaviour of some of our hosts just serves to confirm my suspicions. Things are not as they appear. Although the first victim disappeared in Bloemfontein I believe the answer lies here in Coffee. And the perpetrator is somebody from this very town.’ The detectives nodded gravely. Hertzog stared into the distance, mulling over something in his mind. ‘One more thing. As you witnessed, the mayor requested we involve the police chief in our investigation. Normally I would not have a problem with this. However, the conduct of Major Bismarck is worrying. And perplexing. I simply don’t trust him. So let’s find creative ways to involve him ... while keeping him at arm’s length. Understood?’

‘Hell, I thought you were never going to ask,’ Jools said, evoking laughter from the others.

Hertzog smiled. ‘Let’s tread carefully. I believe our friends are hiding something from us. Until we know what ... or more importantly, why ... I suggest we keep things formal.’ He paused, and said almost as if speaking to himself. ‘Whatever it is, I believe it’s at the very core of these strange disappearances.’

Thirteen

While the detectives of the Major Crimes Unit were enjoying a rather subdued braai at the Rust en Vrede (Rest and Peace) Guesthouse, a German luxury sedan was quietly cruising south on De Beers Street.

This was – is – small town South Africa and people had very simple and well-established routines. By eight at night everybody was already well ensconced at home. Dinner was finished and the dishes done. On a Tuesday night especially, the streets of Coffee were empty. Tuesday night was, after all, Dallas. And nobody missed Dallas. Especially after the shooting of J.R. Ewing.

So, on that cold Tuesday evening the ’86 Mercedes Benz C-Class 200 was the only vehicle out and about on the main street of Coffee. It coasted slowly towards the southern exit, passing the world’s largest coffee pot surreptitiously, without a single sound. At Mosley Street the Benz took a right, heading south-west. At the corner of Mosley and Du Preez the driver turned left. Soon the mining houses on one side and the mine dump on the other gave way to an open stretch of road. Up ahead various warehouses made of corrugated tin loomed. The car headed continued south-west.

In the moonlit night the sprawling terrain of the Coffee Open Pit mine appeared like a ghost town. Huge gargantuan towers, conveyer belts and processing plants cut grotesque shapes into the night sky. In front of a mobile office trailer the car ground to a halt on the loose gravel of the road. The door opened and a man climbed out. For a brief moment his features were visible in the soft silver of the moon.

Doctor De Wet Bismarck.

He paused for a moment. And looked over each shoulder. For another moment he carefully scanned the surroundings, looking for any sign of movement amongst the mine site’s sinister shadows. When he was satisfied he slowly made his way to the door of the mobile site office. At the door he paused once more. Casting surreptitious glances in all directions. Then he opened the door. Mute light from inside the office cast a serrated silhouette across the gravel of the road.

Inside, four men were waiting for him.

Fourteen

Detective Jake “Chaz” Bosman rang the gate-bell of number fourteen, Reeler Street in Fichardtpark – a relatively new middle-class neighbourhood in the Orange Free State capital of Bloemfontein. He was standing in the driveway in front of a tall palisade fence known affectionately as Devil’s Fork amongst South Africans. Unlike their peers in other western countries, South Africans lived like prisoners behind high-security walls and fences. Neighbourhoods were patrolled by private armed response units equipped with powerful hand guns. In the suburbs of South Africa it was virtually impossible to walk up to someone’s door and ring the bell. Welcome to paradise.

Chaz rang the bell at the gate once more. He had arrived in Bloemfontein less than an hour before after a two-hour drive from Coffee. After booking in at the President Hotel he had contacted Linda van Wyk, sister to Alte Bismarck and aunt of Michelle Bismarck, requesting an interview. After initially expressing reluctance, Linda van Wyk had eventually agreed to an interview with the seasoned detective. As Chaz was about to ring the bell a third time he wondered if her reluctance had returned. But then a bleary voice crackled uncertainly through the system’s intercom. ‘Hello?’

‘Mrs van Wyk. This is Detective Bosman. I spoke to you earlier today. About an interview.’ Without a word the palisade gate slid open noiselessly. Chaz walked up the driveway. A brand-new white BMW 3-Series was parked in the driveway. He skirted the double garage that occupied the front of the yard. On his left was a plain but well-kept garden with a spread-out lawn.  A plastic garden set composed of one table and four chairs sat in the middle of the lawn. A fat ginger moggy cat brushed up against his trousers. An attractive woman with shoulder-length auburn hair waited for him in the doorway of the house. She was wrapped in a night gown and had slippers on her feet. Chaz smiled as he held out his hand.

‘Ms,’ she said, limply taking his hand.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It’s Ms. Not Mrs.’

‘I see. Sorry about that.’ Up close Chaz noted that she was older than he had initially thought. A web of crow’s feet creased her tired-looking eyes. The rim of her lips was wrinkled by the marks of the habitual smoker. And her brow was furrowed by perpetual worry. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

‘They’ve been here before,’ she said, turning and walking inside without inviting the detective to enter. Chaz followed uncertainly. ‘It didn’t seem to do any good then. I don’t really see what good it’s going to do now.’ Inside the darkened interior of the living room a striped cat darted at the sight of the wizened detective. The space was large and unkempt. Various cats’ toys lay around. The throws that covered the sofas were wrinkled and dishevelled. Empty coffee mugs and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette stubs stood everywhere; on the coffee table heaped with old magazines; on the arm rests of the sofas; and on the dining room table at which Linda van Wyk now waited for Chaz – slumped into a chair. ‘How can I help you, detective?’

Chaz slowly approached the table. ‘May I take a seat, ma’am?’

‘Please don’t “ma’am” me,’ she said, dismissively waving a hand at the empty chair closest to her.

Chaz sat down. ‘Ms van Wyk I –’

‘Please, if you’re going to bug me then at least call me Linda.’

Chaz – ever the consummate gentleman – smiled pleasantly, unperturbed by her lack of social graces.  ‘You mentioned the other detectives?’

‘They were here. A couple of times. The whole bunch of them.’ She picked up a pack of Courtleigh Satin Leaf. ‘Mind if I smoke?’

‘Of course not.’

‘They asked the same questions,’ she said lighting a cigarette with a Bic lighter. ‘Over and over again.’ She blew a jet of smoke into the air. ‘But I could see what they were thinking. “The little whore”, they thought. “The little dagga roker”.’

Dope smoker

‘They came here pretending like they cared. Pretending like they were actually doing something to find her. But I could see through them. Fucking Dutchmen,’ she said using the pejorative term for Afrikaners. Chaz raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t worry, I’m also Afrikaans’ she said as if this justified her slur. Chaz nodded politely. ‘I tried to explain to them. That Michelle was a good girl. She is. She’s no whore, detective,’ she said slamming her hand on the table. ‘I tried to explain to them. That she had a hard life. I told them ... I said ... that bastard damaged her. Fucked her up.’ She chewed her nails as her eyes moistened. ‘He’s a hard man.’

‘He?’

‘Her fucking father, detective,’ she said, raising her voice. Growling at Chaz. She sucked on the cigarette. And turned away. ‘I’m sorry. Please forgive me.’

Chaz reached out and placed his meaty hand over hers. ‘It’s fine. I understand,’ he said gently.

She nodded as tears flowed freely. And smiled a broken smile. ‘He was – is – a hard man. He’s selfish. And cruel. He turned her from a beautiful young girl who loved the world into a tortured young woman who hated herself.’ She chewed her lip and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her gown. ‘Just like my father.’ She sniffed loudly. Chaz studied her and realised that under her dishevelled tiredness she was an exceptionally beautiful woman. ‘Isn’t it funny, detective? How we perpetuate the suffering of our youth.’ She aggressively killed the cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Alte and I. We hated him. Our father. Hated his fucking guts.’ She smiled sardonically at the aged detective. ‘And what do we go and do? We marry men ... just like him.’ She ripped another cigarette from the pack and lit it with shaky fingers. ‘Aint life just a fucking peach?’ She wiped the remaining tears from her eyes. ‘Any case, I’m sure you didn’t come here to listen to my sad little story.’

‘It’s fine. It really is.’ Chaz smiled at her.

For a moment she stared at Chaz, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Thank you.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Michelle had a hard life. He ruined her. De Wet. She came here to live with me ... almost two years ago. To start a new life. We always understood each other, I guess. Alte never had the guts to stand up to that vicious bastard. But he wouldn’t dare treat me like that. So she came here. I guess she felt safe ... and protected.’ She paused. ‘It wasn’t always easy. She had developed some bad habits. Drugs. Alcohol. Made some no-good friends. However, after a while she started putting her life back together. She got a job. It wasn’t a great job. She was a receptionist at a legal firm. But it was her first real job. And she had options. She could study further. Become a paralegal, you know.’ She gave Chaz an intense stare. ‘She still had some of her bad habits. She drank a little too much. And I think she continued smoking dagga.’ She gave Chaz a sideways glance. ‘I warned her to stop that stuff. I told her, society frowns on that kind of thing. But still. She was improving. She was getting better. She was starting to build a brand-new life and becoming a responsible young woman.’ Linda paused. ‘She talked about getting a place of her own. And she even bought herself a new car – out of the box,’ she said, indicating the vague direction of the driveway.

Chaz looked perplexed. ‘Really?’ He asked with surprise. ‘You mean the brand-new Beamer in the driveway?’ Linda van Wyk nodded. ‘I don’t understand. How could she afford a car like that on a receptionist’s salary? While talking about getting a place of her own?’

‘I don’t know. I asked her. But she was vague.’ She stared at Chaz through a trail of smoke. ‘I asked her a few times. Once she said something about her father being a generous man.’

‘Really? And you didn’t think that was an odd comment? Especially considering their ... ah ... history together.’

‘I don’t know, detective. She said a lot of odd things.’

‘I see,’ Chaz said, frowning intently while scribbling in his notebook. When he finished he stared into space, nodding to himself. He turned to Linda van Wyk. ‘Tell me about the night she disappeared.’

‘Well, it was just an ordinary Friday night. Michelle went out with friends. After work. She was partying considerably less than when she first arrived. But she’s young.  She liked to socialise.’

‘I see. And this was a regular thing? Going out on weekends?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who else was acquainted with her schedule?’

She frowned. ‘I don’t know. She spoke to Alte once a week or so? Besides her ... I don’t really know who else would know her that well. Except, of course, her friends. Especially her best friend, Lizelle.’

‘Do you have her contact details?’

‘Yes,’ she said rising, ‘let me get that for you.’

‘Not now,’ Chaz said, gently pushing her down. ‘Afterwards.’ He consulted his notebook. ‘When did you become aware that she was missing?’

‘Well, in the beginning she used to stay out all weekend. But the last few months she had become more responsible. When she went out she would come back ... I don’t know ... two ... three o’ clock in the morning.’

‘So you realised something was wrong the next morning?’

‘Not immediately. At first I thought that maybe she had gone to sleep over at Lizelle’s place. But when I hadn’t heard anything from her by that afternoon I started worrying. She usually phoned me when she was away for long periods. So I started phoning her friends. And when none of them knew where she was ... well, I contacted Alte.’ She swallowed hard. And bit her lip. ‘By that Monday morning ... I knew ... I knew that something was wrong.’ She grabbed Chaz’s hand. ‘Michelle had genuinely turned a new leaf, detective. That’s what those other cops simply wouldn’t accept.’ She removed her hand. ‘Since getting the new job she hadn’t missed a single day of work.’ Tears started welling up in her eyes. ‘I reported her missing and ... well, the rest is history.’

‘Chaz nodded. ‘Tell me, did she ever mention a boy called Manie Botha?’

Linda stared down at the cluttered surface of the dining room table. ‘No.’

Detective Bosman mulled over some thoughts. ‘Has anybody ... in any way ... contacted you with any demands? Like a –’

‘Ransom?’ She asked, arching her eyebrows. ‘What could I possibly give them? They can have my pathetic little alimony cheques, if that’s what you mean.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘No.’

‘Tell me ... Linda ... is there anything you can think of ... anything at all that could be relevant?’

She shook her head and pursed her lips, wrinkling her chin. ‘I’m sorry, detective. I’ve been through this a million times in my head – hoping there was something I overlooked. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s perfectly fine. Don’t worry about it.’ Chaz looked towards the interior of the house. ‘She lived with you, inside the house, right?’ Linda van Wyk nodded. ‘Could I possibly see her room?’

‘Sure,’ she said, rising. Chaz followed her as she walked down a long corridor. She stopped at a closed door and pushed it open. Chaz entered.

The room was surprisingly neat and tidy. Sensing his surprise Linda said, ‘I told you. Michelle was a good girl. She was really starting to rebuild her life. On top of that she was ambitious. And she was starting to create a life for herself in the world.’

‘May I,’ Chaz asked, indicating her closet. Linda nodded. He opened the closet doors and peered inside. Her clothing was neatly arranged on the closet rod. The shelves were packed with tidy precision. ‘Nothing’s missing, right?’

‘Nothing at all. Except the clothing she was wearing that night.’ Linda indicated a rack stacked with albums. ‘She loved her music. She would never leave these behind. I told those detectives. Michelle’s not hanging in some drug den. Something has happened to her.’

Chaz looked at her with sympathy. ‘She was fortunate to have someone like you in her life.’

Linda approached him. ‘Detective, tell me, honestly. Do you think she’s still alive?’

Chaz paused for a long time. ‘I don’t know, Linda. I wish I could tell you that she is.’

She took his hand. ‘You look like a good man, detective.’

‘Jake.’

‘You look like a good man, Jake. Please promise me you’ll do everything to try and catch the person who did this.’

‘I am working under one of the best detectives in the South African Police. I give you my solemn word that we will find this person ... and bring him to justice.’

‘Thank you.’ She wiped a tear from her eye. ‘I believe you.’

Chaz looked around one last time. ‘I think that’s all ... for now. If I needed to ... would you mind if I came to see you again?’

‘Not at all,’ she said, leading him from the room. ‘I would ... like that very much.’ She cleared her throat and hurried towards her living room. ‘Let me get that number for you. Lizelle. Michelle’s best friend.’

‘That would be great.’

She scribbled hurriedly on a piece of paper and handed it to Detective Bosman. ‘I hope this helps.’

‘I know it will.’ They stared at each other for a moment. Somewhere a cat meowed. ‘Well ... ahem ... let me be off. Please ... Linda ... if you think of anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to give me a call.’ Chaz handed her a business card.

She nodded. ‘Thank you.’ The ginger moggy from outside rubbed up against Bosman’s trousers, purring loudly. ‘Oh Pliskin. Stop that.’

‘Never mind,’ Chaz said. ‘I like cats.’

‘That’s good to know,’ she said, beaming. They stared at each other, saying nothing. Linda van Wyk rubbed a curl of hair from her face. And stared down at the floor, blushing. ‘Well, let me not keep you.’ She led Chaz to the door and waited as he exited. She followed him to the gate.

‘Thank you for your time, Linda.’ He turned to face her and was surprised to find her scowling, a deep frown on her brow.

‘Detective ... Jake ... you be careful when dealing with those people.’

‘Those people?’

‘Everybody from that horrid little town. And I mean everybody. Those people are evil. There’s something not right about that place.’ She took a step forward. ‘Don’t trust any of them.’

Chaz Bosman said nothing, frowning at her words.

Fifteen

The Land Rover pulled to a stop in the curve of the cul-de-sac at the end of Kruger Street. Jools and Hertzog climbed out of the front seats while Jannie Duvenhage exited the back. The detectives stood for a moment in the mid-afternoon sun, looking at the swanky double-storey house of Mayor Botha. It was obviously new. Some parts of the garden had not yet been fully developed. In a far corner of the yard was a weathered pile of building sand. The house had a vacation feel about it. Like it belonged at the coast. In Plettenberg Bay. Or Jeffereys Bay. A rich man’s playground.

‘You would have thought she would have made arrangements to see us sooner,’ Jools said, looking at his watch in the afternoon sun. ‘Especially since her son is missing.’

‘Peculiar,’ Hertzog said. He stared at the neat face-brick construction of the Mayor’s house. And the balcony that loomed over the entrance. ‘I agree.’ Captain Hertzog looked at his two detectives. ‘Well, gentlemen, let’s go and speak to Mrs Carol-Ann Botha –’

The two-way radio unit in the Land Rover crackled and scratched. ‘Charlie Foxtrot Zero. Please come in, Charlie Foxtrot Zero.’ This was Hertzog’s pre-agreed call sign. He walked towards the car. ‘We have a relay from Charlie Foxtrot One.’ Charlie Foxtrot One was Chaz Bosman.  Hertzog lifted the handset and depressed the transmit button. ‘Charlie Foxtrot One.’

‘Boss?’

‘Speak, detective.’

‘I went to see the Bismarck aunt. I learned something interesting, boss.’

‘Good man.’

In short crisp sentences Chaz Bosman told Hertzog what he had gleaned from the interview. He made special reference to the brand-new BMW sedan in the aunt’s garage.

‘Brand new?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘And you verified ownership?’

‘Yes. It’s registered to her.’ There was silence as Hertzog mulled over the words. ‘Boss I was thinking of getting a “205,”’ Chaz said, using the common police lingo for a Section 205 Subpoena under the Criminal Procedure Act. The warrant enabled the police to scrutinise the bank accounts of victims ... or suspects.

‘Absolutely,’ Hertzog said. ‘You want me to write those up for you?’

‘No, boss. It’s already done.

‘Good work, detective.’

Chaz said nothing. ‘I’m going to see the Bismarck girl’s friend just now,’ his voice crackled through the unit. ‘Will let you know.’

‘Good. Thanks for the information,’ Hertzog said looking up at the Botha house. ‘Over and out.’ He joined Jools and Duvenhage. ‘Let’s go, gentlemen.’ He stepped onto the pavement. And slowly walked up the pathway lined with expensive terracotta tiles. Unlike larger urban areas like Bloemfontein, Johannesburg or Pretoria, the houses of Coffee were free of extreme security measures. Hertzog knocked on the front door using the ornate brass knocker.

The detectives waited. Inside syncopated footsteps approached the door. And then nothing.

Quiet.

Hertzog knocked again.

Clumsy fingers attacked the lock. The door swung open.

The detectives stared in surprise.

Framed in the door was a young man that couldn’t have been much older than nineteen or twenty. He had immaculate and chiselled features. Thick blond hair fell in effortless waves across his sculpted cheek bones. He stood at least a head taller than the detectives from Pretoria. His rippled pectoral muscles pushed against the thin cotton of his t-shirt casting perfect lines of shadow across his chest. He smiled, exposing two rows of impossibly maintained teeth. Pearl white. Even and perfect. The sun sparkled off his spotless complexion.

An Adonis. In the bush veldt.

Hertzog and Jools looked at each other in surprise. Hertzog turned to the handsome young man. ‘Good day.’ He held out a hand. The young man looked down at Hertzog’s hand with sparkling green eyes. Slowly. Ever so slowly. He extended his hand. His bicep bulged, stretching the short cotton sleeve. ‘I’m here to see Mrs Carol-Ann Botha,’ Hertzog said. Friendly.

Jannie Duvenhage stared at the young man with shock. His mouth hung open. Jools gently nudged him in the ribs with his elbow. The rookie detective straightened. And cleared his throat.

Slowly. Ever so slowly. The beautiful young man looked up at Hertzog. He opened his mouth.

And bleated.

Hertzog and Jools gave each other quick glances. Surprised. Shocked. Jannie Duvenhage turned ashen. His mouth fell open again.

Hertzog tried again. Smiling broadly. ‘Mrs Carol-Ann Botha?’

The attractive young man opened his mouth again. Full lips parted in perfect symmetry. Exposing once again those flawless teeth. He moaned. Long and loud. ‘Maaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh.’

Jannie Duvenhage staggered backwards.

Recognition dawned in Hertzog’s face. The young man had spoken a single word. ‘Mom?’ Hertzog said. ‘Yes. Your mom. Can I please speak to your mom?’

From inside hurried steps approached. Thin and sharp. Like a woman. Wearing high heels. An attractive woman in her early forties appeared at the door. Despite her age she had a youthful beauty barely been touched by time. Hertzog compared mom and son and easily observed the resemblance. Her lipstick mascara and foundation had all been expertly applied, like it took no effort or time at all. But of course it did. She had the general patina of someone who took great care of herself. Using the world’s most expensive cosmetics. She smiled broadly. Exposing perfect teeth. There was something about her smile that hearkened back to her husband. It was a practised smile. Easy. But trained. ‘Yes? How may I help you?’

Hertzog flashed a badge. ‘Captain Hertzog from the Major Crimes Unit. This is Lieutenant van Sant,’ he said pointing to Jools, ‘and Detective Constable Duvenhage,’ he added, pointing to Jannie Duvenhage.

‘Yes, of course.’ Her smile didn’t waver at all. Although her eyes hardened ever so slightly as she studied the three men. ‘My husband warned me.’ Jools’s eyes narrowed at her choice of verb. ‘Please come in,’ she said, graciously waving her guests into the house. She looked like a model from a 50’s Chrysler commercial.

Hertzog nodded, friendly. He entered the spacious foyer. Jools followed, mumbling a greeting. Duvenhage trailed behind, unable to keep his eyes off the Adonis-like young man that remained at the door, slightly confused. Noting the young detective’s stare, Mrs Carol-Ann placed a hand on her son’s shoulder. Her smile was frozen into place. Her eyes were cool and detached.

‘This is my son, Pasqual.’ She looked at her son, furrowing her brow. It was supposed to be a look that expressed compassion. But it came out as something else. Hertzog and Jools watched her intensely. Detective Constable Duvenhage watched the young man. She turned to the three policemen. ‘He had ... an unfortunate accident ... about a year ago.’ Feeling that the brief explanation was enough she turned towards the interior of the house. ‘Sara,’ she shouted. Moments later an elderly black domestic appeared and led Pasqual up a balustraded stairway ascending along the right side of the foyer. He mumbled inane words as he walked up the staircase. ‘Please, this way,’ Carol-Ann Botha said, indicating an archway to their left. She led them to a formal sitting room with expensive wooden furniture that seemed to recall the fading glory of the Bourbon kings.

The three policemen each occupied a chair. While Carol-Ann sat in a chair that obviously sat at the “head” of the group of chairs. She crossed her legs. And folded her hands on her lap. The unchallenged doyenne of her world. ‘How may I help you, Lieutenant Hertzog?’

‘Captain.’ Hertzog nodded cordially.

She returned the nod. ‘Captain ... Hertzog.’

‘We’re investigating the disappearance of your son ... Manie Botha ... as well as Michelle Bismarck.’

‘Strange.’

‘Strange?’

‘Yes,’ Mrs Botha replied. ‘I hardly think the two cases are ... connected in any way.’ She pointed towards her left, in the vague direction of the Bismarck house. ‘And while the Bismarcks are dear ... dear friends ... Michelle is hardly in my son’s league.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I’m not going to beat about the bush, detective, but she had loose morals. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was shacked-up with some Bantu lover.’

Bantu. A word with a similar connotation to Negro.

‘Yes, of course.’ Hertzog smiled, friendly. He leaned forward. ‘Tell me, Mrs Botha, do you know of anyone who would want to ... kidnap your son?’

She looked around, blinking dramatically. ‘Well ... I ...you know ... who could ...’

‘Does your son have any enemies? Any enemies ... at all?’

‘No, of course not. Manie was a good boy. He was a good student. And he was a good son. So, no ... I doubt very much whether he had any enemies at all. Especially someone that would have wanted to do ... this.’ She paused. And stared into the distance. ‘But then again ... everyone has enemies.’

Jools and Hertzog exchanged glances.

‘I see,’ Hertzog said. ‘Mrs Botha ... did your son maybe mention something out of the ordinary ... in the period before his disappearance?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Not at all. He didn’t say anything. At all.’ She paused, staring into the distance. ‘But then again, he said a lot of things.’

Hertzog studied her with keen interest.

Jools turned in his chair to better face her. ‘Mrs Botha, we’ve heard your son was seeing someone. We believe she –’

‘No!’ The word came out too loud. Like the lash of a whip. She quickly composed herself. ‘No,’ she repeated softer. ‘It is a vicious rumour. My son was seeing no-one. I would have known about it. And I don’t, therefore he didn’t.’

Jools nodded. ‘What if he was secretive about it? About his relationship?’

She gave Jools an icy stare. ‘Not possible. I knew everything that was happening in my son’s life.’

‘You don’t think it’s at all possible he could have been seeing ...’ Jools raised his eyebrow. ‘Michelle Bismarck?’

‘How dare you?’

‘Maybe that’s why he was so secretive.’

‘No!’

‘Maybe that’s why he said nothing to you.’

She stood up. ‘You know nothing about my son.’ She pointed at all of them. ‘You all ... you know nothing about us.’

Hertzog stood up. ‘Mrs Botha, we’re concerned only with finding out what happened to your son,’ he said in soft placating words. He fixed her with a gentle stare. ‘We have no hidden agendas.’ His words calmed her somewhat and she seated herself again.

‘Detective Hertzog, we’ve been through unbelievably tough times,’ she said after a while. ‘We’ve been slammed down by the hand of fate. But we’ve risen every single time. The drought of ’83 couldn’t break us. The diamond slump of ’81 couldn’t snap our spirits. It almost destroyed our mine. But it would never destroy our souls.’ She gesticulated wildly. ‘You’ve seen the headlines. The floods of this year nearly turned half of our crops to rot. But we survived.’ She gritted her teeth. ‘When that damn fire of nineteen-seventy-three destroyed the entire eastern part of Coffee ... we stood up .... out of the ashes ... and we rebuilt our town.’ She waved a finger at Jools, baring her teeth. ‘We’ve been through hard times. The likes of you ... detective ... will not come here and break our spirits ... and wave around wild accusations. Do you understand me?’ Jools looked at her with measured coolness.

‘No-one accused you of any–’

‘Of course, not Mrs Botha,’ Hertzog said calmly. ‘We would never think of doing anything of the sort.’

‘I think this ... interview has come to an end.’ Carol-Ann Botha stood up. And straightened the non-existent creases in her dress.

Hertzog ruminated for a moment before he rose. ‘Yes, of course.’ Jools and Duvenhage took Hertzog’s cue and also stood up. Mrs Botha walked stiffly towards the door and opened it. Hertzog held back allowing his two juniors to take the lead.

‘Ma’am,’ Detective Constable Duvenhage said as he passed her, exiting.

‘Hmm-huh,’ Jools said, nodding curtly.

Hertzog paused. ‘Mrs Botha, would it be correct to say that Manie and ... Michelle Bismarck were ... familiar with each other?’

‘Of course,’ she said. Not quite polite, not quite rude. The smile from earlier was absent. ‘They grew up in the same town. Here, everyone knows everyone else.’

‘Naturally.’ Hertzog nodded. ‘Just one more thing. Besides growing up together in Coffee ... is there anything ... anything at all that may connect them? Is there any other kind of link between them ... that we may not be aware of?’

Carol-Ann Botha, doyenne and matriarch of Coffee stared at some distant point in space. ‘Good day, detective.’ She fixed Hertzog with cold green eyes. Emerald green eyes. Like that of her son. ‘A pleasure, I’m sure.’

Hertzog smiled pleasantly. Nonplussed. ‘Good day, ma’am. It was indeed a pleasure.’

He walked down the walkway to meet his detectives as the door quietly closed behind him. They formed a triangle in front of the Landy. Hertzog had his hands behind his back. ‘Hmm,’ he said with a smile. ‘Quite a character.’

‘I’d say.’ Jools cast a sour look at the house, where a lace curtain moved in a side window.

Hertzog looked at Duvenhage. ‘Detective Constable, please tell me your impressions.’

Duvenhage looked with uncertainty at Jools. ‘Erm ... well, sir, I think she’s lying.’

‘Hmm, yes. Okay. If not lying then certainly hiding something.’

‘I don’t think we came close to asking the right questions,’ Jools said, casting another look at the house.

‘Hertzog nodded. ‘Agreed.’ He faced Duvenhage again. ‘Anything else, detective?’

Duvenhage licked his lips, uncertain. ‘She’s ashamed of her son.’

‘Very good. At the very least she’s ashamed of his present condition.’ Hertzog now also stared at the house, frowning a little. ‘Our mayoral wife abhors weakness.’

A cold wind whipped at their clothes.

Hertzog turned to his rookie. A smile returned to his lips. ‘Anything else?’ Jannie Duvenhage stared with a blank expression at his boss. ‘Anything in the way she spoke about her disappeared son?’ Duvenhage sighed, exasperated. ‘Don’t worry,’ Hertzog said after a while. ‘It’s early days. Remember, all experts were once novices.’ He turned to his deputy. ‘Lieutenant?’

‘She referred to her son in the past tense,’ Jools said. ‘Very strange.’

‘Very strange indeed,’ Hertzog repeated. He looked at his subordinates with concern. ‘All in all, a very strange interview. She lost her first son to a ... what did she say ... and unfortunate accident? She has just lost her second son to a bizarre kidnapping. And yet. Just now in that interview she took great pains and spent a great deal of time ... telling us absolutely nothing. She didn’t say one thing that was useful.’

‘Makes no sense whatsoever,’ Duvenhage said.

‘Oh it makes sense alright,’ Jools said. ‘On a level we just don’t understand yet.’

The Landy’s radio unit crackled again. ‘Charlie Foxtrot One. Message from Charlie Foxtrot two.’ This time it was Dog.

‘Yes, Detective Doober?’

‘Boss, I had a chat with the Botha kid’s friend, Fred van der Merwe.’

‘Hm-huh. What did you learn?’ Jools and Duvenhage joined Hertzog at the car.

‘A few things. It seems the Coffee boys didn’t do such a good job interviewing him.’

‘Really?’

‘I pressed him on the girlfriend. The Botha boy’s girlfriend. He said Manie never mentioned anything about seeing his girlfriend that evening. Instead he was going to meet up with a friend.’

‘A friend? Who?’

‘He doesn’t know, boss. He said Manie never told him who the friend was.’

‘Why keep so many secrets? Strange.’ Hertzog sighed. ‘Anything about the mysterious girlfriend’s identity?’

‘Nothing, boss. He just told me they had been dating for around a year.’

‘And he has no idea who the girl is?’

‘Nope. He says he tried on numerous occasions to find out. But Manie just wouldn’t tell him. He also confirmed, boss. Manie didn’t tell his parents anything. In fact, they didn’t even know he was seeing someone.’ Hertzog gave Jools a meaningful look.

‘My goodness,’ Jools said, ‘it seems the grand dame was actually telling the truth.’

‘Detective,’ Hertzog said, ‘keep on poking around. Somewhere ... somebody must know who this girl is. She’s the key to everything.’

‘I’m on it, boss.’ There was a slight pause. ‘Oh yes, one more thing. The friend said that whoever the girl was she obviously had a lot of money.’

‘Why is that?’

‘He said she kept on buying Manie a lot of expensive gifts. Lots of imported cassettes and things like that.’

The trade embargo on the Apartheid state meant that more and more items were no longer available to the local market. Things like music cassettes and albums.

‘Interesting.’

‘Ja. He said most of the things are at his place. The van der Merwe boy’s place. He said Manie didn’t want his parents to find out about the gifts.’

‘Excellent. Detective Doober, see if you can get your hands on those items. We’ll send them to Pretoria for fingerprinting and so on.’

‘I already did, boss. He handed them over willingly. I’ll get them couriered to hoofkantoor straight away.’

Hoofkantoor. Head office.

Hertzog signed off. He looked at his two subordinates. ‘Intriguing, gentleman. Now tell me. Why would a teenage boy, who’s been seeing a girl for a whole year, not tell anybody about her? Not even his best friend.’

‘He’s ashamed of her. Or at least embarrassed by her.’ Duvenhage looked towards Jools for confirmation of his words.

‘Very possible,’ Jools said.

Silence.

‘Either that ... or he’s hiding an even bigger secret.’ Hertzog frowned at the implications of his words.

Sixteen

‘Her aunt was right. She was changing.’

The girl put up her hand and waved impatiently at a black waiter. He approached the table.

‘I asked for double strength filter coffee.’ She pointed at the cup with the Wimpy logo on the side. ‘This is piss water. Please. Bring me what I asked for.’

The waiter nodded meekly. ‘Eh, mies.’

‘Eh,’ she said in curt parody. She looked at Chaz Bosman, shaking her head as the black waiter returned to the kitchen. ‘You have to tell them everything twice.’

Chaz said nothing. He studied the young twenty-something girl in front of him. Cheap make-up had been applied without finesse. Her mascara was clotted in places. Her blush uneven. Her lipstick was too red. Constant bubblegum chewing revealed nicotine-stained teeth flecked with lipstick. Her hair was teased into the popular style of the moment. Dried hairspray clotted in little clumps of split ends.

‘By the way ... Lizelle,’ Chaz said consulting his notes, ‘thanks for meeting me on such short notice.’ He indicated the interior of the Wimpy restaurant

‘No problem, ‘tective. I’ll do anything to help you find Michelle,’ Lizelle Blomkamp said.

Chaz nodded. ‘You mentioned Michelle ... changing?’ The girl nodded. ‘I spoke to her aunt. She – just like you – is adamant that Michelle was no longer the girl people thought she was. The girl she used to be.’ Lizelle nodded. ‘Now this is what I want to know. She describes a gradual change coming over –’

‘No, no.’

‘No?’

‘No. It wasn’t gradual at all.’

‘The change?’

‘Yes. It wasn’t gradual at all.’ She leaned over towards the aged detective. ‘It was like this.’ She snapped her finger. ‘The one day she was the old Michelle. You know ... loud, wild, party animal. And the next day she was ... I don’t know. The new Michelle. Suddenly she was all adult and mature. Focused, you know.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘I’m not sure. About six months ago.’

Chaz scribbled in his notebook. ‘Really? And do you know why –’

‘Well, it obviously had something to do with the money.’

‘I see.’ Chaz paused, surprised. ‘And you knew about ... the money?’

‘Oh well, it was obvious. No-one could miss it. I mean, the one day she was struggling – we all are – and then suddenly, she just had all this money.’ She leaned forward again in shared conspiracy. ‘It changed her. But in a good way.’

‘And ... do you have any idea where all this money came from?’

‘No idea. But it was real money, you know. Thousands. About a month ago she bought the new Beamer. Put down like twenty grand deposit.’ The waiter brought Lizelle another cup of coffee. ‘I hope it’s right this time,’ she said with distaste.

Chaz smiled at the waiter, nodding in thanks. He waited for him to leave. ‘And you never asked her? About the money?’

‘Of course I did,’ she said. ‘But she wouldn’t tell me. She said it was a secret.’ She winked at the policeman. ‘She said if she told me she would have to kill me.’

Chaz frowned. ‘Really?’

‘It was just a joke, detective,’ she said with indignation.

‘Yes, of course.’ He scribbled in his book.

She looked at Chaz with intensity. ‘But it wasn’t a bad thing. The money. She wanted to go study. And open a hair salon.’ She paused. ‘The money brought out something in her that was always there. She comes from a very successful family, you know?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Yes. I mean, she suddenly became all ... serious. She stopped partying so much.’ Lizelle stared into space. ‘She changed.’

Chaz nodded in contemplation. ‘Tell me, do you know if she was seeing anybody?’

‘You mean like a boyfriend?’ Chaz nodded. ‘Well, I mean, we all did lots of guys. But I don’t think so.’ She paused. ‘But then again, she was always very secretive, you know. Especially the last few months.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, there was ...’

‘Yes?’

‘She mentioned once how she had run into someone from her hometown. Coffee, you know.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Chaz scribbled.

‘Somebody unexpected. But that was basically all she said.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘She really was very secretive.’

‘And you never met this person? Or saw him?’

‘No. Never.’

Chaz nodded, mulling over her words.

‘If you really want to find out about this guy, why don’t you just read her diary?’

‘Her diary?’

‘Ja. She wrote down everything in it.’

‘I didn’t see anything in the notes about a diary.’

‘I’m not surprised. She kept it hidden. From everyone. Even her aunt.’

Chaz looked at her then made a notation in his notebook.

Silence. Across the road a gaggle of geese descended into the artificial lake of Loch Logan.

‘Tell me about the night she disappeared.’

‘Well, we went out to Valentino’s like we used to.’ She pursed her lips. ‘It had been a while, you know, since she went out with us.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘We had a good time. Like we used to. We drank a few shooters. Some guy bought her a drink. We danced ...’

‘Some guy?’

‘Oh it was nothing. He left soon afterwards. When he saw she wasn’t interested.’

‘Uh-huh. Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’

She paused. ‘I guess.’

‘Okay. What then?’

‘Well, I was dancing with Frikkie, my boyfriend, and we were really just chilling ... and I guess I saw her hugging someone, on the other side of the club ... you know, it’s very dark.’

‘Was it the guy who bought her the drink?’

‘No. I mean, it couldn’t have been the guy from the bar. This person wasn’t nearly as tall ... or big, I guess.’

‘Could you see the person?’ Chaz sat on the edge of his chair, excited. ‘Would you be able to identify him?’

‘No ... I ...’ She became perturbed. ‘No ... I ... I didn’t see him. I’m sorry. It was very dark. And they use strobes and all sorts of lights.’ She looked at Chaz with regret. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine. You’ve already helped a lot.’ He smiled at her. ‘What happened then?’

‘Well, I was looking for her. And then. I thought I saw her walking up the stairs. Valentino’s is in a basement, you know.’ She paused. Tears came to her eyes. ‘And that was the last time I ever saw her.’

Chaz squeezed her arm. ‘Don’t worry. We’re going to do everything to solve this ... thing.’ She nodded through tears, dabbing at her eyes with a Wimpy serviette. ‘When she went up the stairs ... could you see if she was alone?’

She shook her head. ‘The staircase is always packed. You know, people come and go all the time.’

Chaz nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. He sipped his cold coffee while he stared at the overcast sky. He leaned forward and took her hand. ‘Lizelle.’

‘Yes?’ She looked at Chaz with concern, noting the gravity in his voice.

‘What do you think happened to Michelle?’

She pulled away and averted her face. After a long time she spoke. ‘I didn’t want to mention this. I mean, I know he was a bastard to her. But I ... I didn’t want to mention this.’

‘What didn’t you want to mention?’ He looked at her imploringly. She said nothing. ‘Lizelle,’ he said with firm insistence.

Lizelle looked at him with anger flashing in her eyes. ‘She told me once. Right after we first met, shortly after she came to Bloemfontein. She said ...’ She paused staring with intensity at the coffee-splashed table.

‘Lizelle.’

‘She said, “If anything ever happens to me ... my father has something to do with it’”.

Lizelle Blomkamp met Chaz Bosman’s puzzled stare with intensity.

Seventeen

The early morning sun cast slanted shadows across the facade of the OK Supermarket in De Beers Street. The Land Rover with the Transvaal plates came to a stop in one of the diagonal parking bays. It was too early for the usual troop of beggars. The Leyland 4x4 was the only car in the parking lot.

‘Hey, Shaun, please get me a pack of Camels,’ Jools said, handing Hertzog a five-rand note. Hertzog nodded without saying a word and took the folded note from his subordinate.

He walked through the entrance and greeted the lone cashier at the only available till. At the row of fridges he extracted a bottle of mineral water. And walked down the aisle. Making a show of looking for something. All the time he kept his eye on the in-house butchery counter.

It was empty.

Sighing softly he walked towards the cigarette counter next to the entrance.

‘Good morning.’

Hertzog swung around. And saw her.

Marike.

‘Good morning,’ he said, smiling.

‘Early bird shopping?’ She asked, indicating the bottled water in his hand.

‘Oh ... this, yes.’

Silence.

‘So, how’s the butchery going?’ He flinched slightly at the inane question.

Her smile faded slightly. ‘It’s going.’

Silence.

‘Good.’

Silence.

‘Well, I guess I better –’

‘How is your investigation going ... Shaun?’

Hertzog smiled, relieved. ‘It’s going.’

She laughed. An unfettered girlish laugh that reverberated across the empty supermarket. ‘I’m glad to hear.’ She stared at him intently. ‘I know you’re going to get him.’

Hertzog nodded, smiling. He studied her face. And noted how expressive her features were. How different emotions seemed to animate different parts of her face. ‘Tell me, how long have you been ...’

‘In Coffee?’ She asked. Hertzog nodded. ‘Oh, about two years or so.’ She paused. ‘I moved here shortly before I married ... Jack.

Hertzog nodded. ‘I see. So you’re not a local?’

She laughed again. That same childish laugh. ‘Oh my, no. And believe me, they let you know that every opportunity they get.’

‘Really?’

She nodded, arching her eyebrows in an exaggerated manner. ‘Yes. Coffee is a very ...’ She looked around. ‘... a very insular place. Very difficult to crack. Everything is connected. In some way or other. The power structures here are very ... rooted in the past. If you’re not a part of that, then you remain an outsider.’

‘I see.’

‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, the people are nice and everything. People help each other.’

‘And yet ...’

She shrugged. An act that was so girlish it was completely disarming. ‘It’s been a while now ... and I still don’t feel like I belong. I’m not even sure they like me.’

Hertzog smiled at the child-like candour of her words. ‘You smell nice.’

She looked at him, surprised. A smile of such undiluted delight washed across her face that Hertzog felt his heartbeat quicken. She traced a finger across her neck. ‘Thank you, Shaun.’

Hertzog cleared his throat. ‘Tell me something ... er, did you know the two youths?’

Her eyes grew wide. ‘The ones that disappeared? Um ... a little. You know, from seeing and such like. I didn’t really know them personally.’

‘Do you know of any reason why anyone would ... kidnap them?’

She shook her head vigorously. ‘No, Shaun. I don’t understand why anyone would do something like that.’

Hertzog nodded in contemplation. ‘Yes, that’s something –’

‘Please tell me about yourself,’ she said, blurting out the words.

Hertzog paused, shocked by her request. ‘Well ...’ He smiled, embarrassed. ‘There’s not much to tell.’

‘I don’t believe that.’ She smiled with pursed lips.

‘Well, I ... uh ...grew up in Pretoria, in Waterkloof.’ Her eyebrows arched at the mention of the upmarket Pretoria suburb. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary, really. I attended University of Pretoria but eventually decided to follow my calling.’

‘And become a detective?’

‘Something like that.’ He watched the morning sun swim across her face. ‘What about –’ For the first time – illuminated by the sunlight – Hertzog saw a bluish streak under one cheek, nearly disguised by foundation. He gently traced a finger across the bruise. ‘What is this? Did he –’

A flash of cold fury exploded in her eyes. ‘It’s none of your business,’ she said, violently recoiling from his touch.

Hertzog’s face turned a deep red. He looked at her, shocked. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.’

For a moment she stared at him. Her face was a bizarre maelstrom of rage and confusion. Then her features softened. And became girly again. ‘No. I’m the one who’s sorry. I meant to say, I didn’t want to make my problems your problems.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the bruise. ‘Next time it happens ... I’m going to arrest him.’

She grabbed the lapels of his jacket. ‘Please. Please don’t do that. I beg you.’

Hertzog stared at her, taken aback by the intensity of her pleas. ‘Okay, I won’t. I promise.’

Sensing the awkwardness of the moment Marike let go of Hertzog. She straightened his jacket. ‘Thank you.’

Strident steps behind him drew Hertzog’s attention. It was Jack Strydom. ‘That Kudu is not going to butcher itself, Marike,’ he said fixing Hertzog with a cold gaze. He stopped next to them. ‘Now!’ She nodded meekly and scurried away. ‘Don’t you have a job to do?’ He smirked as he looked at the seasoned detective. Hertzog said nothing. He turned and walked away.

Jack Strydom stared after him. Cold malice glinted in his steely blue eyes.

Eighteen

‘It wasn’t a suicide.’

There is nothing as final as a mortuary. The walls with their clinical tiles shout it. The shiny stainless steel trolleys, faucets and solid top autopsy tables scream it. And then of course sinister accessories like spigots, sparges, splash plates and removable filter traps just settle it beyond any argument. There is no place on earth that is designed with such a sense of morbid finality ... as a mortuary. Not even a crime scene. Not even a cemetery. Not even a divorce court is as final as a mortuary. And there was nothing on God’s earth as final as the Bloemfontein State Mortuary.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Pretty much exactly what I said. It’s not a suicide.’ The state pathologist burped as he wiped the thick lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses on his stained flannel shirt. A single undone button offered a view of his hairy paunch. ‘Which part of the phrase are you having difficulty with?’

Detective Sergeant Chaz Bosman ignored the comment. He sighed softly as he stared with bleary eyes at the short stodgy man in front of him. The four bourbons from the previous evening had hampered his sleep instead of aiding it. Doctor Giepie Crouz slid the glasses back onto his sweaty face. From behind the chunky lenses his eyes appeared frog-like. ‘What are you basing your findings on, Doctor?’

‘How about eighty years of forensic science.’ Chaz sighed again. Louder this time. ‘And this.’ Doctor Crouz motioned for Chaz to follow him. He stopped in front of a stainless steel stool.

‘And this?’ Chaz asked, nodding at the stool.

‘Have a seat, oh ye of little faith.’

Chaz sat down, a look of wearied resignation on his face.

‘Can I please have your gun?’

‘What?’ Chaz looked over his shoulder at the portly pathologist behind him.

‘Please. My homicidal tendencies are motivated purely by science.’ Chaz reached into his jacket and extracted the service revolver from his shoulder holster. He handed the gun to the doctor. ‘Ah, now who ever said one of these doesn’t make you feel like a man,’ he said, admiring the cold glint of the gun. Turning it this way and that.

‘You were saying, Doctor?’

‘Yes, of course.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Observe.’ He placed the gun against Chaz’s temple. ‘Now, if you wanted to say, “Goodbye, cruel world”, you would do something like this, right?’ He simulated pulling the trigger. ‘Bang!’ He leaned over Chaz’s shoulder. ‘What’s the first thing that happens?’

‘Recoil.’

‘Exactly.’ He walked around and faced Chaz. ‘And that’s exactly the problem.’

Chaz stared at him. ‘So the trajectory is all wrong.’

The pathologist’s face exploded with delight. ‘My goodness. You’re not from here, are you?’

‘So the trajectory is ... downward?’

‘Not only is it downward, my good man, but it’s at an angle that makes it wholly impossible in a suicide case.’ He stepped forward, pointing the gun at Chaz.

Chaz threw up his hands. ‘Whoa!’

‘Goodness gracious. No need to fret, detective. Despite my soft chewy exterior I am rather adept at handling firearms.’ Detective Sergeant Jake Bosman gave the pathologist a withering look as he allowed him to – once again – place the revolver against his head. ‘Please grip your gun.’ Chaz did as he was instructed. Doctor Crouz grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled the handle of the gun upwards, forcing the barrel downwards at an extremely acute angle. ‘This was the trajectory of the bullet that took the life of this unfortunate man. I’d say about thirty degrees. Now, as you can clearly observe, it’s a most ridiculous way to commit suicide.’ Chaz nodded as the pathologist handed his gun back to him. ‘In my experience, Detective Sergeant Bosman, suicide is hard enough. People don’t make it even more difficult.’

Chaz nodded slowly. ‘I assume you tested his hand for gunshot residue?’

‘You assume correctly. And yes. There were significant traces on his right hand. Which leads me to one unassailable conclusion.’

‘Somebody went to great lengths to stage a suicide.’

‘That would be it.’

Chaz shook his head and sighed as he stood up. ‘Fantastic.’

Doctor Crouz stared at Chaz in surprise. ‘My, my, detective. You don’t look none too pleased.’

Chaz holstered his gun. ‘Have you ever seen a pile of shit turn into a mountain of shit?’

The Doc laughed. ‘I work for the government, don’t you know?’

Nineteen

‘Okay. Let’s hear it.’

Jannie Duvenhage carefully slid the Defender One-ten into third gear and cruised slowly in a northerly direction while he watched Hertzog in the rear-view mirror. And listened to Jools, riding shotgun. Jools was turned back in his chair, facing Hertzog in the spacious back seat. He was reading from a notebook.

‘What do you want first? The good or the bad news?’

‘Is there such a thing as good news when it comes to murder?’

Jools chuckled. ‘Well, it looks like Oupa’s been busy,’ Jools said referring to Chaz.

Oupa. Grandpa.

Jools van Sant had spoken to the elderly detective earlier that morning at the guesthouse. He flipped through the little notebook, trying to decide where to start. ‘Okay, so Marais fast-tracked the warrant on Michelle Bismarck’s bank account,’ Jools said, making reference to the state prosecutor for Pretoria. ‘Good call, Shaun.’ Hertzog nodded. ‘Chaz said he’ll be serving the warrant today. Hopefully he’ll get a detailed statement for the last few months by tomorrow.’

‘Good.’

‘He said he’ll fax through a report later today.’

‘Good. Tell him to wait for my go-ahead. I want to be around when the fax comes through.’

‘Yep.’ Jools made a note in his book. ‘He spoke to the friend. She said a couple of things which make the warrant even more urgent.’ Hertzog nodded. Jools repeated what Chaz had learned. How Michelle Bismarck had suddenly acquired large sums of money. About the mysterious “friend” from her hometown. And her last night at the Bloemfontein night club. ‘Also, she mentioned a diary.’ Jools looked at Hertzog with expectation.

‘Very interesting. The Bloemfontein unit made no mention of a diary.’

‘None whatsoever,’ Jools said, consulting his notebook. ‘Chaz is thinking of going back to see the aunt. To ask her if he could search Michelle’s room.’

‘Good call.’

‘It’s a left here?’ Jannie asked, indicating an upcoming road.

‘That’s right, driver,’ Jools said, winking at the rookie. ‘The Bismarck house.’

‘We must ask Mrs Bismarck about the money. I’m not sure where it fits in ... but it’s vital.’ Jools nodded, frowning. ‘What else have you got?’

‘Remember Wouter Bredekamp? Our suicide victim?’ Hertzog nodded. ‘Well, it’s not a suicide.’

Hertzog sighed. ‘I suppose that’s the bad news?’

‘Yep. Pretty much.’

‘Why is that bad news?’ Jannie Duvenhage asked.

‘Well,’ Jools said, ‘it means we’re investigating three murders, as opposed to just two.’

‘Why are we assuming the two youths are dead?’ Jannie glanced at Hertzog in the rear-view mirror.

‘You’re absolutely correct, detective.’ Hertzog returned Jannie’s gaze in the mirror. ‘We shouldn’t assume. However, my experience tells me that they are – more than likely – deceased. Also, by approaching the case as a homicide instead of a missing persons report it gives us added leverage.’ He frowned. ‘It’s important that we not communicate our suspicions to the family. We need them to cling to some form of hope, however illusory.’ Hertzog studied Duvenhage’s face. ‘I know it seems ... mercenary. Murder is unfortunately a grim business, detective. It’s important that you steel yourself, right from the beginning. It gets easier. It’s never easy. But it gets easier.’

‘Yes, boss.’ Duvenhage watched the road, clenching his jaw.

‘Certain findings of the state pathologist indicate the “suicide” was definitely staged. That complicates the matter even further,’ Jools said, addressing Jannie. ‘It’s not only a question of “who” and “why” but also a matter of who would have the necessary knowledge to stage such an incident.’

‘You mean ...’

‘Yes.’ Jools looked at Hertzog. ‘We can’t discount police involvement. In fact, our station commander sent over a Constable this morning, while you were in the shower. He asked whether we had any new “findings” to share with him.’

‘Hmm.’ Hertzog ruminated, frowning. ‘We’re going to have to handle Major Bismarck with kid gloves. He’s no fool. We can’t go on pretending we’ve got nothing.’ Hertzog paused. ‘Let’s give him the suicide. And watch his reaction. He’ll find out sooner or later in any case.’

‘I agree.’

‘As for the rest, we tell him nothing. Until we absolutely have to.’ Jools nodded.

‘Do you really think Major Bismarck is connected?’ Jannie asked as he pulled to a stop outside the house of De Wet and Alte Bismarck.

‘The more I learn, the more I think everyone is connected, detective.’ Hertzog studied the Bismarck house through the Landy’s window. ‘In one way or another.’

‘Well, boss, if you want my opinion, I think Manie Botha and Michelle Bismarck are definitely connected. I think Jools is right. The Botha boy suddenly starts getting expensive gifts while Michelle suddenly has a ton of money. It can’t be a co-incidence.’

‘Possibly.’ Hertzog frowned. He was about to open the Defender’s door when Jools stopped him.

‘Ah, before you go, I have one more report from Chaz. It’s a real jewel.’ He raised his one eyebrow. ‘I didn’t know whether to classify it as good or bad news so I left it for last.’

‘Okay ...’ Hertzog looked uncertainly at Jools.

‘An old school friend of Michelle phoned the Bloem police. She said she saw her in Welkom over the weekend.’

‘What?’ Jannie looked stunned.

‘She swears on the Bible it was Michelle.’ Hertzog stared into emptiness, frowning.

Silence.

‘Do you think it’s really Michelle?’ Jools asked.

Hertzog mulled over the new information. ‘Could be.’

‘What if she’s actually just on a bender ... and not kidnapped at all?’ Jannie asked.

‘Even worse, what if they staged the whole thing? Manie and Michelle knew each other. It’s possible right?’ Jools said.

‘I hope not.’ Hertzog grimaced. ‘Either way, it makes a mockery of our whole investigation.’ He stared at the Bismarck house. ‘Let’s keep it under wraps for now,’ he said exiting the vehicle. The other two followed.

Hertzog knocked at the door. After a few moments an attractive but tired-looking woman opened the door. Long auburn hair framed pleasant and soft features.

‘Mrs Bismarck? I spoke to you yesterday, over the phone.’ Hertzog extended a hand. ‘Captain Shaun Hertzog.’

‘Yes, of course. Welcome, Captain.’ Her speech was slightly slurred and there was a subtle haze to her eyes. Hertzog and Jools exchanged quick glances. With a doctor for a husband it wasn’t difficult to guess at the source of her miasma.

They entered the stylishly decorated house. Alte Bismarck motioned for them to sit in her spacious lounge. She seated herself in the nearest easy chair. Jools and Hertzog shared a long leather couch while Duvenhage occupied a chair to her immediate left.

‘How may I help you, Captain Hertzog?’ Alte Bismarck had dark rings around her eyes. She wore no make-up.

‘We’re interviewing everyone again, ma’am.’ Hertzog paused. ‘We’re doing everything in our power to ... find your daughter.’ Duvenhage glanced at Hertzog.

Alte Bismarck gazed into the distance. Then turned her eyes towards the floor. ‘Yes.’ Hertzog and Jools exchanged another glance.

‘Mrs Bismarck, do you know of anyone that would be providing your daughter with large sums of money?’

‘Money?’ She looked at Hertzog, dazed and confused. ‘What money?’

‘So, you don’t know about the money?’

‘What money, Captain? I don’t understand what you’re talking about?’

Hertzog frowned while Jools arched his eyebrows. ‘What about the car? Do you know anything about that?’

‘Car? What car?’ She stared at Hertzog. ‘What are you talking about?’ Hertzog and Jools looked at each other.

‘Is it possible your husband could have been funding Michelle?’ Jools asked.

‘No.’ She bowed her head, digging her thumb into her palm. ‘No ... I ... I ... no. Definitely not.’

‘You seem very sure of this.’ Jools tried to make eye contact with her.

‘Of course I’m sure.’ She looked up, incensed. ‘You don’t know my husband ... er ...’

‘Lieutenant van Sant.’

‘Yes. You don’t know my husband, lieutenant van Sant.’

‘What do you mean?’

She gazed into the distance, absent-mindedly chewing on the nails of her right hand. She said nothing for what seemed like ages.

‘Mrs –’

‘Things used to be so different. When she was young.’ She paused. ‘Michelle was ... the apple of his eye. When she was very young. And she loved her daddy. A real daddy’s girl. But De Wet is ... a difficult man. A hard man. With rigorous expectations. As she got older, things changed.’ She looked at Hertzog. ‘He’s a good man ... deep down. But things changed. By the time she was a teen, they were fighting all the time.’ She stared out of the window. ‘It’s so difficult to please him,’ she said, to no-one in particular. Then she turned to Hertzog. A cold edge had sparked in her eyes. ‘My husband disowned Michelle, Captain. He didn’t just stop helping her ... or stop giving money. He disowned her.’ She bared her teeth in sleepy rage. ‘Our only child. He disowned her. He made sure she wouldn’t get anything.’ Jools and Hertzog exchanged another look. ‘When she left Coffee, to go live with my sister, I tried to help her. I would send her a few hundred rands every month. When he found out, he exploded. He threatened to cut me off completely. He said ...’ She began sobbing quietly. ‘He said ... she was no longer a daughter of his. He said ... she was dead to him.’ Jools stood up and handed her a folded handkerchief. ‘Thank you,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes. The policemen waited patiently while she composed herself. ‘You ask why I seem so sure of this, Lieutenant,’ she said, looking Jools straight in the eye. ‘If my daughter was on fire, my husband wouldn’t waste his spit to save her. Would he help her with one blue cent? No. That’s who he is, Lieutenant.’ She sniffed. ‘I don’t know what money you’re talking about, but I can assure you – without the slightest doubt – that my husband wouldn’t help Michelle in any way.’

‘I understand,’ Hertzog said after a while. ‘Mrs Bismarck, why ... why exactly did they have such a bad relationship?’

‘It wasn’t just one thing, Captain. My husband expresses his love through pride. He has rigorous expectations of what the world should be. No-one can live up to such extreme standards.’ She paused. ‘Even I ...’ She left the sentence unfinished. ‘Did you know that my husband was the youngest qualified doctor in the history of the Orange Free State, Captain?’

‘No, I didn’t ma’am.’

‘You can’t apply those same standards to a teenage girl. Sooner or later, something is going to snap.’ She stared at the terracotta floor. ‘It was a vicious circle. The more he expected of her ... the more she rebelled. The more she purposely disappointed him.’ She dabbed her eyes as fresh tears flowed. ‘The last few months, things got even worse. Even though she was living in Bloemfontein, it was like ... it was like he ... like he hated her.’ She cried, the sobs racking her body. ‘“That bitch”, he called her. Our own daughter. “That bitch”.’ Her face contorted with grief. ‘It was like he truly hated her. As if the distance between him and her just ... exacerbated his ... his disgust.’ She dabbed at her eyes, the handkerchief now wet with tears. ‘The last few months have been unbearable.’

‘Yes,’ Hertzog said, regarding her with pity. ‘I can imagine.’

Silence.

‘Mrs Bismarck, do you think it’s possible that Michelle could have been seeing Manie Botha, the mayor’s boy?’

‘What?’ She looked surprised. ‘No. I mean, no, I don’t think so.’

‘You’re sure of this.’

‘Yes, of course. We spoke regularly. I’m absolutely sure she would’ve mentioned something.’ She frowned, irritable. ‘What does this have to do with my daughter’s disappearance?’

‘We’re not sure yet.’ Hertzog paused. ‘I have to ask again, are you absolutely certain she wasn’t seeing him?’

‘Well, I mean, who could know anything about Michelle. But I seriously doubt it. She likes older men, you understand? And he’s barely ... what, sixteen?’

‘Is there any reason she would want to hide any kind of relationship from you?’

‘I don’t think so. But with Michelle you could never be sure of anything. She’s a complex girl, Captain. Just like her father.’

Hertzog nodded. ‘Did you know that she kept a diary?’

Alte Bismarck thought for a moment. ‘No. I didn’t.’

Hertzog scratched his chin. ‘Mrs Bismarck, I have to ask this.’ He paused, uncertain of how to phrase the question. ‘Is there anything ... we should know? Is there any other reason why ... why someone would kidnap Michelle?’ He gave her a pointed look. ‘Is there anything you’re not telling us?’

She averted her eyes. Her shoulders became hunched. After a moment she looked up without meeting Hertzog’s eyes. ‘Captain Hertzog, I’m feeling exhausted. It’s been a very long few weeks. Can I please ask –’

‘Please, Mrs Bismarck, it’s for your daughter’s sake.’

‘I need to go lie down, Captain. I’m not feeling well.’ She stood abruptly. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but can you please show yourselves out.’ She turned and walked into the interior of the house. The three policemen stared at her with astonishment.

Twenty

Detective Sergeant Dawie “Dog” Doober was waiting for the others at the Rust en Vrede guesthouse, reclining on the front lawn in a rickety deck chair that was part of a garden set. He pushed himself to his feet when he saw the Defender One-Ten pull into the guesthouse’s driveway. The three detectives from MCU clambered out of the SUV’s interior.

‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ Jools shouted across the sprawling garden.

Dog chuckled. ‘Good afternoon to you too, Lieutenant.’ He walked towards the group. ‘Boss.’

Hertzog nodded in greeting. He studied his subordinate. ‘You look like you’ve got something to tell me, Detective.’

‘Boss, you’ve got no idea.’ Hertzog smiled at Dog’s enthusiasm.

‘Well, what are you waiting for, sonny boy?’ Jools chuckled as he lit a Camel.

‘So, I did the rounds a bit,’ Dog continued, ignoring his colleague’s jibe. ‘I spoke to everyone who would give me a minute.’

‘Hm-huh.’

‘I finally tracked down an interesting young man.’ Dog pulled a little notebook from his jacket pocket. He flipped a few pages. ‘Dewald De Moerier,’ he said, reading slowly from his notes.

‘That’s “De Maurier”, you peasant,’ Jools said, correcting Dog’s pronunciation.

‘Ja, wat ookal,’ Dog said, flipping Jools a middle finger.

Yeah. Whatever.

‘Yes, detective?’ Hertzog flashed Dog a reprimanding look.

‘Ah, well, he used to be an employee of Manie Botha’s dad. The Mayor. Like an intern or something.’

‘Hm-huh.’

‘Check this out, boss.’ Dog’s eyes grew large with excitement. ‘He gave the Botha boy a lift ... to Bloemfontein.’

Hertzog scowled at Dog. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘He was in Bloemfontein, boss.’ Dog threw his hands into the air. His clip-on tie flapped in the air. ‘Manie Botha was in Bloemfontein on the night of Michelle Bismarck’s disappearance.’

Twenty-one

The sickle-moon cast mitigated shadows against the corrugated walls of the mobile office. Everything was quiet. The sprawling mine was deserted. Except for three luxury sedans, parked in the grotesque shadow of the towering conveyer belt.

Everything was silent.

Except.

Except for a low hum.

Muted conversation.

The dim interior light of the mine trailer cast hazy shadows against the drawn windows.

Inside, four men were standing in a circle. Their faces were obscured by the soft light.

‘They’re going to ruin everything.’

‘We’ve got to do something.’

‘What exactly do you want us to do? It’s a national police investigation.’

‘At least they don’t know about the graves yet. Or the posters.’

‘Exactly. Yet.’

‘We have to act. They’re starting to close in.’

‘You have an inestimable gift for stating the fucking obvious.’

‘Go to hell. Goddammit. Go to hell.’

‘No! You are the one –’

‘STOP THAT.’ The voice came from the shadows that fringed the group of men. Commanding. Severe. Final.

Silence.

The men stared in the direction of the speaker. Chastised.

The silence was broken by the squeak of rubber on wood. A man on a wheelchair rolled out of the shadows and into the light. ‘We have come too far. We have achieved too much. There can only be one winner in this game. And I don’t like to lose.’

Twenty-two

Detective Sergeant Chaz Bosman sat in the stuffy office, impatient. He tapped an irritable rhythm on the surface of the old wooden desk. For the umpteenth time he read the name plaque on the desk.

DIRK OPPERMAN. MEDIA LIAISON OFFICER.

Beneath was the logo of Barclays Bank.

Less than a year later, Barclays Bank would leave South Africa after mounting pressure from abroad. Fewer and fewer multi-nationals were doing business in the beleaguered Apartheid state. But for now it was business as usual.

Chaz Bosman looked over his shoulder once again and was relieved to see Dirk Opperman approaching through the glass door. ‘Ah, Detective Bosman.’ He handed a thick envelope to Chaz. ‘Sealed and certified, in terms of Section 205 of the Criminal Procedure Act.’ He hovered for a moment, basking in the drama of the situation.

‘Thank you, Mr Opperman.’ Chaz ripped the seal and lifted the wad of papers from the envelope. ‘Do you mind if I quickly scan the contents in your office?’

‘Of course not,’ Dirk Opperman said, his eyes growing large as he watched the policeman.

‘It’s not really procedure,’ Chaz said absently, leafing through the pile, ‘but I may need your assistance.’

‘Of course,’ Opperman said in awe, seating himself in his chair. He watched the policeman with growing wonderment. Chaz continued leafing through the papers, checking dates. ‘Is that the account of a ... m-murderer?’

‘I’m not really at liberty to say.’

‘Of course.’

Silence.

‘I once met a criminal.’

Silence.

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes.’ He leaned forward. ‘A dope smoker,’ he said, whispering. He looked around. ‘My wife’s cousin. Twice removed.’

‘Hmm,’ Chaz said, not really listening. He started scanning the bank statements, page by page, tracing a finger down each column of figures.

‘I was rather brave, I must admit.’ He sat back, pleased with himself. ‘I phoned the police immediately.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Chaz continued scanning. After a while he realised the liaison officer expected some sort of reply from him. ‘Oh, so ... was he smoking dope?’

‘No,’ Opperman said, bewildered. ‘He was watching TV.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But he –’

‘You sonofabitch!’ Chaz jumped up in his chair. ‘I got you.’

Opperman jumped with fright. ‘Goodness. Really?’

Chaz leafed with frenzy through another few pages until he located another date. ‘Yes!’ Then another. ‘Yes, dammit!’ He looked up at Opperman.

‘You solved the case?’

Chaz grabbed the statement and rushed over to the liaison officer. Opperman cowered with fright. ‘Eh.’

‘I need your help,’ Chaz said, slamming the statement down and pointing at a specific transaction. ‘What does that mean?’

Opperman leaned over carefully and looked at the item Chaz pointed out. ‘Hmm,’ he said with interest. He sat back and looked at the policemen with some satisfaction. ‘Now that is another matter altogether.’

Twenty-three

‘Do you want the good news or the bad news first?’

Hertzog and the remaining three detectives from the unit were enjoying a home cooked meal at the Rust en Vrede Guesthouse. Roast lamb with sweet potatoes, rice and peas. Boerekos. As traditional as only Boerekos can get.

Hertzog was speaking to Chaz over a wireless landline handset. He had put the device on speaker phone so the others could also hear the conversation. Jools, Dog and Jannie were listening attentively to the conversation, eating utensils hovering in mid-air.

‘Goodness, not you too.’ Jools chuckled. ‘You decide.’

‘I finally managed to get the statements. I requested papers going back about a year, just to make sure we didn’t miss anything.’

‘Hm-huh.’

‘Well, we didn’t. Starting about six months ago, Michelle Bismarck suddenly starts receiving regular payments of exactly R5000, around the third of every month.’

‘Hmm. Very interesting.’ Hertzog mulled over the information. ‘Very interesting indeed.’ He paused. ‘I’m kind of hoping that was the bad news, detective?’

‘Unfortunately not, boss. The depositor isn’t listed.’

‘What?’ Dog asked. ‘How can that be?’

‘Instead of a name the statements list a code of some sort.’

‘A code?’ Hertzog sighed, shaking his head. ‘You’re right. That’s definitely not good news.’

‘I asked the bank official, boss. He said it indicates a payment from an offshore account. Probably the Caymans.’

‘The Caymans?’ Dog said. ‘Waar de dônner is dit?’

Where the hell is that?

Hertzog nodded. ‘I was afraid of that.’

‘What does it mean, boss?’ Jannie Duvenhage asked.

‘It means we’ve just run up against a brick wall, detective.’

‘Boss, the bank official told me this sort of thing is very difficult to trace, especially with our present situation,’ Chaz said, referring to South Africa’s growing isolation. ‘The only way to get a trace is to go through diplomatic channels.’

‘Hmm. Not good.’ Hertzog paused. ‘Okay, excellent work, detective. What’s your next move?’

‘Well, boss, I was thinking of going back to the aunt. To see if I can get hold of Michelle’s diary.’ He paused. ‘I’ll see from there.’

Hertzog nodded. ‘Okay. Keep me in the loop.’ He ended the conversation.

‘Now why would someone make regular payments into Michelle Bismarck’s account? And from an offshore account?’

‘I don’t know why she received the money. But I understand why it’s from an offshore account.’

‘Why is that, boss?’ Jannie asked.

‘To hide his identity, of course,’ Dog said with irritation

‘Do you think it has something to do with her disappearance?’ Jannie asked, scowling

Hertzog stared at the surface of the dining table. ‘Perhaps.’

Mrs Rabie, the guesthouse proprietor appeared next to them. ‘Oh dear’ she said, addressing Hertzog, ‘you hardly touched your meal, Captain. I do hope everything was to your satisfaction.’

‘It was a wonderful meal, Mrs Rabie. I’m not very hungry, unfortunately.’

‘As far as I’m concerned,’ Dog said, burping, ‘that was the best meal I’ve had in years. I would marry you to have a plate of food like that every night, Mrs Rabie. Maybe we can get your husband out of the picture.’ He winked at her. ‘I have contacts, you know?’

‘She giggled, her hand in front of her mouth. ‘Detective, you really know how to flatter a woman.’ She took Hertzog and Jools’s plates. ‘How about some malva pudding, detectives?’

Dog jumped up. ‘Dônner! Now you’ve made me fall hopelessly in love with you. Let me help you with those, Mrs Rabie.’

‘Getruida,’ she said, smiling coyly at the policeman.

‘Getruida it is,’ Dog said, scooping up the rest of the plates. They went into the interior of the house, chatting amiably.

‘So what now?’ Jools asked when they were gone.

Hertzog wiped his mouth with a serviette. ‘Well, we can accept this latest obstacle ... or we can try and make use of our own “diplomatic channels”’.

‘And how do you propose we do that?’

Hertzog smiled mysteriously. ‘You forget we now have “friends in high places”’.

Realisation dawned on Jools’s face. ‘Aha. You mean our friend, the Deputy Minister of ... er, what was it again?’

‘Law and Order.’ Hertzog wagged a finger at his friend. ‘Shame on you, detective.’

Twenty-four

‘What do you have?’

The beautiful Doric columns cast dark lines on the stinkwood floor of the upper storey porch as the afternoon sun crept across the whitewashed mansion. To the south the Modderrivier meandered through the sprawling estate. The river offered a breathtaking view of its muddy waters through towering poplar trees. An extended driveway led to the porticoed front porch of the antebellum style plantation house. Cypress trees flanked the driveway, creating a dense canopy. You could be forgiven for thinking this was the Deep South – Georgia or South Carolina perhaps – and not the heart of Africa.

Two men were seated on the upper storey veranda that extended all the way around the house. One was dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit. The other was wearing a silk dressing gown. An intravenous drip was hanging from a stainless steel stand.

‘You’re going to be surprised,’ the lawyer said.

‘I’m never surprised.’ The man in the wheelchair looked straight ahead.

‘It seems our detective is a very wealthy man,’ the lawyer said, leafing through a sheaf of papers. He looked up at the bearded man in the wheelchair to gauge his reaction. His face remained expressionless.

‘Go on.’

‘In fact he’s a multi-millionaire.’

The bearded man looked over at the lawyer. ‘He inherited his money.’

‘How did you know?’

‘How else could a civil servant possibly make that much money?’

‘I guess you’re right.’ He looked at the papers in his hand. ‘His parents, Nadine and Anton Hertzog died in a mysterious freak accident – when he was still a teen.’

‘Interesting.’

‘The freak accident?’

‘The choice of career.’

‘Hmm. I agree. Why would a multi-millionaire choose to become a cop. Of all things.’

Silence.

‘That worries me.’

‘It worries you?’

‘It means our detective is a crusader.’

‘Really? I pegged him as more of a thrill-seeker.’

‘Of course you do. That’s why you work for me.’

The lawyer cleared his throat and looked out over the poplars that flanked the double-story house.

Silence.

‘You said the accident was mysterious. Why is that?’

‘Well, that’s exactly it. There are virtually no details available.’ He paused. ‘Almost as if someone expunged the particulars.’

‘We need to get more information on him.’

‘Yes. I have –’

‘We need to get leverage on him. We need to stop this investigation. Before it’s too late.’ The bearded man gave the lawyer a steely look. ‘If I’m going down in flames ... I’m taking everybody with me.’

The lawyer swallowed hard.

Twenty-five

Detective Sergeant Chaz Bosman stood in Michelle Bismarck’s immaculate room. Next to him stood Linda van Wyk, Michelle’s aunt. She was – like the previous time – in a bath gown. Chaz surveyed the room, frowning. ‘So you say you know nothing about a diary?’

‘No, detective. She told me nothing about anything like that.’ She looked at Chaz. ‘But like I told you, Michelle was – is – a very secretive girl.’

‘Uh-huh.’ He approached her nightstand and opened the drawer. He looked up at Linda van Wyk. ‘And you’re sure you don’t mind me looking through her things?’

‘Of course not, Chaz.’ She smiled a broken smile. ‘Anything to help you find Michelle.’

Chaz carefully searched each of the two drawers of the nightstand. Nothing. He stood and opened the closet doors. He searched each cubicle in turn, careful not to disturb the neatly folded layers of clothing. Nothing. He then proceeded to search her various jackets, coats and other items hanging on hangers from the closet rod. Nothing. Chaz closed the closet door and surveyed the room. ‘Where would you hide something like a diary, Linda?’

Linda van Wyk smiled coquettishly at the detective. ‘You sure you want to know such private things about me, Chaz?’ Chaz looked at her in surprise. She avoided his eyes with coy subtlety. ‘If I wanted to hide something like that,’ she said, walking over to a chest of drawers, ‘I would do it over here.’ She opened up the lowest drawer to reveal various items of lingerie.

Chaz cleared his throat. ‘I ... er ... I think I already looked over there.’ Chaz carefully avoided eye contact as he studied the drawer. ‘However ...’ He walked over to the chest and squatted down at Linda’s feet. He inserted his hand deep into the drawer and reached for the back. It was clear that the drawers didn’t extend all the way to the back of the chest. Chaz’s posture afforded him a close-up view of Linda’s exposed leg. As he felt around the back of the chest of drawers he tried his level best to avoid staring at the luscious curve of her calf. He stopped. His eyes widened. ‘Aha.’

‘Found something?’

He nodded, smiling in triumph. ‘I think so.’

He pulled out his arm. Clasped in his hand was a laminated cardboard casing, diagonally cut open at the top. It contained a matching set of notebooks with the word My Dairy emblazoned on the spine. His triumph was immediately mitigated by disappointment. ‘Dammit.’

One of the notebooks was missing. He opened the remaining diary and quickly scanned the book for a date.

‘Dammit.’ He looked at Linda van Wyk. ‘The most recent one is missing.’

‘Goodness.’ She looked at Chaz, wide-eyed. ‘I didn’t even know she kept a diary.’ She placed a finger on her chin. ‘Didn’t she maybe carry it with her?’

Chaz studied the diary with its butterfly motif. ‘Maybe.’ He looked at her. ‘Has anyone been to the house since ... her disappearance?’

‘Well, yes.’ She stared at the ceiling, trying to remember. ‘Er ... several of her friends dropped by. At various times.’ She looked at Chaz. ‘You know, just to express their condolences and so on.’

‘Could you provide me with their names?’

‘Well, no ...’

‘No?’

‘I only knew some of them. Some of the others I hadn’t met before.’

Chaz nodded, grim. ‘Do you think you could come to Parkweg some time?’ He asked, referring to Bloemfontein’s main police station. ‘And meet with a sketch artist?’

She looked at Chaz with quizzical confusion. ‘Do you really think one of her friends would have stolen her diary?’

‘We can’t discount anything at this stage,’ he said with firm conviction.

‘But why would they do something like that?’

Chaz shook his head. ‘I have no idea, Linda.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, would you? Come to Parkweg some time?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said frowning. ‘Of course.’

‘Thank you.’ He stood. ‘Linda, thank you for allowing me to come over ... and have a look. I appreciate it.’

‘Yes.’ She smiled at the detective. ‘Any time, Chaz.’ She led him to the lounge. She stopped a short distance from the front door. They faced each other. ‘I was glad when you phoned.’ Chaz nodded. ‘It was good to hear your voice again.’

He smiled at her. ‘My invitation stands. If you need to talk ... about anything, just give me a call. Any time.’

She reached out and touched his arm. ‘You’re not married.’ It was more of a statement than a question.

Chaz cleared his throat. ‘It didn’t work out.’ He looked at his left hand. ‘It was a long time ago.’

She touched his cheek. ‘She didn’t know what she was giving up.’ For a moment they stared at each other. A motorbike raced past.

‘Well, I better get going.’

‘Yes, of course.’ The warmth in her eyes faded. And was replaced by something else. Determination?

She turned and walked towards the interior of the house. Chaz Bosman looked at her with surprise. At the arch that led to the hallway she paused and turned. With a deft movement of her right hand she undid the knot of the girdle that fastened her bath gown. The garment fell open. She was naked underneath. She had large voluptuous breasts with surprisingly dark nipples. The slight curve of her white tummy dipped into a thin line of pubic hair. She looked at the shocked detective without batting an eyelid. As she turned, the folds of the gown draped across a naked thigh, revealing the smooth curve of her full buttocks. ‘I’m going to shower,’ she said, dropping the gown to the floor. She walked down the hallway, her curvy buttocks swaying with undisguised seduction. ‘You can show yourself to the door.’ She paused and looked over her shoulder. ‘Or you can join me.’

Chaz Bosman stared at her naked beauty, eyes wide.

Twenty-six

Jools handed the wireless phone to Hertzog.

‘It’s for you.’

Jannie Duvenhage and Jools van Sant were each seated on a table while Shaun Hertzog stood in front of the whiteboard. On its freshly wiped surface Hertzog had drawn a graphic representation of the investigation thus far. The confusing mass of new evidence had necessitated a comprehensive review. A circle on the left contained the words MICHELLE BISMARCK while another circle contained MANIE BOTHA. A smaller circle slightly beneath was labelled WOUTER BREDEKAMP, the suicide victim. Hertzog had drawn a large question mark next to this last circle. Various lines connected the circles. Each line had its own label. Hertzog summed up thusly: Michelle Bismarck, a troubled girl with a “past” disappears mysteriously in Bloemfontein one evening while out on the town. She is seen talking to a mysterious man.

A mysterious person, Jools corrected at this stage.

Yes, indeed, Hertzog continued. A mysterious person. Apparently Michelle was busy getting her life in order, leaving her past – and her wild youth – behind her. At the same time she appears to have discovered an enigmatic source of income – the very thing that precipitated her sudden onset of adulthood, we are told by a friend. She receives monthly deposits of five thousand rand in her bank account, from an offshore bank account located in the Caymans. In addition she purchases herself a brand-new BMW. We are also told she kept a diary. Any word on that, detective?

Jools informed Hertzog that Chaz was “on the job”.

Then, two weeks later, Hertzog continued, on Friday the thirteenth as it turns out, Manie Botha himself mysteriously disappears. We are told he is seeing someone romantically but refuses to divulge the identity to anyone. He receives various expensive gifts from his mysterious girlfriend. Could it be that Manie Botha is seeing Michelle Bismarck? Well, the indications are that this is certainly a possibility. Especially considering how “upset” he was in the days that followed Michelle’s disappearance. We also learn, Hertzog continued, that Manie Botha is in Bloemfontein on the evening of Michelle’s disappearance. Co-incidence? Probably not.

And then, as if things aren’t complicated enough, we learn that the suicide of Wouter Bredekamp wasn’t a suicide at all. And that it was, in fact, expertly staged. Which leads us to the inevitable question of how many people would have the knowledge or skills to stage a suicide. Hertzog left the question up in the air. Any word yet from Detective Doober, Hertzog enquired of Jools. Earlier Hertzog had instructed Dog to investigate the suicide scene with a Bloemfontein CSU (Crime Scene Unit) crew.

Nothing yet, Jools confirmed.

Well, Hertzog began but was interrupted by the phone.

‘Who is it?’ Hertzog asked as he took the handset from Jools.

‘I think it’s the Mayor,’ he said, sotto voce.

Hertzog sighed but said nothing. He took the handset. And placed it on speakerphone. ‘Mayor Botha?’

‘Captain Hertzog.’

‘What a pleasure it is –’

‘I’m very concerned, Captain.’

‘Concerned?’ Hertzog shot Jools a knowing look.

‘Very concerned, Captain. About the investigation.’

‘About the investigation?’

‘The investigation, Captain.’

‘I see. And what seems to be the problem, Mayor Botha?’

Did I not ask you to please keep us informed of any new developments?’

‘You did.’

‘I did.’

‘You did, indeed.’

‘Captain?’

‘Yes, Mayor.’

‘You have not kept us informed. Neither did you involve Major Bismarck in your daily investigations.’

‘I didn’t?’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Well, Mayor Botha ...’

‘Captain?’

‘Did I not send the Major a report on the Bredekamp suicide?’

‘You did.’

‘I did.’

‘But why did you fail to mention the foreign deposits into Michelle’s bank account?’

Silence.

‘I see. Well, Mayor Botha ...’

Captain?’

‘ ... I was, in fact, in the process of compiling a report for the Major right this very moment.’

‘You are?’

‘I am.’

‘Good. Now I know perhaps you don’t “trust” the Major ...’ Hertzog exchanged a puzzled glance with Jools, ‘... but it’s vital that you communicate at all times with our local police force. I wouldn’t want the people of Coffee to become, shall we say, recalcitrant about co-operating.’

‘Of course not.’

‘I trust I have made myself clear?’

‘Crystal clear.’

‘Good day, Captain.’

‘Good day, Mayor.’

The call was ended.

‘Less co-operative,’ Jools said with irony. ‘Is it humanly possible to be less co-operative than this bunch?’ Jannie Duvenhage chuckled.

‘Interesting that the Mayor would know all these things,’ Hertzog said, contemplative. ‘Including that I don’t “trust” Major Bismarck.’

Mrs Rabie poked her head through the door that led into the conference room. ‘Captain, can I interest your hard working men in some good ole Boere Coffee?’

‘No thank you, Mrs Rabie,’ Hertzog said, smiling pleasantly. He watched her go, frowning. ‘We must be careful, gentlemen. It seems the walls have ears.’

Jools and Jannie watched the elderly lady. ‘Rightly so,’ Jools said. ‘But I don’t know why you declined her offer.’ He gave Hertzog a wry look. ‘The “walls” make a damn fine cup of coffee.’

Twenty-seven

Later that day Hertzog received another two calls.

The first turned the investigation on its head.

The second blew it apart.

The first call.

‘Chaz?’

‘Boss. How are things going down there?’

‘You don’t want to know, trust me,’ Hertzog said, glancing over at his two subordinates. He indicated for Jannie to close the door to the conference room. ‘What about the aunt?’

‘Er ... the aunt? What about her?’

‘Did you go and see her?’

‘Yes, of course, boss. Yes,’ Chaz said, briskly continuing, ‘I went to see her. I found the diary.’

‘Excellent.’

‘Well, actually Michelle kept two diaries.’

‘Fantastic.’

‘Unfortunately one of them – the latest one – is missing.’

Silence.

‘I see.’

‘Ja. But don’t worry, boss. I found a few interesting inscriptions.’

‘Okay. Let’s hear them.’

The detectives heard Chaz paging over the speakerphone. ‘Okay, listen to this. It’s from November last year, the twentieth.’

‘Okay.’

‘I read: “Daddy, loving you was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. You will never know. I forgave you so much. Daddy, you will never know. I had to forgive you so many times. But I cannot forgive this. Not this time. How could you?”’

Silence.

‘Is that it?’

‘Yes, boss.’

Hertzog rubbed his chin. ‘Fascinating. I wonder what she was referring to.’ He looked at Jools. ‘Is there nothing else? About this “thing” she can’t forgive?’

‘No, boss. I’ve been through the entire diary. Nothing. In fact, it’s mostly about partying and boys. That sort of thing. The inscription I read was right at the end.’

‘Hm-huh. It’s a damn shame we don’t have the latest diary. I have an idea that’s where the important information is.’

‘I’ll go through the diary again, boss. And send you a detailed report.’

‘Good man. Any idea what happened to the missing diary?’

‘Linda said – ’

‘Linda?’

‘The aunt.’

‘Oh yes, of course.’

‘She said that a few of Michelle’s friends dropped by since her disappearance. I’m following up on that.’

‘Good.’

‘Boss, there are two other inscriptions that could be of interest.’

‘Hm-huh? Let’s hear it.’

‘The first one is from almost a month later, the twenty-first of December. I read: “I’ve delayed long enough. I’m doing it. Tomorrow.” That’s it.’

‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ Jools said.

‘And then, another one, two days later, the twenty-third of December. “I’ve done it. There’s no going back. God help me.”’

‘Flippit!’ Jannie said, glancing over at Jools. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘Boss, about a week later she received the first of the offshore bank deposits.’ Chaz paused. ‘I don’t know if it’s related ...’

‘I think we can assume it is,’ Hertzog said. ‘Well done, detective.’

‘Oh, boss, sorry. There was one more note. I thought it may be of interest. It occurs right at the end of December, nineteen-eighty-five. It reads: “I saw M today. How bizarre!” That’s it.’

Hertzog shook his head, frowning. ‘I don’t know what to make of that one. Thanks, Chaz. Good work. Let me know what you learn about the friends.’

‘Sure thing, boss.’

Hertzog ended the call. He looked at the board, troubled. ‘Just when I think we’re starting to understand things ...’

That’s when the phone rang again.

‘Captain Hertzog speaking.’

‘And here I thought you were never going to answer the phone.’ It was Dawie Malan. Deputy Minister for Law and Order. Rising star in the National Party ranks.

‘My goodness.’ Hertzog was genuinely surprised. ‘What a pleasant surprise?’ Dawie Malan laughed. ‘Sorry about the phone, sir. I was busy with an important call.’

‘Oh come now, please. You know me better than that. Call me Dawie.’

Hertzog laughed, amiable. ‘Very well, Dawie. I was actually expecting your personal assistant to phone.’

‘Sarah? Hell no, she’s too busy doing my work for me.’ He laughed again. The easy confident laughter of someone who has achieved a great deal at a very young age. ‘Listen, Shaun, I’ve got some good news for you. I hope you have a working fax machine on that side.’

‘Surprisingly we do, Dawie,’ Hertzog said, indicating with some frenzy for Jannie to insert some paper into the fax machine in the corner of the room. Jannie Duvenhage jumped up and ran over towards the fax. He gave Hertzog a thumbs up. ‘Considering police budgets and all.’

‘Well, we’ll certainly have to look into that, won’t we?

‘How about a raise, while you’re at it?’

Dawie Malan laughed loudly. ‘Listen, old bean, I’m going to be sending you something shortly. It’s the information you requested.’ He lowered his voice in whispered conspiracy. ‘You have no idea how much wheeling and dealing it took to get that information for you. More than a few feathers were ruffled, I assure you.’ He lowered his voice even more. ‘The old man can get rather grumpy,’ he said, referring to the venerable Pik Botha, the world’s longest serving Minister of Foreign Affairs. He lowered his voice even more. ‘Especially when he’s had a few the previous evening, if you know what I mean?’ Once again, the confident easy laughter. ‘He personally warned me the next time I want to stage an international incident I bloody well better have a case of Shivas on his desk. In triplicate.’ Hertzog chuckled. ‘Listen, Sarah is faxing something through to you as we speak.’ Hertzog again indicated the fax with his head, eyes large with urgency. Jannie looked over at him, shaking his head with equal urgency.

‘Dawie, you have no idea how much this means to me. Thank you so much.’

‘No problem, old man. I would say you owe me one. But hell, you do so much for our country. Consider it a token of my appreciation.’ In the corner, Jannie made a yelping noise. The fax machine started whirring and beeping.

‘I see the fax is coming through,’ Hertzog said. ‘I’m going to have to buy you dinner when I get back to Pretoria.’

‘I’m going to hold you to that, old bean. Good luck, and let me know how you’re progressing.’

‘Will do. Thanks again.’ Hertzog ended the call and ran over to the fax. Just in time to pull the completed facsimile from the machine’s inky innards.

He looked at the fax.

His eyes grew large.

‘What?’ Jools ran over. ‘What does it say?’

Hertzog handed the fax to Jools. And leaned forward against a table, a thousand cogs and gears spinning in his head. ‘Unbelievable.’

Jools scanned the contents of the fax. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

‘What doesn’t make sense?’

Jools handed the fax to Jannie Duvenhage. He looked at Hertzog. ‘Or does it?’

Jannie studied the fax. He looked at his colleagues. ‘I don’t understand.’ He walked over to Hertzog. And read the fax again. ‘It says the bank account belongs to something called the Bavaria Trust. What does that mean?’

‘Look at the executor of the trust, Junior,’ Jools said with dry emphasis.

Jannie scanned the page again. ‘Oh my God.’ He looked at Jools and Hertzog. ‘It’s De Wet Bismarck. Michelle’s father.’

Jools nodded. ‘Uh-huh. That’s right.’

‘So boss, I still don’t understand. Does it mean he had a change of heart? Is he financing his daughter behind his wife’s back?’

Jools looked at the young detective with a measure of disbelief. ‘Hell no, Jannie. That’s not what it means.’

Hertzog glanced at Jools. ‘Stop torturing him.’ He now turned to Jannie. ‘It means, detective ... Michelle Bismarck was blackmailing her father.’

Twenty-eight

The twenty-something receptionist stared at the three policemen with haughty disdain. She had a huge head of black hair which came crashing to her shoulders. On each of her fingers she wore large bulbous rings which matched the purple of her dress. In the far corner of the waiting room, a hefty middle-aged woman stared at the scene with undisguised fascination. Next to her a pensioner was pretending to read Die Huisgenoot, South Africa’s biggest magazine. (In the average Afrikaans home you are guaranteed to find three books: the Bible, the HAT dictionary and Die Huisgenoot.)

‘I’m sorry. Do you have an appointment?’

Jools stepped forward, flashing his badge. ‘I don’t think you understand ... Miss ...?’ He waited for the girl to provide her name.

‘No, I don’t think you understand. Doctor Bismarck is a very busy man. Do you have an appointment?’

Hertzog stepped forward. ‘Ma’am, we’ve come all the way from Pretoria for one reason – and one reason only; to find Michelle Bismarck. Or to find out what happened to her.’ He smiled at her without guile. ‘All I am interested in doing is helping Alte and Doctor De Wet Bismarck find a resolution to this terrible ordeal.’ Her frosty features melted somewhat as she smiled through pursed lips. ‘We only need a moment of the Doctor’s time.’

The receptionist stared at her switchboard. She stared at Hertzog. She stared at her switchboard.

‘Please,’ Hertzog said, aiding her decision-making process.

She picked up the handset and pressed a button. ‘Doctor. There are three detectives here to see you.’ After a few moments De Wet Bismarck grunted in the affirmative. She replaced the handset. ‘You may go through.’

‘Thank you,’ Hertzog said as he walked through to the doctor’s consultation room.

Doctor De Wet Bismarck was waiting for them. Standing behind his desk. Hertzog smiled amiably. He extended a hand. ‘Doctor Bismarck, I don’t believe we’ve had the –’

De Wet Bismarck slammed both palms down on the surface of his desk. ‘Listen to me. And listen carefully, Captain,’ he said, spitting out the last word. ‘Because I’m only going to say this once.’ He fixed all three detectives with a look of pure rage. ‘If you come here again, to my place of work, I will have your badge and I will spend the rest of my days making your life miserable. Do you understand?’ Hertzog and his subordinates said nothing. And betrayed no emotion. ‘Now I hope I’ve made myself abundantly clear, gentle-men. And the next time you want to bother me, speak to my lawyer.’

‘We are concerned only with finding out what happened to the missing youths, Doctor Bismarck. Manie Botha.’ Hertzog paused for effect. ‘And your daughter.’

‘My daughter can go to hell.’ He pointed at a window as if this was where the fiery pits of hell itself were located. ‘She turned her back on this family many years ago. And she deserves everything that’s coming to her.’  Bismarck bared his teeth in primal rage. ‘That little whore is no longer my –’

Jools stepped forward. He slammed his fist down on the table. ‘Why was she blackmailing you, Bismarck?’

If the transition on Bismarck’s face wasn’t so dark it would have been comical. Rage turned into shock. Shock morphed into flustered confusion. Confused merged with slow smirking triumph. Triumph turned into black hatred. ‘Leave my office right now. Or I will have my brother and his men escort you off my premises.’ He pointed at the door. Hertzog nodded pleasantly and waited for Jools and Jannie to exit before he turned. ‘And tell my receptionist she’s fired,’ Bismarck said, smiling hyena-like.

Hertzog gave him one more look before he exited.

Outside he turned to his colleagues. ‘Gentlemen, I was hoping Doctor Bismarck would give his co-operation. It’s painfully obvious that this is not the case.’

‘What now, boss?’ Jannie looked at Hertzog with expectation.

‘Now, my dear detective, we ratchet up the tension.’

Jools chuckled with undisguised mischief. ‘I do love the sound of that.’

Twenty-nine

In terms of international broadcasting standards, South Africa was in the dark ages in June of nineteen-eighty-six. That year had seen the country’s very first pay-per-view TV channel, known as M-Net. This was not cable TV, however. Together with its Super Sport channel it broadcast only two channels. Yes. Even pay-TV offered only two channels. If one added the three state-owned SABC (South African Broadcasting Service) channels, South Africa offered its viewers a grand total of five channels. Not surprising, considering TV only came to South Africa in nineteen-seventy-six.

Under the oppressive administration of P.W. Botha M-Net was not allowed to broadcast news. This mandate belonged only to the SABC.

If you happened to be watching SABC 1 on the evening of Tuesday, the twenty-fourth of June, you would have seen the following report on the eight o’ clock news. Read by the Walter Cronkite of South Africa, Michael de Morgan.

‘Two youths from the little Free State town of Coffee have disappeared under suspicious circumstances. Although the teens, a boy and a girl, vanished several weeks ago, the police have only now been able to link the disappearances. Michelle Bismarck, estranged daughter of Doctor De Wet and Alte Bismarck was last seen in Bloemfontein on the evening of Friday, the thirtieth of May.’

The screen filled with a picture of Michelle Bismarck. Followed by snapshots of De Wet and Alte Bismarck.

‘Two weeks later, Manie Botha, son of Lloyd and Carol-Ann Botha, disappeared mysteriously in the vicinity of the town of Coffee.’

A similar collage of photographs now appeared featuring the Botha family.

‘Lloyd Botha is, of course, Mayor of Coffee.’ Michael de Morgan consulted a sheet on the newsdesk. ‘A confidential source has informed SABC News that the South African Police is on the brink of making a breakthrough. Arrests are imminent. Viewers with any additional information are asked to contact the SAP on the following number.’

A number appeared at the bottom of the screen.

Less than a minute after the broadcast a call was placed to the toll-free SAP number.

***

That night Hertzog stood on the back porch of the guesthouse, enjoying the bracing cold of the wintry evening air. It was a moonless night. The only illumination was the meagre light from the starry sky. In the distance the lit star on top of Signal Hill shone like a lone beacon amidst the darkness. Hertzog was about to turn and enter the guesthouse when a gunshot shattered the silence. Hertzog instantly dived towards the ground, lying flat on his stomach. Moments later the other detectives rushed out onto the porch.

‘Boss, are you alright?’ Dog shouted falling on his knees next to Hertzog. He sighed with relief when he realised Hertzog wasn’t wounded.

‘What the hell was that?’ Jools looked around, gun drawn. ‘That sounded damn close.’

Hertzog got to his feet, dusting himself off. He walked to a corner of the back wall and fingered a fresh hole in the mortar. ‘Either it was a bad shot ... or a warning.’

‘Either way it’s bad news.’

‘Not so, detective.’ Hertzog grimaced with cool determination. ‘It means we’re getting close.’

A short distance away Jack Strydom climbed into his car, cursing loudly.

Thirty

The following morning Hertzog received two phone calls. The first one was expected. The second one, well ...

‘Captain Hertzog.’ It was Major Dawid Bismarck this time.

‘Major Bismarck. What a pleasant –’

‘This time you’ve gone too far ... Captain.’

Silence.

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about ... Major.’ Jools and Jannie listened with rapt attention.

‘Oh you don’t know what I’m talking about? You’re telling me you had nothing to do with last night’s news report? Do you have –’

‘Last night’s news report?’

‘Yes, Captain,’ the Major said with mounting irritation. ‘SABC News carried the story of the disappearances, including full colour ...’

‘What? How dare you?’ Hertzog raised his voice in mock anger.

‘... photographs of my brother and his ...’ Bismarck paused, confused. ‘Huh? Excuse me?’

‘I said, Major Bismarck, how dare you allow such a breach of trust?’

‘What? I  ... you must be –’

‘Do you have any idea how damaging something like this could be to our investigation?’

‘Of course I ... what ... listen, you’re not –’

‘I am terribly disappointed in you, Major. I thought you exercised greater control over your officers.’

‘No ... no ... don’t you dare ...’

‘This inexcusable leak has put the investigation back several weeks.’

‘What? Well, yes, of course. But now listen –’

‘The damage is inestimable.’ Hertzog winked at Jannie. ‘Irreparable!’ He raised his voice to a near falsetto. ‘I have a bloody good mind to report you to Kompol,’ Hertzog said, using the colloquial term for the Office of the Commissioner of Police.

‘What? No ... no ... this is not –’ He paused. ‘Kompol?’ He asked, breathless.

‘Yes, Major,’ Hertzog said with finality. ‘Even Dawie Malan, the Deputy Minister of Law and Order contacted me, Major. Personally.’

‘Minister? Law and Order?’ The Major sounded asthmatic.

‘Yes, Major. You’re welcome to check the guesthouse phone records.’

‘No ... ah ... that won’t be –’

‘I assure you ... Mr Malan spent a great deal of time expressing his concern.’ Hertzog took a sip from his steaming cup of coffee. ‘He requested we discuss the matter over dinner. At my earliest convenience.’ He paused again, looking up at the ceiling. ‘The only reason I’m not phoning the Commissioner right this minute is because of the respect I have for you.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘I’m sure you will punish the guilty party accordingly. However, you have to know. I will not tolerate such a breach of confidentiality in future.’

The Major was silent. When he spoke it was with a hint of defeat. ‘Yes, of course, Captain Hertzog. It won’t happen again. I apologise.’

‘No need to worry, Major. Keep up the good work.’ Hertzog ended the call.

Jannie Duvenhage whooped with delight. ‘Oh my God, that was incredible.’

Jools chuckled over a cup of coffee. ‘Nice one ... old bean.’ He winked at Jannie. ‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t check the phone records though.’

Hertzog remained passive. ‘I must tell you, detective Duvenhage, I don’t like doing that sort of thing.’ He paused. ‘Sometimes, however, it becomes necessary.’

Later that day Chaz contacted Hertzog.

‘Boss, you’re not going to believe this,’ Chaz said over the speakerphone.

Jools chuckled as he closed the door to the conference room. ‘You’d be surprised,’ he said. Hertzog had tightened their security since the revelations of Mrs Rabie’s “interest” in their progress. All files and related material were now also stored in the Land Rover.

‘Let’s hear it, detective.’

‘The news report generated quite a few calls. Most of them were worthless. However ...’

‘I like the sound of this,’ Jools said as he and Jannie crowded around Hertzog.

‘A proprietor of a local Bloemfontein guesthouse contacted the tip line shortly after the news aired. I’m going to see him in about an hour.’

‘Hm-huh.’

‘Guess what? He recognised somebody from the news report, boss. Someone that had spent a night at his guesthouse recently.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Bosman. Tell us already.’ Jools pointed with chagrin at the handset in Hertzog’s hand.

‘It was Doctor Bismarck, boss.’

There was silence as the three detectives stared at each other with blank looks on their faces.

‘I don’t under –’ Jannie began.

‘Doctor Bismarck was in Bloemfontein on the evening of Michelle’s disappearance, boss.’ Chaz paused. Jools and Hertzog stared at each other, stunned. Jannie Duvenhage’s eyes grew large. ‘It gets even better, boss. They have CCTV footage.’ Chaz whooped. ‘We’ve got him, boss. We’ve got him.’

‘That looks to be the case.’ Hertzog chewed his lip, mulling over his thoughts. ‘Well done, Detective Bosman. You’re worth your weight in gold.’ Hertzog ended the call. He turned to Jannie. ‘What are the three holy grails of murder, Detective Duvenhage?’

Jannie smiled broadly. ‘Means, motive and opportunity.’

‘Correct. We’ve already established means and motive.’ He stood up. ‘That call has just given us opportunity. I think it’s time we brought in Doctor De Wet Bismarck.’

Thirty-one

‘So there’s a reward, right?’

Chaz stood on the broad porch of the guesthouse. He could almost see his own reflection in its polished tiles. The exposed beams of the portico above, the stucco walls, the wide sweeping arches and the red clay tiles of the roof confirmed the Spanish Hacienda style of the double-storey house. The guesthouse had an Italian name though. La Dolce Vita.

‘You mentioned CCTV footage,’ Chaz said, ignoring the question. ‘Mr ... ah ...’

‘Van Tonder.’ The hunched middle-aged proprietor towered over Chaz. His drooping jowls, unkempt hair and weary eyes said something about missed opportunities and a lingering dissatisfaction with life. He wore a faded cardigan over a Superman t-shirt and stovepipe jeans which made him appear even taller – if that was at all possible. ‘Yes, well, we like to run a tight ship and make sure we have ah all our ducks in a row and just generally make sure things are well ship-shape you know it’s really kind of a matter of pride with us and that sort of thing.’ Like his appearance, his speech was rambling, awkward and unwieldy. ‘Yes, you know security is really ah well an issue,’ he said, leading Chaz behind the sweeping semi-circular reception desk, ‘especially with the way this country is going and all ah well who knows what’s going to happen next so we installed some you could say ah security measures some time ago to just ah I guess give us and our customers really some ah peace of mind you could say.’ Chaz nodded patiently. Van Tonder paused. ‘So ah about the reward?’ He fixed Chaz with an enquiring look. ‘What am I looking at?’

‘There’s no reward, Mr van Tonder. Think of it as your civic duty.’

‘Huh.’ Van Tonder said, snorting with a measure of disgust. He had obviously never considered the concept before. ‘Ah well it’s all back here in the office area,’ he said, leading Chaz down a narrow corridor to an office at the back. The corridor walls were also stucco decorated with colourful ornamental tiles.

‘You got a beautiful place here, Mr van Tonder.’ Chaz looked around with appreciation.

‘Ah well we try our best really to make everything pretty and all but I’m really just the ah manager here and everything I really wouldn’t haha call myself the proprietor and all you know.’ Chaz nodded without saying anything. Van Tonder had specifically presented himself as the proprietor over the phone. ‘Well, here we are.’ The cramped office had a desk littered with papers and various bric-a-brac on one side. It was fixed to the wall. Above the desk were two black-and-white CCTV monitors. The one monitor displayed a view of the guesthouse parking lot while the other one displayed a sweeping panorama of the foyer area including the reception desk. ‘We have ah only the two cameras at the moment but they pretty much you know cover the important areas and all.’ The opposite wall was lined with shelves which contained dozens of file folders and boxes. On the bottom shelf was an old Betamax machine. Next to it was a small black-and-white television set. ‘And here is the VCR that we ah use to capture the images you know and so on.’

‘You have only the one machine?’

‘Ah well yes you see the two feeds are recorded in split screen so it means ah pretty much we need only the one recorder and all you understand.’

‘I see, yes.’

‘So we have a tape and all of the night you know the night we ah spoke of on the phone when I phoned you and all.’ Van Tonder extracted a single video from a row of cassettes. ‘And ah this is the one pretty much you know the one we spoke about with the doctor and all.’

‘Can we maybe view it?’

‘Well ah yes yes of course.’ He slipped the cassette into the Betamax.

‘Tell me something, Mr van Tonder. Do you usually keep your CCTV recordings this long? I mean, it’s been almost a month since the night Michelle Bismarck disappeared.’

‘Well haha you see you’re really lucky I guess because the ah next day the splitter started malfunctioning and we haven’t kind of really got around to getting that ah looked at and all, you understand?’

Chaz smiled. ‘You’re right. I guess that makes us very lucky.’

‘So ah well here we go,’ he said, pushing the play button. A split-screen image appeared on the small TV screen. ‘Ah well lemme just forward this a little so we can ah see the ah you know the doctor in the reception area.’ He pressed the fast-forward button. The image distorted and zigzag lines appeared on the screen. At high speed two figures materialised in the foyer area. ‘Aha well here we are.’ He released the fast-forward button.

Chaz leaned forward, studying the grainy images. Trying to get a better view of the hazy faces. He nodded. ‘Yes, that’s definitely the doctor.’ He pressed his face right up against the screen. ‘But who the ... hell ... is that ... with him?’

‘There’s ah a clearer shot when they move closer to the desk you must just give it a like a little while and all.’

Chaz continued studying the face of the unknown person, scrunching up his eyes as he tried to discern the person’s features. ‘Who ... is ... tha –?’

He recoiled. His eyes were large with surprise.

‘Oh my God. That can’t be.’

Thirty-two

The town of Coffee erupted into chaos.

At the centre of the maelstrom was the Coffee Police Station.

When the Land Rover pulled up at the back of the police station about a dozen reporters swarmed the SUV. Amongst the journalists was a TV crew from the Bloemfontein branch of SABC News.

‘Damn!’ From the backseat Jannie stared with surprise at the group of journalists, pushing and shoving their way towards the rear of the car. ‘How did they find out so quickly?’

‘They use police scanners, son,’ Dog said with condescension, also from the backseat. He steeled himself for the confrontation with the swarm of reporters. ‘What do you think?’

Jools turned to face the two detectives from the driver’s seat. ‘For a change I’m actually glad you’re around, Dog.’ He indicated the reporters thronging the Landy.

‘What would you do without me, geek boy?’ Dog said, winking at his bespectacled colleague.

Hertzog, riding shotgun, stared at the frenzied troop of journalists with concern. ‘I’m beginning to wonder about the efficacy of my earlier decision.’

Jools glanced at Hertzog. ‘It was the right decision. Don’t worry.’ He looked at the rear of the Coffee Police Station. ‘I’m not so sure coming here was the right decision though.’

‘I considered Petrusburg,’ Hertzog said referring to the little town about fifty kilometres from Coffee. ‘But the backlash would have been too extreme.’

Doctor De Wet Bismarck grunted in disdain.

Jools turned to the man between Hertzog and Duvenhage. ‘You good to go, Doc?’

Doctor Bismarck stared at the floor of the Landy, sullen and resentful. A capped volcano. ‘I want to see my lawyer.’

‘Don’t worry, Doctor Bismarck,’ Hertzog said grabbing a carton box from the floor of the vehicle and pushing open the passenger door of the Defender One Ten. ‘We’ll get to that.’

The crowd of reporters exploded into a frenzy. They pushed and shoved. They shouted questions at the policemen and their prisoner.

‘Let’s do this, Duvenhage,’ Dog shouted as they hauled Bismarck from the rear of the car. Jools and Hertzog flung open the front doors of the Defender and jumped out. They went ahead, trying to push open a path through the reporters. They rounded the corner of the police station. And stopped. Momentarily taken aback. Caught off guard.

The front of the police station was packed with a huge throng of people. About three dozen people. The crowd erupted at the sight of the policemen and their prisoner. Shouting. Pointing. Jeering. Some were on their toes. Others were craning necks. Everything in order to get a front-row seat to the spectacle. It’s not every day one of Coffee’s wealthiest men is arrested for abduction and suspicion of murder.

‘Are you telling me these people also have police scanners?’ Jannie asked no-one in particular, shouting to make himself heard above the cacophony. The policemen said nothing as they pushed through the crowd. Struggling to fight their way to the entrance. Hertzog and Jools almost fell through the large double doors as they entered the station. Duvenhage, Dog and the doctor followed hot on their heels. As soon as they were through, two burly policemen slammed the glass doors shut. They pushed against the double doors with their combined weight as reporters and citizens crammed against the glass. Shouting. Jabbing. Pointing. The strobe of camera flashes was constant. Epileptic.

The wall of reporters and citizens outside was replaced by another – entirely different – wall inside. Mayor Lloyd Botha. Major Bismarck. A suited man the policemen didn’t recognise. And a bevy of brawny police officers.

‘What is the meaning of this, Captain Hertzog?’

Hertzog ignored the mayor’s question, pushing through to the rear of the police station. ‘Take him to the interrogation room,’ he said to Dog and Duvenhage. He turned to the group of men.

‘You’ve made a big mistake, Hertzog,’ Major Bismarck said. ‘You can’t just do as you wish. There will be consequences.’

Hertzog pulled a paper from his inner jacket pocket. ‘We have a valid warrant for the arrest of your brother, Major. In accordance with the Criminal Procedure Act of the Republic of South Africa.’ The Major grabbed the warrant and perused it, his face taut.

‘What are your grounds for this arrest, Captain?’ The mayor asked.

‘We have documented evidence that points to the direct involvement of Doctor Bismarck in the disappearance of both Michelle Bismarck and Manie Botha.’

There was a stunned silence.

‘What?’ Mayor Lloyd Botha glared at Hertzog. ‘This is preposterous. Why were we not informed of this?’

Hertzog pulled another folded sheet from his inner pocket. ‘You are now.’ He handed the paper to the Mayor. For a moment Botha stared at the piece of paper as if it were infected with a contagious disease. He took it delicately.

‘I hope you read him his rights, Captain.’ Bismarck shoved the warrant into Hertzog’s chest. ‘His lawyer will be here shortly.’ He leaned into Hertzog’s face. ‘You’re going to pay for this.’

Hertzog grabbed the warrant and turned. ‘Excuse me. I have a suspect to interrogate.’

Bismarck marched after Hertzog. ‘Not without me, you’re not.’ He indicated for the man in the suit to follow him. ‘I’ve requested Mr Jacobs, counsel to Mayor Botha to join us in the interim. While we wait for my brother’s attorney to arrive.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Hertzog said, walking down the long corridor towards the first of two interrogation rooms. He opened the door and entered. The interrogation room was clinical and foreboding. Cold and bare. Designed to intimidate suspects. Doctor Bismarck was seated in one of two chairs at a heavy wooden table. Jools, Dog and Duvenhage were standing in various positions against the back wall, behind Bismarck. Major Bismarck, Mayor Botha and the attorney followed Hertzog into the room.

‘I want a lawyer.’

‘I heard you the first time, Doctor Bismarck.’ Hertzog slammed the box onto the table.

‘Well, maybe you don’t understand, Hertzog,’ Major Bismarck said behind him, arms folded in passive aggression. ‘That means you have to cease the interrogation.’

‘You are, of course, most welcome to say nothing, Doctor. You are most welcome to seek the counsel of your attorney.’ Hertzog placed his hands on the wooden table and leaned towards Bismarck. ‘You could speak to us ... or we could speak to the media.’

Bismarck, arms folded in front of him, sneered with derision. ‘Do what you fucking want.’

‘We know you were in Bloemfontein on the night of Michelle’s disappearance.’

‘So fucking what,’ Bismarck said.

‘This is not a legal interrogation, Captain,’ Jacobs said.

‘We have CCTV footage from the La Dolce Vita guesthouse.’

Silence.

Bismarck went pale. His bellicose bravado faded like early morning mist before the winter sun.

‘What is he talking about, De Wet?’ Major Dawid Bismarck glared at his brother, uncertain.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ Hertzog said, addressing his men. ‘Doctor Bismarck has chosen to speak to his legal counsel instead of us. This interrogation is finished.’ He picked up the box and turned towards the door. ‘I’m sure the media delegates outside would be most eager to learn of our findings. And view our evidence.’

‘Wait.’ Bismarck looked down at the floor. Unwilling to meet the eyes of those around him.

‘De Wet. What are you doing?’ The Mayor asked.

Hertzog turned around. ‘Are you willing to speak to us, Doctor Bismarck? Without the presence of your attorney?’ Bismarck said nothing, staring with morbid sullenness at the floor. ‘Doctor, I will respect your privacy. And – as far as possible – I will guarantee your confidentiality. Doctor Bismarck? Will you speak to us?’

Silence.

‘Yes!’ He looked up at Hertzog. The anger of the caged animal on his face. ‘Yes, fucking yes. I will speak to you.’

‘De Wet, what in God’s name are you doing?’ Mayor Botha took a step forward.

‘I will speak to you.’ Bismarck looked at his brother and the Mayor. ‘Alone.’

‘Have you gone insane?’ Dawid Bismarck asked.

‘I would strongly urge you to say nothing, Doctor –’

‘Fuck off.’ Bismarck bared his teeth, growling at the Coffee delegates. ‘Leave! Leave now.’

‘You don’t know what you’re doing, De Wet.’ Major Bismarck appeared to almost plead with his brother.

‘Lloyd. Dawid. Leave now.’

Mayor Botha stepped up to the table and leaned into De Wet Bismarck’s face. ‘Don’t you fucking dare betray us, you son of a bitch.’ His voice was a fierce enraged whisper.

Hertzog and Jools looked at each other with surprise.

Bismarck jumped up. ‘Leave right now.’ He pointed at the door. ‘This has nothing to do with you. Leave me alone.’

The mayor glared at Bismarck. Then turned and walked. He was followed by Major Bismarck and the attorney. Bismarck threw his brother a last look before he closed the door.

‘Detective Doober, make sure there’s no-one in the observation room.’ He looked at the others in the room as Dog exited. Jools moved into position behind Hertzog, standing in front of the two-way mirror. ‘Let the record reflect that the suspect wishes to speak to us ... alone.’ Jools and Jannie nodded. ‘We won’t be recording this conversation, Doctor.’ Bismarck nodded, defeated. Hertzog seated himself across from Bismarck. ‘Doctor, I’m not going to beat about the bush. Things don’t look good for you.’ Bismarck said nothing, head bowed. ‘Before I question you, I’m going to tell you what we know.’ From within the box, Hertzog pulled out a thick file folder. He slammed it down on the table, opened the folder and flipped through the pages. ‘We know Michelle was blackmailing you.’

Bismarck’s head whipped up. ‘What? How ... how do you –’

Hertzog pushed one of the bank statements towards him. Bismarck stared at the statement for a moment. His face drained of blood. ‘How could you possibly –’

‘That’s not important for now, Doctor.  Michelle was blackmailing you. And we know why.’ Bismarck looked from Hertzog to Jools. His face was a bizarre cocktail of fury and confusion. ‘We know you were in Bloemfontein on the evening of her disappearance.’ Bismarck averted his eyes. ‘And we know you weren’t alone. We have CCTV footage in evidence.’ Bismarck chewed his bottom lip. A deep furrow creased his forehead as his face turned a dark red. ‘You were having an affair, Doctor Bismarck.’ Hertzog whipped a grainy image – faxed though from Bloemfontein earlier that day – out of the folder. He slammed it down on the table in front of Bismarck.

Doctor De Wet Bismarck buried his face in his chest. ‘No ... no ...’ he said, wailing.

‘Yes, Doctor.’

‘No ... no ...’

‘Take a look, Doctor.’ Hertzog pointed at the image. It was grainy. But the identity of the other person was clear enough. ‘Look, Doctor.’

‘No ... no ...’ Bismarck shook his head from side to side.

‘You were having an illicit affair, Doctor. Weren’t you?’

‘No ... no ...’

Hertzog slammed his fist down on the table. ‘You were having a relationship Doctor Bismarck. You were having a romantic relationship ... with Manie Botha.’

Thirty-three

There was a huge gaping silence in the interrogation room.

Bismarck sat with his head bowed. He said nothing.

‘You were having a homosexual relationship with a teenage boy – the mayor’s son, no less. Michelle found out ... and began blackmailing you.’

Bismarck raised his head. ‘What?’ His speech was feeble. Slurred.

‘We initially thought Michelle was seeing Manie. But she wasn’t. They were friends however.’ Bismarck stared at Hertzog, dazed. ‘Manie told Michelle about the affair.’ Hertzog slipped another fax from Chaz across the table. ‘She records it in one of her diary entries. ‘Manie told her about the relationship and she started blackmailing you.’ Hertzog shook his head, smiling with rueful irony. ‘And you – the great exacting Doctor Bismarck – you just couldn’t allow that, could you?’

Bismarck stared at Hertzog. ‘What are you saying?’

‘But of course, punishing Michelle just ... wasn’t ... enough.’ Hertzog leaned forward. ‘You had to punish Manie as well. Didn’t you?’

‘What?’

‘You killed your daughter. And then you killed your teen lover.’

‘No ... no ... I didn’t ...’ He stared at Hertzog, wild-eyed. ‘Manie wasn’t ... he isn’t ... he’s not ...’ His head slumped forward. ‘You have no proof,’ he said in feeble protest.

‘Really?’ From the box Hertzog pulled out a bunch of cassettes in a plastic evidence bag. He threw the bag onto the table. ‘I’m sure you recognise these. The expensive gifts you bought your teen lover.’

‘Stop referring to him as my goddamned teen lover.’

‘Your fingerprints are all over these, Doctor.’ Bismarck stared at the cassettes with open grief. Slow tears welled up in his eyes. Hertzog paused. ‘Doctor Bismarck, you can make this easy on yourself. Or you can choose to drag this thing out. It’s time you confessed. It’s time you accounted for your crimes.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking –’

Hertzog pushed another fax towards Bismarck. ‘For the last six months you’ve been depositing five-thousand rand into her account every month.’ He pushed another statement towards Bismarck. ‘Every month,’ he said shoving another, ‘between the first and the fifth of every month,’ and another, ‘for six months,’ and another, ‘except this month.’ Hertzog slammed the last paper down on the desk. ‘Michelle disappeared on the thirtieth of May. And for the month of June ... there are no deposits.’ He glared at Bismarck. ‘Now why would you stop making payments, Doctor Bismarck? Unless you knew she wouldn’t be there to claim it.’ Hertzog pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘You knew Michelle wasn’t holed up in some drug den. You knew she wasn’t going to suddenly make an appearance. Because you killed her.’

‘No. No.’

‘And then ... two weeks later ... during a clandestine meeting that you organised ... you killed your teen lover.

Bismarck jumped up. Jannie stepped towards him. ‘Stop referring to him like that.’ His face was distorted by rage and sorrow. ‘Don’t you understand? I loved him. I loved him with all my wretched heart and soul.’ Tears streamed down his face. ‘I loved him more than I have ever loved anything or anyone. Ever before.’ He stared at Hertzog with anguished pain. ‘I know it may appear disgusting to you but what we shared was real ... and true.’ He slumped down on the chair. ‘I would rather take my own life before I hurt him.’ Both Hertzog and Jools were shocked at the intensity of his emotions. Bismarck cried with undisguised sorrow. ‘Yes. I was having a romantic relationship with a teenage boy. Yes, goddammit yes. Michelle was blackmailing me. Yes. But I did not kill either of them. You may not like me. You may not trust me. But you can believe me when I tell you I did not kill them.’ Hertzog glared at Bismarck.

Silence.

‘I loved Manie. But in the end ...’ Hot tears welled up in the doctor’s eyes. ‘I ended our relationship. On the day ...’ Bismarck folded his hand over his mouth. ‘On the day he disappeared, I broke it off. I loved him. But our love could never be. Not in South Africa. Not in Coffee.’ He stared at Hertzog with teary eyes. ‘It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I did it for us both. For our futures. For our families.’

Silence.

Hertzog stared at Bismarck with mute intensity. For a long time no-one spoke. Then Hertzog sighed with chagrin. And cast his eyes down to the floor. After a moment Hertzog turned towards the two-way mirror behind him. ‘Detective Doober, please escort the doctor to the holding cells. A few seconds later Dog appeared. He and Jannie helped Bismarck to his feet. They escorted him through the doorway. In the distance Major Bismarck, Mayor Botha and several others were congregated in a tight group, scowling at the Pretoria detectives. Hertzog closed the door. ‘Dammit!’ He slammed both fists down on the table. ‘Dammit!’ Then again. And again. ‘Goddammit!’ He stood up and rushed towards the wall. With all his might he threw a punch at the face-brick wall, screaming.

Jools rushed over. ‘For Christ’s sake, Shaun.’ Hertzog held his shaking hand out before him. Blood flowed across his fingers. He breathed in great big gulps of air. ‘Take it easy, man.’ Jools placed an arm around his heaving shoulder. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself.’ Jools looked around. ‘You can’t fix everything.’ He made Hertzog face him. ‘Listen to me. You can’t always fix everything.’ Hertzog nodded. His lower lip trembled as if he were about to start crying. ‘You can’t.’ He led his friend to the table and made him sit. ‘If you weren’t such a tee-totalling freak I would buy you a drink.’ Hertzog smiled thinly.

Silence.

Jools put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I know we don’t have hard evidence, but give it a while.’ Jools smiled with encouragement. ‘A little more pressure and he’ll –’

‘We’ve got nothing, Jools.’ They were alone now. The only time Hertzog called his friend by his first name. He stared at Jools with frustration.

‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it nothing. We –’

‘We needed that confession, Jools. Without it we’ve got nothing but a load of paper-thin circumstantial evidence.’

‘Well, maybe –’

‘It’s not just the lack of evidence, Jools.’ Hertzog glared at the surface of the table. ‘I believe him.’

‘What?’

‘He’s telling the truth.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘I am.’ Hertzog raised his head. ‘He didn’t do it.’ He cradled his injured hand. ‘I know he didn’t do it.’ He cursed under his breath. ‘Almost two weeks in this madhouse ... and we’ve got practically nothing to show for it.’

Silence.

‘So you really believe he’s telling the truth?’

‘Jools, there’s something we’re not being told. They’re keeping something from us. Something crucial. Something vital. Something that’s the key to all this madness.’

Jools nodded slowly. ‘You’re damn right about that.’ He pondered, frowning. ‘I mean, what the hell was that exchange with the mayor all about?’

Hertzog nodded. His breathing had subsided. He spoke slowly. A fresh calm had descended over him. ‘Exactly. That’s a very good question. Why would Bismarck “betray” them?’

‘I hope you realise by now that all small towns are fucked up. I mean, we got blackmail, secret meetings and illicit affairs with teenage boys. Holy shit. How many secrets can one little town possibly have?’

Hertzog looked at Jools, a grave expression on his face. ‘I have a feeling we’re about to find out.’

Thirty-four

‘So what now, boss?’

The four detectives were driving to the guesthouse in the Defender. Up until that moment there had been silence. Each man caught up in his own thoughts. Until Dog had spoken.

Hertzog sat for a moment, contemplative. ‘We’ve got a bail hearing scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.’ He sat for a moment in the passenger seat, silent. ‘I’ve asked the prosecutor not to oppose bail.’

‘You’re going to let him go?’ Jannie Duvenhage asked.

‘That’s hardly “letting him go”, detective. Doctor Bismarck will be released on his own recognisance, under certain stipulated conditions. He must tender his passport and is not allowed to leave the province.’ Hertzog gazed at a group of Black children playing in the growing dusk of De Beers Street. ‘I think he has enough problems of his own right now. He doesn’t need to spend time behind bars. In any case, it will allow us to keep him under our thumb until we learn more.’ Hertzog rubbed his eyes. He had not said anything to the other two detectives about his suspicions that Bismarck was telling the truth.

‘He had sex with an under-aged boy.’ Duvenhage stared at the other detectives.

Hertzog half-turned in his chair, looking tired and drained. ‘In the first place, detective, Manie Botha was seventeen at the time of his disappearance. Which included the night he spent with the doctor at the guesthouse. In the second place ...’ Hertzog sighed, ‘... our main concern is murder, not supposed sex crimes.’

Jannie Duvenhage fell back in his chair, arms folded. ‘Well. I think he’s a sick paedophile who should spend the rest of his flippin life behind bars.’

Dog looked over at Duvenhage then at Hertzog. ‘Ja,’ he said. ‘I totally agree.’ Duvenhage looked at him with surprise. Hertzog said nothing, staring straight ahead.

Silence.

‘Detective Doober, have you found anything at the Bredekamp house yet?’ Hertzog asked, referring to the alleged suicide victim’s house.

Dog cleared his throat. ‘Well, it turns out the house belongs to his sister. Which means, except for a basic walk-around, we can’t do a more detailed search. And since she’s not a suspect in her brother’s death, we’re going to need a full warrant to search the premises properly. We requested a warrant from a Bloemfontein magistrate.’ Hertzog nodded. ‘In the meantime, we found a locked door. Looks like it leads to a basement area. We’re going to break it open as soon as the warrant is issued.’

‘Okay, good. Keep me updated.’

‘Sure thing.’

Silence.

‘Please pull over here,’ Hertzog said after a few minutes.

‘You need something?’

Hertzog looked over at Jools. ‘Something like that,’ he said, climbing out of the car. He walked into the OK Supermarket and headed for the butchery. Relief washed over his face as he spotted Marike.

When she saw him a bright smile spread across her face. ‘Look at you.’ She waved. She glanced around and stepped out from behind the counter. ‘I’ve been thinking about you,’ she said, blurting out the words. She froze, biting her lip. Aware of what she had said. ‘I mean, I’ve been thinking about the case. I heard about the arrest.’  The slightest blush crept across her cheeks.

Hertzog stared at her. Enjoying her features. Delighting in her simple unassuming beauty. ‘Well, I’ve been thinking about you.’

Her eyes grew wide as she stared at him with intensity. The way a child would look at an instructive parent. ‘Really?’

He nodded slowly. ‘How have you been?’

She nodded with wild enthusiasm. ‘I’ve been good.’

‘Excellent.’ Hertzog looked around. ‘Where’s ... Jack?’

‘Oh.’ She bowed her head. ‘He’s out. Getting supplies.’ She didn’t meet his eyes.

Hertzog stepped forward. Anger touched his eyes. ‘I’ve seen him. With ... with the other –’

She reached out and grabbed both his hands, looking into his eyes. ‘Please. I know ... please don’t.’ Hertzog nodded.

Silence.

She looked down. ‘Your hands. They’re so warm.’

He disentangled one of his hands from her fierce grip. ‘I brought you something.’ He reached into the side pocket of his jacket. ‘The other day, I smelt your perfume.’ He pulled out a small ornate box, still wrapped in cellophane. ‘I happened to have this lying around.’ She looked at the expensive Estee Lauder perfume with wonderment. ‘My mother used to wear the same fragrance.’ He handed it to her.

She grabbed the box with feverish little hands. And pressed it into her bosom. Her lips trembled as she laughed through tears. ‘No you didn’t, Shaun Hertzog. No man just happens to have expensive perfume lying around.’ She hugged him. ‘There’s no place within a hundred kilometres that sells this.’ She pushed Hertzog away and looked at him. ‘You went out of your way to get his for me.’ She looked at the box with glee. ‘Thank you. This is the nicest thing anybody has ever done for me. Ever.’

Hertzog smiled a crooked smile. ‘You deserve it.’

‘Shaun.’ Hertzog whirled around. Jools was standing behind him. ‘Head office is on the radio.’

He turned to her. ‘I’m sorry. I have to go.’

She nodded, still clutching the box of perfume. Jools waved a greeting and turned to go. ‘Detective?’ Jools turned. ‘He’s very special, isn’t he?’

Jools nodded. ‘Yes, he is.’

‘Why does he hide so much of himself?’

‘Ma’am ... we’ve been friends for more than ten years and sometimes ...’ Jools pulled a hand through his bush of curly hair. ‘... sometimes I think I don’t know him at all.’

‘He’s the kindest person I have ever met.’

Jools looked around and took a step towards her. ‘He wasn’t always like this.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When he was younger he was, I guess what you could call, a spoilt brat.’ Jools paused. ‘And then something happened.’

Her face became crestfallen. ‘What do you mean? What happened?’

‘I’m sorry, ma’am. You’re going to have to ask him yourself.’ Jools nodded. ‘Please excuse –’

‘He knows something.’

Jools frowned. ‘I’m sure he knows –’

‘He knows about loss.’ Her eyes became hazy. ‘He knows that loss is a condition of life. And that all things contain the seeds of their own destruction.’

Jools stared at the young woman with an odd expression on his face. He excused himself and walked towards the exit.

When Jools stepped outside he saw with stunned disbelief that Hertzog was pushed up against the outside wall of the supermarket. He was pale and out of breath, a film of sweat on his brow. ‘Holy shit, what happened to you?’

‘Somebody just tried to knock me down with a car.’

‘What?’ Jools looked up and down the street, shocked. ‘Did you catch the plates?’

‘Sorry, I was too busy trying to save my life.’

Jools paced up and down in anger. ‘I don’t care what you say. We’re being too easy on these lying sons of bitches. It’s time we hammered them.’

Thirty-five

Hertzog quietly closed the door. And locked it. He made sure it was locked.

This was no business for public eyes.

He walked towards the single bed and sat on its edge. For a moment he sat motionless. Silent.

Then he closed his eyes. His lips moved with feverish intensity as he prayed.

Outside the cold night air was blanketed in silence. Inside his ferocious whispering sounded like a thousand insects feeding.

For several minutes he remained like this. Praying with mounting intensity. Then he stood. And walked towards his suitcase. It was closed but unzippered. He lifted the lid. From the bottom of the suitcase he extracted a large towel. Contained in a zip-lock plastic bag. He unzipped the bag and took out the neatly folded towel. He spread the towel on the carpeted floor in front of the bed.

Hertzog took off his suit jacket and hung it on a clothes hanger. He clipped the hanger onto a hook attached to the back of the door. He slowly undid his tie and slung it around the same hanger. Now he slowly unbuttoned his immaculate white shirtsleeves. Folding it neatly, he placed it inside a plastic bag designated for the following morning’s laundry. He was now standing only in his charcoal suit pants. He undid the top button and pulled off his trousers, one leg at a time. He neatly suspended the pants from another clothes hanger and clipped it around the same hook as the jacket. He stood before the full length mirror. Dressed only in his boxer shorts.

Hertzog placed his hands together and held them under his chin. In prayer. He stood for another few minutes. Praying with quiet but fierce intensity.

Now he walked towards the suitcase once again. From a side pocket he took a longitudinal casing made from rubber. He unzipped it. And extracted a long leather thong. It was thick. And marked with reddish-brown stains. At its one tip, four stainless steel nails had been driven through the thick leather.

Hertzog stood for a moment studying the device. He ran his thumb along the sharp points of the stainless steel nails. And pushed. Hard.

Blood flowed.

His expression remained unchanged.

Hertzog turned and walked towards the towel. He kneeled. And closed his eyes in prayer.

‘Dear God, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.’

He flogged himself.

The nails tore into his flesh.

‘Dear God, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.’

He flogged himself.

The nails dug deep into his flesh.

Blood flowed.

‘Dear God, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.’

He flogged himself.

Blood flowed.

He flogged himself.

Blood flowed.

‘Dear God, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.’

Thirty-six

Early the following morning there was a knock on Jools’s door. He opened it, standing in his boxer shorts and shirtsleeves, his tie hanging loosely around his neck.

‘They’re hiding something from us.’ Hertzog stood in the doorway, fully dressed.

‘Um ... okay.’ Jools yawned while rubbing his eyes.

‘And right now there’s only one person who’s going to tell us the truth.’ Jools nodded, one eye half open. ‘Get the others and meet me outside in five minutes.’

‘Hmm ... make it ten, okay,’ Jools said to an empty doorway. He poked his head through the doorway. ‘Ten, okay?’ he said, shouting to make himself heard as Hertzog disappeared around a corner.

Fifteen minutes later the group was standing around the Land Rover.

‘What about breakfast?’ Dog asked.

‘Later,’ Hertzog said, climbing into the passenger seat of the Landy. ‘Let’s get going.’

A few minutes later they pulled up outside the OK Supermarket.

‘What makes you think she knows anything?’ Dog looked with scepticism at the closed doors of the convenience store.

‘They all know something,’ Hertzog said, climbing out. ‘But she’s the only one who’s got nothing to lose. She’s also the only one I trust.’

He approached the locked doors of the supermarket and leaned against the opaque glass, peering inside. He knocked. And waved like a madman, trying to get the attention of someone inside. There was a loud click as someone turned the lock. The door opened.

‘We’re not open yet, sir,’ a short portly woman with thick glasses said.

‘Yes, I know,’ Hertzog said, pushing his way inside. ‘Are the butchers here yet?’

‘Aaah ...’ she said as Hertzog marched towards the in-house butchery at the back.

There was no-one behind the counter. In the back-of-store section Hertzog spotted Jack and Marike Strydom however. He walked behind the counter and approached them. Jack Strydom saw him first. Anger flashed in his eyes. Marike looked up with surprise, fearful.

‘You’re not allowed to be here,’ Jack Strydom said, marching towards Hertzog.

‘I’m here to see Marike,’ Hertzog said, meeting his glare with equal determination.

‘Don’t think just because –’

Hertzog shoved his badge in Jack Strydom’s face. ‘This is official police business. If you get in my way I’m going to arrest you for obstructing the course of justice.’ Hertzog scowled at the large butcher. ‘Please, don’t tempt me.’

Jack Strydom glared at Marike with pure hatred. ‘You can have the bitch,’ he said with a smirk. ‘No-one else wants her.’ He turned his back, grabbed a large meat cleaver and with one powerful stoke sliced a leg of lamb in half. Hertzog grabbed a shocked Marike’s hand and led her out.

‘What are you doing?’ She asked, distressed.

Hertzog stopped and grabbed her shoulders. ‘Our entire investigation is a shambles because no-one in this damned town is telling us the truth.’ She shrank from his sudden fury. Hertzog took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. Please. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ He paused. ‘I would never do anything to ... harm you.’

‘What do you want?’ She looked at him with confusion.

‘Let’s go outside where we can talk in private.’ He took her hand and walked through the doorway of the supermarket. Outside he crossed the street. He turned to face her. ‘First of all. Are you okay?’ She smiled uncertainly and nodded. He paused, looking into her eyes. He smiled. ‘You’re wearing ...’

‘Yes.’

Hertzog nodded slowly. The smile lingered on his lips. ‘Good.’

‘Shaun.’ She looked at him with tenderness. ‘What do you want from me?’

Hertzog frowned. ‘We’ve been here for almost two weeks. And we’ve got damn all nothing to show for it.’ He exhaled with exasperation. ‘Nobody is telling us anything. And everybody seems to be hiding something. What the hell is going on? What is this town hiding?’ He looked at her with earnest appeal. ‘Please. You’re the only one I can trust.’ Marike stared at him, touched by his words. Her eyelids quivered uncontrollably. It was the most beautiful thing Shaun Hertzog had ever seen. ‘Is there anything you can tell me? Is there anything at all that can help us find this man? And stop him?’

She stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. A slow universe revolved around the moment. Time faded. Melted away. And then she spoke. ‘They didn’t tell you about the graves, did they?’

Hertzog stared at her with confusion. ‘The graves?’

With rapid, breathless words she told him about the events that occurred following the disappearance of Michelle Bismarck and Manie Botha. About the graves. And the posters. When she was finished Hertzog’s face had become a solid mask of shock and vexation. He was about to reply when she reached up, grabbed the lapels of his jacket and kissed him hard on the mouth. It was a tight, close-lipped kiss. The way a teen might kiss her first love. She released him. Stared deep into his eyes. And ran across the street without looking back. Hertzog watched her disappear into the supermarket with blank surprise. Dazed, he strolled back to the Land Rover. He climbed into the vehicle. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said not meeting their eyes, ‘our investigation has new focus. We need to pay our friend, the station commander a visit. But first –’ He looked at his colleagues. Jannie Duvenhage was smiling broadly. Dog was whistling an inane tune while Jools tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. They were all staring at Hertzog. ‘Okay, okay, let’s just get going,’ Hertzog said, blushing a deep red.

Thirty-seven

They stood around the grave. The four detectives.

The soil that composed the burial mound was still bright. Freshly turned. The dark compacted soil of the adjacent grave lay in sharp contrast.

The group of detectives stood. Mute witness to the bizarre scene. Their ties and suit jackets flapped in the wind.

They stared at the gravestone.

HERE LIES MOTHER, SISTER, WIFE AND FRIEND. WE WILL FOREVER REMEMBER. REST IN PEACE. ANNA-MART BOTHA. 1899 – 1968

‘Who is she, boss?’ Jannie asked.

‘Mayor Lloyd Botha’s mother.’ Hertzog stared at the tombstone, frowning intensely.

The detectives stood, silent. The wind whipped their suits about their bodies. Hertzog stared at the twin graves with feverish intensity. He bit his lower lip until his flesh turned white.

Jools gave him a sideways glance, worried. ‘You okay?’ He asked under his breath. Hertzog stared at the graves as if in a daze. After a few moments he visibly shook himself from his reverie.

Dog stepped forward and pointed at the grave. ‘So let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘Every time a kid disappeared one of these graves would be dug up and a mannequin put inside?’

‘A mutilated mannequin, I am told,’ Hertzog said softly.

‘And it’s always a family member’s grave,’ Jools said. ‘This grave was excavated when Manie Botha disappeared.’ Jools turned and pointed to the grave of Bismarck senior, a few plots away. ‘That one was desecrated when Michelle Bismarck went missing.’

‘Dônner. That’s insane.’ Dog shook his head.

‘Boss, why would Doctor Bismarck do this?’ Jannie asked.

Hertzog paused. ‘Doctor Bismarck didn’t do this, detective.’ He looked at the grave with rueful regret. ‘We made a big mistake.’ He sighed. ‘A big mistake.’

‘So ...’ Jannie Duvenhage rubbed his chin. ‘If he didn’t do this ... who did?’ He looked at the other two detectives. ‘This is a very strange signature. Do you think ... it could have been ... a serial killer?’

Silence.

‘If you mean is it someone who has committed a series of murders, well ... yes.’ He looked at Duvenhage. ‘But this is not the work of a serial killer. This doesn’t fit the psychopathy of a serial killer.’ He paused. ‘These crimes are deeply personal. And they’re aimed at the families. The missing teens are ... collateral damage.’ Hertzog ran a hand through his thick black hair. ‘The killer wanted to make a statement. And that’s exactly what he’s done.’ He stared at the graves, a worried expression on his face. ‘And death shall have no dominion.’ Hertzog spoke slowly and deliberately as he quoted the famous poem. ‘Dead men naked they shall be one ... with the man in the wind and the west moon ...’

Dog stared at Hertzog with incomprehension. ‘Huh?’

Silence.

‘He’s already taken two teens,’ Hertzog continued. ‘And I’m afraid he’s only getting started.’

Hertzog had no idea how right he was.

Thirty-eight

‘Your omission is nothing short of a betrayal of everything the South African Police stands for, Major Bismarck.’

Hertzog, Jools, Duvenhage and Dog were standing in Major Bismarck’s office. The station commander was seated behind his desk, taciturn as usual, flanked by two of his officers. On the desk lay two fresh Polaroids, taken by Jools. It showed the freshly arranged graves of Anna-Mart Botha and J.R. Bismarck.

‘This is not about ethics, Major,’ Hertzog continued. ‘Your failure to inform us of this vital piece of evidence constitutes a serious crime.’ Hertzog pointed a finger at the senior commander. ‘You, better than anyone else, should have known that.’ Bismarck’s two officers shuffled in awkward discomfort next to their commanding officer. ‘I could have your badge right now ... and have you arrested.’

Bismarck slammed his palms down on the desk. His two officers both started with fright. ‘Damn you. Who the hell do you think you are, coming into my office and talking to me like I’m a roof in your little department?’

Roof. Rookie.

Hertzog stepped forward and slammed his own palm on the desk. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, Major. Treating this town like your own little domain ... acting as if you’re above the law.’ He eyed the Major with steely determination. ‘Well, you’re not. And it’s about time somebody brought you down.’

‘Listen, you don’t – ’

‘No, you listen, Major. It will take one call to have you dishonourably dismissed. One call to have you stripped of your rank and all your benefits. One call to issue a warrant for your arrest and book a cell for you, right next door to your brother.’

The Major stared at Hertzog, his lips parsed into a thin line of barely-controlled rage. Behind the polarised lenses of his Ray Bans his eyes burned with seething hatred. His nostrils flared as heavy breathing racked his chest.

‘Imagine what the media will make of that? Two disgraced sons from a once prominent Orange Free State family.’ Behind the dark lenses one of Bismarck’s eyes twitched. ‘It’s up to you now, Major.’ Hertzog leaned forward, both hands on Bismarck’s desk. ‘Your future lies squarely in your hands. Are you going to save what’s left of your career ... or shall I make that call?’

Bismarck’s chin quivered as his body stiffened. Both hands were balled into tight fists. His breathing became erratic as a film of sweat appeared on his forehead. And then, in a release of pent-up emotion he slammed his fist down on his desk with such force his nameplate was propelled into the air. It fell clattering to the hardwood floor. ‘Dammit.’ There was a slight falsetto underlying the Major’s curse. Dog and Jools exchanged glances. Bismarck fixed Hertzog with a black look, his eyes two orbs of flaming rage above the thin metal frame of his Ray Bans. ‘Leave my office.’

The officer to his right folded his arms in triumph, threw his head backwards and smirked as he stared at Hertzog. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I think it’s about time –’

Bismarck’s head whipped around as he glared at the officer. ‘No. You! Both of you. Leave my office right now.’ The two officers stared at each other in bewildered shock. The officer who had spoken dropped his arms next to his sides and meekly walked towards the door, followed by his comrade. ‘And I don’t want to be disturbed by anyone,’ Bismarck said. ‘Is that clear?’ He waited for them to close the door behind them. When he spoke it was with faltering words, his rage replaced with tense uncertainty. ‘I ... I had no reason to suspect that ... the desecrated graves had anything to do with the ... disappearances.’

‘Bullshit!’ Hertzog fumbled at the two photographs on the desk, perturbed. He slammed one of the photographs down on the desk. Bismarck’s body shook with fright. ‘Your niece goes missing and your father’s grave is desecrated.’ He slammed the other photograph down in front of Bismarck. ‘Danie Botha goes missing and the next thing his grandmother’s grave is likewise desecrated.’ He leaned far forward, right into Bismarck’s face. ‘And you want to tell me you had no reason to suspect that these incidents were related.’ Bismarck averted his gaze. ‘I warn you, Bismarck,’ Hertzog said, purposely dropping Bismarck’s rank. ‘You have one chance. One chance only to mitigate the dismal situation you’ve gotten yourself into. One chance only to avoid a long prison sentence.’

Bismarck stared at the floor at his feet, vigorously rubbing his forehead with his hand. ‘I didn’t ... I didn’t ...’

‘What was that?’

Bismarck whipped off his shades and stared at Hertzog, a combination of anger and despair in his eyes. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’ His eyes danced around the room, looking at each of the detectives in turn. ‘I didn’t know what to do. None of this made any sense. Nothing like this has ever happened.’ He looked at Hertzog with inchoate pleading in his eyes. ‘I ... we were hoping to deal with this ... thing ourselves. I didn’t mean for things to get this far.’ He dropped his head in his hands. ‘None of this made any sense.’

Hertzog’s tone softened. ‘I understand.’ He pointed at the photographs. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this myself. So, I understand your ... confusion, I guess. However, Major Bismarck it puzzles me why you thought you could solve this problem with your limited resources.’ Hertzog looked at Jools. ‘If we had been called in right from the start who knows where we could have been by now.’ Bismarck nodded, almost imperceptibly. ‘I think it’s important that you tell me everything you know. Start right at the beginning.’

Bismarck slowly raised his head. He looked at Hertzog with defeat. And nodded. He waited for the detectives to seat themselves before he began his slow lumbering narrative. He described Michelle Bismarck’s disappearance. And why no-one took it seriously, especially considering her history. He told Hertzog about the discovery of the first desecrated grave, that of his own father. He averted his eyes, perhaps realising again how ridiculous his statement that the desecration wasn’t related to Michelle’s disappearance now sounded.  He described Manie Botha’s disappearance and the subsequent search. He also told Hertzog that, once again, they discovered a desecrated grave, this time the final resting place of Anna-Mart Botha, mother to the present mayor of Coffee. Here Bismarck interrupted him.

‘Major, please tell me you kept both the mutilated mannequins in your evidence locker.’ He leaned forward. ‘Please tell me you didn’t destroy them.’ He looked at Bismarck with grave admonishment. ‘You realise you need to do as much as possible to remedy your  ... transgressions.’

‘Yes, Captain Hertzog.’ Bismarck stared at his reflection in the glossy surface of his desk. ‘We kept them both.’ It was the first time that Bismarck had addressed Hertzog using his proper title ... without sarcasm. ‘I’ve also posted round-the-clock guards at the cemetery,’ Bismarck added helpfully. ‘In case he strikes again.’

Hertzog nodded. ‘Good. Now, Major you need to be absolutely open and honest with me.’ Hertzog paused as he fixed Bismarck with a grave look. ‘Is there anything else ... anything at all that you’ve neglected to tell us about? Anything at all?’

Bismarck remained quiet for a long time as he contemplated Hertzog’s words. Finally he spoke. ‘Yes. There is something else.’ Slowly he told the MCU detectives about the posters that were discovered, pasted all along the buildings in De Beers Street.

‘Holy shit,’ Jools said, shocked.

Bismarck opened a top drawer in his desk, reached inside and took out one of the posters. He slowly handed it to Hertzog. Detective Captain Hertzog stared at the poster in mute shock. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on a fist. ‘Dear God, Major Bismarck, there is nothing you could say that could justify an egregious omission like this. How could you?’

Silence.

‘Can we rely on your full unrestricted co-operation from now on, Major? Or do I need to contact the Provincial Commissioner of Police?’

Bismarck once again averted his eyes, nodding gravely. ‘You have my full –’

The door to his office flung open. One of the officers from earlier poked his head into Bismarck’s office. ‘Major Bismarck, we’ve got a new –’

Bismarck glared at the officer. ‘Did I not tell you no-one was to disturb – ’

‘Sir,’ the officer said, ignoring Bismarck’s rebuke. ‘Another teen has disappeared.’

Hertzog’s detectives all swung around to face the officer. Bismarck’s words were frozen in his throat. His mouth hung open.

‘Sir, it’s Elizabeth. Johann Trudouw’s daughter.’

***

In a beautiful southern mansion about ten kilometres from the police station a phone rang. Moments later a manservant carried a cordless phone to a bearded man lying in an opulent canopy bed. ‘Sir. Mr Jacobs on the line.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve discovered an interesting few things about our man, Captain Hertzog.’

‘Good. Let’s hear it.’

‘It was a struggle, I’ll tell you. Parts of his file are sealed. But a friend of a friend –’

‘Spare me the details.’

Jacobs sighed on the other end of the line. ‘Very well. It seems our Captain isn’t as spotless as he would like everyone to believe.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I’ve finally managed to learn about the circumstances surrounding the death of his parents.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Shortly after his sixteenth birthday our man Hertzog was on holiday with his parents. One night he stole his father’s vehicle and went on a drinking binge. It looks like it wasn’t the first time. He was a bit of a bad boy. In any case, in the early hours of the morning he was heading back to the family beach house. He was heavily intoxicated and lost control of the vehicle, ploughing into the main bedroom. Both parents were killed instantly.’

‘Goodness, that is rather interesting. How does a person with a criminal record become a police investigator?’

‘That’s just the thing. He was never indicted. His age and other factors convinced the authorities not to press charges. The fact that his uncle was a Pretoria judge couldn’t have hurt either. In any case, after he matriculated he went overseas for around three years. Until this day no-one knows where he went or what he did. Those who knew him assumed it must have been some sort of spiritual odyssey.  Because, by all accounts, when he came back he was apparently a changed man. Hardly anyone recognised him.’

Silence.

‘Good work. I think we’ve just found our adversary’s pressure point.’

Part Two

The Spectre from the past

Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the LORD thy God [am] a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth [generation] of them that hate me;

Exodus 20:5

One

Elizabeth Trudouw had big dreams. Thirty-thousand hectares big.

Elizabeth’s father was Johann Trudouw. With three farms in the Coffee area, another two bordering the Orange River in Hopetown and a game farm in the Luckhoff area, Johann Trudouw was by far the region’s most successful and wealthiest farmer. He was also one of the wealthiest farmers in the Orange Free State in general. No mean feat as the province is aptly known as the nation’s breadbasket.

Elizabeth was a pretty young girl with ash-blonde hair (usually worn in pig tails) and an open face dotted with freckles. She was like most girls in the rural enclave of Coffee. She was just starting to get into pop music. Her walls featured posters of Wham, Sandra, Kylie Minogue, and of course, Steve Hofmeyer (a local TV star who would later become a singing sensation and the darling of the Afrikaner “volk”). She also liked Madonna and Michael Jackson, even though dada didn’t approve. Madonna was “sluttish” and Michael Jackson ... well, her dad definitely wouldn’t like a “Bantu” (black man) on her walls. But not to worry. She reserved special places in her scrap book for these two. Yes, Elizabeth was just like any other girl her age. Except that she wasn’t anything like other girls her age.

Since her twelfth birthday, she had been earning good money helping her dad on the farm over the weekends. In fact, by her sixteenth birthday she had managed to save more than ten thousand rand in her Volkskas bank account. A princely sum in those days. You see, Elizabeth loved pop music. She loved boys (a bit of a late starter in that department ... not that her father had any complaints). And she cultivated all of the other obsessions of adolescent girls like make-up, fashion and jewellery. Yes, she certainly loved all of these things. But more than anything in the world, Elizabeth loved farming. Since she was fourteen she could operate all of the heavy machinery on the farm. And make no mistake; on a farm this size the machinery was seriously heavy. This included the cumbersome eight-tonne baler as well as the gargantuan John Deere class-eight twenty-tonne harvester (combine), capable of harvesting an impressive eighty tonnes per hour. By her sixteenth birthday she had delivered dozens of calves; spent hundreds of hours ploughing, planting and harvesting; and had mastered virtually every aspect of the labour-intensive activity of farming. Even as a sixteen year-old girl she was the equal of any of Johann Trudouw’s several hundred farm labourers. She was also a first-rate hunter. As a pre-teen she had already hunted everything from Kudu to Springbok to Wildebeest. The trophy from one of her kills was proudly displayed by her father in the roomy lounge of their huge farmhouse. Elizabeth regularly competed in the country’s various shooting competitions and had won junior Springbok colours two years before. She was proud of her achievements. As her father’s only child, Johann was even prouder. Since the suicide death of his wife almost ten years ago their bond had grown until they were virtually inseparable. Johann couldn’t stop bragging how his little girl was going to become the region’s first female farmer. He therefore had no qualms in bequeathing his entire estate – valued at more than thirty million rand – to his only daughter.

Yes, Elizabeth had big dreams. All of which came to an abrupt end on Friday afternoon, the twenty-seventh of June, nineteen-eighty-six ... when she disappeared into thin air.

Two

After school, on the afternoon of the twenty-seventh, Elizabeth caught a ride home with Pippa Koornhof and her mom – a standing arrangement of many years. The Koornhofs owned a farm adjacent to the sprawling Trudouw property, to the south-west. As usual, Elizabeth was dropped off at the mouth of the long and winding dirt road that led – some three kilometres away – to the massive Trudouw farm house, surrounded by a dense grove of poplar and weeping willow trees. Here, where the dirt road met the R48 a farm labourer would wait for Elizabeth in one of the many Toyata Hilux bakkies (pick-up) to take her home. On the afternoon of her disappearance she arrived home shortly after three o’ clock after which hurried preparation were made to get ready for that evening. You see, that Friday was going to be the annual Hopetown High School ball – an event that no self-respecting rural teen would miss for anything. Elizabeth was going to drive herself to a friend’s house where the girls would prepare for the night’s festivities. It was an exciting day. Not least because it was rumoured that Flippie Groenewoud, a boy from nearby Luckhoff, was going to ask her to go kuis (go steady) that very night.

Maria, the Trudouw domestic, helped her pack her belongings, which included her make-up and her evening gown, into a little suitcase. Since the tragic death of her mother, the old Sotho woman had become somewhat of a surrogate mother to the little girl. In a country dominated by racial politics, it was surprising how often this happened.

At the front door old Maria waved goodbye to her little Lizzie as she pulled away in her purple Opel Corsa. Her dad was busy in the fields, fixing a crop pivot. He never got to greet his only daughter. As Elizabeth disappeared in a cloud of dust no-one could guess they would never see her again.

Three

Johann Trudouw had long ginger sideburns that wound all the way up to his bald pate, so endemic amongst Afrikaners. He was also a huge towering bulk of a man. At least the Major Crimes Unit detectives guessed he was. It was difficult to tell with him crouched up into a tight foetal position on the expensive lawn chair.

Hertzog and his group rushed over to the Trudouw farm mansion the moment they had received news of Elizabeth’s disappearance. They arrived as the sun was setting in the distant western horizon. Now the group was standing on the edge of the beautiful Trudouw patio, awkwardly gathered around the sobbing father. His shiny bald head reflected the light from powerful garden lights. Sitting on a lawn chair next to Johann Trudouw was the omnipresent Mayor Botha, looking appropriately sympathetic. A short distance behind them was the man Hertzog had seen in the police station. Rotund, balding, hook nose; predatory and obsequious all at once. The lawyer, Jacobs.

The Trudouw back garden was as lush as the rest of the property. A short distance from the patio the garden featured a stylised swimming pool with various rock fountains. Adjacent to it was an expansive thatched Lapa providing shade to an entertainment area with a brand-new Jetmaster barbecue set at its centre. The entire garden was beautifully illuminated with a series of ornate lanterns. Parked in the Trudouw driveway, visible from their position, were about half a dozen police vehicles. For better or for worse, various policemen were dotted around the property. Duvenhage was busy interviewing the domestic at Hertzog’s request. She was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief as tears flowed freely across her wizened black cheeks.

Captain Shaun Hertzog cleared his throat. ‘Mr Trudouw we are so incredibly sorry about your ... erm, about the disappearance of your daughter.’ Hertzog gave Jools a quick glance. He had almost said “loss”. ‘Please understand that we are doing everything in our power to ensure that Elizabeth is returned ... safe and unharmed.’ Johann Trudouw didn’t react to Hertzog’s words and continued his bitter sobbing unabated. Hertzog exchanged another look with Jools. When he saw Jannie Duvenhage approach he motioned for his two team members to join him at the far end of the large patio while Dog remained with the inconsolable father.

‘Interesting how different Trudouw’s expression of grief is compared to the previous two,’ Jools said, referring to Bismarck and Botha.

Hertzog nodded but said nothing. ‘What have we learned so far?’

Jannie Duvehange scanned his notes. ‘The girl departed just after half past three. The drive to her friend’s house should have taken her no more than about twenty minutes ... tops.’

Jools nodded. ‘Uh-huh. Her friend is Rachel Ferreira. When the Trudouw girl didn’t arrive by four-thirty, Sunette Ferreira, the girl’s mother, phoned the Trudouw residence. When she learned that Elizabeth had left an hour ago they jumped into her car and traced the journey from their home back to the Trudouw house. At the southern end of De Beers Street, just north of the R48 turnoff, they found the purple Opel Corsa. Abandoned. No sign of her.’ Jools looked at the two detectives. ‘They immediately reported her missing.’

‘Has the Bloemfontein forensics team been able to process the car?’

‘Uh-huh. They’re busy as we speak.’

‘Do you think they’ll find anything, boss?’

‘There’s always the possibility, detective,’ Hertzog nodded at Duvenhage, smiling. The look he gave Jools was far more sceptical though.

‘This is brazen,’ Jools said. ‘He not only grabs her in broad daylight, but he takes her in full view of Coffee’s busiest street.’ Hertzog nodded. ‘Do you think his behaviour is escalating?’

Jools was referring to the tendency of – especially – serial offenders to escalate the intensity or frequency of their crimes. A well documented phenomenon.

Hertzog stared at the beautifully manicured lawn, illuminated from a dozen secret locations. ‘Maybe. But I don’t think so. He’s still averaging about two weeks between crimes.’ Hertzog paused. ‘I just think it’s a sign of his supreme confidence. And his ability to blend in ... without detection.’ He frowned. ‘Which leads me to an ominous conclusion.’

When Hertzog still hadn’t said anything after a few moments, Duvenhage stepped forward. ‘What’s that, boss?’

Hertzog looked at Duvenhage, slightly taken aback at the intrusion into his thoughts. ‘He’s one of them, detective,’ he said as if it should have been obvious. He turned to face Johann Trudouw and the Mayor. ‘Our suspect is a member of this community.’

Four

Hertzog’s group of detectives were seated in the spacious Trudouw lounge, with its ceiling-high windows offering a spectacular view of the back garden and distant crops beyond. Mayor Botha was seated on a leather couch next to Johann Trudouw who had calmed down enough to engage in basic conversation. The ubiquitous lawyer retained a respectful distance, standing by the massive hearth that featured a hunting trophy consisting of an impressive set of Gemsbok horns.

‘Mr Trudouw, I just want to offer my sincere condolences. Please, I want you to rest assured that we will do everything humanly possible to stop this man. And bring his rampage to an end. We have never failed to bring closure to any of our previous cases. We don’t plan to start now.’ Trudouw looked up and stared with meek tear-stained eyes at the detective.

‘Please, Captain Hertzog, please ... bring my daughter back to me. Please, I beg of you.’

Hertzog nodded gravely. ‘I won’t rest until I’ve brought a conclusion to this whole unpleasant matter, Mr Trudouw. You have my word.’

‘Please Captain, since her mother took her own life I’m the only one she has.’ He began sobbing again. Hertzog gave Jools an odd look. ‘Please bring my little Lizzie back to me.’

‘Of course, Mr Trudouw.’ Hertzog cleared his throat. ‘Mr Trudouw I’m sorry to ask ... but is there anything ... anything at all you could tell us that will help us in our investigation?’ Trudouw stared at the terracotta floor, his face twisted into a mask of pain. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. ‘What I mean, Mr Trudouw, is ... have there been any strange incidents in the days leading up to her disappearance? Any strange calls ... strangers on the farm ... anybody or anything out of place, in any way whatsoever?’ Trudouw shook his head. ‘Did Lizzie maybe mention anything at all? Any new friends or acquaintances? Anybody that seemed to be friendlier than usual? Anybody that paid her any more attention than usual?’

‘What are you saying, Captain?’ Mayor Botha gave Hertzog an enquiring look, a hostile frown on his forehead.

‘Mr Trudouw, you understand, sometimes it’s small seemingly meaningless details that can turn out to be vital clues,’ Hertzog said, ignoring Botha’s question.

Trudouw shook his head. Fresh tears flowed across his reddened cheeks. ‘I should have done more,’ he said, wailing through twisted lips. ‘I should have never allowed her to go alone. I should have known.’ He pounded the armrest of the couch with his beefy hands, leaving deep dents. ‘It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.’ He stared at Hertzog, the eyes of a man haunted by guilt and self-recrimination. ‘It’s all my fault. I should have known she would be next. How could I leave my baby with no protection?’ He sobbed uncontrollably, his face buried deep in the folds of his two-tone shirt. ‘I should have known she would be next.’

Botha placed an arm around Trudouw. The lawyer stepped forward. ‘I think Mr Trudouw has had quite enough, detective.’ Mayor Botha gave Hertzog a look of finality. ‘I’m sure you have other leads to follow.’

Hertzog nodded without looking at Botha. ‘We’ll be in contact, Mr Trudouw.’ He indicated for his group to follow him as they headed for the front door. Outside they regrouped. ‘Any thoughts?’ Hertzog asked.

‘I was a bit bothered by something he said inside,’ Jools said.

‘You picked up on that too?’

‘What do you mean?’ Duvenhage said.

‘He said, “I should have known she would be next”. Now I understand it’s not a very large town; there can’t be that many teens about. But it still seemed like a very precise way for a parent to voice their concerns. Why would he think that his own daughter would be next?’

‘Oh my God, you mean he knew she was going to be abducted?’

‘No, detective. I don’t think it’s quite as bad as that. But just like everyone in this place, Mr Trudouw knows something he’s not telling us.’ Hertzog scanned the distant horizons. ‘What secret are they keeping from us?’

Silence.

‘What now, boss?’ Dog flicked a half-smoked cigarette onto the Trudouw driveway.

‘How are you progressing on the search of the Wouter Bredekamp house?’ Hertzog asked.

‘Well, boss, it’s taking a while. The Bloemfontein magistrate wasn’t too impressed with us. In his own words, “There’s bloody well nothing linking Bredekamp’s death to your investigation”. I’ve asked head office to pull some strings. But we’ll have to see. Maybe tomorrow.’

‘Okay, good. Keep me informed. Chaz should be joining us tomorrow.’ Hertzog turned to Duvenhage. ‘Detective, I don’t know about you, but when I hear about three suicides in such a small place it makes me concerned. Please go through the town archives and see what you can dig up about that.’

‘I’m on it, boss.’

Hertzog motioned for Jools. ‘Detective, it’s getting late,’ he said, eyeing the sinking sun. ‘But let’s pay a quick visit to the Coffee cemetery. If our perpetrator’s stuck to his modus operandi he would have tried to desecrate another grave site.’ He grimaced. ‘Maybe Bismarck’s guards have a surprise for us.’

Five

‘That’s impossible. That’s completely impossible. There’s no way this could have happened.’

Silence.

‘And yet it did.’

Hertzog looked down at the freshly excavated grave with chagrin. Illuminated by their flashlights, a mannequin was visible at the bottom of the six-feet hole. It was missing an arm and a leg and its face was horribly mauled by a large knife. Crude blotches of lipstick around the mouth gave the impression that the mannequin was leering at the group of detectives gathered around the grave.

Next to Hertzog the gangly Constable van der Merwe gesticulated wildly as he tried to explain the bizarre occurrence. ‘Captain, I promise we didn’t abandon our post – not even for a second. I’m telling you, sir, there is no way under God’s blue heaven that he could have dug this grave, right under our noses, without us hearing or seeing him. You have to believe me, sir. It’s impossible.’ The rookie officer stared imploringly at Hertzog.

Hertzog nodded without saying anything. He looked at the tombstone. Unlike the other two, which had been written in Afrikaans, this headstone was inscribed in Dutch.

Afrikaans, as a language, has many distinctions. Although spoken predominantly by European settlers, it is nonetheless recognised as an “African” language. It evolved and was shaped on the African continent and occurs nowhere else in the world. It is also the world’s youngest language. Known derogatively as “Kitchen Dutch” in its formative years, the language evolved – or devolved as some would say – from the Ubiquitous Dutch spoken by the Boer settlers. The reason the tombstone was in Dutch was because of its age. It dated from the Anglo-Boer War of 1899-1902; when Dutch was still, by and large, the written language of the Boer people. Hertzog learned later that Johann Trudouw’s parents were buried in Kimberley. As one of only two Trudouw graves in Coffee, it was not surprising that the disturbed perpetrator chose the grave of Johann Trudouw’s grandfather as the site of his sick joke.

HIER RUST MIJN LIEVE MAN, ONZE VADER EN OPA JOHANNES SYBRAND TRUDOUW. GEBOREN DEN 20 DESEMBER 1833; GESTORVEN DEN 20 OCTOBER 1901.

HERE LIES MY DEAR HUSBAND, OUR FATHER AND GRANDFATHER, JOHANNES SYBRAND TRUDOUW. BORN ON 2O DECEMBER 1833; DIED ON 20 OCTOBER 1901.

‘Please Captain, you have to believe me. We allowed no-one near the cemetery.’ Behind him his comrade enthusiastically nodded his head. ‘We guarded this place with our lives.’

Hertzog turned to him and patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’s fine. Our man is obviously equipped with resources we continue to underestimate. Please, I need you to continue guarding the site.’ He grimaced. ‘He’s not finished by a long shot.’ He turned to Dog. ‘Detective, please have the CSU guys haul out the mannequin and comb the area for any clues. Constable,’ he said, once again addressing the agitated rookie, ‘I need you to ensure no-one touches this grave until our forensics people have been here.’

The Constable jumped to attention and saluted, relieved. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘If I understand our perpetrator’s modus operandi correctly, we should be receiving a message just about now ... in the form of a new poster. It’s late. Let’s head to the police station first thing tomorrow morning and see if they’ve found anything.’

Six

The silence hung like a wet rag in Major Bismarck’s office. Grave expressions loomed on the faces of the mute detectives. For what seemed like an eternity no-one spoke. The bright rays of the Saturday morning sun did little to dispel the gloom in the room. Jools leaned against the wall of the office while Jannie Duvenhage sat in a chair to Hertzog’s right. The only one missing was Dog. Under mounting pressure the warrant for a full search of Wouter Bredekamp’s house had been issued late the previous evening. He was currently at the Bredekamp house, soon to be joined by Chaz who had taken an early morning drive from Bloemfontein, a mere hundred-and-twenty kilometres away.

‘Where did you find it?’ Hertzog asked after a while.

‘It was pinned to the community notice board at the entrance to the OK Supermarket,’ Bismarck said darkly.

‘Is it the only one?’ Hertzog said.

‘No. I ordered my men to scour the whole town.’ He pulled a sheaf of four posters from his desk drawer. ‘They found others, posted at strategic places across the town, including the church notice board.’

Hertzog nodded. ‘And you’re sure that’s it?’

‘Pretty much. We’ve looked everywhere. There’s nothing else.’

‘You realise it’s an absolute imperative that Mr Trudouw not see any of these.’ Hertzog paused. ‘It will surely drive him over the edge.’ Bismarck nodded in agreement. ‘Did you interview potential witnesses? I mean, surely someone can’t put something like this up in a public place without being seen by someone.’

‘They’re conducting interviews as we speak. You must understand areas like the OK Supermarket has a great deal of traffic. It’s easy for someone ... to get lost in the crowd. The church notice board on the other hand is sheltered from view. It would take nothing to put something up there without being spotted.’

Hertzog nodded in frustration. He stared at the poster. ‘Dear God. What a twisted fucking mind.’

The poster resembled the other one in every detail. It featured a close-up photograph of Elizabeth Trudouw. The terror that twisted her pretty little face into a mask of pure horror was sickening. Repulsive.  Written underneath in large Times New Roman script was the single word: WHY?

‘Jesus,’ Jools whispered under his breath.

‘Has this one been dusted for prints?’ Hertzog asked.

Bismarck nodded. ‘Nothing.’

Hertzog’s jaw line bulged as he bit down on his teeth. ‘Gentlemen, we’re racing against time. The clock’s ticking while the life of an innocent girl is at stake. We need to find this madman now. Before another life is lost to his madness.’ He glanced at his men. ‘Let’s get going.’

Bismarck stood up. ‘Detective ... Captain ... I want to thank you for not seeking my resignation. I promise you the full co-operation of my entire division.’

Hertzog nodded. ‘You understand that there will need to be an investigation at a later date. However, I’ll be sure to mention all the help you have extended us.’ Bismarck nodded.

Silence.

‘How is your brother?’ Doctor De Wet Bismarck had been released from jail the previous evening.

‘I don’t know. We haven’t spoken since ...’ His words trailed off. ‘He’s taking a sabbatical in Bloemfontein.’

Hertzog gave the station commander a thin smile. ‘Okay. We’ll be in touch. I’m taking this one to keep in our custody,’ Hertzog said indicating the poster on Bismarck’s desk. He picked it up, gave Bismarck a curt nod and indicated for Duvenhage and Jools to exit the office.

Outside, in the glaring Free State sun the detectives paused next to their Land Rover. ‘I don’t know,’ Jools said, ‘but after the whole Doctor Bismarck thing I feel like we’re right back at square one.’

Hertzog grimaced. ‘In some ways we are. In other ways, however, I think we’ve made very good progress.’ He patted his friend’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. We’re going to catch this bastard.’

Inside the Landy, the two-way radio started crackling. ‘Charlie Foxtrot Zero. Charlie Foxtrot Zero. Come in. This is Charlie Foxtrot One.’ There was a slight pause. ‘Boss, we’ve got a serious development. Come in.’

Jannie raced for the SUV, unlocked it and grabbed the receiver. ‘Charlie Foxtrot One. This is Charlie Foxtrot Zero. What’s your status? Over.’

‘Put the boss on the line, kid.’

Jannie handed the receiver to Hertzog. ‘What’s going on, detective?’

There was a dramatic pause. ‘Boss, you’re not going to believe this.’

‘Let’s have it, detective.’

‘Boss ... you need to get over here. We found something strange.’ Hertzog and Jools exchanged a quizzical look. ‘I think we found the three teens.’

Seven

The Bredekamp house was on a smallholding a few kilometres south of Coffee, just off the R704. Half and hour’s drive, to the south-east, lay the historic town of Jagersfontein. About three clicks outside Coffee, Jools took a left at a gate with a rusted iron archway that bore the name: BREDEKAMP.

Another kilometre down a badly corrugated dirt road brought them to the dilapidated Bredekamp house. A sombre looking Chaz met Hertzog and the others in the driveway. Hertzog smiled as he extended a hand. ‘Good to see you again, Detective Bosman.’

‘It’s good to see you again as well, boss. I just wish it could have been under more positive circumstances.’

Hertzog’s face immediately darkened. He nodded. ‘Show me what you got.’

Chaz led the group around the house, past a grove of mangy looking fruit trees interspersed with at least three rusted car wrecks. At the back of the yard, alongside a large cement dam slaked with green slime was a large wooden barn with flaking red paint. ‘I expected to see Major Bismarck accompanying you,’ Chaz said.

‘We’ll inform him in good time,’ Hertzog said, surveying the surrounding area, overgrown with thick clumps of wild kikuyu grass.

‘Dog gave me a quick overview of all the recent developments.’ Chaz shook his head. ‘And just when I thought we were close to getting the sonofabitch.’ He pushed open one of the large barn doors to allow his colleagues to enter. ‘It’s over there, in the corner. We waited for you before we proceeded.’

‘Thanks,’ Hertzog said. ‘Where’s Detective Doober?’

‘He’s inside, boss. A couple of guys from the CSU team are helping him break down the locked door. It looks like a basement room,’ he added.

Hertzog braced himself as he headed towards the far left corner of the darkened barn. Despite ten years as a homicide investigator it was never a pleasant task uncovering cadavers. Especially after the onset of decomposition. Hertzog peered into the darkness. ‘Detective Duvenhage, please open those barn doors so we can get some light in here.’ He pulled out a flashlight and pointed it in the direction Chaz had indicated. ‘Detective Van Sant, do you have your flashlight with you?’

‘Yep.’ The beam from Jools’s flashlight coalesced with that of Hertzog to form a figure-eight of light in the dark corner of the barn. The scene was illuminated only slightly more when Duvenhage pushed open the creaking barn doors.

The detectives looked on, stunned.

‘Damn, is that –?’

‘Yes,’ Hertzog said, nodding slowly in the mute darkness.

In the dark corner of the barn there were three graves.

Eight

Hertzog stared in mute fascination at the three graves, lined up in neat parallel rows.

‘What have you been up to, Mr Bredekamp?’ Hertzog said under his breath. He kneeled down to inspect the graves. And prodded one of the mounds with his finger. ‘Strange. Very compact.’ He looked up at Chaz. ‘In fact, these graves don’t appear to be fresh at all.’

‘I agree, boss. Me and Dog discussed the same thing. It doesn’t quite make sense.’

‘Nothing about this case makes any sense,’ Jools said.

‘Detective Duvenhage, get the CSU team to bring one of their portable lamps in here. Tell them to bring their shovels,’ Hertzog said, referring to specialised miniature shovels the forensics unit used to excavate grave sites.

‘Sure thing, boss,’ Jannie said, disappearing through the barn doorway.

About fifteen minutes later the barn had become significantly more crowded. Two powerful lamps had been set up casting the scene in sharp light. Four members from the forensics team were carefully digging away at the grave mounds, exhuming their morbid contents with practised skill. The detectives stood a short distance away, watching with growing interest.

‘What a strange place for a burial,’ Chaz said, scanning the dusky interior of the barn, choked with years of cobwebs ... and neglect.

‘I think that was precisely the idea, detective. Who would suspect a barn like this would be a burial site?’ Hertzog watched the CSU members at work. ‘These graves were never meant to be discovered.’ Hertzog turned to Dog who had joined the group. ‘Detective Doober, what’s the status on your progress inside the house?’

‘Well, we’ve been able to do a more thorough search of the premises. Nothing out of the ordinary yet. We just started on the basement door when the graves were discovered.’

‘You seem to be having a lot of trouble with that little wooden door, Doggy,’ Jools said, winking at his colleague. ‘Just let me know when you need some help.’

‘I wouldn’t want to ruin your manicure, Van Sant,’ Dog said, flipping Jools the “bird” from behind his left hand.  ‘Boss, it’s one seriously hard-arsed door, fortified with steel bolts and two-inch hardwood laths. Whatever Bredekamp’s hiding in that basement, it’s something he was very desperate to keep secret.’ Hertzog nodded in agreement. ‘Actually, if you don’t need me here, I wanna crack that bastard. And get to the bottom of this whole thing.’

‘Yes, I agree, detective. Good thinking. Let us know if you need help.’

‘I’ve got it covered, boss,’ he said, blowing Jools a kiss and heading for the exit.

Hertzog’s attention was drawn to sudden commotion from the forensics team.

‘Sir, we got something,’ one of the team members said, rising to his feet and turning to face Hertzog. ‘And you’re not going to believe this.’

The four detectives hurried over to the graves. The CSU member pointed at the middle mound. Hertzog leaned forward to get a better look at what he had uncovered. He inhaled sharply as he stared at what lay buried in the dirt. Hertzog had expected to see one of the three missing teens. Instead, staring at him with sightless eyes was an ancient mummified corpse.

Nine

‘Holy shit. Is that a mummy?’

Jools stared dumbfounded at the macabre spectacle while Hertzog and Chaz looked on, frowning. Jannie Duvenhage gawked at the mummified remains with eyes wide and mouth agape. Hertzog knelt by the unearthed corpse and leaned over the blackened face, studying it carefully.

‘Under certain circumstances buried corpses become naturally mummified,’ the CSU tech explained. ‘In this case, it was the heat and dry conditions. This area has a semi-arid climate most of the time. Over the last two decades the region has also been cursed by severe drought. I expect that this, and the shelter offered by the barn, created this ... phenomenon,’ he said pointing to the corpse.

‘It’s a female,’ Hertzog said. ‘Probably in her late twenties, though it’s difficult to say.’

‘I agree, sir,’ the CSU tech said.

Next to Hertzog one of the other CSU members had unearthed another corpse. This one was also mummified. Hertzog shuffled over and inspected it. ‘Male,’ he said. ‘Probably around the same age.’ He looked up at the tech standing next to him. ‘Any idea how long they’ve been buried here?’

‘Erm ... because of the mummification it’s difficult to say, sir. I’ve only seen something like this once before, in the Karoo. If I had to make an educated guess ... I’d say no less than fifteen years. Maybe even as much as twenty years.’

‘Fifteen to twenty years,’ Hertzog said, mulling over the information in his mind. ‘We need to get these corpses to a pathologist as soon as possible.’

‘Sir, if I can make a suggestion.’

‘Hm-huh?’

‘There’s a guy at Wits University, a professor, who’s doing some seriously groundbreaking work on forensic anthropology. Maybe we can get him involved. I’m sure he’d be more than glad to assist.’

‘Good idea. Can you get hold of him?’

‘I’ll do it right away.’

On the other side of Hertzog the Crime Scene Unit had unearthed the last remaining corpse. ‘Sir?’ The tech said, requesting Hertzog’s attention. ‘We’ve got another male.’

Hertzog inspected the corpse. ‘Two males and a female. Buried about twenty years ago.’ He studied the corpse, frowning. ‘What does it mean?’

‘It looks like Wouter’s been a very bad boy,’ Jools said.

‘I just wished he hadn’t taken his secrets to the grave with him,’ Chaz said.

‘Do you think it’s related to our case, boss?’ Duvenhage asked.

‘That’s a very good question, detective.’ Hertzog frowned, ruminating momentarily. ‘Maybe ... maybe not. Right now, for all we know, these people died of natural causes.’

‘But then why bury them in unmarked graves? In a place that was meant to remain secret?’ Jools asked.

‘I agree. It’s very suspicious. But remember, our duty is to always ... always follow the evidence. Let’s not make the evidence follow our theories. Until we know more, let’s assume, for the time being, that these are two entirely unrelated crimes.’ Hertzog indicated the three graves. ‘If this is a crime at all.’ He paused. ‘Whatever the case, let’s not make any assumptions until we know more. We saw where our assumptions got us with Doctor Bismarck.’

‘Speaking of the mighty Bismarcks. What about the Major, boss? When are we going to inform him of this?’ Jools raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

Hertzog paused, pondering Jools’s question with great intensity. ‘I know we requested his full co-operation. And we can’t exactly expect him to assist us without reciprocating. Except, I feel we need to keep this to ourselves ... for the time being. I don’t know why, but I feel we’re going to achieve a lot more if none of our local colleagues find out about our discovery.’ Hertzog stood up and looked at each of the men gathered there in turn. ‘In fact, I am making this an order of the highest priority. Absolutely none of this is allowed to leave this circle. No press. No local cops. No-one, except those gathered here today. Is that understood?’ The men nodded in compliance. Hertzog turned to the CSU tech. ‘Can you arrange any kind transport for these corpses. Something totally inconspicuous. Something that won’t draw any kind of attention?’

The tech nodded. ‘I’m sure we could organise something, sir.’

‘Good. And remember, as far as anyone else is concerned, none of this happened. At least not yet.’

At that very moment Dog came crashing through the entrance of the barn. ‘Boss, we broke through the door.’ He paused for a moment, hands on his knees, breathless. ‘You’re not going to believe what we found.’

Ten

The basement – as an extension to the average house – harbours interesting psychological implications. As a subterranean room, it represents (if one were inclined to become philosophical about architecture) the dark ID of the house. The shady subconscious, as it were. The basement can become an extension itself of the mind of the very person occupying that house. A place where all the murky sub-strata of the occupant’s mind finds corporeal manifestation.

As the detectives stood in the basement of Wouter Bredekamp’s house, they felt they had stepped into the shadowy realms of the dead man’s mind.

Wouter Bredekamp had obviously spent a great deal of time here. As evidenced by the one peculiarity that always seemed to accompany Wouter Bredekamp wherever he went.

Squalor.

The first thing that struck the detectives was the sickening stench of rot, decomposition and decay. Like a toxic wave it engulfed them, overwhelming the senses. Jannie Duvenhage turned from the open door and became violently ill in the littered hallway.

With handkerchiefs to their mouths the group carefully descended the littered staircase. In addition to his sordid living conditions, it appeared as if Bredekamp was also a hoarder. On the way down the stairs, the detectives had to fight their way through crushed cooldrink cans, urine-soaked newspapers, empty packaging and all manner of discarded foodstuffs. Dog nearly slipped as he stepped onto a slimy half-eaten steak and kidney pie, teeming with maggots and green with age.

At the bottom of the staircase, Hertzog and his detectives stared in shock at the chaotic filth of Wouter Bredekamp’s life.

The floor of the basement itself was hidden under years of squalid hoarding. Empty wrappers and packets, discarded cans of baked beans, an old rug with what appeared to be faeces stains, a broken vacuum cleaner, milk cartons, an old carburettor, dozens of empty bottles of cheap sherry, and scores of items whose decayed state defied description. In a corner Hertzog spotted a cat litter box. Inside, mixed with the stained cat litter and hanging over the edge of the box, was the half decomposed corpse of a kitten.

‘Dear God, this is sickening.’

‘Check this out, boss.’ A dozen stacks of magazines were balanced precariously in various positions across the littered room. They were composed entirely of Scope magazines. Since pornography was illegal the Scope was the closest thing to a “girly” magazine in South Africa at the time. In keeping with the demure standards of the time the nipples of the nude models were covered with little stars. The “family-friendly” stars would only disappear in the nineties. Dog grabbed one of the Scope magazines. ‘Nineteen-seventy-nine,’ he said, chuckling.

In the section underneath the staircase there was a small basin with a scullery area. It was laden with dirty unwashed dishes; plates heaped with chicken bones and dried mouldy beans, dirty mugs filled with a strange black liquid. A brown sticky goo covered the entire surface area. Dozens of dead cockroaches were enmeshed in its gluey resin.

With every step dozens of cockroaches would go scurrying about. The detectives stumbled over a stained and torn mattress covered with an old blanket. Now they knew for a fact that the basement was the actual living quarters of Wouter Bredekamp. In the far corner was an old tattered recliner, shiny with dirt. It was located in front of an old Pioneer TV set. Flanking the TV were two stacks of VHS video tapes. On closer inspection the detectives saw the tapes were all hard-core pornography films. All highly illegal.

‘Tsk tsk,’ Dog said. ‘Wouter, you bad boy.’

These things were all interesting, to be sure. But what really interested the detectives was what appeared on the far wall.

There were dozens of photographs, blown-up to A4 size.

They were all photographs of various teenagers. Taken from a distance with a powerful zoom lens.

Prominent amongst the many photographs were three shots that immediately caught the attention of Hertzog and his men.

They were the three missing teens.

Eleven

‘What in God’s name was this guy’s story?’

Dog looked at the mess all around them. Then at the photos. ‘Hierdie ou is getik in die kop.’

This guy is screwed in the head.

‘Do you think he was involved in the kidnappings, boss?’ Jannie stared at Hertzog.

‘That’s exactly what I think, detective.’ Hertzog grimaced. ‘Until he became a problem for some reason. And had to be eliminated.’ Hertzog turned to Duvenhage. ‘In fact, detective, in addition to the suicide investigation, won’t you please find out everything you can about Mr Wouter Bredekamp. Check the records and interview a few of the locals.’

‘No problem, boss.’

‘This place is completely fucked up,’ Jools said.

‘You’re telling me,’ Dog said, kicking an empty can at a couple of cockroaches. ‘I’ve never seen anything this messed up in all my life.’

‘I was talking about the town, Doodles.’

‘So was I, Curly Sue.’

Heavy steps signalled someone else descending the staircase. The detectives turned. A CSU tech stood on the rickety steps, holding a heavy shovel. ‘Captain, we found this upstairs,’ he said, holding his nose with his other hand. ‘I’ll bet my wife’s jewellery the soil on this will match the grave sites.’

‘Now if you don’t call that evidence then I don’t know what.’ Dog nodded appreciatively.

‘Good work. Tag it and bag it.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Jools said. ‘Check this out.’ At the bottom right hand corner of the photo montage featuring the teens an A3 sheet of paper had been draped over some of the photos. He lifted it. Underneath were photographs of the Bismarck brothers, Lloyd Botha, Johann Trudouw and another unknown man. The photos had been heavily scarred with a large knife. ‘Think he was a fan?’ Jools asked, looking at Hertzog.

Hertzog frowned, staring at the mauled shots. ‘I want you to collect these photographs as well,’ he said, indicating all the pictures. The tech nodded. ‘Dust them for prints and so on. Chaz?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘See if you can discover the identities of the other teens in these pictures.’

‘Sure thing.’

‘Detective Duvenhage, I also want you to find out who Bredekamp’s associates were. Anything. Friends. Colleagues. Drinking buddies. Anything like that.’

‘Got it, boss.’

‘Shaun?’ Hertzog looked up sharply. It was rare for Jools to use his first name amongst the other detectives. ‘I think you need to see this.’

Hertzog walked over to Jools. He looked down at what Jools was holding in his hand.

‘Dear God.’ Hertzog turned pale white.

Twelve

The OK Supermarket was a bustle of activity on the hot Saturday afternoon. Hertzog strode towards the back of the supermarket where the in-house butchery was situated. Looking sullen, Jack Strydom was behind the counter. He sneered with derision when he saw Hertzog. ‘What the bloody hell do you want?’

‘This is official police business. Get out of my way or I’ll have you arrested.’

He snorted. And smacked the cleaver into the wooden chopping board before him. ‘Marike,’ he said, shouting towards the interior. He stared daggers at Hertzog. ‘Your little boyfriend is here.’

Marike came rushing from inside, wiping her bloody hands on her apron. She looked at Jack Strydom with fearful contrition. ‘I’m sorry, Jack.’

Strydom looked at her with hateful anger. ‘Don’t be sorry. Be careful. And get your arse back here quickly. We got tonnes of orders to fill.’

‘Yes, Jack.’ She looked at Hertzog with exasperation as she walked out with him. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Let’s go talk somewhere private,’ he said, leading her out the supermarket and towards the Defender, parked across the street. He opened the door for her and shut it. A few moments later he climbed in next to her, sitting in the driver’s seat. ‘Something’s come up.’

‘What is it?’

He paused, struggling to find the words. ‘I think your life is in danger.’

She looked at Hertzog with horror. ‘What?’ Her bottom lip quivered. ‘What are you talking about?’

Hertog reached into the back of the Landy and grabbed a folder. He extracted an A4 size photograph from it. He showed it to her. It was a long-distance shot of Marike.

She grabbed the photograph. ‘Where did you get this?’ She stared at it. ‘I don’t understand. What does this have to do with my life being in danger?’

‘Look, because of the investigation I can’t tell you much. But we found this photograph at a suspect’s house. Someone we suspect of being involved with the disappearances.’

‘Oh my God, Shaun. Who is it? You can’t tell me my life is in danger and just leave it there. For God’s sake, where did you find it?’

Hertzog stared at her, wrestling with himself. He sighed. ‘We found it at Wouter Bredekamp’s house.’

Her reaction completely shocked Hertzog.

She threw her head back and laughed loudly.

‘Marike,’ he said, reprimanding her, annoyed.

‘Oh God, Shaun. I’m sorry. You gave me such a fright.’ She laughed again. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She touched his shoulder. ‘You’ve got this all wrong. Old Wouter’s had a crush on me for the longest time. It’s annoying at worst but it’s completely harmless. I promise you. There’s nothing to worry about.’

‘I don’t know about that, Marike. We’ve found some pretty incriminating evidence. Plus we also ...’ He stopped himself before he revealed the discovery of the three graves. ‘Plus he seems like a very disturbed man.’

Marike became serious. ‘Yes, I know. He has some serious issues. But he’s just a messed up old man, nothing more.’ She looked at Hertzog with tenderness. ‘He would never hurt me, Shaun. I know that without a doubt in my mind.’ A melancholy slipped across her face. ‘Besides, who would want to kidnap me? No-one would miss me if I were gone anyway.’

Hertzog shot her a reproachful look. ‘Don’t be so sure about that.’

She traced a delicate finger across his taut features. ‘Why don’t you marry me and take me away from all of this, beautiful man?’

Hertzog looked at her for a few moments, his face betraying nothing. ‘You never told me.’

‘Told you what?’

‘How you ended up here. With him.’ Hertzog indicated the OK Supermarket with his head.

She smiled. ‘You don’t want to hear my sad old story.’

He returned the smile. ‘Oh but I do.’

She sighed. And stared through the windscreen at a group of black children playing in front of the liquor store. ‘My childhood years were less than idyllic. I mean, my parents weren’t bad to me or anything. It was just an unpleasant situation. I always had the distinct impression they wanted me to be someone else. Like I was never good enough. By the time I was in my late teens I wanted nothing more than to escape. Escape everything. My home. My life. My parents. The little two-bit town I grew up in. When Jack came around it was as if he was sent by God.’

‘Really? Sent by God?’

‘Oh come now, grumpy. He was a lot different then. He swept me off my feet. It was the first time I was in love. He was a lot older than me but I didn’t care. Jack was my ticket to a brand-new life. A few months after we met we ... well, we eloped.’

‘You eloped? With Jack Strydom?’

‘Yes!’ She punched him on the shoulder. ‘You make it sound like I contracted a disease.’

‘Well, at least you can cure a disease.’

‘Oh my goodness, look at you ... badmouthing someone. I didn’t think you were capable.’

Hertzog laughed. ‘So, he rescued you from your small-town hell ... just to bring you here.’

‘Yes, I know. Irony is my middle name.’ She laughed. Watching her easy laughter Hertzog felt his heart constrict. She looked at him tenderly. ‘I don’t want to talk about Jack.’ She reached out and grabbed him by the lapels. ‘Hey! Did you hear the good news?’

Hertzog smoothed his jacket. ‘What? You know a good tailor?’

She laughed. ‘No, silly. The final elements of the Coffee Braai Festival have been approved by the town council.’

‘What? A Braai Festival?’

‘Yes. It was Jack’s idea. A day of fun, sun ... and lots of red meat.’ She laughed. ‘It’s going to double our turnover for the winter months. We got the region’s best braai masters coming in for the big competition. We’re going to have stalls, a small carnival for the kids plus Rina Hugo and Innes and Franna are going to be performing. It’s going to be awesome.’

Hertzog looked at her with shock. ‘You’ve got kids disappearing all over the place ... and you’re organising a festival.’

‘Not me ... it’s Jack’s festival,’ she said, slightly hurt at his accusing tone.

‘Sorry,’ he said, taking her hands in his. ‘I didn’t mean to scold you. I’m just surprised that the town would do something like this, especially after ...’

‘Well, it’s been in the planning stages for almost a year. And yes, people wanted to cancel the festival after the kids started disappearing. But in the end everyone agreed it was exactly what Coffee needed.’ She looked at him earnestly. ‘You must understand. It sometimes feels as if this town is cursed. It’s not just the latest events. I mean, we’ve had droughts, a fire, the recession and the diamond slump almost closed the mine. It’s been one disaster after another. Plus we’ve got like the worst reputation in the region. People need something to make them smile. To make them forget.’ She smiled thinly. ‘I know it looks insensitive. But for once Jack had a good idea. People are excited. Maybe this festival could turn things around for us. If it’s successful they want to make it an annual event.’

Hertzog nodded. ‘I hear you. But besides my other concerns, it’s going to turn our investigation into a nightmare.’ He cursed softly. ‘Dammit. Just another thing Major Bismarck omitted telling us about.’ Hertzog stared at the steering wheel of the Land Rover. He turned to her. ‘Marike, what’s going on in this town? What are people hiding? Why is no-one being honest with us? Why does it seem as if everyone is trying to sabotage our investigation?’

She looked at him intensely. ‘I wish I could tell you, Shaun. But I don’t know. I told you, even though I’ve been here for more than two years, they still regard me as an outsider. They don’t talk to me about anything. Least of all important things.’

Hertzog shook his head with exasperation. ‘Why do they –’

Marike reached forward and kissed him hard. She shoved her little body tightly against his. So tight he felt her nipples harden under the coarse material of her overall. With a fierceness that shocked him she reached for his pants. She grabbed his penis and squeezed it so hard it shot a bolt of pain up his spine. ‘Marike!’ Hertzog pushed her away, shouting with pain. She glared at him for a split second, an animalistic violence simmering in her eyes. Then she forced open the car door and ran for the supermarket.

Thirteen

The next morning, Hertzog and Chaz walked into the guesthouse dining room, to find the rest of the group, enjoying one of Mrs Rabie’s championship Boere breakfasts.

‘Gentlemen, Chaz and I are off to church. I will you see you later.’ He knew better than to ask any of the others to join him.

‘Sweet. Give my regards,’ Jools said through a mouthful of bacon.

‘Wow, I didn’t know the boss was that religious,’ Jannie said after Chaz and Hertzog had left.

‘Uh-huh. He sure is,’ Jools said. ‘But do you really think that’s why he’s going to church?’

Jannie stared at Jools with interest.

***

Like most services of the NG church that morning’s sermon was short – only forty-five minutes. After the service Chaz and Hertzog sat in the back pew and waited for the faithful to slowly disperse while they enjoyed the beautiful and lavish adornments of the cavernous church interior. After a good twenty minutes they were joined by the Dominee. ‘Gentlemen, I am so glad to see you here. I hope the sermon was to your liking.’

Hertzog smiled diplomatically. ‘It was very edifying, Dominee. Brother Paul was a wise man indeed.’

The Dominee smiled. ‘Were it not for him, our New Testament would be a thin book indeed.’ The Dominee sat in the pew in front of Hertzog and Chaz. ‘How are you enjoying our little town, detectives? I hope the proper hospitality has been extended towards you.’

‘We are finding Coffee a fascinating place,’ Hertzog said, dodging the question.

The Dominee nodded, understanding. ‘It takes a while for them to ... acclimatise to outsiders.’ He leaned back, folding one leg over the other, stretching out his arm along the back of the pew. ‘There was a time when Coffee was a much different place. There was a time – not that long ago for those who have lived a while – when people even used to refer to Coffee as the jewel of the western Free State. In addition to Bloemfontein and the Goldfields Coffee was becoming a centre of trade and development during those days. There was even talk at some stage of building a thousand-seat theatre here. That was in the mid-Fifties. Can you believe it?’ He sighed. ‘It seemed as if the future offered such promise.’

‘What happened, Dominee?’

‘Who’s to say what strange vagaries lead the hearts of men? How two brothers, their veins coursing with the same blood ... raised in the same house, can diverge so profoundly ... one becoming Cain, the other Abel.’ The two detectives listened to the pastor with rapt attention. ‘It breaks my heart to say my people – the people of Coffee – bear the mark of the former, not the latter. We have lost the grace of God.’

‘What is happening, Dominee Joubert?’ Hertzog asked, realising the Dominee was telling them something important. ‘Why is no-one speaking to us?’

‘I cannot turn on those I was entrusted to lead. I cannot betray my own, Captain.’ Hertzog nodded. ‘But I can tell you that in order to solve the mysteries of the present ... you need to uncover a riddle from the past.’

‘Yes.’ Chaz nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Dominee ...’ Hertzog leaned forward. ‘You implied that you saw Coffee turn from Abel into Cain. I understand you have certain ... responsibilities, but please ... can you tell us when this was? When did the town go sour?’

‘I don’t dwell on the past, Captain. It is filled with so much darkness. And loss.’ He shook his head. ‘Memory fails an old man. And there are some memories willingly abandoned. Some memories better left in the past.’

‘Please, Dominee. We’re talking philosophy here. Nothing else. No-one would ever need to question your loyalty.’

Dominee Frans Joubert stared at the varnished wood of the pew. Outside a wind howled fiercely, sliced in two by the church steeple. The vaulted arches of the church ceiling creaked under the assault. ‘My memory is no longer sharp. But I wouldn’t be remiss if I had to guess it was ... twenty years in the past, almost exactly to the day.’ Hertzog and Chaz exchanged excited glances. ‘Twenty years ago ... when our future turned to ashes.’

Hertzog and Chaz rose. ‘Dominee, I thank you for your time. And your wise words. You have been a great help.’ Joubert nodded in mute melancholy, but didn’t rise. ‘Good day, sir.’ The policemen turned and headed for the exit.

‘Captain.’ Hertzog turned. ‘Therefore, just as sin entered the world through one man, and death through sin, and in this way ... death came to all people ... because all had sinned.’ The Dominee raised his head and looked at Hertzog. ‘Romans, chapter five, verse twelve. You’re right, Captain. Brother Paul was a wise man indeed.’

Hertzog acknowledged the pastor’s words and exited. Outside they paused while Hertzog lit a cigarette.

‘Because all had sinned?’ Chaz said, paraphrasing the pastor’s words. ‘Is he saying, whatever happened twenty years ago, everyone is responsible?’

‘I hope not, detective.’ Hertzog dragged a lungful of smoke from the Camel Filter. ‘But I think we’re soon going to find out.’

As they climbed into the car Dominee Joubert stepped into the arched doorway of the church. He stared at the detectives with a cold expression on his face. One by one he loudly cracked his knuckles.

Click. Click. Click.

His mouth stretched into a cruel grin.

Click. Click. Click.

Fourteen

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon. Even though it was in the heart of winter, the day was hot. The evenings were freezing cold. But the days were hot. Virtually all year round.

Hertzog had given his team the day off. After a monstrous lunch consisting of roast beef, mash, peas and sweet potato the team had dispersed to engage in such activities as pleased each. Jannie Duvenhage entertained three local girls at the guesthouse pool. They had been following him around since he had arrived in Coffee. Chaz had spent more than an hour on the phone. When he had done, Dog had cajoled him, asking whether he was talking to his chêrie? Chaz had simply given him an annoyed looked and disappeared to his room.

Dog and Jools had spent the remainder of the day sipping brandy and Coke by the poolside under a beach umbrella, admiring Jannie’s guests.

After lunch Hertzog had retired to his room. To contemplate the details of the case. And to be alone. Eventually he had drifted off. Dreaming deep dark dreams of a vicious killer.

Outside, Jools and Dog were mellowing out. Jools laughed at another of Dog’s dirty jokes. Jannie Duvenhage was regaling the girls with – largely – non-existent tales of his exploits as a murder and robbery investigator. Chaz was snoring loudly in his room.

A sudden scream brought the poolside detectives to their feet. It came from Hertzog’s room. With Jannie in his swimming trunks and the other two in Hawaiian shirts and shorts they ran to Hertzog’s room. They found him standing in front of a wall, looking at a poster of Elizabeth Trudouw. He had pinned a copy onto his bedroom wall. Because that’s something that Hertzog did. Moments later a sleep-dizzy Chaz stormed into the room, wearing a vest and boxer shorts, his service pistol in his hand. ‘Boss,’ was the only word he managed to utter.

Hertzog pointed at the poster. ‘There’s something in the background.’

Jools and Dog leaned into the poster. Chaz turned his head. Dog stumbled drunkenly and balanced himself against the wall. ‘I don’t see it, boss.’

‘It’s all about the light.’ Hertzog carefully pulled the poster from the wall. ‘Look. You have to position it just right.’ He rushed over to the window and pulled aside the curtains. He held it horizontally against the fading light of the afternoon sun. Then shifted its position. This way. And that. Finally he stopped. ‘Look. Look.’ The others leaned in.

‘Shit, I see it,’ Jools said. ‘Look.’

Jannie twisted his head. ‘Yes, I see it. What is it?’

Chaz stepped forward, eyes fixed on the poster. ‘It’s some kind of a flange. An attachment to some heavy piece of machinery.’

‘Yes, exactly,’ Hertzog said with excitement.

‘Okay, so ... so what?’ Jannie stared in confusion.

‘Where’s the only place in town where we can expect to find heavy machinery, detective?’ Hertzog asked.

Realisation dawned in Duvenhage’s eyes. ‘The mine.’

‘Yes. The mine. Let’s go, gentlemen.’

‘Shouldn’t we tell Major Bismarck?’ Jannie looked at Hertzog.

‘Detective, after our visit to the Dominee, I’m even more convinced ... the less the town’s people know, the better.’ Chaz nodded in agreement.

‘Uh, boss, we’ve had a little to drink and –’

‘Don’t worry about it, Detective Doober. Meet me at the Defender.’

It was in this way that a decidedly casual group of SAP detectives found themselves in a Land Rover One-Ten Defender, heading for the open-cast Coffee diamond mine. Jools and Dog were still wearing their Hawaiian shirts and shorts, albeit with the addition of slip-slops. Jannie and Chaz had slipped on t-shirts; Chaz was wearing an old SAP shirt while Jannie donned a more fashionable Instinct shirt. Hertzog was the only one wearing slacks and a sleeve shirt. Before they left, Hertzog had instructed Chaz to fax the poster to their good friend, the Bloemfontein magistrate in an effort to get an emergency warrant to search the mine. There was no time to wait. Hertzog had to hope that before they returned the warrant would be approved. It wasn’t the way he liked to do things. But it was about being in time to save the life of an innocent teen.

The Land Rover wound its way down De Beers Street, down Mosley and eventually into Du Preez Street which led directly into the mining compound.

‘Boss, you realise if we find something we’re going to have to spend the night at the scene while we wait for the Bloemfontein CSU unit to arrive tomorrow morning?’ Chaz said behind the wheel of the 4x4.

Hertzog indicated the back of the Defender with his head. ‘I think you’d prefer the pillow with the floral pattern, detective.’

Dog laughed with great mirth. ‘The boss just made a joke, Detective Duvenhage. Appreciate it. It’s a very rare occurrence.’ He surreptitiously lifted a half jack of brandy from the pocket of his shorts and showed it to Jools. ‘I think we’ll be fine,’ he said, winking at his colleague.

The Landy came to a grinding halt. Slowly the detectives disembarked. The sun was slowly setting in the west. ‘We’ve got a large area to search. Let’s fan out.’

The group spread across the wide search area which included about three dozen outbuildings; storage sheds, mobile offices, large longitudinal warehouses, processing hangars and parking bays. Methodically, using their flashlights to disperse the growing darkness, they covered each building in turn. One after another, each of the buildings – many of them unlocked – was searched.

After about half an hour Chaz called out to Hertzog. The group hurried over to his location. He was standing in front of one of the smaller machinery hangars. One of the doors was standing open. He illuminated a large piece of machinery. ‘What do you think?’

Hertzog held up the poster, focusing the beam of his flashlight upon it. They all studied it. ‘That’s the one. This picture was taken in this very hangar. We’ve got to tag this site for the CSU team.’

From across the mine site Jannie Duvenhage came running towards the group. ‘Boss, I got something really bizarre.’ He halted in front of the group, catching his breath. When he spoke it was sotto voce. ‘I just saw something really strange.’

‘What have you got, detective?’

‘Yeah? And why are you whispering?’ Dog asked.

‘Boss, over there, in that building,’ Duvenhage said, pointing to a longitudinal building with his flashlight. ‘It looks like some kind of hall where they used to have meetings or stuff like that.’

‘Hm-huh?’

‘There is a huge group of people, boss. They’re sitting in the dark. Completely silent. Staring at the stage.’ Jannie looked at the others. ‘It’s totally insane.’

Fifteen

The MCU detectives carefully approached the hall Jannie Duvenhage had indicated, their service pistols at the ready. They fanned out as they neared the building, in keeping with protocol. Duvenhage and Chaz covered the southern length of the building, Dog and Jools in their Hawaiian shirts covered the northern length. Hertzog took the main doorway.

‘Detective Van Sant? What do you see?’

Jools, his back tight against the outer wall, leaned forward and peered carefully into the nearest window. He resumed his position. ‘Boss, we’ve got about two dozen people, seated in neat rows. They’re completely stationery. And silent.’

‘Detective Bosman, get over here. Let’s breach the entrance.’ Chaz quietly jogged over and joined Hertzog on the other side of the door. ‘On three.’ Chaz nodded. ‘One ... two ... three!’

Hertzog turned the door handle while Chaz kicked it open. He ran inside with Hertzog hot on his heels. ‘South African Police.’ Chaz shouted out the identification, crouched down and gun held out in front of him in both hands.

Hertzog stood behind him, gun positioned above Chaz’s head. ‘Nobody move,’ he said, shouting at the top of his lungs. Behind him the others raced into the room, shouting and gesticulating. It was a part of basic police training. Create as much confusion and fear while making an arrest, bewildering suspects.

Absolutely nothing happened.

‘This is the fucking South African Police. Get on the fucking floor right now.’ Dog’s veins bulged in his neck from the exertion of screaming.

Nothing.

Hertzog calmly holstered his gun and zipped out his flashlight. He pointed it at the nearest row. The others gasped.

‘What the hell?’ Dog also holstered his gun and used his flashlight. The others followed suit.

The beams of their flashlights revealed the same thing.

Seated in every chair, mute and motionless, were rows and rows of mannequins. Every single one staring at the empty stage. Every single one horribly mutilated.

Sixteen

‘What the hell is this?’ Dog peered into the darkness beyond the illumination of their flashlights.

Hertzog tried the light switch. Nothing.

‘Boss, I saw a central generator linked to all the out buildings,’ Jools said. ‘Let me see if I can get it started.’

A few minutes later they heard the chug-chug as the massive diesel generator sprang into life. Seconds later the light above them flickered into life. The eerie scene before them was now properly illuminated.

Hertzog walked slowly down the aisle, looking left and right. Every single seat in the hall was filled with a badly mauled mannequin. Duvenhage’s original estimate was accurate. There were at least three dozen of the mute dummies. All facing the stage.

Hertzog paused to inspect one of the mannequins while the others spread out across the hall.

‘What is this place?’ Dog asked.

‘It must be some of kind of hall, for group meetings or things like that,’ Hertzog said.

‘No flippin ways.’ It was Jannie Duvenhage, standing on the stage. ‘Boss, you’re not going to believe this. If you thought the mannequins were weird ... wait ‘til you see this.’

Seventeen

Hertzog rushed to the stage. Duvenhage and Dog were already there. Both stared down in mystification. Hertzog mounted the stairs on the left side and stopped as he reached the zenith. He walked slowly towards them, frowning intensely.

‘What the hell is the meaning of this?’

‘It’s Coffee,’ Dog said. ‘Look.’

Spread out between them, at the back of the stage, was a miniature model of a little town. Built to scale. With painstaking care and diligence. Perfect in every detail. Dog was correct. It was Coffee. At the northern part of the little model was an exact replica of Coffee’s Signal Hill, even featuring the giant cross that was illuminated at night.

‘Holy shit,’ Jools said as he joined them. ‘This is insane.’

The group of elite policemen stared in mute fascination at the sprawling model. It covered a large area, easily nine square metres in size.

The attention to detail was obsessive. Every building, every street, every structure and feature of the town of Coffee had been duplicated exactly. Tiny little cars filled the streets while small little figures dotted the sidewalks. It also featured the open-pit diamond mine. Hertzog fell down on his knees and inspected the little OK Supermarket. The miniature building even had its own notice board with tiny little posters. ‘It’s the exact copy of Coffee, down to every little detail.’

‘Why would the perpetrator go to all this effort, boss?’ He looked at Hertzog, uncertain. ‘I mean, it is him, isn’t it?’

Hertzog paused, studying the model. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There’s no doubt about that.’

‘All that effort for nothing,’ Duvenhage said.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, he put in all this effort ... just to have us discover it.’

Hertzog shook his head. ‘He wanted us to find it, detective. That was the whole reason for building it in the first place.’

Jannie lifted his palms to the ceiling. ‘But why?’

Hertzog said nothing. Surveying the model.

‘Wait a minute,’ Dog said. ‘The builder didn’t do such a good job after all. It’s not correct.’ Hertzog looked up at Dog. He pointed at a section of the model. ‘Look, the police station. It’s not in the correct place.’ He pointed at another section. ‘It’s supposed to be there, not here.’

‘Yeah, he’s right.’ Jools pointed at a group of buildings. ‘If I remember correctly this is an open space. Not filled with buildings.’

Hertzog slowly stood up.

‘Yeah,’ Dog said. ‘And what’s happening over here at the mine.’ He pointed to an area on the model that wasn’t too far from their present location in the hall. A large group of figures formed a semi-circle around three other figurines, lying parallel on the ground.

Hertzog looked over at Chaz. ‘Now the Dominee’s words are starting to make sense.’

‘What do you mean, boss?’ Duvenhage looked from Hertzog to Chaz.

‘Do you remember what Carol-Ann Botha said, the Mayor’s wife?’

‘Erm ...’

‘She said there was a big fire ... in nineteen-seventy-three. Do you remember? She said it destroyed the entire eastern part of the CBD.’ Hertzog indicated the eastern part of the model. ‘Which included the police station and these buildings you mentioned, Detective Van Sant.’

‘So you mean this is a map of –’

‘Yes.’ Hertzog paused. ‘This model is indeed an exact replica of Coffee. But far more importantly, it’s a model of a very specific day in the history of Coffee.’

‘Huh?’

‘It’s a replica ... a snapshot if you like ... of an event. A snapshot of a terrible event ... that occurred exactly twenty years ago.’

Eighteen

The detectives were met early the next morning by the Bloemfontein forensics team. They had spent the entire night at the mine in an effort to guard and preserve what had become a crime scene. As the groggy policemen stepped from the Land Rover they were given odd stares and were the subject of a good few humorous comments regarding their casual attire. Someone hummed the theme tune to Hawaii 5-0.

Hertzog instructed Dog to radio the Coffee police station and announce their discovery. In about half an hour the mine was crawling with uniformed policemen. Major Bismarck arrived a few minutes later.

‘Well done, Captain Hertzog,’ he said. ‘I hope your discovery can lead to a swift resolution to this ugly business.’

‘I hope so too, Major,’ Hertzog said leading him inside the hall. He showed him the miniature model on the stage. When he explained the suspected significance of the model, Hertzog watched the Major’s face with a hawk’s eye. Behind his ever-present shades the Major revealed nothing. Although ... Hertzog could swear he saw a vein in his neck begin to pulse. ‘Major Bismarck, you wouldn’t perhaps know what event this model depicts, would you?’

Bismarck gave Hertzog a cool stare. ‘No, I don’t.’ He paused. ‘Please excuse me. You’re free to give my men whatever orders you wish. Good day, Captain.’ And with that the Major departed.

‘What do you think, boss? Is he hiding something?’

‘They’re all hiding something, detective.’ Hertzog pushed out his jaw in determination. ‘The question is what.’

Nineteen

Later that day Hertzog and his men made their way back to the guesthouse. The uniformed Coffee policemen remained behind and scoured the entire area of the mine while the CSU team processed the hall and the hangar in which the photographs of the teens had been taken.

When the MCU team arrived at the guesthouse a stranger was waiting for them. He approached them as they climbed from the Land Rover. ‘Captain Hertzog?’ He asked, walking towards Hertzog.

‘Yes.’

The man handed Hertzog an envelope. ‘This is your subpoena to appear before an independent commission tasked with investigating the suspicious deaths of your parents.’

‘What?’ Dog jumped forward, making as if to punch the man. The clerk went running for the safety of the guesthouse.

‘Independent commission, my arse,’ Jools said. ‘Independently funded by the wealthy of Coffee, I’m sure.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Hertzog said calmly. ‘It’s just a show of strength. Nothing more.’

The men went to take showers. Those who required sleep were instructed to take a nap. There was a lot of work that lay ahead – Hertzog needed his men to be fresh and awake. Jannie disappeared into town to follow up on the tasks Hertzog had given him.

Later that afternoon Hertzog gathered his men in the conference room of the Rust en Vrede guesthouse to review everything they had learnt up to that moment. ‘Detective Duvenhage, you got anything yet on the suicide issue?’

‘Boss, you’re not going to believe this. In the last twenty years or so altogether sixteen suicides have been reported.’

Dog whistled in exclamation.

‘That’s way above the national average,’ Jools said.

‘You’re right, boss,’ Jannie said. ‘These people are hiding something big. And whatever it is, it’s so dark it’s busy eating them up from inside.’

‘That’s for sure,’ Dog said.

‘We need to get these people to talk, boss,’ Chaz said. ‘Their dark little secret is the key to everything. If they only understood that.’

‘Whatever their secret is, it’s safe to say it’s got something to do with those three bodies.’

Hertzog nodded. ‘Yes, I’m beginning to agree. However, for now Bredekamp is our main suspect. Have we heard anything yet from the forensic anthropologist?’

‘No, boss.’

‘What did you learn about Bredekamp?’ Hertzog asked.

‘Sad story, if ever there was one,’ Jannie said. ‘As a young boy Bredekamp showed incredible potential. He went to study engineering at Wits University. He graduated, summa cum laude. It seems, however, as if his demons were haunting him from an early age. At least that’s what people say. His life started falling apart a few years after graduating from university. He developed a serious drinking problem. And coupled with ever more frequent visits to the Thaba Nchu Sun Casino it ruined his chances at success. People say he lost his family’s fortune at the gambling tables.’

Gambling was illegal in South Africa. But just like the Native American reservations capitalised by legalising gambling, the Homeland states (developed by the Apartheid government to give a semblance of democracy and black independence) each had its own highly profitable casino. The Thaba Nchu Sun was in Lesotho however, which was a fully independent country. The proximity to the Orange Free State meant that for most gamblers it was little more than a two hour drive away.

‘By the time Bredekamp was in his early thirties he was virtually destitute. He also owed thousands to some of Coffee’s wealthiest residents. If it wasn’t for the sympathy of his sister he would have been homeless. Up until the time of his death he was earning scraps doing odd jobs all over town as a handyman.’ Jannie scanned the faces of the other detectives. ‘The sad thing is Bredekamp himself comes from one of the region’s most well-established families.’

‘I don’t know, he just doesn’t sound like a cold-blooded killer.’

‘You would think so. But check this out, boss. Wouter did some time in the prison.’

‘For what?’

‘Fraud ... and attempted murder, no less.’

‘What?’

‘Yep. It was described as a “misunderstanding”, but attempted murder is attempted murder. He was given a lenient sentence though. His family probably pulled some strings.’

Chaz looked at Hertzog. ‘And don’t forget the evidence links him directly to the abductions of the three teens. I think old Wouter has more than a few skeletons in the closet.’

‘Yes,’ Hertzog said. ‘Dig some more. See if there’s more to the story.’

‘Sure thing, boss,’ Jannie said.

‘Good work, kid,’ Dog said, avoiding Duvenhage’s eyes. Jannie looked at Dog, stunned.

‘Detective Bosman, I want you and Detective Doober to see if you can discover the identities of our three mummies. Go right back in the records. The Dominee told us something happened twenty years ago. That would make it nineteen-sixty-six. He admitted his own memory was fickle. So check out sixty-five and sixty-seven too. Look for missing person reports, unexplained disappearances ... anything like that. You know what to do.’ Chaz and Dog nodded. ‘Detective Duvenhage, I’ve got another assignment for you. It concerns the posters that appeared after each abduction. They were printed from ... either an Apple Macintosh or IBM compatible machine. They weren’t Photostats, that’s for sure. Now there are relatively few people who own a personal computer or a quality printer. Especially in a place like Coffee. In addition, the perpetrator must have used some kind of CAD (Computer Assisted Drawing) programme to import the photographs of the teens. We’re looking at high-end equipment, probably purchased in Kimberley or Bloemfontein. So start there. Contact all the relevant vendors and see if you can pick up a lead. See if anybody from Coffee purchased equipment like this in the last ... I don’t know, two years or so. Got it?’

‘It’s done, boss,’ Duvenhage said, excited.

‘The more I look at this case the more I realise the perpetrator is one of their own. They would never admit it but it’s starting to look more and more likely. Someone who’s able to move without suspicion through the town. Someone who’s either known to the victims or who is able to easily establish friendships ... or at the very least gain the trust of the victims.’ He looked at his detectives with a grave expression on his face. ‘But there’s something else. Our recent discoveries and my own instincts tell me this man is about to escalate his activities. He’s been content thus far to leave two weeks, more or less, between abductions. But that’s going to change. I feel ... no, I know he’s going to strike soon. Very soon. Within the next few days. Gentlemen, we’re racing against the clock. And so far, we’re losing.’

***

That night as Hertzog was preparing for bed Mrs Rabie knocked on Hertzog’s door. ‘Koewee? Detective, there’s someone here to see you?’

‘Someone to see me? Are you sure, Mrs Rabie?’

‘Oh yes, he asked for you by name. He’s waiting at the reception desk. Hertzog thanked her. He slipped on a t-shirt. On his way to the front desk he stopped at Jools’s room. ‘Want to join me?’ He asked when Jools opened the door. ‘I think it has something to do with the case.’ Jools agreed and they both strolled to meet the stranger at the reception desk.

A slender youth was waiting for them, his back to the detectives, staring through the French windows at the dark landscape outside.

‘Good evening,’ Hertzog said. ‘I believe you’re looking for me?’

The youth turned. He had long unruly hair and a thin pointed face. ‘Captain Hertzog. My name is Antonius Bredekamp. People call me Tony.’ He held out a stiff hand towards Hertzog. ‘Wouter Bredekamp is my father.’

Hertzog and Jools exchanged a curious glance. ‘Tony,’ Hertzog said, taking his hand. This is Lieutenant van Sant.’ The youth nodded curtly to Jools. ‘How can I help you?’

‘You know who killed him right?’

Mrs Rabie appeared behind them, ostensibly to do some late night dusting.

‘Let’s step outside, shall we.’ Hertzog opened the French door and the three of them stepped into the cold night air. ‘What was that?’

‘You know who killed my father, right?’

Jools and Hertzog exchanged another look. ‘Why don’t you tell me, Tony.’

‘It was them of course.’

‘Them?’

‘Those people. The ones who control everything around here. You know who I’m talking about.’

‘What makes you think it’s them, Tony?’

‘Who else would profit from his death? My father knew things about them. He knew their secrets. And they killed him because of it.’

‘What secrets, Tony?’

‘You know they destroyed him, right? I’m sure people have been saying all sorts of things about him. That he was some pathetic drunk. They probably told you he was crazy. But they made him like that. They are the ones who destroyed him.’

‘Why don’t you tell us what you mean, Tony?’

Tony Bredekamp paused, catching his breath. ‘My father was an exceptionally intelligent man. Long ago my family was one of the region’s richest families. But they destroyed it all.’ Hertzog nodded patiently. Tony sighed. ‘A few years after I was born my dad inherited a lot of money from my grandfather. A short while after this, old man Rockcliff approached him –’

‘Rockcliff?’

‘Don’t worry, you’ll meet his son very soon, I’m sure. In any case, Rockcliff approached him with an investment opportunity – a “sure thing”. He convinced my father to invest in one of his companies. A few months later the entire company went belly-up. My dad lost everything. His entire damn inheritance. My dad was always too trusting, too decent. He took them at their word. They all walked away with millions while my dad lost everything. It was a scam, nothing else. They were clever, they covered their tracks. No-one could prove anything. It didn’t matter, coz after that he was ruined.’

‘So they ruined your father financially? Was that when he started –’

‘Drinking? No. It took another one of their betrayals to finally break his spirit.’ Tony paused. ‘A few months after he lost the inheritance my father discovered my mother was having an affair with Dawid Bismarck. She left him soon afterwards and married Bismarck. He seduced her, you understand?’ His face became a mask of suppressed rage. ‘She severed all ties with us. I went to live with my aunt. She’s still married to Bismarck today.’

‘Tony, what about the charges levelled against your dad? Fraud ... and attempted murder. That’s quite serious.’

‘You don’t understand. When Rockcliff’s company went bust it was revealed the whole damn thing was a fraud. They implicated my father, of course. They didn’t just steal his money, they framed him.’

‘And the attempted murder?’

‘What do you think? He tried to reason with them. He begged them to help him.’ Tony paused. ‘One day he went over to Rockcliff’s house. Things got nasty. He was accused afterwards of attempted murder. The charges were commuted afterwards, to assault with a deadly weapon. But he still ended up doing time.’

‘So, Tony, would it be true to say that your father harboured some deep-seated grudges against the people who hurt him?’

‘Deep-seated grudges, my arse. He hated their guts.’ He leaned forward. ‘So do I. If I could kill every single one of them, I would.’ Hertzog looked at Jools, intrigued. Tony smirked with triumph. ‘What’s happening to them right now. They deserve every little bit of it. I hope all their fucking children disappear.’

‘That’s a very incriminating comment,’ Tony.’

‘I don’t care. Investigate them,’ he said, pointing a finger at Hertzog. ‘And arrest them for my father’s death.’ He turned and marched into the darkness.

‘Interesting new information,’ Hertzog said.

‘Well, you know what they say,’ Jools said. ‘There are always two sides to a story ... and then there’s the truth.’

Hertzog nodded. ‘Whatever the case, it looks like we’ve just identified another suspect.’

Twenty

The next two days passed in a haze of frenetic activity. The detectives busied themselves with their respective tasks. All the while realising they were rapidly running out of time. Chaz and Dog scoured the town records and spent the greater part of their time at the Coffee police station. Detective Constable Jannie Duvenhage soon found that conducting his investigation into the high-end equipment by telephone was a waste of time. He asked Hertzog for permission and took two trips over two days to Kimberley and Bloemfontein respectively. Meanwhile Hertzog and Jools re-interviewed all the townspeople again. They specifically targeted some of the “weaker” elements like Alte Bismarck. Put in plain language, Hertzog wanted her to break. Their conspiracy of silence was the main obstacle to solving the case. They invited Alte to the police station. The “friendly” interview soon turned into an aggressive interrogation. When Hertzog reminded her that her silence had contributed to her child’s probable death she stormed from the Coffee police station in tears. They had failed once again.

The other interviews were even less successful. Some of the interviewees, like Carol-Ann Botha, insisted that her lawyer be present during the meeting – a ridiculous request since she was not by any means a suspect. Others like Mayor Botha refused to see the detectives altogether, concocting flimsy excuses. By the end of the second day, Hertzog and Jools’s interviews had achieved nothing at all.

After two days of gruelling work, Jools and Hertzog decided to return to the guesthouse. Exhausted and frustrated. Jools immediately ordered a beer in the guesthouse dining room. For once, Hertzog joined him. For a few minutes neither said anything, lost in their thoughts. Finally Jools drained the contents of his Castle Lager. Hertzog’s beer stood in front of him, untouched. ‘It’s one huge bugger-up,’ Jools said. ‘I feel like we’ve achieved absolutely nothing since we’ve been here.’

‘That’s not quite true.’ Hertzog smiled at his friend.

‘I don’t know, Shaun. On the one hand we’ve got these screwed-up people who refuse to co-operate. I mean, what’s their goddamned problem? What kind of secret is worth sacrificing their children for? What the hell. You ever seen anything like this in your life before?’ Hertzog shook his head. ‘And then on the other hand, we’ve got this sick bastard who’s been a step ahead of us since the very beginning. I mean, that doesn’t just happen. This ... sick fiend must have been planning this thing for a long time, right? I’m talking months. Maybe even years.’ Hertzog perked up, looking at Jools with intense interest. ‘You don’t just pull off something like this overnight, right?’

Hertzog nodded slowly, pondering Jools’s words with great intensity. ‘You know what, I think –’

They were interrupted by a uniformed policeman. It was Constable van der Merwe – the rookie who had been tasked with guarding the cemetery. The Constable held his cap in his hand. ‘Captain, I’m glad I found you here.’ He nodded a greeting to Jools. ‘I just wanted to thank you once again for not ... er ... reporting us for dereliction of duty that night.’

‘It’s fine, Constable,’ Hertzog said, distracted.

‘I want to re-iterate that we take our duties very seriously, Captain. You understand, there’s no way ... on God’s earth ... that anybody could have opened that grave while we were there. It’s impossible, Captain.’

Hertzog howled and jumped up.

Constable van der Merwe staggered backwards, completely bewildered. Jools himself got such a fright he swiped the empty beer bottle from the table. It crashed to the floor and shattered into a million pieces. ‘Holy shit, Shaun. What the hell?’

Hertzog grabbed the Constable. ‘You’re right. You’re absolutely right. It’s impossible.’

The Constable nodded enthusiastically, totally confused. ‘Er ...’ He looked at Jools, perplexed.

‘Yes, you’re right, Constable.’ Hertzog looked at Jools. ‘And so are you, Jools.’

‘Glad to hear,’ Jools said, shrugging while the perplexed Constable continued looking at him.

‘If I’m correct we’re finally going to be one step ahead of this goddamned madman. Finally!’ Hertzog released the uniformed policeman. ‘Constable, can you get me a shovel? Quick.’

‘Uh ... yes. There’s one in the back of the police van.’

‘Can you take us there immediately?’

‘Where?’

‘The cemetery, of course,’ Hertzog said as if it should have been clear to everyone. Even Jools however looked surprised. ‘I’m going to give you a glimpse into the mind of a psychopath, Constable.’

Twenty one

Hertzog stood at the gate of the cemetery. He was flanked by Jools and Constable van der Merwe.

‘So, what do you want me to do, Captain?’

‘You have your spade ready?’

The Constable had managed to organise two spades. He had given one to Hertzog. He now held the other one aloft. ‘’Got it right here, sir.’

‘Good.’ Hertzog glanced over at the Constable. ‘We’re going grave digging, Constable.’

Constable stared at Hertzog with shock. ‘Sjoe ... Captain, I don’t know if that’s –’

‘Oh, don’t worry, Constable. It’s perfectly acceptable. The only question now is not a moral one. It’s geographical.’ The Constable looked perplexed. ‘Where to begin digging, of course,’ Hertzog said with a devilish grin.

‘So ... you mean we’re going to dig up all these graves?’ Van der Merwe asked with uncertainty, indicating the cemetery. ‘Don’t we need a court order or something?’

‘We’re not exhuming anyone, Constable. Just digging a little.’

On the other end of the cemetery the two uniformed cops who were guarding the cemetery gave the trio odd stares. The B.J. Vorster cemetery wasn’t a very large site but with almost a hundred graves what Hertzog suggested was a mammoth task nonetheless.

‘So far our friend, the madman, has chosen to target some of Coffee’s more prominent families. Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, and neither will he. So we need to look at some of the remaining ... elite of Coffee.’ Hertzog looked at the Constable. ‘You have any names for us, Constable? I’m looking for prominent families.’

Van der Merwe thought for a moment. ‘Ah ... sir, we have the Le Roux family ... the Standers ... the Smit family ... and then also the Rockcliffs. They’re a very wealthy family.’

‘Ah, yes. The Rockcliffs. Good. You start with the Le Roux gravesites and I’ll cover the Rockcliff graves.’

‘Captain?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m still unsure what you want me to do.’

Hertzog stepped forward and began scanning the nearest tombstones. ‘Exactly what I said, Constable. Choose a grave ... and just start digging.’

‘Oh goodness,’ van der Merwe said, giving Jools a pained expression.

‘It takes a madman to catch a madman,’ Jools said, whispering with mischief. He winked at the perturbed Constable as he followed his colleague.

‘Jools, help me look for any Rockcliff family graves.’

‘Sure thing,’ Jools said, fanning out.

After a moment the Constable located one of the Le Roux graves. With great reservation he began prodding the mound of dirt. ‘Ah ... Captain, what are we looking for?’ He asked, shouting from across the cemetery.

‘You’ll know it when you see it, Constable.’ Hertzog looked at the anguished policeman. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t have to dig very far.’ The Constable nodded, his doubts little assuaged by Hertzog’s words.

‘Shaun.’ Jools indicated a general area. ‘I’ve found a few over here.’

‘Wonderful.’ Hertzog joined him. ‘Let’s do it.’ He began digging into the mound while Jools watched with interest. After a few minutes he stopped digging. ‘This is not it.’ He turned and began working on an adjacent site.

‘Erm ... I haven’t found anything yet, Captain.’ Constable van der Merwe looked over at Hertzog for assurance.

‘Don’t worry, Constable. Just find the next one and keep digging.’

After another few minutes Hertzog stopped digging. ‘Dammit, not this one either.’ He looked at Jools. ‘How many do you count?’

‘About fourteen.’

Hertzog nodded. And resumed digging another grave.

Nothing.

And another.

Nothing.

And another.

Nothing. By this time the sweat was pouring from Hertzog’s brow. His jacket had long since been draped over a tombstone and his white shirt was drenched in sweat.

‘Captain, I still haven’t found anything this side.’

Jools chuckled. ‘Constable, you don’t have to give us running commentary. Just tell us when you’ve found something.’

Hertzog began digging yet another grave. When he stopped abruptly. He looked at Jools, a feverish excitement in his eyes. ‘I’ve got it.’ He turned and shouted at van der Merwe. ‘Constable, I’ve found it.’ The uniformed cop came running to their position, out of breath, also drenched in sweat. He looked at Hertzog with great expectation. ‘Stand back, please.’

With all his might, Hertzog lifted the shovel into the air.

‘No, no, what are you doing?’

Hertzog brought the shovel down onto the mound of dirt. The entire pile collapsed and crashed into the depths below. All three leaned forward and stared into the pit. At the bottom of the grave, six feet deep, lay a brutally mauled mannequin. Jools jumped into the air and whooped with excitement.

The Constable stared with shock at the mutilated mannequin. ‘I don’t understand. What’s going on?’

Hertzog stood with his one hand on his knee, using the shovel as a strut in the other hand. ‘You were right, Constable van der Merwe. It was impossible for anyone to dig a grave and exhume the body right under your noses. That’s because it was done several months ago.’ Hertzog looked at Jools. ‘And you were right too. This thing has been planned for a very long time.’

‘So ...’

‘They dug the graves, removed the coffin and replaced it with one of our poor mannequins. The hole was then covered with a thin piece of timber, just thick enough to support the mound of dirt. When the time came, all that had to be done was simply collapse the timber ... and voila.’ Hertzog indicated the loose pieces of timber at the bottom of the grave. ‘It takes no effort at all, despite my dramatics.’

Van der Merwe stared at the name on the tombstone. ‘So, does this mean –’

‘Yes, Constable. The killer’s next target is going to be a Rockcliff.’ Hertzog grimaced. ‘Unless we can stop him.’

Twenty two

Constable van der Merwe raced back to the Coffee CBD, flooring the pedal of the Toyota Hilux, painted in the distinctive yellow of South African Police vehicles. The omni-present vans were known as Zola Buds in the townships, named after the South African barefoot sprinter who had been universally reviled after the incident with American Mary Decker at the nineteen-eighty-four Olympic Games.

‘Do you want me to drop you at the guesthouse, Captain?’

’No time for that, Constable. We have absolutely no time to waste. Head straight for the Rockcliff residence.’ Hertzog instructed Jools to radio the Land Rover unit remaining in Coffee and tell Dog and Chaz to meet them at the Rockcliff residence. Jannie Duvenhage was still in Bloemfontein with the other vehicle. ‘What can you tell me about Mr Rockcliff, Constable?’

‘Well, sir, his name is Alistair Rockcliff. He’s by far the wealthiest man in the district. His family has a majority stake in the diamond mine, plus he owns dozens of other businesses.’

‘How many children does he have?’

‘I think he has two daughters, Captain.’

‘I see.’ Hertzog paused, thinking. ‘Is he close to the Major?’

‘I believe he is, sir.’

‘Hm-huh. Has he expressed any kind of opinions on the abductions?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’ Van der Merwe paused, glancing at Hertzog. ‘Well ... also ...’

‘Yes?’

‘I think there’s something wrong with him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know, sir. Just rumours.’

‘Rumours? Is he sick?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Well if there are rumours then somebody must have some kind of idea.’

‘No, sir. I don’t think anybody really knows.’

‘There’s something wrong with him but nobody knows what?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s insane, Constable. How did these rumours begin in the first place? What do his friends or associates say?’

‘They don’t know, sir.’

‘They don’t know?

‘Nobody knows, sir. In fact nobody even knows what he looks like.’

‘Now you’ve totally lost me, Constable.’

‘Yeah, I agree,’ Jools said. ‘What is he? Some kind of phantom?’

Van der Merwe stared at the two detectives out of the corner of his eye. ‘He’s a recluse, sir. No-one’s seen him in over ten years.’

Twenty three

Nadine Rockcliff paged lazily through the Franz Kafka novel while sipping her cappuccino. Although it was the heart of winter the day was sunny and warm. After a few minutes of unsuccessfully trying to penetrate Kafka’s terse prose she placed the book on the table. She looked around the near-empty coffee shop. Except for her table, there was only one other student and an elderly couple in the small premises of Café Bohѐme.

The university holiday had virtually emptied the little college town of Stellenbosch. And students were few and far between. Nadine didn’t mind of course. There was a certain gentle solace in the quietness of Stellenbosch over holiday periods. She naturally wouldn’t have minded going home to the town of her youth either. Sarah and Willemien were also home for the holidays. Nadine had looked so forward to sharing the stories of her first year at university, just as much as she had looked forward to hearing those of her friends. So much had happened in the six months since they had left school. It sometimes felt as if the adulthood they had so desperately craved in the small Free State town of Coffee had been visited upon them in a matter of weeks since attending university. Yes. Nadine had no complaints. Life was good. Unbearably good. It was enough to make one feel guilty.

Nadine signalled the waitress for the bill. While she waited she busied herself staring through the windows of the coffee shop at the beautiful leafiness of the quiet Stellenbosch street outside. Yes, this was most certainly contentment. Although ...

Why had her dad been so insistent that she not return to Coffee for the holidays? He had mumbled something about her safety. Which just didn’t make sense. Whatever in the world could threaten her in the little one-horse town of her youth? Besides, she had been so worried about his health lately. She wanted to be with him. He received the best care money could buy. But still.

To compensate her for the “inconvenience” he had deposited another five-thousand rand in her bank account. Okay. So, yes. Being stuck in Stellenbosch during the holidays was hardly the stuff of nightmares.

The waitress brought the bill. For a few moments the two pretty girls exchanged pleasantries. As a student at Stellenbosch University – arguable the country’s best Afrikaans university – Nadine was a regular at Café Bohѐme and knew all the waitresses and managers. In a tiny little hamlet like Stellenbosch it was very difficult not getting to know everyone sooner or later. Nadine slipped the waitress a fifty and told her to keep the change. She grabbed her oversized handbag and slipped the worn copy of Metamorphosis into its cluttered depths. Moments later she was walking down the shady Stellenbosch street, humming West End Girls, the new tune from the Pet Shop Boys.

About half a mile behind her a dark figure detached itself from the shadows and quietly followed her.

Twenty four

The police van pulled up outside a massive and ornate wrought-iron gate. A six-foot white-washed wall ran along the perimeter of the large verdant property. Right at the back of the property stood a stately mansion. Big and beautiful, it resembled a plantation house from the deep south of the United States. To their right a row of towering weeping willow trees lined the bank of the Modderrivier, long luscious tendrils dipping lazily into its muddy waters.

Chaz and Dog were already waiting for them at the gate. Hertzog climbed out and went to meet them. He quickly briefed them on his latest discovery.

‘Well, let’s do it,’ Dog said. He walked over to the gate and pressed a button underneath an intercom speaker. A CCTV camera looked down upon him.

Nothing happened.

He pressed it again. After what seemed an eternity the intercom crackled. ‘Yes,’ a curt voice said.

Hertzog stepped forward. ‘I’m Captain Hertzog from the Major Crimes Unit.’ He paused. ‘We’re busy investigating the disappearances of the Coffee youths.’

Silence.

‘Mr Rockcliff will not be receiving any guests today.’

‘This is not a social call. We have crucial information regarding Mr Rockcliff’s children. We believe one of his daughters will be the next target.’

Silence.

After endless moments a mechanism within the gate motor clicked. The huge gates swung silently open.

‘Congratulations, Constable,’ Hertzog said as he climbed into the police van. ‘You’re about to get your first glimpse of the mysterious Alistair Rockcliff.’

The convoy slowly made its way up the long driveway all the way to the large mansion where the paved road circled an impressively large stone fountain. The group of policemen climbed out of the two vehicles and mounted the portico steps. The ornately carved door to the mansion opened. A tall haughty-looking man stood in the doorway. He was wearing the elaborate outfit of an old-school manservant.

Dog nudged Jools in the ribs. ‘Look. It’s a flippin’ butler,’ he said sotto voce.

‘Mr Rockcliff is expecting you upstairs,’ the butler said. The detectives recognised his voice from the intercom. ‘I regret that Mr Rockcliff cannot receive you alone.’

‘Let me guess,’ Dog said. ‘He’s got his lawyer present.’

‘No, sir,’ the butler said with ill-disguised contempt. ‘He is accompanied by his medical staff.’ The policemen exchanged surprised glances. One by one they filed into the mansion foyer. Two beautiful sweeping stairways flanked the large room, culminating in wide upstairs landing lined by an opulently carved wooden balustrade. ‘Please follow the stairway,’ the butler said, indicating the nearest staircase. ‘Turn right at the landing. It’s the first door on the right.’

Hertzog nodded politely. ‘Thank you.’

The group mounted the staircase. And followed the butler’s directions. They arrived at a closed door. Hertzog knocked softly. After a few seconds they heard a voice from inside. ‘Enter.’ The detectives exchanged glances, taken aback at the imperious tone of the command. Hertzog turned the brass door knob and entered.

None of them knew what to expect. But they were nonetheless taken aback at the sight that greeted them.

It was a spectacularly large room. Tall French doors offered a breathtaking view of the front garden with its myriad manicured trees and bushes. In the distance they could see the wrought-iron gate. The room itself had been cleared of the majority of its furniture. Instead in the corner stood a massive queen-sized canopy bed with lavish linen and curtains that – bizarrely – blended elements of Rococo and Moorish designs. Flanking the draped monstrosity were various expensive-looking medical machines. Hertzog recognised a cardiopulmonary bypass pump, also known as a heart-lung machine, as well as an electrocardiogram device which beeped at regular intervals. In another corner stood an expensive motorised wheelchair. On either side of the canopy bed were two nurses. At the foot of the bed what Hertzog assumed to be a doctor stared at them with interest.

‘Please come in.’ It was the same voice as before. Only when the doctor moved aside did the detectives, for the first time, spot the owner of the commanding voice. For a moment the policemen stared in dumbfounded shock. The frail and emaciated body almost disappearing in the lavishness of the bed couldn’t possibly belong to the voice that had spoken with such self-assured authority. When he spoke again however it dispersed all doubts. ‘How can I help you, Captain Hertzog?’

‘Good day, sir,’ Hertzog said, stepping forward. ‘I assume you are Mr Alistair Rockcliff.’ Although Alistair Rockcliff appeared weak and fragile, on closer inspection Hertzog saw powerful features that belied his frail state. His aristocratic visage was further accented by a hooked nose and a mammoth grey beard, making him appear like an ageing Zeus.

‘You are indeed as good as they say,’ Rockcliff said without a trace of sarcasm in his imperious voice. He looked at the Constable. ‘I see you are accompanied by our very own Constable van der Merwe.’ Although his voice was strong he spoke with some difficulty. An intravenous drip was inserted into his left arm and the tubes from an oxygen tank were clamped around his nostrils.

The Constable looked on in shock. ‘How did you know –’

‘You mentioned my daughters, Captain. I hope you’re not wasting my time.’

‘Sir, we have reason to believe your daughter will be the next target.’

‘Which one of my daughters, Captain? I have two.’

Hertzog paused. ‘We’re not sure.’

‘Then how can you be sure my daughters are in danger?’

‘Trust me, Mr Rockcliff. Our evidence is conclusive. One of your daughters will be the victim. And I’m afraid it may happen at any moment.’

Rockcliff paused for a long time, staring with unblinking eyes at Hertzog. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, Captain. My daughters are both perfectly safe. My youngest is in her room at this very moment. And my eldest is in a safe place, far away from here.’

‘Mr Rockcliff, you don’t seem to understand. This man’s crimes have spanned two cities. For almost an entire month he has struck ... again and again, with absolute impunity. He has managed to circumvent the efforts of your entire police force as well as our own unit. This man –’

‘Are you saying you’re incapable of capturing this man, Captain?’

Hertzog sighed in exasperation.

Twenty five

The walk to Nadine’s flat took her less than fifteen minutes. As she inserted the key into the lock she paused momentarily. A flicker of a shadow passed over her good mood. She turned, feeling a sudden anxiety constrict her heart. After looking around the empty street for a few moments she chuckled to herself. She took a deep breath and shook her head. She reminded herself to reduce her intake of caffeine and drink more Rooibos.

She turned the key and entered her spacious flat. She always loved coming home to her pozzie. Unlike most of her friends who had to live in the hostels or share grubby little bachelor flats across Stellenbosch, her privileged position meant she had a luxury two-bedroom apartment to herself. Yes, Nadine was privileged. But she wasn’t spoiled. She realised her fortunate circumstances meant she had to give back to those who were less privileged. It was the main reason why she had come to Stellenbosch to study sociology. She was going to become a social worker. Her dad thought little of her career choice. But unfortunately for him she had inherited his stubborn genes. He was the first one to admit it.

Nadine’s intense sense of social responsibility also meant that she had participated in all the anti-Apartheid protest action that had rocked the Stellenbosch campus that year. Becoming a social worker was one thing. Her dad would have a baby if he knew about her political leanings however. She knew exactly how influential a figure he was in the local National Party circles.

She closed the door behind her and immediately switched the TV to the M-Net channel – South Africa’s only pay-TV channel. She flopped onto the couch and began watching a re-run of The Simpsons.

Outside the shadowy man watched the front door of Nadine’s luxury apartment. A surreptitious scan of the street revealed that it was empty.

Soon. Very soon.

Twenty six

‘You don’t have to like me. You don’t have to trust me. You don’t even have to believe in me. All I’m asking is that you send a police officer to your daughter’s location this very moment. We don’t even have a minute to spare.’

‘What makes you think you can come to our town and tell us what to do, Captain Hertzog? If it hadn’t been for your incompetent meddling we could have resolved this whole issue a long time ago. On our own.’

The beeps from the ECG monitor quickened. And became erratic. The nurses looked at the doctor with concern.

‘I’m sorry, Captain. You are distressing my patient. I am going to have to ask you to leave.’

Hertzog stared at Rockcliff with anguished rage.

Twenty seven

The dark figure scanned the quiet street surreptitiously. A Volkswagen Beetle slowly scuttled past, Danger Zone from Kenny Loggins pumping from its crowded interior.

He waited patiently until the noisy vehicle turned a corner. Then he moved from behind the poplar he was using as cover. With confident easy strides the shadowy shape moved towards the front door of Nadine Rockcliff. Enclosed in his pocket was the trusty electric tazer that had proven useful so many times before.

From inside the flat emanated the raucous laughter of Nadine Rockcliff.

Twenty eight

‘Damn you, Rockcliff,’ Hertzog said, ignoring the doctor. ‘Your stubborn refusal to co-operate and this ... sickening secrecy that all of you continue to maintain has already cost the lives of three innocent youths.’

‘How dare you?’ Rockcliff tried to rise in his obscenely lavish bed. The heart rate monitor was going ballistic.

The doctor shoved himself into Hertzog’s face. ‘If you don’t leave now you will cause this man’s death.’

‘How dare I? For God’s sake. How dare you?’ Hertzog pushed aside the doctor, screaming at the prostrate Rockcliff. The nurses cowered in a corner. ‘All of you ... the whole bunch of you ... you’ve completely sapped my patience. And I’m a very patient man, Rockcliff.’

‘Captain, you are busy causing –’

‘Oh shut up,’ Hertzog said, fixing the doctor with an enraged stare. Dog stared at their commander with awe. Hertzog walked up to Rockcliff. The invalid pushed himself up against the backboard of his canopy bed, alarm streaking across his face. The ECG went off the charts. ‘Right now I don’t give a damn about your life, Rockcliff. You’ve long since forfeited my sympathies. But I do care about the life of your daughter.’ He pointed a finger at Alistair Rockcliff. ‘You WILL send a police patrol to your daughter’s location. Right now!’

Hertzog placed his hand on his holstered service pistol.

Twenty nine

The murky figure scanned the front area of Nadine Rockcliff’s flat one more time. It was safe. There was no-one. The last phase of the plan could commence.

With the powerful tazer at the ready, he leaned in to press the door bell.

Inside, the theme music of the Simpsons indicated the animated programme was finished.

Thirty

Some say true silence can only exist in a vacuum. Maybe that’s true.

The total silence that followed Hertzog’s words however seemed almost as awesome and total. Except of course for the mad bleating of the ECG monitor.

For interminable minutes no-one said anything. No-one spoke.

Silence.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Silence.

Hertzog glared at Rockcliff. And everyone else stared at Hertzog.

It was a Mexican stand-off. Composed of silence.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

And then. Just like that. Rockcliff slumped into his bed. The ECG began to slow down. Rockcliff gave the detective one last hateful stare. Then pressed a button on a device next to his bed. ‘Jeffery.’

Seconds passed.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Please request that a Flying Squad patrol car be sent to Nadine’s residence.’

‘Very well, sir.’ Pause. ‘I’m familiar with the address, sir.’

Thirty one

In the quiet streets of Stellenbosch Blitspatrollie (Flying Squad) patrol vehicle number 225B happened to be a few streets from Nadine’s residence. The two police officers inside were returning from a call-out which ended up being a false alarm. Now they drove at a leisurely pace through the quaint university town’s placid streets. Both eyed the empty sidewalks with melancholy, missing the cute students who used to crowd these same streets during university semesters. The radio crackled.

‘Bravo Papa twee-twee-vyf ... Bravo Papa twee-twee-vyf.’

Bravo Papa two-two-five.

Bravo Papa was the official call sign for the Blitspatrollie.

The officer riding shotgun grabbed the radio receiver. ‘Bravo Papa two-two-five. What’s up?’

‘Bravo Papa, we got an urgent call-out to Graduandi Street. A possible abduction.’ The dispatch operator provided the address.

‘We’re on it, control.’ The officer stared at the driver with glee. ‘Action, ek sê,’ he said, whooping with excitement.

The driver floored the pedal. The tyres of the souped-up Toyota RSi burnt white hot smoke as the police car raced towards Nadine Rockcliff.

Thirty two

Nadine sat up on the couch as The Simpsons credits rolled across the screen, accompanied by the distinctive theme music. She giggled as she thought of the show she had just seen. ‘What a crazy bunch,’ she said to herself. She stood up and took a dirty mug with her to the kitchen.

As she entered the neat little kitchen she heard the doorbell ring. She placed the mug on the counter and headed through the door. Through the opaque glass of the front door she saw a dark shape hover at the entrance. With a few quick steps she crossed the distance to the lounge. And spent a few moments locating her keys.

She inserted the key and turned it.

She opened the front door.

And ...

Thirty three

Two uniformed policemen stood at Nadine’s front door. She stared, dumbfounded.

‘Miss, we received a report that you may be in danger.’ The driver of the patrol car peered around Nadine, scanning the interior of her flat. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I don’t understand,’ Nadine said, flustered. ‘I’m in danger? What do you mean?’

‘Miss, your father has requested that you please accompany us to the police station. He has arranged transport to take you back home.’

‘Back home? I ... what’s going on?’ She asked, anxiety gripping her.

The cop paused. ‘Miss, we’ve received information that you may be the victim of a possible abduction.’

‘What?’ Nadine felt the blood drain from her face.

‘We will wait here while you pack, ma’am.’

With trembling hands Nadine walked to her room and packed a small suitcase, taking just the necessary items. When she had done, she joined the two policemen at her front door. They led her to the patrol car.

‘What about your friend, miss?’ The cop asked as he opened the back door for her and helped her inside.

‘My friend?’

‘The man who was standing by your front door.’

‘My front door?’

‘Yes,’ the driver said, glancing at his partner. ‘For a moment we thought he was the kidnapper. But when he entered the next door apartment we assumed he was just a friend.’

Nadine sat for a moment, silent. She found it difficult to focus her thoughts. ‘Oh, it’s probably just Mike, my next door neighbour,’ she said, not for a moment realising how close she had come to certain death.

Thirty four

As soon as Hertzog received confirmation that the girl was safe, he bid farewell to a surly Alistair Rockcliff. The detectives from the Major Crimes Unit left the room and exited the Rockcliff residence while the butler held open the door for them. When they were out of earshot, Dog jogged in order to catch up to Jools. ‘Damn,’ he said, giggling like a schoolboy. ‘I was so hoping his name would be Jeeves.’

Jools chuckled. ‘Disappointed, are we?’

‘Constable van der Merwe, thank you for your assistance,’ Hertzog said, addressing the young Constable. ‘You can be proud of yourself. We all did very good work here today.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, beaming. ‘Do you need a ride?’

‘No, thanks. You go ahead. Please inform Major Bismarck about today’s events.’

‘I will do that, Captain.’ He shook Hertzog’s hand. ‘It was an honour working with you.’

Hertzog nodded in appreciation. He waited until the Constable had departed before he turned to his men. ‘Gentlemen, I’m afraid now that we foiled this madman’s plans he’s going to be enraged. It’s only going to serve to make his actions even more unpredictable.’ Hertzog looked grim. ‘I’m afraid he’s going to strike any moment. At any target.’ He turned to Dog. ‘Detective, tell the Major we need to institute an immediate curfew. Plus it’s my earnest recommendation that school be suspended for the moment. No child is to be left unaccompanied ... at any time. For any reason. Please make my concerns clear to him.’

‘Yes, boss.’

Hertzog sighed. ‘We’ve run out of time. We can’t carry on like this anymore. I’ve had just about enough of these people and their psychotic insistence to keep the truth from us.’ He paused, a grim expression on his face. ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures. I’m going to be contacting my new friend, Dawie Malan, for one last favour. We’re going to need serious re-enforcements, gentlemen. It’s time to fight fire with fire. ’

Thirty five

‘We’ve discovered the identity of the perpetrator,’ Hertzog said to a stunned group of Coffee police officers.

Silence.

Hertzog, Chaz, Dog, Duvenhage and Jools were crammed into Major Bismarck’s office together with around two dozen of Coffee’s finest. Major Bismarck rose slowly from his chair. ‘That’s ... incredible news, Captain.’ The station commander looked as stunned as any of his uniformed officers. ‘I had no idea you had progressed so far in your investigation.’

‘We uncovered a vital clue earlier today, Major,’ Hertzog said, lying. ‘It has allowed us to establish the identity of the killer without a shadow of a doubt.’ He paused for dramatic effect, scanning the stunned faces of the Coffee policemen. ‘I am ready to reveal his identity.’

Silence.

‘Well, who is it?’ One of the older Coffee policemen asked.

‘I’m sorry. At this stage I’m not able to reveal who it is. Right now the only advantage we have is the element of surprise.’

‘Surely you don’t think it’s one of us, Captain?’ The Major asked, indicating his men grouped around him.

‘Of course not, Major. However, I am going to need your assistance to make my plan work.’

‘Your plan?’

‘Yes. I’m going to be announcing the identity of the perpetrator tonight at a meeting in the town hall.’ The group of uniformed officers broke into frenzied whispering. Hertzog waited for the commotion to die down. ‘I’m going to need your men to criss-cross the town and announce to everyone that we’ve managed to identify the psychopath that’s been terrorising Coffee. They need to inform the residents of Coffee about tonight’s meeting. I need everyone to attend. Without exception. Please impress upon the good people of Coffee the absolute urgency of my request.’ Hertzog eyed the group. ‘Will you be able to do that?’ The Coffee policemen all turned to their commander.

‘Yes, of course. I can arrange that.’ Bismarck paused. ‘However, I do feel it’s only proper protocol for you to tell us everything you know, Captain.’

‘I’m truly sorry, Major, but for everything to go according to plan it’s imperative that only I and my investigators know what we will be revealing tonight. Our suspect has to be lulled into a false sense of security. Even the slightest suspicion will ruin everything.’ Bismarck nodded, reluctantly acquiescing. ‘Gentlemen, I thank you for your invaluable assistance. We cannot do this without you.’ Hertzog paused, reflecting. ‘Tonight we will bring these terrible events to an end. Tonight there will be justice.’

Major Bismarck stared at Hertzog with thinly disguised suspicion.

Unbeknownst to the good people of Coffee three ensemble transport trucks loaded with troops were just then departing the Tempe Military Base in Bloemfontein.

Thirty six

From the four corners of Coffee they came. In twos. In threes. And – amongst the crowd slowly making its way to the town hall – the odd loner. There were no children. Hertzog had requested that all the town’s youths be sequestered in the school hall, under the protection of armed police officers. A roll-call had been instituted to ensure that no children were absent.

With mute fascination they came. Whispering amongst themselves. Some stared at the Pretoria detectives with suspicion. Others greeted Hertzog and his men with guarded friendliness. But whatever the case, in a ceaseless stream of humanity the people of Coffee entered the town hall. This was the event of the year. And no-one wanted to miss the grand spectacle.

Just before seven o’ clock, Bismarck indicated that everyone that could attend was there. A few exceptions based on health and work obligations had been made. One of these was naturally Alistair Rockcliff. However, Doctor De Wet Bismarck was there. He was still being charged with murder (although Hertzog had already made arrangements to vacate the charges) and had been told his co-operation would secure a downgrade in his charges. Yes, everyone was there.

The truth was, of course, that Hertzog only really needed the attendance of a few key people. The presence of the others that night was only to secure his ruse. A mere formality really. But no-one needed to know that. It was true what he had told the policemen in Major Bismarck’s office. He needed to create a false sense of security amongst his targets. And as the townspeople filed into the large hall Hertzog felt he had achieved exactly that.

Hertzog gave the signal for his detectives to close the doors. Inside it was standing room only. More than enough people to create the effects he needed. As he walked down the centre aisle he felt hundreds of pairs of eyes on him. This was it. The time of reckoning had arrived. And not a moment too soon.

He climbed the side stairs and mounted the stage. Mid-stage was a speaker’s podium. Instead of moving in behind it he moved in front of it. He placed a manila envelope on the shiny wooden surface of the podium. The cacophony of a hundred conversations slowly began to die down. Hertzog waited patiently. In the crowd he saw the faces of the people whose presence was absolutely crucial to his plans. De Wet Bismarck and his droopy wife, Alte. Mayor Botha and the grand doyenne of Coffee, Carol-Ann Botha. It took him another moment to spot a dejected Johann Trudouw, eyes downcast. A perfect plan would have included the attendance of the fourth piece of the sordid puzzle, Alistair Rockcliff. But what can you do? Standing with their backs to the main door were Chaz and Dog. Jools guarded the side door to his left while Jannie Duvenhage stood at the one to his right. Everything was in place. It was time for the games to begin.

While Hertzog waited for the noise to die down he spotted Marike and her husband, Jack Strydom a few rows from the front. She shot Hertzog a quick smile as his eyes fell upon her. She quickly averted her eyes as Jack glared at her from the adjacent seat. In the far right corner Hertzog saw the towering shape of Dominee Joubert. His face betrayed no emotion.

Hertzog stepped forward. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for taking the effort to be here tonight. I promise you will not be disappointed.’ A short burst of whispered conversations met his words. ‘However ... I have a confession to make.’ This time his words met a confused silence. ‘I brought you here under false pretences.’

Silence.

The lack of words was equalled only by the ubiquitous mystification on the faces of the crowd gathered before Hertzog. He waited for maximum impact. ‘I lied. I am not going to reveal the identity of the person who’s been stalking the streets of Coffee. In fact, I have no idea who that person is. Tonight ... we’re going to be discussing something altogether different.’

The hall exploded into outrage.

Thirty seven

‘What is the meaning of this, Hertzog?’ Mayor Lloyd Botha jumped up from his chair, shouting. ‘Do you think your position gives you the right to treat us like children? Like country simpletons?’ His words enflamed the outrage of the townspeople and they now burst into open rage. Many now stood up, shouting and jeering at Hertzog. Out of the corner of his eye, Hertzog saw Jannie Duvenhage shuffle nervously.

Major Bismarck also jumped up. ‘You disappoint me, Captain Hertzog. You request our co-operation and this is how you treat us?’

Jeering and shouting.

‘This is an outrage, sir.’ This time it was Carol-Ann’s turn. ‘You have treated us with nothing but disdain since the very beginning.’ She glared at Herzog. ‘This is the last straw.’

‘We know people, Hertzog,’ her husband said next to her. ‘I will have your badge for this latest insult.’

Hertzog took his badge from his jacket pocket, neatly dodging an empty Coke can. ‘Oh, this? You can have it, Mayor Botha. But I don’t think it will do you much good.’ He paused, surveying the chaotic crowd. People were shouting and pumping their firsts into the air. Many cupped their hands around their mouths, booing the Pretoria detective. ‘When I’m done with you tonight you are more likely going to need the services of a good lawyer.’

‘I will not stand for this,’ the mayor said. ‘You cannot treat us like this. We’re not country bumpkins.’

Hertzog stepped forward. ‘No, you’re not,’ he said, shouting to make himself heard. ‘You’re murderers.’

For a few seconds the wild noise died down. Many in the seething crowd looked at their partners in confusion. Others became quiet ... and pale.

‘How dare you?’ The mayor began shuffling down the row of chairs, making his way to the exit. ‘I will not stand for this.’ His wife promptly followed him.

The shouting and gesticulating began anew. This time with a violent edge. Even the burly Chaz and Dog began looking nervous. All over the hall people began moving towards the exit.

Mayor Botha stood in the central aisle, pointing an accusing finger at Hertzog. ‘There will be repercussions for this. You have my word.’ He stormed towards the main doors. Chaz and Dog stepped aside as others joined him. Several other items were thrown at Hertzog.

The Mayor flung open the doors. And stopped dead in his tracks.

He turned, violent rage on his face. ‘What the hell is the meaning of this?’

The other townspeople behind him looked at their leader with bewilderment. From their positions they couldn’t see beyond the half-opened doors. They didn’t understand what had caused him to halt.

Outside someone barked a harsh command. The trained voice washed over the people inside the hall. And triggered an instant silence. Confusion turned to fear. And fear turned to chaos.

The doors burst open. Several women screamed. Someone yelled for help.

A double line of soldiers marched into the hall. With stony faces. And semi-automatic rifles held to their chests. The twin line of soldiers marched down the central aisle of the hall. In exact unison their heavy combat boots slammed into the linoleum floor.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

Those citizens who were unfortunate enough to stand in the middle aisle were unceremoniously shoved to the side. Several fell back onto chairs. Or into the flailing arms of their neighbours.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

Like stormtroopers the double line of soldiers marched in perfect unison down the aisle, heading for the stage. When the advancing soldiers reached the stage the twin line of troops neatly divided into two separate ranks. One line of troops executed a perfect ninety-degree right turn while the other line marched towards the left. When they reached opposite sides of the hall they again executed perfect turns, now heading towards the back of the hall, marching along the side walls. The twin lines of soldiers entering the main hall doors continued feeding the lines that now snaked along the outside of the hall. At the back of the hall the advance guard of soldiers executed a last ninety degree turn. Marching in flawless unison the lead soldiers now met up with the ranks entering the hall. The cordon of troops was complete.

Another order was shouted from outside.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

The two lines of soldiers now turned inwards.

Silence.

The twin lines of soldiers had formed two rectangles around the two blocks of chairs situated on either side of the central aisle. In effect, they had formed two cordons around the people gathered in the hall. Every single person in the hall was now inside a tight barrier of soldiers from the Tempe Military Base in Bloemfontein. Hertzog had just managed to imprison virtually the entire adult population of Coffee. Marike looked at Hertzog with alarm. An unspoken question flashed across her angular features. Several women cringed in fear, clasped in the tight embrace of their husbands and partners. Others stood staring with pale faces at the robotic soldiers. A few others were crying openly.

Mayor Botha dusted himself off. He was one of the unfortunate who had been pushed to the floor. ‘What ...?’ His voice was a squeak in the awful silence of the hall. ‘What in God’s name is going on here?’ He asked, managing to regain his composure. He glared at Hertzog. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ He pointed at his neighbours. ‘We are citizens of South Africa, dammit. You have no right to do this.’

Hertzog took another step forward, now standing on the very edge of the stage. ‘I regret to inform you that under the provisions of the national state of emergency declared earlier this year by State President P.W. Botha, and in terms of Section 29 of the Internal Security Act ... I am detaining everyone in this hall until you give me what I want.’

Thirty eight

A stunned silence reigned in the large hall. All eyes except those of the soldiers were on Hertzog. In the back row someone sobbed quietly.

Mayor Botha snorted loudly. ‘You will not get away with this, Hertzog. I will make it my life’s work to bring you –’

‘Oh shut up, Botha,’ Hertzog said, interrupting the mayor, a look of utter contempt on his face. ‘You disgust me.’

‘What? You –’

‘No, in fact, you sicken me ... to my very core.’ He pointed a finger at Botha. ‘Your own child was taken from you ... by a twisted deviant. And all you can do is lie ... and deceive ... and prevaricate. You care nothing for the terror your son must have suffered. You care nothing for the death of your own child.’ Someone gasped. ‘Yes! I don’t know where your son is, Botha, but everything in my ten years of police experience tells me he’s long dead.’ Someone else began to cry. ‘You.’ He pointed repeatedly at Botha with a shaking finger. ‘You are the direct cause of your son’s death. You killed him.’

‘How dare you? This ... this ...’

‘All this time you’ve been feeding us only lies and deceit. If you had been less concerned with your own position and status ... your son would’ve still been alive.’

‘I ... I ...’ The Mayor looked around, helpless.

‘All of you. All of you.’ Hertzog now turned to the others. ‘Bismarck,’ he said, pointing at the doctor who had been sitting this whole time with his head in his hands. ‘You ... and your brother ... you killed Michelle. You killed her, dammit.’ He fixed both Bismarck brothers with a look of pure disgust.

Alte Bismarck began to sob horribly, a low haunting wail that reverberated across the hall.

‘Yes, you can cry, Mrs Bismarck. Your tears come too late I’m afraid.’ He now turned to the mayor’s wife. ‘And you, oh grand dame of this sick little town,’ Hertzog said, pointing at Carol-Ann Botha. ‘You killed your son. Yes. You are a murderer.’ She looked at Hertzog with a bizarre mixture of fear and disdain. ‘And you, Trudouw. What about you.’ Johann Trudouw averted his eyes, white hot shame burning in his face. ‘You killed your only daughter. You sick son of a bitch, you knew she was next. You sick bastard, you knew. And yet you did nothing. Your wealth and esteem mean more to you.’

Trudouw shook his head, biting his bottom lip into a thin white line. ‘No ... no ... no ...’

Hertzog’s eyes momentarily met those of the pastor. He alone in the hall remained seated, placid and unmoved.

‘All of you, you’re all murderers,’ he said, pointing to the town’s elite. ‘And maybe the rest of you too. In your silence, you have become like them. Cold-blooded murderers.’

Hertzog rushed to the podium. He grabbed the manila envelope. From its interior he extracted a sheaf of glossy A4 photographs. He jumped from the stage.

‘Look,’ he said, shoving the photos into the face of the front row citizens. They all recoiled in horror. ‘Look,’ he said jogging down the front row. Everyone averted their eyes in horror. ‘Look.’ He stopped, holding up the shots for everyone to see. ‘These are the three corpses we discovered on the Bredekamp smallholding. Three mummified corpses.’ Some purposefully averted their eyes while others craned to see. ‘Two died from gunshot wounds to the head. A third died from blunt force trauma. Three corpses. A woman and two men. Once three young people, in their early twenties. Now mummified corpses.’ He shoved the pictures into a nearby woman’s face. She exclaimed loudly. ‘Look. Because these people ... these people whose children have disappeared ... they killed them.’ There were gasps. Several people turned to look at the town’s upper echelon; the Bismarcks, the Bothas, Trudouw. ‘Yes, and there’s another too. Not here tonight. Alistair Rockcliff. He too is a brazen murderer.’ Frenzied whispering once again broke out. ‘But don’t look so smug. Don’t you dare,’ Hertzog said, singling out random people in the crowd. ‘You. And you. And you. You’re all guilty too. Your silence has made you guilty. You’re all guilty.’ Hertzog paused, out of breath.

A deep terrible silence clung to the air.

‘Yes. Twenty years ago, these men committed a vile act. Twenty years ago, they caused the death of these three people. And all of you ... all of you ... you’ve been covering it up ever since.’ He glared at those nearest to him. ‘No wonder half of you chose to blow your own brains away.’ Several people gasped in shock. ‘Yes, you’re shocked. What do you think I must feel?’ He glowered at the people of Coffee. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. I feel disgust. A contempt that I cannot ever recall feeling with such intensity.’ He threw the photographs at a nearby couple. They recoiled in fright.

Hertzog stood, out of breath. For long seconds he said nothing. ‘No-one leaves here tonight until you tell me exactly what happened twenty years ago ... in nineteen-sixty-six. No-one!’

Mayor Botha puffed out his chest. ‘You cannot blackmail us, you sonofabitch. And you cannot intimidate –’

Someone screamed. It was a howl of such tortured pain that half of the hall recoiled in horror. Everyone looked towards the origin of the terrible shriek. It was Alte Bismarck.

‘SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. YOU DIRTY PIECE OF SHIT. SHUUUUUUT UP.’ She jumped over several rows of chairs, her face twisted into a demented mask of hate, her fingernails held out in front of her. A wild demon of rage, tearing at Botha. Taken aback by her fury it took a moment before some of the nearby men grabbed her in order to restrain her insane rage. ‘YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID.’ She screamed and spat, digging at the men who tried to contain her. ‘YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID. WHAT ALL OF YOU DID.’ With a wild look in their eyes, the men managed to bring her under control. She fought and struggled but eventually relented. ‘And you, you pathetic excuse for a husband,’ she said, now directing her fury at her husband. ‘Fucking little boys when you should be protecting your own family. I hate you. I hate you. I HATE ALL OF YOU.’ De Wet Bismarck buried his face even deeper in his hands. Alte looked from face to face, a wild animal. ‘It stops tonight. Everything ... everything stops tonight.’ She pushed the two men aside. ‘Let go of me, dammit.’ Slowly and with great care, shielding their faces, the two men relinquished their hold. Alte Bismarck turned to Hertzog, sniffing loudly, her mascara running thick black tracks under her eyes. ‘I will tell you. I will tell you everything. If they’re all too cowardly ... then I will tell you.’

Major Dawid Bismarck stepped forward and slapped her hard through the face.

Hertzog ran forward. ‘Detain that man.’

The nearest two soldiers detached themselves and seized the station commander. The one soldier forced his rifle around Bismarck’s neck, incapacitating him. ‘You stupid fucking bitch ... don’t you dare. This is not your life. Don’t you fucking dare.’ The last words disappeared in a wheeze as the soldier increased the pressure, throttling Bismarck. His face turned blood red. They dragged him through the crowd and forced him outside.

‘Alte, you have no right to speak for us. Think carefully before you speak. Your words have consequences. Don’t damn yourself –’

Hertzog pointed at Botha. ‘Detain that man as well.’ Two soldiers grabbed the mayor.

He held up his hands and didn’t resist. ‘You will pay for this, you dirty fucking whore,’ he said as they dragged him outside, glaring at Alte Bismarck with pure hate.

‘No.’ Johann Trudouw stood up in the row directly in front of Alte Bismarck. ‘We’ve all paid for this. Too much. And too long.’ He placed a gentle hand on Alte Bismarck’s shoulder. ‘Sit down, Alte. It’s time that I become a man.’ He looked at Hertzog with tears in his eyes. ‘I will tell you, Captain. I will tell you everything we did.’

Part Three

The Confession and the Barbecue Bloodbath

The Confession

The three young adults stood along the shoulder of the N8 highway, waving at passing cars. Every now and then a motorist whizzing by would honk amiably. Unfortunately, no-one had yet bothered to pick up the boisterous group. The two young men dropped their thumbs as yet another car sped past. The girl, who held a torn piece of cardboard with the word VANDERKLOOF written on it, jumped up and down as the car disappeared into the distance. ‘Whoo-hooo! Thank you, thank you,’ she said, shouting in sing song.

The taller of the two men looked at her. He had long dark hair, falling in uncombed cascades onto his shoulders. He was dressed in bellbottom jeans and a flowing cheesecloth shirt, complemented by a leather vest. His male companion was similarly attired but sported a Rolling Stones t-shirt instead, also with long dishevelled hair. Both sprouted full beards. The girl was dressed in an ankle length dress featuring a floral pattern. Her long blonde locks were held in place by a string of beads, tied around her forehead. Their “uniforms” looked makeshift and casual although in reality they took great care in composing their looks. This was the summer of love after all. And it simply wouldn’t do to go around dressed like a square.

Yes, this was by all accounts a great time to be alive. Flower power ruled. Love was in the air. And, if you were young, the party was non-stop and global. Barely a month before the dashing Robert Kennedy had visited South Africa; the Beatles had just released Paperback Writer; and in the US the Supreme Court had just passed the Miranda Bill, changing law enforcement forever.

The girl turned to the tall youth. ‘Maybe I should give them some enticement to pick us up,’ she said, coquettishly slipping the band of her dress down her shoulder, revealing the curve of her breast. The other male turned his head but couldn’t help staring.

‘Yeah, Susan, maybe not,’ he replied, snorting with exaggerated disgust.

She affected a feigned expression of sorrow and began singing. ‘Oh Ronny, Ronny ... ain’t got no money ... but if your love is sweet I’ll be your honey.’

Despite himself Ronny smiled. He looked at her with affection. ‘You missed your calling,’ he said.

‘What? Singer?’ She turned her left palm up to the heavens and emitted a falsetto, posing in operatic style.

‘No, stripper.’ The three youths laughed. After the laughter had died down Ronny stared at Susan, shaking her head. ‘You and your dumb ideas. Does your aunt even know we’re coming?’

She shook her head, laughing. ‘Nope. But don’t worry. She’s cool. And besides, you must see this little place,’ she said, referring to the resort town of Vanderkloof. ‘It’s adorable.’

‘Yeah, adorably shit-kicking and backward, I’m sure.’

‘Hey,’ Josh said, shouting to get their attention. ‘Here comes another car. And it looks like a bakkie.’

‘Sweet. Get that sign up, Cinnamon,’ Ronny said, talking to Susan. ‘We got ourselves a customer.’

To their delight the bakkie stopped a few yards from their location. They all ran up to the lone driver as he wound down the window. They had all agreed that Susan would do the talking. ‘Hi there,’ she said with saccharine sweetness. ‘Can you give us a ride to Vanderkloof?’

‘Sorry, darling,’ the bleary-eyed young man said, eyeing Susan’s curved figure beneath the flimsy dress. ‘I’m only going to Coffee. But it’s only about seventy kilometres from Vanderkloof.’

The girl looked at her male companions for confirmation. They nodded reluctantly. ‘Okay,’ she said, nodding with enthusiasm. ‘I’ve never been there.’

‘You take the back, sunshine,’ Ronny said to Josh as he and Susan went around the back to climb into the passenger side.

‘Hey, I’m Susan and this is Ronny,’ Susan said as she slid into the front, next to the driver. ‘And that’s Josh,’ she said, pointing at him.

‘Oh, hello,’ the driver said. ‘I’m Wouter.’ He held out his hand. ‘Wouter Bredekamp.’

***

About an hour later the Datsun bakkie pulled into De Beers Street, past the famous giant coffee pot. Wouter Bredekamp pulled up outside the OK Supermarket. ‘Well, here you go. Welcome to Coffee.’

Susan eyed the sinking sun. It was getting late. ‘So, uh, Wouter, you say Vanderkloof is seventy kays away?’ He nodded. ‘So ... where does one stay overnight in Coffee?’

Wouter shrugged. ‘You’re welcome to stay with me. At my place.’

‘What?’ She asked, feigning surprise. ‘At your place?’

‘Sure,’ Wouter said. ‘It’s just a few kilometres down the road. It has a big sign that says “Bredekamp”.’

‘A big sign,’ Susan said, gushing. Ronny shook his head. ‘Oh you’re a sweetums, aren’t you?’ She tweaked his nose with her forefinger.

Wouter smiled, completely charmed. ‘Well, we can go there –’

‘What?’ She placed both hands at her mouth in feigned shock. ‘It’s not nearly dudu time yet, Woutie. Are you a spoilsport, or what?’ Wouter giggled. ‘Goodness, no. First we’re gonna party a bit, or what boys?’ She looked at Ronny next to her and Josh, sitting in the back of the bakkie. She leaned over onto Wouter and looked at him with a coy expression. ‘So what do bad boys do for fun in Coffee, Woutie?’

***

‘We were young. It’s a cliché ... but I guess you could say the world was our oyster.’ Johann Trudouw spoke slowly, his head bowed. His voice was barely above a whisper. Except for his low baritone not a single sound disturbed the silence. Every person in the packed hall stared at him in rapt awe. ‘We had all led privileged lives. We had all come from wealthy homes. We enjoyed every moment of our lives.’ He paused. ‘It was the school holidays ... July,’ he added for clarification. ‘We were all in our last year of school, except for Dawid. Alistair attended school at Michaelhouse in the Eastern Cape. De Wet, Dawid, Lloyd and I attended school at Grey College in Bloemfontein.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It was a great time to be young. We were none of us into that hippie shit ... but it was good to be young. And we felt like we could conquer the world. There was nothing we couldn’t do. There was nothing we couldn’t have. Everything was ours for the taking. We were the masters of our own universe. In only a few months we would write our final exams and then it was off to university. De Wet and I had already applied to Pukke,’ he said, referring to the University of Pretoria. ‘Alistair was going to Rhodes and Lloyd was heading for Stellenbosch. It was the best time of our lives.’ He paused for a long time, staring at the floor. ‘I don’t know what day it was, but we were all back in Coffee for the holidays and we decided to meet up in a little place called the Vineyard ... a little restaurant and bar. We wanted to celebrate. And just unwind ... before the finals. We had only been there for a short while ... when they showed up.’

***

‘So, is this the place, Woutie?’ Wouter Bredekamp nodded, smiling sheepishly. The group stood in front of a quaint little restaurant with ivy-decked windows. The entrance was barred by a pair of large red wooden swing doors. ‘I see a red door and I want it painted black,’ Susan said, singing and laughing at the same time. She stepped forward and boldly shoved the doors aside. The others followed in a more subdued manner.

Inside the long bar was lined with about half a dozen men. Four old-timers sat in the section nearest to the swing doors while a few loners occupied the middle section. At the far end sat a group of youths barely out of their teens.

‘The party’s come to town, boys,’ Susan said, waltzing down the length of the bar, shaking her hips in exaggerated coquettishness. Every single one of the bar patrons turned to look as she strutted towards an empty space at the counter. She slid in next to an elderly drinker with a huge walrus moustache. ‘Hello handsome. What’s your name?’ The elderly man snorted in disgust and turned away from her.

Ronny joined her at the bar. ‘Take it easy, Susan. Not everybody is into love and peace.’

‘Oh come now, Ronny Roo,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. ‘These are good country folk. What are you worried about? I bet you they all go to church on Sundays.’

‘That’s not worth nearly as much as you think,’ Ronny said, grumbling.

Susan spotted the group of boys ogling her. ‘Well, hello there, boys.’ She leaned forward and wagged a finger at them. ‘Do your mommies know you’re here?’

One of the boys flicked his hair in disdain. ‘Yeah well, I shot a kudu last week. So ... like I’m not as young as you think,’ Johann Trudouw said.

‘Oooh,’ Susan said, playfully nudging Ronny in the ribs, ‘a big game hunter. Wow. That’s ... really ... something.’ Ronny shook his head while he ordered drinks for the four of them. Susan leaned back onto the bar, resting her elbows on the counter while she surveyed the restaurant on the other side of a wooden screen. ‘I tell you what. One of you big white hunters buy me a drink and I won’t tell anyone.’

The boys exchanged quick glances. A tall dark haired boy was the first to take the bait. He jumped up, almost falling over the others, and walked towards her. ‘So ... uh ... what ... what will it be?’ Dawid Bismarck asked.

‘Something tall dark and handsome,’ she said, cooing. She looked at him for a moment then feigned surprise. ‘Oh, you’re talking about the drink? Hmm.’ She pretended to ruminate deeply on the matter. ‘I want Sex on the Beach, honey.’ Dawid Bismarck blushed deep red. The other boys giggled, hands in front of their mouths. He fumbled in his pockets. Half a dozen coins spilled from his shaking hands.

Ronny pulled Susan towards himself. ‘Jesus, Susan. What the hell do you think you’re doing? They’re just fucking boys.’

‘Relax, Ronny. It’s just a little bit of innocent fun. Tomorrow we’re out of here and we’ll never see them again.’ Ronny turned from her in anger and began talking to Wouter and Josh. Susan turned towards her new friends. ‘So, what do you boys like to do for fun?’

***

‘We’d never seen anyone like her before. I mean, it was obvious she was one of those ... hippie girls. You didn’t see anything like that in Coffee ... or Bloemfontein.’ Trudouw’s eyes remained fixed on the floor. ‘Lloyd said he could see her nipples. De Wet said she was sluttish, for sure. Whatever the case, we were all ... every single one of us ... we were all like dogs ... chasing a bitch in heat.’ Someone behind Trudouw gasped. Trudouw remained motionless. ‘Alistair’s dad had one of his offices in town. In the back was a really nice lounge area, with a couple of couches, a fridge ... and a stereo. There was also a little bar with tonnes of booze. We invited them to come for a few drinks. The two guys with her weren’t very keen but she liked the idea. Eventually they all agreed anyway. So they joined us. Except Wouter of course. Nobody wanted to hang around with him.’ Johann Trudouw sighed, frowning deeply. ‘We weren’t planning a party, you see. There was something else on our minds.’ He looked up at Hertzog, shame in his eyes. ‘And we knew ... if we could get her two friends plastered enough ... we were going to get it.’

***

Susan swayed sensually to The Sounds of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel, her eyes closed, a vodka and orange juice in her hand. On the couch Josh was snoring loudly, drool dripping from his open mouth. A half empty glass of rum and coke stood next to him. The teens sat on the other couch, watching Susan dance. Like hungry predators they watched her. Never taking their eyes off her. Dawid Bismarck bit his lower lip, a cold glint in his eye. Ronny sat at the end of the couch, also a strong glass of rum and coke in his hand. His eyes began to droop and his head started swaying back and forth. He moaned softly through half-open lips. Alistair Rockcliff nudged Dawid Bismarck in the ribs. They both looked at the sleepy man next to them. And exchanged knowing smiles.

A few minutes later Ronny sank onto the arm rest of the couch. Shortly thereafter he was fast asleep, the contents of his glass spilling onto the cheap carpet. Alistair looked at Dawid. Dawid looked at Johann. Johann looked at Lloyd. They nodded slowly. And began to rise in unison.

In the middle of the room Susan was dancing to the next track, Love is a Hurtin’ Thing by Lou Rawls. Her eyes were still closed. She was completely unaware of what was about to happen.

***

‘Dawid went up to her. He danced with her for a while. And then he put his hand on her behind. She pushed it away. But not like she really minded, you know. In that flirty way she had.’ Johann Trudouw paused. ‘And then he tried again. This time she told him it wasn’t going to happen. I could see he was getting angry. He grabbed her and tried to kiss her. She slapped him.’ Trudouw exhaled slowly. ‘I mean, I don’t blame him. She had been leading us on the whole damn night. She was a bloody cockteaser.’ A woman behind Trudouw exclaimed in shock. ‘Or at least that’s what we thought.’ He swallowed hard. And paused for several seconds. ‘There was a little room adjacent to the lounge, equipped with a single bed. Dawid grabbed her, his hand over her mouth, and dragged her inside. We followed.’ Johann Trudouw had been standing this whole time. Now he sat. He remained silent for a very long time. ‘Dawid went first. She struggled ... and fought. It took another two of us just to hold her down.’ He glared at a slender man next to him. ‘Just because a woman says no it doesn’t mean she doesn’t want it.’

‘Dear God.’

‘That’s what we were thinking, goddamit,’ he said, growling. He breathed in short uneven breaths for a while. ‘I went next. And then Lloyd. And then Alistair. By that time she wasn’t struggling anymore. She just lay there, sobbing and moaning.’ A number of women began crying. ‘For some reason, De Wet wasn’t into the whole thing.’ He glanced over at the doctor. ‘Now I understand why.’ He turned his troubled gaze towards the floor. ‘But we forced him. We said, “If one of us is involved ... then all of us are”.’ Once again Trudouw paused for what seemed like an eternity. ‘While De Wet was busy ... when he was on top of her ... that’s when it happened.’

***

The door burst open.

Ronny stood in the doorway, staring with horror at the scene in front of him. De Wet Bismarck pushed himself away from the girl and stumbled into a corner.

‘What the fuck are you redneck cunts doing?’ Ronny screamed and ran at the nearest of the teens. Johann Trudouw. With features twisted by rage and blind hatred he clawed at the burly youth. For a moment they struggled in titanic violence while the others looked on with shock. Their fierce wrestling knocked a small cabinet over. Ronny kicked Trudouw in the groin and managed to pull his right hand free. He gouged deep claw marks in Johann Trudouw’s face. Trudouw went down. And reaching blindly grabbed hold of a heavy candlestick. He reached up and with all his might struck the hapless Ronny on the temple. The long-haired man went limp and fell to the floor.

For a moment everyone stared in horror. No-one said a thing. Trudouw’s chest heaved with the exertion.

‘What the –’

‘We need to get them out of here,’ Johann said, interrupting De Wet. He looked at the others, his eyes huge with shock. ‘We need to get them out of here,’ he said, shouting to break through the paralysis that gripped everyone.

‘Yes,’ Alistair Rockcliff said, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘We can take my dad’s bakkie. Let’s just drop them at the Petrusburg turn-off.’ He stared at the others. ‘This has gone too far.’

‘Come, let’s do this,’ Trudouw said. ‘Come!’ Johann reached over and grabbed the comatose Ronny by the shoulders. Shock washed over his face as he heaved him up. He immediately let him go. With a sickening crunch Ronny fell to the floor. The position of his head revealed the serious nature of his injury.

‘What now?’ Rockcliff asked.

Trudouw stared at the others in horror. ‘He doesn’t feel right.’

‘What do you mean he doesn’t feel right?’

‘I don’t know. He just doesn’t fucking feel right.’ Trudouw glared at De Wet. ‘De Wet, feel his pulse.’

‘What?’ De Wet cowered in a corner.

‘Feel his pulse, fuckit.’

‘Why must I feel his pulse?’

‘You’re the doctor.’

‘I’m a fucking high school student, Johann.’

‘Go feel his pulse,’ Alistair Rockcliff ordered, pointing at the prostrate Ronny.

With great hesitation De Wet Bismarck walked over to Ronny. He knelt and felt his pulse. He frowned. And placed two fingers on his neck. Then he leaned into his face and listened at his mouth.

***

‘He was dead.’

Hertzog glanced over at Jools. They both nodded imperceptibly.

The entire hall was silent.

‘I killed him.’ Trudouw stared sightlessly at the floor. ‘I had just killed a man.’ He inhaled slowly then expelled the air in a titanic sigh that expressed all of his inner turmoil. ‘Everything after that is a blur. I can’t remember what we said to each other ... or if we even spoke. I just know we stayed in that little room for what seemed like hours. Eventually we realised we had to act. And we knew we couldn’t do it on our own. So we locked the door and we went to the front office. There was a phone there. So Dawid phoned his father. He was the station commander. We didn’t tell him much ... just that we were in trouble. Big trouble. And that we needed his help. About twenty minutes later he showed up. That’s when we told him everything. I remember him slapping Dawid, really hard. He reprimanded all of us. Gave us a real tongue lashing. He told us how utterly stupid and reckless we had been. It was then ...’ He swallowed hard. ‘... it was then that he told us what we needed to do.’ Johann Trudouw looked at the detectives with desperation. ‘You must understand. We were young. We had our whole lives ahead of us. We all ... all of us had big futures ahead of us. We were going to conquer the world.’ He began to sob. ‘We couldn’t sacrifice that. We couldn’t lose all of that. If ... if this thing came out, we would be ruined. Everything we had worked so hard for ... everything would be ruined. No university would accept someone with a criminal record. Nobody would respect us ever again.’ He glared at Hertzog. ‘Nobody respects a rapist ... and a murderer. We just couldn’t let it get out. So ...’ He bit his lip. ‘So we had to fix it.’

Hertzog sighed with melancholy.

Johann Trudouw wiped the tears from his eyes with his sleeve. His eyes were once again focused on the floor. ‘We had to take care of the three of them. We had to end it right there.’ He exhaled loudly, his stuttered breath evidence of the deep anxiety he was experiencing. ‘We unlocked the bedroom door.’ He looked at Hertzog. ‘And that’s when we discovered it.’

***

The girl ran, bent over, clutching her abdomen. Her breath was ragged. Her chest was constricted by rising hysteria. The blood seeped down her leg as her empty feet struck the coarse tarmac.

She had been running for ever. And ever. Inside her crazed mind there had been no plan. Only a desperate need to escape. She wanted to hit the main road and seek help outside this sick place. But the darkness combined with her crazed state confounded her.

Susan was lost.

All around her were residential houses. But she didn’t dare seek refuge in any of them. Their mute middle-class facades had somehow become complicit in her horror. Behind her, to her right, a church steeple rose like a column of darkness against the starry sky.

She was lost. But she didn’t dare stop. Even though the loss of blood made her feel weak and tired.

A sudden bolt of pain shot through her abdomen. Those boys had hurt her. Badly. Now, as she gripped her lower abdomen, she knew that something was terribly wrong inside her. The continuous flow of blood only confirmed that.

And yet, she didn’t dare stop.

Abruptly the landscape changed. She was no longer within a residential area. Instead she was surrounded by veldt. Maybe she would escape. Maybe there would be hope.

In the distance she saw a mountainous mine dump. She instinctively headed for the large mound of dirt, hoping that this and the mine beyond would provide her some cover.

She prayed that Ronny and Josh were alright.

Dear God, let them be alright.

***

‘The girl had escaped. In our state of shock we hadn’t taken into account the window. Our big problem had suddenly become a massive problem.’ Trudouw stared at the back of the chair in front of him, seemingly in a trance. ‘After cursing us for what felt like an hour, Brigadier Bismarck went to the front office and made a few calls. About half an hour later some of his uniformed policemen showed up. They in turn made telephone calls of their own.’ Trudouw paused. ‘You see, we couldn’t let her get away. That just wasn’t an option. In another half an hour or so about fifty of the town’s men showed up. It was pointless lying to them, so Dawid’s father told them everything.’ He closed his eyes. ‘They knew what they were doing.’

Hertzog’s eyes met those of Dominee Joubert.

‘... death came to all people ... because all had sinned.’

‘You see, it wasn’t a search party. They were all carrying guns. We were going to hunt her.’ His head lolled forwards. ‘We were going to hunt a human being.’ Trudouw raised his head and looked at his fellow citizens. ‘I don’t blame them for going along with our plan ... for helping us. I don’t. My family and the Rockcliffs and the Bothas together employed more than half of the town’s people. At the end of the day, no-one had a choice. We were all going to track down an injured girl ... and take care of our problem.’ He bowed his head. ‘My father showed up around this time. It was the only time I ever saw him cry.’ He clenched his eyes shut. And said nothing for a moment. He slowly opened his eyes and nodded as if responding to a question in his head. ‘Using 4x4 bakkies and searchlights the search party ... the hunters ... scattered throughout Coffee and the surrounding area. Most of those men were experienced hunters. So it didn’t take them long to find her track. She was heading for the mine.’

***

Susan fell to the ground. Bright explosions of noise filled her vision. Fresh blood spurted from her head in sync with her frenzied heartbeat. ‘No ... no ... no ... no ...’

Blind panic gripped her. She tried to scurry away. Tried to escape the dark shape that loomed over her. The man cradled the shovel in his hand and stepped towards her, gravel crunching beneath his shoes. Brigadier J.R. Bismarck planted a heavy boot in the small of her back. The impact forced the air out of her lungs. She lifted her head. ‘Please don’t ... please ... I beg you ... please don’t ...’

He lifted her from the ground and forced her onto her knees. She could see dozens of shapes around her, silhouetted against the glare of automobile headlights. They stood in a semi-circle, their features obscured by the sharp headlights behind them. From behind them she heard the sounds of struggle, the frenetic scrape of shoes on gravel. Moments later someone was thrown into the semi-circle. He immediately jumped up, hands in front of his face.

It was Josh.

‘What are you doing? What do you want from me?’ Josh was sobbing uncontrollably. ‘Please, I didn’t do anything. Please let me go.’

Susan grabbed him. ‘Josh, where’s Ronny?’ Josh stared at her as if looking right through her. ‘Josh.’

Josh turned to the dim faces. ‘Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.’

Susan couldn’t possibly know that Ronny’s corpse was lying on the flatbed of one of the bakkies. Yet, from Josh’s words, she deduced their fate. ‘Please ... Oh God ... please don’t hurt us. We won’t say anything. We won’t tell anyone.’

Brigadier J.R. Bismarck turned and motioned for the teens to step forward. As the youths came forward Susan recognised the boys who had violated her. She began sobbing. Bismarck took his service pistol and handed it to one of the boys. ‘You know what you need to do,’ he said without a hint of emotion in his voice.

***

‘We knew what we needed to do. It was as simple as that.’ Johann Trudouw looked like a haunted man, hollow eyes staring into empty space. ‘The Brigadier gave his gun to Dawid. He told him to make it a clean shot. In the back of the head.’ The hall was silent, filled only with the low drone of Trudouw’s voice. ‘The man and the woman became hysterical. It took a couple of men to hold them down. Dawid walked up to the man. He aimed. And fired a single shot. The man fell forward while the woman screamed.’ Like a zombie Trudouw narrated the events as if he were reciting a multiplication table. ‘Next the Brigadier gave the gun to Alistair. His dad was there. And he protested fiercely. But the Brigadier said everybody needed to share the guilt. Mr Rockcliff wouldn’t allow it though. Then the Brigadier said he was going to open a case and arrest all the boys. Mr Rockcliff kept on protesting. He said he would rather take the shot but the Brigadier refused. It took a while but eventually Alistair’s dad gave in. Alistair took the pistol and walked up to the girl. She begged for her life. Oh God, she begged for her life.’ A whimper crept into Trudouw’s monotone. ‘Alistair pulled the trigger and she fell onto the dirt, dead.’ He paused. Hertzog saw that Marike was now also crying, sobbing uncontrollably. ‘And that was it.’ Hertzog shook his head, a rueful expression on his face. ‘Our fathers made a decision. Wouter Bredekamp owed Alistair and my dad a whole bunch of money. They transported the corpses to his smallholding. They told him if he buried the bodies on his property they would scrap the debt. Wouter was horrified. But what could he do?’ Johann Trudouw stood, bent over. ‘Afterwards we went home. We never spoke about the matter ever again.’

Hertzog moved through the line of soldiers and walked over to the row where Trudouw stood. The burly farmer swayed slowly. ‘Johann Trudouw I am placing you under arrest for rape and murder.’ Hertzog moved into the row and took the farmer’s hands behind his back where he cuffed them. Trudouw didn’t resist. ‘You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say will be used against you in a court of law.’ Hertzog indicated for his men to do the same with the others mentioned in the confession. ‘You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, an attorney will be provided to you.’ Hertzog led Trudouw down the row, through the rank of soldiers and down the aisle towards the exit. Outside the exit, in the hall foyer he stopped in front of the SADF (South African Defence Force) sergeant. ‘Sergeant, I thank you for your help. You can withdraw your troops.’

The Sergeant barked an order. In neat movements, the soldiers inside moved into marching formation. Performing the drill in reverse, they now marched out of the town hall. Soon they were in platoon formation on the lawn outside the hall. Hertzog waited until they were done. He led Trudouw to the lead Defender while he instructed Dog, Chaz and Jools to take their own prisoners to the rear vehicle. ‘I’m going to get you for this,’ Lloyd Botha said to Trudouw as Chaz marched him to the Landy.

Hertzog placed Johann Trudouw in the back seat of the Land Rover and locked the door. He walked past the soldiers and entered the town hall again. ‘You are all free to go,’ he said to the stunned townspeople inside. Dazed and silent the people of Coffee slowly exited the town hall.

As Marike passed she shot the detective a quick look. ‘Wow,’ she said in a whisper, meant for his ears alone. Hertzog smiled imperceptibly as Jack Strydom glowered at him in passing. When Dominee Joubert passed them Hertzog nodded at him in greeting. But the town vicar only stared ahead, a strange glint in his eye. Hertzog gazed at him oddly.

Outside Hertzog met his men at the front vehicle. Inside Trudouw sat silently, head bowed.

‘Well done, boss,’ Jannie said, staring at Hertzog with reverence.

‘Thank you, detective.’ Hertzog nodded in appreciation.

‘So now I guess the next step is confirming the identities of our three corpses.’ Jools looked at the others.

‘There’s no need for that.’ Trudouw said from the back of the Land Rover. The cops all stared at him in surprise. ‘I know who they are.’

***

‘You must understand ... what happened that night ... it changed all of us forever, in different ways. Dawid and Alistair seemed to get harder ... colder. De Wet became sullen and moody. Lloyd ... I don’t know ... Lloyd is just Lloyd. As for me, I felt as if I had lost something that night. Something precious and fragile. I became a re-born Christian. I attended church. I tried drinking. But nothing helped. I felt this sense of loss. There was this ... emptiness. I couldn’t get rid of it.’ He sighed. ‘I eventually tried to discover the identity of the girl ... and her two friends. I remembered their names. In the course of that evening she had told us they were from Orange Grove. I hired a private investigator. It wasn’t difficult discovering their full identities. You must understand, I wanted to make some form of restitution. I wanted to ... repent and redeem myself. A few days after ... that night, a missing persons report was lodged in Orange Grove police station. My guy managed to get a copy of the dockets. Over time he tracked down some of the relatives. Over the years I made various anonymous deposits into their bank accounts. The girl had an aunt in Vanderkloof. I helped her with her mortgage.’ He glared at the detectives. ‘I tried. I tried, dammit, to make up for what I did. But nothing took away this terrible feeling.’ He began sobbing. ‘Only when my Lizzie was born did I feel better.’ The detectives waited while he cried silently in the back of the vehicle. Eventually after several minutes he wiped his eyes and looked at Hertzog. ‘I can tell you their names.’

‘Your co-operation will be taken into account, Mr Trudouw.’

‘Just find my Lizzie, please, Captain. Even if it’s just to bury her body.’

Hertzog nodded. ‘I will bring her back for you. You have my word.’

On the Trail of a Killer

Ronny Kirshenbaum.

Joshua Katz.

Susan Billing.

Hertzog stared at the three names. He was standing in Major Bismarck’s empty office. Following the arrest of the Coffee station commander the South Africa Police had appointed a temporary commanding officer from Bloemfontein. He was arriving the next day. For now the office of the disgraced Bismarck was Hertzog’s temporary headquarters.

Hertzog sighed and closed his eyes. He released a quick prayer into the air. Finally, after weeks of equivocation, lies and deceit ... finally, he was within grasp of the killer that had terrorised the community of Coffee for so long. He traced a finger along the typed names. Maybe now, after more than twenty years, there would be justice for the three souls who had vanished without a trace in the winter of nineteen-sixty-six. Maybe now there would finally be restitution for the three young people who had suffered so grievously at the hands of five privileged boys. Jools interrupted Hetzog’s train of thought. ‘Shaun, I checked the list of missing persons from sixty-six. It looks like Trudouw’s man knew what he was doing. It matches.’ He held out a sheaf of papers. ‘Orange Grove police faxed over copies of the ID’s.’

Hertzog took the faxes and studied the ID photographs. For the first time he looked upon the faces of the three young adults who had died in the prime of their lives. The three youths whose vitality had been so bluntly extinguished in a small Orange Free State town.

‘It fits,’ Jools said. ‘As you know, Orange Grove is a predominantly Jewish neighbourhood.’

Hertzog nodded. ‘It’s so terrible what happened,’ he said after a moment. ‘That they died in such a gruesome way. That they died so far from loved ones. And that those same loved ones had been living with this dreadful uncertainty for such a long time.’

‘I hear you.’ Jools stared at his friend. ‘I knew whatever happened all those years ago was bad ... but I never expected this.’ They both looked at the grainy black and white pictures. After a long time Jools spoke. ‘I guess from now on our work is fairly straight forward, right? We track down any remaining relatives and see if we can pick up a lead that way.’

‘Hm-huh.’ Hertzog continued staring at the photos, frowning.

‘What’s wrong?’ Jools asked.

‘No, you’re absolutely correct. Right now this is the only avenue of investigation left to us. Except ...’

‘What’s bugging you?’

Hertzog sighed. ‘I just hope this is not another wild goose chase. We’ve been fooled before.’ Hertzog stared at the ID photos, grimacing. ‘I don’t know why ... but I feel like we’re missing something. Like there’s something right under our noses that we’re just not seeing.’

Silence.

Jools contemplated Hertzog’s words. ‘Okay. Let Dog and Chaz investigate our other leads while we track down the family members. At least that way we can cover all our bases.’

Hertzog nodded. ‘Agreed.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t think this demented killer is finished yet. I feel as if he’s going to strike one last time.’ He looked at Jools. ‘Let’s get going. The clock’s ticking. And we’re on the wrong side of the minute hand.’ He placed the faxes on Bismarck’s desk. ‘But first ...’

***

Hertzog waited a few yards from the OK Supermarket, the Defender neatly hidden behind a row of parked cars. It was a few minutes before lunch time. He glanced at his watch. Then eyed the entrance. A few moments later Jack Strydom came waltzing out and headed straight for his car. Hertzog nodded with satisfaction. His knowledge of human nature had rarely let him down through the years.

Not long afterwards he was in the canned food aisle, heading for the butchery counter. When Marike saw him she emitted a little whoop of delight. She ran out from behind the counter and hugged him fiercely. ‘I’m so glad you came around.’ She released him and stared at him intensely. ‘I didn’t know if I was going to see you again.’

‘Our investigation isn’t finished yet.’

‘Wow,’ she said, hardly hearing him. ‘You were incredible the other night. I’ve never seen anything like that in all my life. The way you commanded that hall ... it took my breath away.’

Hertzog smiled sheepishly. ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s amazing what’s happened in Coffee since that night. It’s been like some kind of catharsis. Like some kind of Catholic confession. People are ... I don’t know ... like some huge weight has been lifted off their shoulders. I don’t know, like it’s a new beginning. I think people are looking forward to the festival for the first time.’

‘What? The town’s still doing the festival?’

‘Well, it’s a bit late to cancel now. If we stopped the festival the town council would lose fifty thousand rand.’

‘I see.’

She smiled at Hertzog. ‘Aw come now. Everyone agrees it’s exactly what Coffee needs right now. If you read the papers it’s just murder and conspiracy. The Volksblad did a terrible front page story,’ she said, referring to the region’s main Afrikaans paper. ‘Besides, Andries Croukamp thinks all the bad publicity will be good for the festival. He expects thousands of people to come purely because of the ... the murders. You know what people are like.’

‘Andries Croukamp?’

‘He’s the former treasurer of the town council. He took over as acting mayor from Lloyd. I guess his obsession with the finances is probably the main reason why we’re going ahead.’ Hertzog nodded, frowning. ‘I don’t expect you to understand small town economics. This is not Johannesburg. Things have been so bad these last few years. It’s been a downward spiral.’ She dropped her head. ‘We’ve been worried that we may lose the butchery.’

‘Listen, I’m sorry,’ Hertzog said, taking her hands in his. ‘My focus is narrow, courtesy of my work. I’m glad for you. I’m really glad for you.’

‘What’s going to happen with ...’

‘They’ve all been arrested and charged with various crimes. Unfortunately, Rockcliff will probably be awarded some kind of reprieve on medical grounds. The bail hearing is scheduled for later today. And considering their positions within the community I doubt whether they would be refused bail.’

Her features darkened. ‘It’s sad that someone like Alistair Rockcliff is going to get away with it.’

‘That’s politics.’ Hertzog ran his finger down her cheek. ‘Any case, I just wanted to come and see how you were doing. We’ve got a lot to do. I don’t think the killer’s spree is over by any means.’

Marike looked at him shocked. ‘Oh God, you’re not serious. That’s awful. I mean, everyone assumed the kidnappings happened because of some sort of revenge thing. And now that ...’

‘Whether the kidnappings stop or not, he’s done terrible things. And he must pay for it.’

She looked at Hertzog with child-like wonder. ‘I know you’ll catch him. I know you will.’

He squeezed her hands. ‘I will see you later. Please take care of yourself.’

‘Shaun.’ There was an urgency in her voice that arrested Hertzog. She pulled her hands from his and clasped them together. ‘I’ve had a hard life,’ she said, wringing her hands in anxiety. ‘I had a difficult childhood. I only married so I could escape that life. And ... well ... you know the rest.’ Hertzog nodded. ‘Happiness was something I read about in Mills and Boon novels ... or Cosmopolitan. It wasn’t something I ever really experienced for myself.’ She exhaled anxiously. ‘But ever since I’ve met you ... everything’s been different. I ... I don’t want to put any pressure on you, I mean, I would never ... but lately I feel ... happy. You’re the last thing I think of at night and the first thing I think of every morning.’ She cradled his face in her hand. ‘Please understand, I would never expect anything from you. But ... if ... if there’s any kind of possibility ... if maybe you feel the same ... I would give anything, I mean, I would literally give anything ... to be able to start over. I would do anything if I could start a new life ... with you.’ Hertzog began to speak. ‘Please, don’t say anything now.’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘Please, I couldn’t bare it if you said ...’ She swallowed hard. ‘Think about it. Don’t tell me now.’

Hertzog stared at her for a long time. ‘I don’t have to think about it. My answer is yes.’ Marike burst into tears, and hugged him with fierce intensity, sobbing into his shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ she said, whispering. ‘You’ve given me more than I thought I would ever have. Thank you.’

Hertzog released himself from her intense grasp. And kissed her forehead. ‘When all this is done ... I will come for you.’ She nodded, smiling as the tears streaked around her lips and down her chin.

***

The next four days were a whirlwind of activity.

Jannie Duvenhage went back to Bloemfontein to hunt down a promising lead at a business wholesaler specialising in high end equipment. Chaz and Dog investigated the Tony Bredekamp angle while digging to see if they could unearth any additional dealings connected to the town’s disgraced elite. Jools and Hertzog focused exclusively on tracking down the surviving relatives of the three young adults, slain so brutally in the sixties. It was a tedious and labour-intensive task which involved literally hundreds of man hours. Taking one victim at a time, the MCU detectives needed to compile a family tree; track down each of the family members; and establish possible motive (or lack thereof) as well as alibis. In the days before cellphones or the widespread use of personal computers, this was a laborious, time-consuming task that could be accomplished only with the use of landline telephones and faxes. To aid them Hertzog had immediately co-opted a dozen of Coffee’s finest and organised them in a focused task team.

But still their progress was slow.

Investigating the male victims was relatively easy. As two young men from solid middle-class Jewish families it was easy to establish family trees and the family members were easily contactable. They began with Joshua Katz. His family was a bastion of the Orange Grove community. They were store owners who managed a series of clothing stores across the Vaal Triangle in the province of Transvaal. One by one all the male members of the large Jewish family were contacted. Having only recently learned about the fate of Joshua, many were surprised that they were being considered suspects in a series of kidnappings in the Free State. Others were openly vitriolic, lambasting the Apartheid government for its incompetence. However, little by little each member of Joshua Katz’s family was ruled out as a suspect. This occupied more than a day of the task team’s valuable time.

Ronny’s family was a different matter. The Kirshenbaums were fiercely liberal. Some were even overt Communists, a risky classification in Apartheid South Africa. Several female members of Ronny’s family belonged to the Black Sash, the female activist and resistance group that had proven to be a serious headache for the National Party government. In addition, a few of the men in Ronny’s family were members of the ANC and other banned political organisations. This meant that – at any given time – the locations of many male Kirshenbaums were unknown. It was a serious headache for Hertzog and his task team. Especially since the files concerning these family members were classified – and not available to someone as low down the political pecking order as a homicide investigator. By the end of the third day there were three male Kirshenbaums whose current whereabouts were entirely unknown. The task team had spent three frustrating days getting no closer to the truth. And time was running out. Hertzog instructed them to move on to the final victim, Susan Billing.

Investigating Susan Billing was even more frustrating than her male companions. Her family was nowhere near the size of the two Jewish males. But that was no help whatsoever.

‘This is a tangled mess,’ Jools said, standing at Major Bismarck’s desk. The acting station commander from Bloemfontein had agreed to let the MCU detectives continue using his office as their headquarters. Hertzog looked up at Jools, various reports and hand-written notes spread out before him. ‘It seems the girl’s mother was a disturbed woman with some substance abuse and relationship issues. Her name was Janet Dougherty.’

‘Dougherty?’ Hertzog asked.

‘Yes, exactly,’ Jools said, knowing Hertzog was referring to the discrepancy in the surnames. ‘She changed her daughter’s surname at least twice.’ Hertzog frowned at Jools. ‘I know,’ Jools said, shaking his head. ‘Like I said, it’s a tangled mess.’ Jools flipped through his notes. ‘According to our records she married at least six times.’

‘At least ...?’

‘Yep, her one marriage was annulled after it was discovered the ceremony was conducted by someone without the proper licence.’ He looked at Hertzog. ‘So I guess that one doesn’t count. Any case, Susan’s father is listed as one Edward van der Meer on her birth certificate. Janet divorced van der Meer two years later. Apparently in spite, she changed her daughter’s surname to the new husband’s name, Gerhard Rautenbach. She divorced him less than a year later. Then, about six months later, she married Ralph Smith. That rocky relationship, characterised by abuse and infidelity, ended almost three years later. He was in the process of adopting Susan. Apparently in another attempt at spite, she changed her daughter’s surname to that of husband number four, Jacques Billing.’

‘Dear God,’ Hertzog said. ‘She used her daughter as a weapon in her failed relationships.’

‘Yep. It looks that way.’ Jools flipped through the notes. ‘During this time she relocated about two dozen times, each time seeking new employment. She was dismissed several times on account of her alcohol abuse ... and at least once for allegedly stealing from her employers. Unfortunately we lose track of Susan – the sixties victim – somewhere towards the end of her high school career.’ Jools glanced at Hertzog. ‘The girl attended almost twenty schools during her youth.’

Hertzog shook his head ruefully. ‘Any word on Susan’s relatives?’

‘Well, Susan’s family records are chaotic, but after pouring through the records we discovered Susan had an uncle.’

‘Had?’

‘Yes. He was killed in a car accident about two years before Susan disappeared.’

Hertzog grimaced. ‘What about the mother, Janet Dougherty?’

Jools shook his head. ‘She was beaten to death in a domestic violence incident about nine years ago.’

‘Is that it? Is there no record of any other relatives? What about offspring? Did Susan have any children of her own?’

‘No. Nothing in the records.’

‘That can’t be it. Surely ...’ Hertzog jumped up, excited. ‘Wait a minute. Remember what Johann Trudouw told us. He said he tracked down an aunt in ... er ...’

‘Hell yeah. I totally forgot about that. It was in ... Vanderkloof.’

‘Yes. That’s it. Get hold of Trudouw. Get the name from him. Tell him every bit of co-operation will help his case.’

‘I’m on it,’ Jools said, storming out of the office.

Twenty minutes later he returned.

‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘He gave us a name and address.’

Hertzog took the scribbled note from Jools and grabbed a regional telephone directory. He flipped through the pages until he located what he wanted. He ran his finger down the list until he found her entry. ‘Dial this number.’

Jools grabbed the phone and dialled. He waited. And waited. ‘Nothing,’ he said, replacing the handset.

Hertzog frowned. ‘Is she still alive?’

‘Trudouw said he deposited a small amount about three months ago. The account was still active.’

‘Okay. Keep on dialling that number. Let me know when you get something.’

‘Consider it done,’ Jools said, exiting the office with the telephone directory.

Hertzog stared out the window, troubled. They had spent more than three days and had achieved virtually nothing. All the while a twisted deviant with a dark heart poisoned by vengeance was stalking the town of Coffee. Hertzog had no delusions. His stunt from the other night and the resultant confession would do little to soften the killer’s resolve. He sought another justice ... one not available from a court of law. All his experience and intuition told Hertzog the killer was poised to strike soon ... in a most spectacular way. Jools entered the office. ‘Anything?’

‘Nothing. It just keeps ringing.’

‘Dammit. We’re running out of time.’ Hertzog glared at the cluttered surface of his desk. ‘How far is this place?’

‘Seventy kilometres. We can be there in under an hour,’ Jools said, reading Hertzog’s mind.

‘Let’s go.’ Hertzog grabbed his jacket and the Defender keys. ‘Please tell everyone Lieutenant van Sant and I are heading out to Vanderkloof,’ he said to a uniformed officer manning the front counter. Moments later they were racing towards De Beer Street and the R48 that would take them to Luckhoff and Vanderkloof beyond that. ‘Is the magistrate on board?’ Hertzog asked. He had requested that a local magistrate remain on standby for the next few days in order to expedite warrants. Every minute counted. Every second was precious.

‘Yep,’ Jools said. ‘We got him spooning his telephone.’

Hertzog nodded with satisfaction, staring at a young couple attaching a group of balloons to a road sign. In the four days since the dramatic confession Coffee had been radically transformed. Large and colourful banners, bunting and posters had been put up all over town, especially the main street leading into town. The large communal area between the NG church and the little strip mall had been converted into a temporary carnival. Scores of stalls and booths now lined both sides of the double lane street that ran through this area. The sprawling lawn in front of the church had been transformed into a children’s playground, dominated by a large jumping castle and an inflatable slide. Everywhere townspeople were scurrying about, busy finalising everything for the big Braai Festival.

Marike had been right. It was as if the town itself had undergone a transformation since the confession. There was a celebratory merriness to the townspeople ... a delirious joy that Hertzog had not seen before. As if the town had truly experienced a catharsis. As if it had finally managed to unburden itself of its dark past.

Hertzog eyed the preparations and the festive decorations with trepidation. The Braai Festival was scheduled to start the following day.

‘You really think he’s going to use the festival to make his point?’

‘I know it,’ Herzog replied without hesitation. He gunned the Defender and raced down De Beers Street, heading for the R48 turn-off.

The single lane road leading to Vanderkloof is narrow with more than a few treacherous turns. Luckily for the two detectives the road that day was quiet as Hertzog charged with breakneck speed towards their destination.

Vanderkloof. Tucked away in precipitous mountains and situated on the banks of the Vanderkloof Dam, it was a picturesque resort town. Steep meandering little streets and beautiful resort houses added to its holiday feel. As the detectives headed into the town centre, past a quaint little shopping centre across from a small police station they were not concerned with relaxation however. They were inextricably caught in a race against the clock. And so far they were losing. It was after four and the sun was descending slowly in the west.

The two-way radio crackled. ‘Charlie Foxtrot One, come in. Charlie Foxtrot One.’ It was Dog. ‘Boss, I managed to track down a family friend of the Kirshenbaums. Remember those three male members of the family we were unable to track down? I contacted a friend of the family. Good news. I got a general location on one of them. One of Ronny’s nephews. He’s an ANC member. Been running from the security police for the last few years. He’s gone totally underground. He changed his appearance and get this; the family friend told me he’s been living in some small Free State town for the last few years.’

‘What?’ Jools looked at Hertzog.

‘She doesn’t know where, but she says it’s definitely in the Free State.’

‘If the security police are after him I don’t blame him that he’s gone underground,’ Jools said.

He was right. In nineteen seventy nine Project Barnacle was founded at the behest of General Magnus Malan, the Minister of Defence. Major Neil, former commander of the Selous Scouts’ recce troop, became the top-secret unit’s first director. Initially the organisation’s objective was to “identify guerrilla infiltration routes, pin-point and infiltrate training camps and direct air strikes on them”. In time however, its spectrum of activities would become significantly more sinister. It would eventually carry out some of the Apartheid government’s most infamous assassinations, mostly overseas. In nineteen eighty-six the unit’s name changed to the CCB – the Civil Co-operation Bureau. Only slightly more terrifying than the Orwellian double-speak of its bureaucratic name was the scope of its operations. It divided large parts of the world into “kill regions”. These included not only Africa, but also Europe and the United Kingdom. The home territory, South Africa, was region six. The CCB and especially its headquarters, the notorious Vlakplaas, would evoke blind terror in Apartheid activists and dissenters. It was not surprising that Ronny Kirshenbaum’s nephew went to such extreme measures to escape the Security Police and the CCB’s insidious tentacles.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he was living in Coffee, boss,’ Dog said. ‘Maybe he’s discovered what these people did to his uncle. I’m running a background check on likely suspects. I’ve also faxed a few photographs to the family friend – to see if she recognises anybody in Coffee as Ronny’s nephew.’

‘Very good work, detective,’ Hertzog said to Dog. ‘Keep me updated.’

‘Sure thing, boss. Over and out.’

‘You got that address?’ Hertzog asked. Jools read it out. ‘Good, it’s straight ahead.’

A few seconds later they stopped alongside a modest house on the corner of a T-junction. They climbed out. In the distance one could see the sharp blue waters of the Vanderkloof Dam, snaking through adjacent mountains. As they stepped onto the front lawn they realised why their telephone calls had gone unanswered. An old lady was sitting on a lawn chair in the shade of an Acacia tree, fast asleep.

‘Ma’am,’ Jools said.

The old lady awoke with a start. ‘What?’ She looked around, bewildered. Then focused on the two strangers in her garden. ‘What do you –’

‘Ma’am, we’re detectives from the South African Police,’ Hertzog said, flashing his badge. ‘Can we please ask you a few questions?’She shook the sleep from her head then nodded uncertainly. ‘This is Lieutenant van Sant. I’m Captain Hertzog.’

The woman composed herself. She smiled at the two detectives. ‘You should know not to give an old woman such a fright,’ she said, waving at the two remaining lawn chairs. ‘Please have a seat. Can I get you something?’

‘No, ma’am. We’re fine.’

‘Please, call me Saartjie.’

Silence.

The two detectives looked at each other uncertainly. Hertzog leaned forward. ‘Ma’am, we have some bad news.’ Hertzog sighed and began telling her everything they had learned, leaving out the details of the three Coffee youths that had been kidnapped. When he had done the elderly lady stared at Hertzog, visibly shaken. Her lower lip quivered.

‘Oh dear God. Oh dear God. How awful.’ She placed a hand in front of her mouth as tears welled up in her eyes. ‘How terrible.’

‘I’m sorry, Saartjie.’ Hertzog placed his hand on hers.

‘I don’t understand. Did you come all this way just to give me the news?’

Hertzog glanced at Jools. ‘I’m afraid not, Saartjie. You see, we’re actually investigating a series of crimes –’

‘You mean the kidnappings. In Coffee?’

‘Ah ... yes, that’s exactly right.’ She looked at Hertzog with confusion. ‘We’re trying to track down the surviving relatives of all three victims.’

‘You think one of us did this?’

‘No, of course not,’ Hertzog said, lying. ‘But we have to cover all our bases.’ The old woman nodded, stunned. ‘We have to know ... besides yourself, are there any other relatives of Susan? We know about her uncle.’

‘Oh yes, poor Trevor. That was so sad ... the accident and all. It sometimes feels as if our family is cursed.’

‘Your family tree gets a bit hazy at times. Your sister, Janet, she ...’

‘Yes, Janet was an exact duplicate of our mother. She looked for love in all the wrong places.’ The old lady stared into the distance. ‘No, I’m sorry detective. It was only the three of us, Trevor, Janet and me.’

‘Did Trevor have any children? Someone that could have been close to Susan?’

‘No. He had no children. And no, neither did I.’

Hertzog sighed, staring up at the clear blue sky above. Another dead end. ‘I see,’ he said, beginning to rise. ‘Thank you for your help. I’m sorry if we –’

‘You don’t think it could have been the little one, do you?’

Hertzog fell back into his chair, shocked. ‘Little one? What do you mean?’

She stared at Hertzog, surprised. ‘Surely you know that Susan had a child?’

The Child

Hertzog and Jools stared at each other in shocked silence.

‘I don’t understand,’ Jools said. ‘We checked the records. There was nothing about a birth. I made sure. There were no birth certificates whatsoever.’

The woman shook her head in rueful sadness. ‘Dear precious Suzie.’ She looked at the two detectives. ‘I’m not surprised there weren’t any records.’ She remained quiet for a moment.  When she spoke a tender melancholy touched her words. ‘A few months after Suzie disappeared a friend of hers contacted me. I don’t remember the girl’s name. But she told me Suzie spoke about me often with great fondness. She hadn’t seen Suzie for a few years. But she and Susie had been communicating telephonically just before she disappeared.’ The woman began crying. ‘She said that Suzie was coming to see me.’ Saartjie remained quiet for a few moments, overcome with sadness. ‘She said the last time she saw her Suzie was living in some Beatnik commune in White River, in the Northern Transvaal. The whole hippie thing was only starting to happen then ... so I guess it’s the kind of thing young people did back then. She said the last time she saw her ... Suzie was pregnant.’ Hertzog and Jools listened attentively, not wanting to interrupt. ‘I’m not surprised Suzie didn’t register the child. She was definitely a free-spirit. And of course, she hated the government. She was always a bit of an activist. In fact, when she disappeared I thought for a long time that maybe it was ...’ She averted her eyes. ‘I thought maybe the Secret Police got her.’ Hertzog nodded with sympathy. ‘I must admit, I was disappointed ... that Suzie didn’t tell me. However I shouldn’t have been surprised I guess. When she got involved with all those dope smokers we lost touch.’ She looked at the two detectives, fresh tears flowing down her withered cheeks. ‘I truly believe, detective, that she was coming to tell me. I believe that’s why she was coming to see me.’ Hertzog nodded. ‘So when Isabelle, yes, that was her name ... Isabelle. So when Isabelle told me about the child I begged her to try and locate the child. Or at the very least to see if she could find out anything about the child. I knew that Janet wouldn’t be interested.’ She looked at Hertzog with fierce intensity. ‘I had to find that child, detective. It was my only link to Suzie.’ She paused. ‘I waited and waited. But nothing. I thought maybe she had forgotten. Or that she just couldn’t be bothered. And then ... about eight months later she called me. She said she had discovered the child’s location.’ She raised her tear-streaked eyes to heaven. ‘I thought all my prayers had been answered.’ Slowly her eyes sank to the dirt beneath. ‘But no. It wasn’t meant to be.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She gave me the name of a place, The Children of God Orphanage. Rather ironic now that I think about it.’

‘Why do you say that? What happened?’ Hertzog was becoming frustrated.

‘The orphanage was located in Carletonville. A mining town ... bit of a rough place. I tracked down a number. But when I phoned ... the line was discontinued. I contacted the local social services people. A woman told me the place had burned down. She said all the records had been destroyed in the fire. And then she told me the orphanage was under investigation. She wouldn’t tell me why. I contacted about a dozen people. But it was like hitting a brick wall. No-one would say anything.’ She cried, her eyes clenched tightly shut. ‘The child must have been almost four by then.’

Hertzog jumped up. ‘Saartjie, may I please use your phone?’

The old woman nodded. ‘It’s in the living room.’

Hertzog ran inside and located the phone. He dialled and after receiving an answer barked several orders into the receiver. He hung up and waited. Ten minutes later the phone rang.

‘Yes.’ The officer on the other end gave Hertzog a number. He dialled it and waited. He was about to kill the call when a woman answered. She sounded young. Hertzog mentioned the orphanage. The woman paused uncertainly then replied that she knew about the “whole affair” but that it was before her time. Could Hertzog maybe phone the following morning to speak to someone more senior? When Hertzog replied out of frustration that it was a matter of life and death and that he couldn’t bloody well wait until the next day she became haughty and replied he was lucky to find someone in the office at all and that rudeness never solved anything. Hertzog calmed down and asked her pretty please to see if she could find the name of someone who could help him. She sighed dramatically and said she would phone him in a while. Hertzog waited. And waited. He paced nervously. And still he waited. Hertzog was beginning to think the girl had deceived him in order to get rid of him ... when the phone rang. With relief Hertzog answered.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve got a name and address. No number unfortunately.’ The woman paused. ‘Also ... she’s retired.’

Hertzog cursed under his breath. ‘Give it to me.’ He wrote it down, wondering how he was going to get back to the Transvaal in time to interview the social worker. There was no way he was going to involve another investigator at such a crucial stage in the investigation. ‘Okay. And that’s a Carletonville address?’

‘Carletonville? No. It’s a Kimberley address. She worked for the Western Cape department of social services.’

‘Yes!’ Hertzog shouted with joy.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ he said, killing the call without giving the perplexed girl the chance to respond. He ran outside. ‘Jools, we’re going to Kimberley.’ He bowed down in front of the old woman. ‘Saartjie, you have no idea how much you helped us.’

‘Oh yes, well, of course,’ she said rising. ‘Are you sure I can’t make you some tea.’

‘Thank you. But maybe next time. Good day.’

Jools bade a quick farewell then hurried after Hertzog. ‘Good news?’

‘I think so.’ He quickly briefed his partner on what he had learned.

‘So we’re going to Kimberley? Right now? Why not just leave early tomorrow morning. It’s only an hour’s drive from Coffee.’

‘We’ve got no time to waste, Jools. If we hurry we can maybe even interview her tonight.’

‘Let’s do it then.’ Jools sat back and prepared himself for the nearly two-hour drive to Kimberley. ‘What’s her name?’

‘What’s that?’ Hertzog asked, concentrating on the road. Darkness had already settled over the winter-driven Orange Free State.

‘The social worker. What’s her name?’

‘Miranda Kirsten.’

‘Well,’ Jools said, rolling down the window in order to light a cigarette. ‘I hope you’ve got no plans for the evening, Mrs Kirsten.’

A starry night settled over the wide plains of the western OFS. Koppies and ridges became dark ghostly silhouettes against the pin-pricked sky. The road was a serpentine creature, leading them into the darkness beyond.

Engrossed in gloomy thoughts, neither detective spoke a single word the entire trip.

Up ahead. In the city of Kimberley. Lay the final answers to all their questions.

Little did they know...

The Social Worker

About fifty clicks outside of Kimberley Hertzog asked Jools to radio the local police station. They requested a squad car meet them at the northern entrance to the famous mining city – at one stage home to such luminaries as Cecil John Rhodes and Barney Barnato. As neither Hertzog nor Jools knew Kimberley they didn’t want to waste time locating the address of the retired social worker. Time was precious.

Twenty minutes later as they hit the outskirts of Kimberley on the N8 highway they spotted the flashing lights of a police van. Hertzog pulled up alongside the van, flashed his badge and waited for the police car to make a U-turn.

‘Ever seen the big hole?’ Hertzog asked as the van raced ahead of them, lights flashing. He was referring to Kimberley’s most famous tourist attraction – the world’s largest open pit mine.

‘I’ve seen a lot of a-holes ... but never the hole,’ Jools said, flicking a cigarette from the open window.

Hertzog chuckled. Up ahead the police van flashed its hazard lights, slowed down, and then came to a stop. ‘I think we’ve reached our destination.’ He pulled up behind the van. The two detectives jumped from the Defender. ‘Is this the place?’ He asked the uniformed driver of the van.

‘Ja, Captain. This is the address you gave us.’

‘Thanks,’ Hertzog said. ‘Hang around for a while, will you?’

‘Sure thing, sir,’ the officer said, killing the van’s engine.

Jools and Hertzog walked up to the front door. Even in the dark they could see the lawn was perfectly trimmed and the garden beautifully maintained. Jools knocked. Moments later the door opened. A petite red-headed woman stood in the doorway. ‘Good evening,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Mrs Miranda Kirsten?’ Hertzog asked, flashing his badge.

The woman was momentarily taken aback at the sight of Hertzog’s police badge. ‘I ... no ... Miranda Kirsten doesn’t live here anymore.’

***

Hertzog and Jools exchanged a look of frustration.

‘She doesn’t live here anymore? Since when is that?’

‘Oh, quite a while actually. Almost a year, I’d say.’ She looked at the police van parked in the street. ‘What is this in connection with?’

‘Do you know her forwarding address?’ Hertzog asked, ignoring the question.

‘I’m afraid I don’t. Hertzog ran a clenched hand through his thick black hair. He sighed in exasperation. ‘However, I think Mr Rogers might.’

Hertzog looked up with anticipation. ‘Mr Rogers?’

‘Yes. He’s the landlord. We’re only renting.’

‘Do you have his number? Or an address?’

‘Yes, but I’m afraid it’s not going to do you any good.’

‘Why is that?’ Jools looked at her with growing impatience.

‘He’s on the road. He’s travelling from the Northern Transvaal.’ She offered a hopeful smile. ‘He said he’ll probably be making a turn tomorrow evening some time ...’

‘Dammit, we don’t have time,’ Jools said, slamming his fist into his palm.

Hertzog stepped forward, a glimmer of an idea in his mind. ‘Ma’am, do you know what car he’s driving? Also, can you give us a basic description of his features?’

The woman pondered Hertzog’s question, racking her memory. ‘Uh ... yes ... yes,’ she said, flustered by the tense agitation of the two detectives. With faltering words she described Rogers’s appearance and his vehicle.

Hertzog ran towards the police van and reached through the driver’s window. ‘Quick. Give me your radio handset.’ He identified himself to the dispatch operator. ‘I need to send an urgent alert ... to all divisions between Kimberley and Johannesburg. I need all units to be on the lookout for the following vehicle and driver.’ Hertzog relayed the description the red-head had given him. ‘I don’t care what it takes. Flag him down and get the current domicile of a Mrs Miranda Kirsten. You got that?’ The operator answered in the affirmative.

Hertzog handed the handset back to the uniformed cop and stood back. He slowly exhaled feeling all the tension of the last few hours drain from his body. All the frenzied activity of the last few days had now come to this; a waiting game. All the ceaseless hours of investigation, all the toil, all the suspicions and conclusions had now dead-ended in the great scourge of the homicide investigator. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

At the edges of Hertzog’s ragged mind lurked the nagging fear that he was once again on a wild goose chase – hunting down nebulous phantoms at risk of melting away under the least bit of scrutiny.

Jools thanked the woman for her help and joined Hertzog. ‘You wanna head back to Coffee?’

‘No. I want to be here when we receive word about our landlord.’ Hertzog asked the uniformed officer about accommodation. He gave Hertzog directions to a nearby Holiday Inn. ‘Let’s go get some sleep,’ Hertzog said as the van pulled away. ‘I have a feeling we’re going to have one hell of a day tomorrow.’

***

Jan Olifant splashed the wet mop onto the stained floor underneath the condiments shelf. A shopper had dropped a plastic bottle of mustard just before the OK Supermarket’s closing time. Instead of simply alerting staff the shopper had shoved the leaking container underneath the shelf. Which meant the long suffering Jan Olifant was left with a sticky stain that continued to resist even his most industrious efforts. Jan Olifant straightened himself, gripping the wooden handle of the old mop. He rubbed the small of his back and groaned with exaggerated misery. His was a thankless job. Remunerated at a rate that was barely above minimum wage. It was hardly enough to feed his family – and sustain his staple diet of suurwyn (sour wine). Jan Olifant looked around surreptitiously ... and scratched his testicles. Ever since he had hooked up with Maria Tieties that night in the shebeen he had been experiencing a persistent itch. He made a note to consult nurse Mazibuko the next time the mobile clinic rolled into town. Jan Olifant yawned lazily as he leaned back on the mop.

That’s when he saw it.

Olifant shuffled to the left. Mr Vermeulen, the supermarket manager was in his office, doing whatever it was that managers did after closing time. Jan Olifant propped the mop up against the shelf and quickly jogged into the staff quarters. He opened his locker and ripped out his old duffel bag. Seconds later he was back at the condiments shelf. After another quick glance to make sure the coast was clear he stepped behind the butchery counter and entered the back-of-store. The long table was laden with an unbelievable amount of red meat; boere wors (sausage), steak, chops, ribs, venison and even biltong. Olifant realised the vast amount of meat, covered in netting, was for the following day’s braai festival. It was a veritable treasure trove.

Shivering with the low temperatures of the cold room, Olifant carefully lifted select pieces of meat and slipped it into his bag. With the skill of the consummate thief Olifant knew exactly how to disguise his crime. When the bag was packed with meat Olifant replaced the netting and quietly moved back to the staff room. He inserted the bag into his locker and smiled in triumph.

Tonight the Olifant family was going to have a braai festival of their very own.

***

The next morning Hertzog was up early, pacing impatiently in the room he had booked for himself. Jools’s room was right next door. Awakened by the restless pacing Jools soon joined his colleague for coffee and cigarettes. ‘I assume you haven’t heard anything yet?’ Hertzog nodded but said nothing. He had given the hotel number to the Kimberley police station and was anxiously waiting for news. He eyed the room telephone with annoyance as if forcing it to ring through sheer intimidation. The early morning sun cast slats of bright light onto the carpet as Hertzog consulted his watch for the umpteenth time. It was going to be a long day.

Two hours later they had still not heard anything. Hertzog’s impatience was growing into restless exasperation. ‘We can’t sit around like this,’ Hertzog said after a while. ‘I feel like the whole world is collapsing around us while we’re sitting here twiddling our thumbs.’ He grabbed the car keys. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Hertzog twisted the door handle and was half-way into the hallway when the phone rang. In his haste to answer the call Hertzog knocked the phone from the stand. ‘Hello ... hello ...’ A tinny male voice bleated from the telephone handset, lying tangled up in the cord on the floor.

Feeling both excited and annoyed Hertzog fell onto his knees and brought the receiver to his ear. ‘Yes.’

‘Boss.’ It was Jannie Duvenhage.

Hertzog cursed softly. ‘Detective.’

‘I know who the killer is.’

***

A festive mania gripped the little town of Coffee. Although it was barely nine o’clock in the morning hundreds of excited people thronged the town square. And the numbers were growing by the hour as a steady stream of vehicles entered the small Orange Free State town. It seemed as if Andries Croukamp, the acting mayor of Coffee, had been correct. The notoriety generated by recent events had become a very effective draw card indeed.

On that morning however there was no sign of the doom and gloom that had plagued Coffee of late. The entire town commune had been closed off for traffic, instantly transforming the area into a sprawling carnival. The number of stalls had grown overnight and at least fifty of these now lined the town square, all decorated with colourful banners and helium-filled balloons. The huge traffic circle in the middle boasted a DJ stand that had been pumping local favourites since seven that morning. The children’s playground had also grown and now included a makeshift stage that was going to host – amongst others – a “Little Miss Coffee” beauty pageant, a magic show, a talent contest as well as a karaoke show during the course of the day. Another part of the NG church lawn had been cleared for activities like sack races and touch rugby. At an appropriate distance from the church was a Castle Lager sponsored beer garden. Next to the DJ stand was a large marquee tent that was going to be the site of one of the main events of the two-day festival – the “Baas vannie Plaas Braai Kompetisie”.

The Big Boss Braai Competition.

None of the cheerful attendees seemed to notice the heavy police presence however. The mood was too ebullient; the atmosphere too carefree.

Oh yes. It was fun fun fun all around.

Except for one man; wearing a baseball cap and a large pair of shades to disguise his features. Although he moved easily through the growing crowd he nonetheless stood apart. Isolated and alone. He looked down upon those around him. Not only from his elevated height. But from the disdain he felt for the merry country people.

‘Soon you will pay,’ he said to himself, whispering with a zealous intensity. ‘Soon all of you will pay.’

***

‘Come again?’ Hertzog was momentarily dazed. He had expected another call entirely.

‘We got him, boss,’ Jannie said with great enthusiasm. ‘I think this time we actually got the right guy.’

‘Let’s hear it.’

‘Remember I told you I was checking out that Bloem Mega store, the one that specialises in high-end tech stuff?’

‘Hm-huh.’

‘Well, I mean, I figured that kind of equipment costs serious money. I don’t see anybody paying for a big purchase like that in cash, right? So I’ve been going through their credit card slips for the last few months.’

‘Good thinking,’ Hertzog said.

‘And that’s when I found it. In February of this year someone purchased a Macintosh Plus and a LaserWriter Plus.’ Jannie paused dramatically. ‘Guess who made the purchase, boss?’

‘I’m listening,’ Hertzog said, allowing the young investigator his moment of glory.

‘It was Tony Bredekamp, boss,’ Jannie said triumphantly.

‘I knew it,’ Jools said, shouting with excitement. He had pushed his face next to Hertzog’s in order to hear the conversation. ‘Dammit, I knew it.’

‘I’ve got even more, boss.’

‘More?’

‘Boss ... erm, I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t want to contact you without knowing for sure ... so, I organised a 205 and I asked Detectives Bosman and Doober to search Tony Bredekamp’s house while I made my way to Coffee.’

‘Don’t worry about it, detective,’ Hertzog said, genuinely impressed. ‘You did the right thing. That kind of initiative will get you far.’

Well, boss, you’re not going to believe it. We found the posters. The ones that had been put up in town, with the teens’ faces on them. They were there, boss. Plus ... Detective Dog booted the Macintosh. You were right all along. The computer had been used to design the posters. We got him, boss. We got the sick bastard.’

‘Detective Duvenhage, you have proved your worth over and over again. Well done, Jannie. And welcome to the team.’ Hertzog glanced at Jools, nodding his approval. ‘Is Tony in custody?’

‘Unfortunately not, boss. He’s still missing.’

Hertzog grimaced. ‘Listen to me carefully, detective. It is of the utmost urgency that we apprehend this man as quickly as possible. He is a deviant of the highest calibre and poses a very real and present danger. Put out an APB (All Points Bulletin) immediately. Get everyone on the Coffee police force involved. Detective, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that the lives of countless people depend on our actions over the next few hours.’

‘It’s already taken care of, boss. Detective Doober organised it.’

‘Well done, Detective. Keep me in the loop.’ Hertzog ended the call.

‘What now, Shaun?’ Jools asked. ‘Do we head back to Coffee?’

‘Not this time, Jools. I refuse to let complacency trip us up again. We’re going to ride this train all the way to the end.’ He paused, a look of grim determination on his face. ‘Besides, I’m sure the others can handle it.’

Both detectives jumped with fright when the phone rang again.

***

The Defender ground to a halt in front of the modest house. Jools checked the address, hurriedly scrawled down on a loose piece of paper. ‘This is it.’

‘Let’s go.’

A squad car from Parkweg, Bloemfontein’s main police station, had spotted Rogers and his vehicle just north of the Eeufees Road turn-off. The elderly landlord didn’t have Miranda Kirsten’s details with him. Fortunately a quick call to his secretary finally provided the information Hertzog had been seeking so desperately. In light of recent developments the information didn’t seem nearly as important anymore. As they stood in front of the heavy door Hertzog wondered if he hadn’t made a huge mistake by not returning to Coffee. He knocked and waited.

A striking woman opened the door. She had long flowing black hair, beautiful classic features and a trim body surprising for her age. Hertzog knew she was retired yet she didn’t look anything close to sixty. It was clear that she had once been an exceptionally beautiful woman. ‘Good morning, Captain Hertzog. Mr Rogers told me you’d be calling.’ Her voice was husky. She held out a hand in greeting and smiled.

‘Mrs Kirsten, I’ve been waiting to talk to you for quite a while.’ He shook her outstretched hand.

‘Please come inside,’ she said, waving the detectives into her living room. Like her, its decor was classic and timeless. ‘How can I help you, Captain?’ She asked once they were seated.

Hertzog decided to be straightforward with her. ‘We’re investigating the disappearances of the teens in Coffee, Mrs Kirsten.’

‘Oh my goodness,’ she said, placing a hand on her breast. ‘I read about that.’ She looked at Hertzog with surprise. ‘And you think I can help you?’

‘Maybe. In the course of our investigations we came across a place called the Children of God Orphanage.’

Her eyes grew large. ‘Oh dear, I remember it. Yes. It was an awful place.’

‘An awful place?’

‘Oh, yes. Terrible.’ She paused. ‘The Children of God Orphanage was probably the worst children’s home I had ever come across in my long career as a social worker. There was a lot of controversy surrounding that place.’ She sighed, a stricken look on her face. ‘There were allegations ... claims of mismanagement, embezzlement and worse ... sexual abuse.’ Jools and Hertzog exchanged looks. ‘It turned out the owners of the orphanage were a pair of con artists, I guess you could say. All the allegations came to nothing though. In the early seventies, the place burned to the ground. It was alleged that the owners caused the fire. But those allegations ... like all the others ... came to nothing. They disappeared into thin air soon afterwards. Their record keeping had always been atrocious. But it didn’t really matter. Virtually everything ... including the juvenile records were destroyed in the fire.’ She stared at both detectives intently. ‘You see, the mismanagement wasn’t only on their side. All the social workers involved with the orphanage were dismissed. They were all accused of gross dereliction of duty. In any case, I was appointed right at the end to ... I guess, wrap up the whole matter. To settle everything.’ She shook her head, exhaling loudly. ‘It was a mess. Those poor children were in a horrid state. It was awful.’

‘Mrs Kirsten, I need you to think back. I need you to try and remember. We need information on a specific child.’

‘Goodness, Captain it was such a long time ago. I don’t know. There were so many issues to sort out. I don’t think ...’

Jools leaned forward. ‘Mrs Kirsten, this is absolutely crucial. The mother of one of the children in the orphanage disappeared. She vanished into thin air. The case was never solved. That was why the child ended up in there.’

‘Oh my goodness, yes. I remember. I remember now.’ Her face lit up. ‘The mother disappeared while on a hitchhiking trip.’ Both Hertzog and Jools perked up. ‘That’s the reason why I remember him.’

‘Him?’

‘Yes, it was a boy.’

Hertzog and Jools exchanged excited looks. ‘Mrs Kirsten, is there anything else you can tell us about the boy?’

‘Well I wish I could. You see I was forced to hand over the case not long after the fire. And even if I wanted to tell you ... I’m not allowed to.’

‘You’re not allowed to?’ Hertzog looked at her, a quizzical look on his face.

‘The boy’s file was sealed shortly afterwards.’ She looked at the two detectives with regret. ‘I’m afraid no one is allowed to look at it.’

***

Hertzog stared at her with shock. ‘The file is sealed?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ She looked from one detective to the other. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t handle the case for very long. I only made one visit to the couple who adopted the boy. However, because of the sealed file, I cannot tell you anything I learned in an official capacity.’ She looked at Hertzog with tenderness. ‘I’m so sorry. I know this is important to you. But I don’t know much in any case. All I remember is that it was a beautiful little boy.’ She leaned forward and touched Hertzog’s hand. ‘I’m really sorry. I wish there was something I could do.’

Hertzog stood up. ‘Don’t worry. There’s something I can do.’ He pointed at a telephone in the corner of the lounge. ‘May I please use your phone, Mrs Kirsten?’

‘Of course, Captain. Anything to help you.’

Hertzog walked over to the phone. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out a piece of paper with a number scribbled on it. It was the Bloemfontein magistrate on standby. He dialled and waited.

‘Thank you, Mrs Kirsten,’ Jools said. ‘We appreciate your help.’

She smiled graciously. ‘Like I said, I just wish there was something more I could do.’

‘Good morning, may I please speak to Magistrate Jordaan?’ Hertzog said into the telephone handset.

Miranda Kirsten exclaimed loudly. She threw a hand to her mouth. Both detectives stared at her. ‘Oh dear God. There is something.’

‘What do you mean?’ Jools asked.

Miranda Kirsten stared at Jools. Then at Hertzog. ‘I remember something.’

‘What is it, Mrs Kirsten?’

‘A few years after the whole matter ... I ran into the couple at a supermarket.’

‘The couple who adopted the boy?’

‘Yes, yes. The couple who adopted him.’

‘Hello,’ Magistrate Jordaan said over the phone. But Hertzog’s attention was focused on the retired social worker. ‘Hello?’ he said in confusion when not receiving an answer. ‘Hello?’

‘Yes?’ Jools said.

‘They remembered me from our meeting.’

‘Yes?’

‘Hello? Who is this?’ The magistrate became irritable.

‘I asked them how their son was doing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Hello. Hello.’

‘You see, I can tell you this because I was already retired. And that day I ... I wasn’t meeting them as a social worker.’

‘Yes?’

‘Hello. Listen is this some sort of a joke?’

‘So I asked them ... how their son was doing.’

‘Yes?’

‘They told me he had gone to live in a small Free State town.’

‘Uh ...’ Hertzog tried to answer the irate magistrate, but found his attention completely focused on Miranda Kirsten’s words.

‘Who is this? Speak up man ...’

‘Yes?’

‘They told me he was happy. He was living in some small town. And he was very happy.’

‘Yes?’

‘Listen here, I’m going to hang up. I don’t have time for childish pranks.’

‘And they told me he had gotten married some time before.’

‘Yes?’

‘Who are you?’

‘Uh ... magistrate Jordaan ...’

‘Yes? Who are you, dammit?

‘And then they told me he had finally chosen a profession ... and settled down.’

‘Yes?’

‘They said they weren’t too happy but they accepted his choice.’

‘Listen who the hell are you?’

Silence.

‘They told me he became a butcher.’

The phone fell from Hertzog’s hand.

***

Terence Sprinkaan walked towards the little dilapidated shack constructed from corrugated iron. He whistled a tune as he stepped over the plastic milk crates. Here in the township the ubiquitous crates were used by residents as “lawn chairs”. Discarded bottles of suurwyn and the ashes in a sawn-off iron barrel told Terence Sprinkaan that his old friend, Jan Olifant had been partying the night before. ‘Eish my bru, weer lekke dik gesuip,’ Terence said to himself as he walked towards the front door, leaning precariously on broken hinges.

You’re hammered again, my brother.

Terence Sprinkaan knocked on the old aluminium door. ‘Hey, Olifant. Dis Terence.’

He waited. There was no answer. ‘Hey, bla, skud af daai babalas. Ons gaan festival toe.’

Hey dude, shake off that hangover. Let’s go to the festival.

Silence. ‘Dônner,’ he said, cursing. He knocked again, much louder this time. ‘Olifant. Word wakker, word wakker ... die dag raak al hoe kakker.’

Wake up, wake up. The day’s getting worse (shittier).

Terence knocked again, this time banging on the door with his fist.

The door swung open. Terence Sprinkaan looked at the door, shrugged. Then entered. He spent a moment in the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness within. ‘Olifant.’

He saw a shape on the floor, barely discernible in the darkness. ‘Olifant. Jou dronkgat.’

Olifant, you drunkard.

He kicked the person in the ribs. The figure rolled over.

Terence Sprinkaan stared in shock. He cursed in a high-pitched falsetto.

Jan Olifant was lying on the floor. Dead. His sightless eyes bulged from his sockets. Thick vomit caked his face, his shirt and the floor underneath his head.

Terence Sprinkaan back-peddled in shock. He looked up. Maria Olifant, Jan’s wife, was lying curled up in their bed, clutching her stomach. She was also dead, lying in a sea of vomit. In another corner of the shack, Jan Olifant’s two children were curled up in foetal positions. Their eyes bulged obscenely, their little mouths choked with vomit.

Terence Sprinkaan ran from the shack, screaming.

***

Hertzog and Jools stared at Miranda Kirsten in shock.

She looked at each detective in turn, flustered. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

‘I should have seen it,’ Hertzog said. ‘How could I possibly have missed it?’

Jools jumped up, his eyes huge. ‘Shaun, the festival. It was his idea all along. You were right. He’s going to use the festival to make a final statement.’ He stepped towards Hertzog. ‘We have to stop it.’

Hertzog stared at Jools, his chin set in steely determination. He grabbed the phone cord and yanked the receiver into the air. He neatly grabbed it. And began dialling feverishly.

***

In the Coffee police station the phone on the public reception counter rang loudly. In the silence of the empty station it sounded like a klaxon, its shrill ringing bouncing off the cold walls.

The police station was completely deserted. Nothing stirred.

The phone rang. Insistent. Demanding.

In the back of the building a door slammed. A uniformed officer came running. With clumsy fingers he fumbled at the open fly of his police slacks, still busy zipping up. He shuffled towards the phone. Reached for it. And grabbed the receiver. ‘Hello.’

The line was dead.

***

‘Dammit.’

‘No luck,’ Jools said, running into the house. Hertzog had instructed him to try and contact Chaz and Dog on the two-way radio. ‘They’re not answering. Probably out tracking down Tony Bredekamp.’

‘And the others?’ Hertzog asked, referring to the Coffee police officers.

‘I tried them all. Nothing.’ He shrugged. ‘They’re probably on foot, watching over the festival – just like we asked them to.’

‘Dammit.’ He dialled again. ‘We have to get through.’

Silence.

Herzog’s face lit up. ‘Hello. Yes, who’s this?’ Hertzog listened. It was their old friend, the rookie cop, Constable van der Merwe. ‘Where the hell is everybody?’

‘We’ve only got a skeleton crew on duty, Captain. The other two officers are out on a call. A whole family was murdered in the township. Looks like death by poison. Gruesome stuff.’

‘Constable, you need to listen to me very, very carefully. I need you to do two things for me. It’s extremely important.’

‘You can depend on me, Captain.’ The Constable’s voice was a tinny buzz in the silence of Miranda Kirsten’s lounge.

‘You need to track down Jack Strydom and arrest him. Get backup, do you understand? He’s an extremely dangerous man.’

‘What do I arrest him for, Captain?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Just read him his rights and detain him. You got that?’ Van der Merwe answered in the affirmative. ‘Then I need you to get hold of the acting station commander. Get him to cancel the festival.’

‘Cancel the festival? Sjoe, really?’

‘Yes, dammit. Cancel the festival.’

But if we arrest Jack Strydom then surely –’

‘There’s a good chance he’s not acting alone. Until we detain Tony Bredekamp as well no-one is safe. Do you understand that?’

‘Yes, Captain. Erm ... which should I do first?’

‘First arrest Strydom. I don’t want him to catch wind of what we’re doing. You understand?’

***

‘Don’t worry, Captain. You can rely on me.’ Constable van der Merwe ended the call. He rushed outside to the police parking lot and jumped into the nearest van. Minutes later he was rushing toward the town commons, where all the festivities were taking place. Racing at full speed he sped around a corner. And braked hard, tyres screeching. He came to a standstill, inches away from the back of a stall.

Dammit! He had forgotten the area had been closed off to traffic.

He jumped from the van and charged into the crowd, scanning the crowd for the familiar features of Jack Strydom. Instead he came across one of the town council members. ‘Pietie.’ He grabbed the man by the arm. ‘Where’s Jack Strydom?’

‘What?’ The startled council member stared at the policeman.

‘Jack Strydom,’ van der Merwe said, shouting to make himself heard above the loud music.

‘Ah ... last time I saw him he was heading back to his house. He said he had some last minute things to take care of.’ The council member stared at van der Merwe quizzically. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’

Without providing an answer van der Merwe sprinted back to his van. A short distance away he saw two of his fellow Coffee policemen. In a split second he made a decision to go to Strydom’s house on his own. Without backup. An arrest of this magnitude was going to look helluva good on his record. Van der Merwe raced towards Strydom’s house, feeling exhilarated. He was going to single-handedly arrest the region’s most famous criminal.

It was the biggest mistake of his life.

***

‘I’m sorry, Captain Hertzog. I don’t have the proper authority to unseal a file like that.’

Hertzog exhaled in exasperation. He was once again standing with the phone to his ear. ‘Well who does have the proper authority, magistrate? You understand this is a matter of the utmost urgency. Lives are at stake.’

‘Your best option would be to contact a Supreme Court judge. I have the contact details of –’

‘No, you don’t understand, sir. We simply don’t have time. Can I please ask you to make the necessary arrangements? Please. Your help would be most invaluable.’ It was not a big favour to ask. Bloemfontein was the seat of the South African Supreme Court. It was an inadvertent stroke of luck that Hertzog had selected a magistrate from this same city to be on standby.

Magistrate Jordaan paused for a moment; then sighed laboriously. ‘I suppose it’s fine. Contact me in about half an hour.’

‘Thank you, sir. Your help has been of paramount importance.’ Hertzog ended the call. ‘Mrs Kirsten, the actual file, it’s here at the Kimberley offices, right?’

‘Yes, it is.’ She stood up. ‘I can ask one of my former colleagues to help you. Should I phone her?’

‘Yes, please. We appreciate your help.’ Miranda Kirsten walked over to her phone and dialled a number. While she spoke, Jools and Hertzog waited, too impatient to sit down.

‘Why are we even bothering with the file?’ Jools asked. ‘Now that we’ve got Strydom, why don’t we just head back? I’m sure they’re going to need our help in apprehending Bredekamp.’

‘We’ve come all this way. Besides, I don’t want any loose ends. We’re doing this thing properly. Who knows, maybe that file contains just enough to nail a conviction.’ Hertzog consulted his watch. ‘Constable van der Merwe and his back-up team should be making the arrest right about now.’

Jools held open the door. ‘Let’s hope so.’

***

The police van ground to a halt in the Strydom driveway, kicking up gravel. Constable van der Merwe jumped out and headed for the front door, drawing his service pistol as he ran across the mangy lawn. To his relief he saw that Jack Strydom’s Ford Cortina was parked in the street alongside the house. In a matter of minutes Constable Joost van der Merwe was going to be the SAP’s most famous rookie.

He raced up the porch stairs. Taking up position alongside the door he knocked. ‘Jack Strydom. This is the South African Police. Come out with your hands in the air.’

Silence.

‘Jack Strydom, you are under arrest. Come out right now or we’re coming in.’ Constable van der Merwe banged the door with his fist. It swung open.

Van der Merwe looked around then slowly stepped through the doorway. The old wooden floor of the Strydom living room creaked under his weight. He took another step. ‘Jack Strydom. We have the house surrounded. There is no escape.’ He took another step, scanning the interior of the house. ‘Hand yourself over or face the consequences.’

Silence.

Constable van der Merwe jumped through the archway that led to the kitchen, sweeping the room with his gun. Nothing. He exited the kitchen and carefully tip-toed down the hall. The floor creaked ominously with each step; the only sounds to stir the eerie silence. He took another step. Then another. He was standing in front of a room. Its door was closed though slightly ajar. Carefully. As quietly as possible. He peered inside. Then kicked the door open.

It was a study. And Jack Strydom was inside. Seated at his desk in a swivel chair. His back to van der Merwe. The Constable gripped his pistol with both hands and pointed it at Jack Strydom’s back. ‘Get your hands in the air. Right now.’

***

Hertzog and Jools were standing in a small office of a downtown government building. Dour and bland, the building reflected the soulless austerity that characterised so much of Apartheid architecture. ‘I’m going to need this back some time,’ the short stout woman said as she handed Hertzog a thick file. It was worn and dusty. ‘The only reason I’m letting you have it at all is because Miranda is a good friend.’

‘Thank you, Mrs ...’

‘Van Rensburg. Lettie van Rensburg.’

‘Thank you, Mrs van Rensburg.’ Hertzog glanced over at the phone. ‘Can I ask one more favour of you?’

She followed the direction of his gaze. ‘You want to use my phone.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘I hope it’s a local call.’

Hertzog nodded, smiling. It was hardly a stretch of the imagination to consider a two-hundred kilometre call local. He dialled and waited.

‘Ah, Captain Hertzog. It looks like today is your lucky day. I managed to contact an old friend of mine, Judge Hawthorne. For once the old geezer was in a good mood. I’ve got your warrant here in front of me. Can I fax a copy to you?’ Hertzog thanked him profusely and gave him the fax number of the Coffee police station.

‘Mrs van Rensburg, thank you so much.’ He turned to Jools. ‘Let’s get going. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.’ As they exited the building Hertzog handed Jools the file. ‘Scan this while I drive. I have an idea it contains some revealing information.’

Hertzog had no idea how right he was.

***

Town council treasurer, Andries Croukamp, stood with his arms akimbo, a huge grin on his face. ‘I told you, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.’ He waved at the multitude of people that crowded Coffee’s town square, an endless throng of festival goers, weaving through the various stalls, stands and booths. ‘There must be at least five thousand people.’

Next to him a diminutive man, Diesel De Beer, the Coffee town council business liaison, nodded while sipping on his fourth Castle Lager. ‘Five thousand people, at least.’

‘At this rate we’re going to turn a huge profit, old man. No complaints here.’

‘A huge profit, for sure.’

‘Good day folks,’ Croukamp said, greeting a family strolling by. ‘Why don’t you join us at the DJ stand, over there by the marquee tent, to see who will be crowned the very first Coffee Braai Master? I believe they’re about to begin.’ The wife and husband nodded to each other in agreement while Croukamp ruffled the hair of their chubby son, chomping away at a huge wad of candy floss. Many others were now also starting to make their way to the main event of the day. A large festive crowd was already gathered at the marquee tent while the rented disc jockey was spinning some old favourites like Sias Reinecke’s Sproetjies and David Kramer’s Manne van die Royal Hotel. About a dozen portable barbecue kits had been arranged in a row underneath the long marquee tent. A huge banner featured the words BRAAI MASTER while colourful bunting fluttered in the wind. Some of the region’s most accomplished barbecue experts had gathered to compete for a five thousand rand prize. And the honour of being a true Free State Braai Master. The twelve competing barbecue hopefuls were standing behind their sets, waiting for the countdown. Huge mounds of meat were arranged in large enamel containers on stands in front of them. Once the judges had tasted the barbecued meat and made their decision the meat would be sold to the public at discounted rates. It was going to be a hit.

‘Ahh.’ Croukamp sighed with contentment. He gazed at the festive crowd. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’

The music stopped abruptly. Moments later the DJ’s voice came over the loudspeakers. ‘Five ... four ... three ... two ... BRAAI!’

‘Where’s Jack Strydom?’ Croukamp asked, looking around. ‘This is his baby after all.’

‘Jack Strydom,’ Diesel De Beer said, cracking another Castle Lager.

***

Hertzog sped along the N8, racing towards the Coffee turn-off. He took the last drag from the Camel Filter and flicked it through the open window. Although it was imperative that they reached the little Free State town as quickly as possible, he nonetheless maintained a speed that was just above the limit.

‘Still nothing,’ Jools said, replacing the car’s radio handset. He had been trying unsuccessfully to reach Constable van der Merwe as well as the other unit members.

‘We’ll try again in a while.’ Hertzog kept an unwavering eye on the road as he increased his speed. ‘We have to reach someone ... sooner or later.’

Next to him Jools opened the file. He began paging slowly through the thick folder.

The sun was already reaching its halfway point and a torpid heat was beginning to settle over the dusty landscape. Hertzog wiped the sweat from his brow. In the distance he spotted a convoy of eighteen-wheeler trucks. ‘Damn,’ he said under his breath. He squinted at the mirage created by the rising heat. ‘How far away is Petrusburg?’ He asked. Moments later when he still hadn’t received an answer he glanced over at Jools. His friend was engrossed in the file, his eyes large; his mouth hanging open. ‘What’s wrong? He asked, concerned.

Jools looked up at him. His face was pale. He swallowed hard. ‘Shaun. We made a huge mistake.’

***

‘Get your hands in the air right now. Or I’m going to be forced to shoot.’

Constable Joost van der Merwe crouched low, both hands on the pistol still aimed at Jack Strydom.

Silence.

‘Damn you, Strydom.’ Van der Merwe took a step towards the cornered butcher. Then another. And another. Balancing carefully on his right foot he kicked the back of Strydom’s swivel chair. It swung around.

Jack Strydom stared at van der Merwe with a shocked look on his face. His mouth hung open grotesquely.

Van der Merwe exclaimed loudly and stumbled backwards.

A huge hunting knife protruded from Jack Strydom’s chest.

***

‘Stop the car.’

Hertzog shot another look at his friend. ‘What?’

‘Stop the car, Shaun.’

‘What? Jools are you joking? You know we –’

‘Stop the fucking car, Shaun.’

Hertzog pulled into the emergency lane of the road. He killed the car’s engine. ‘What the hell’s going on, Jools?’

‘Shaun, we made a huge mistake.’

‘Why? What –’

‘This file. It wasn’t sealed to protect the child.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They sealed it to cover their arses. The bastards!’

‘What are you talking about, Jools.’

‘The child. Susan Billing’s child. It’s not a boy, Shaun.’

‘What? How ... how can that be?’

‘It’s a girl, Shaun. It was a girl all along.’

‘No ... no ... what are you saying?’

‘Shaun. Look.’ Jools pulled a faded black and white photo from the file. ‘Look.’

The blood drained from Hertzog’s face. His mouth opened and closed but no sound escaped. ‘No.’ He turned, flung the door open and vomited violently onto the harsh tarmac.

***

Constable van der Merwe ran from the room. And came to a dead stop.

‘Marike.’

The girl stood motionlessly, staring at the policeman. ‘What are you doing –’

‘Listen here ... someone ... Jack ... I ...’ He stammered uselessly, trying to find the words.

‘What’s wrong? Panic washed over her face. ‘What’s going on?’

Van der Merwe pointed in the direction of the study. ‘Don’t ... don’t go in there ...’

‘What’s wrong, officer?’ She gripped his arm.

He stared at her with alarm. ‘Somebody killed Jack, Marike. Somebody killed your husband.’

Her hands flew to her mouth. ‘Oh dear God, no.’

He took her by the arm. ‘Come with me.’

‘Where are we going?’ She asked, her voice a tiny whimper.

‘Somewhere you’ll be safe.’

‘But ... but ... what about –’

‘No-one can save him anymore. Come let me get you to safety.’

She nodded, tears filling her eyes. ‘Okay. But can I just get a few things?’

‘Yes, yes. But quickly. The murderer could still be on the premises.’

‘Okay,’ she said softly, rushing into the kitchen.

Constable Joost van der Merwe stood in the doorway, surveying the front garden. He holstered his gun. His face betrayed a high-adrenalin cocktail of emotions – both fear and excitement. ‘Marike, come, we must go.’

‘Constable.’ She spoke behind him.

‘Yes,’ he said, distracted.

‘Constable.’ This time her voice was more insistent.

‘Yes?’ He turned to face her.

Constable Joost van der Merwe froze. A sudden chill settled over his body. A pathetic whimper escaped his mouth. He looked at the young girl in front of him. Then at the knife. Rammed into this solar plexus.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Marike said. ‘You don’t deserve to die. Not like the rest of them.’

Constable van der Merwe tried to speak but she tenderly placed a finger on his lips.

‘Shh ... shh ... don’t say anything.’

Joost van der Merwe fell forward. Into darkness.

The Bloodbath

Hertzog stared into the distance, his eyes focused on some dark interior landscape. His breathing was shallow, his mouth slightly open. His face was blank. The black and white photo of Marike lay on the dashboard. She was a young girl, about ten years old. Her hair was shorn close to her scalp. She was dressed like a boy.

Anguished minutes passed. And then he spoke. ‘Tell me. I want to know.’

Jools stared at his friend for a long time. He nodded and began to flip through the file’s contents. ‘The couple that adopted Marike was Rachel and Bertie Le Roux. Bertie Le Roux was a high-ranking local National Party politician.’ He looked at Hertzog. ‘It explains a lot of what happened.’ Hertzog nodded, mute. ‘They had a boy, named Bertie junior. When he was ten he died in a freak accident.’ Jools flipped through the file. ‘It seems he was struck by lightning ... while inside a movie theatre.’ Jools whistled. ‘Can you fucking believe that?’ He shook his head. ‘In any case, the mother, Rachel, was hospitalised. She suffered a nervous breakdown. She also had various mental “episodes”. Soon afterwards she began displaying symptoms of schizophrenia.’ Jools stared at his partner in shock. ‘Holy shit, Shaun, this woman should never have been allowed to adopt a child at all.’ Hertzog said nothing. ‘They applied for adoption several times but were denied.’ Jools paged through the file, reading. ‘It seems when the Children of God fiasco happened it provided the ideal situation for them. A political connection of Bertie Le Roux helped them to secure an adoption. The fact that Marike’s mother never registered the birth combined with the orphanage’s mismanagement and the eventual fire sealed the deal. They adopted her.’ Jools read quietly, flipping through various documents. ‘Jesus. You’re not going to believe this.’ He stared ahead, shaking his head. ‘They petitioned a judge for a birth certificate, listing themselves as the parents. But get this ... they registered her as a boy, Shaun.’ He stared at his friend, stunned. ‘They changed her fucking gender, Shaun. But if you think that’s bad, look at this.’ He showed Hertzog a copy of a birth certificate. ‘They named her Bertie, Shaun. The sick deviants named her after their dead son.’

Hertzog spoke. His voice was so low it was almost inaudible. ‘Why didn’t they just adopt a boy?’ His flat tone was reflected in the blank expression on his face.

Jools flipped through the pages. He stopped and stared, exclaiming softly. ‘Now I understand.’ He showed Hertzog the picture in his hands. It was a black and white of Bertie junior. ‘Look, the resemblance is uncanny. Marike could have been his twin sister.’ Hertzog nodded, his eyes focused on some distant point. ‘To all intents and purposes she became the re-incarnation of their dead son.’ Jools shook his head, paging. ‘She was home-schooled for the next few years, which explains why no-one seemed to notice. However, luckily for her, almost four years after the adoption a neighbour noticed that something wasn’t right. She alerted the authorities. Due to his political clout, the matter was covered up and Marike was assigned to another set of foster parents. It was at this stage that the file was sealed.’ Jools continued reading, tracing his finger along the page. ‘Shortly afterwards she was given a new birth certificate, listing the new couple as her parents. And get this, despite everything they did to her, Marike stayed in touch with the Le Roux’s. Insane.’ Jools closed the folder and stared ahead, exhaling slowly. He turned to his friend. ‘Hey man, are you okay? What do you want to do? Do you want me to drive?’

‘No thanks,’ Hertzog replied, emotionless. He turned the ignition. The Defender roared into life. ‘Let’s get going. We have work to do.’

***

‘It’s hot. It’s happening. It’s the Braai Master championship. And we’re cooking, baby,’ The DJ – and aspiring master of ceremonies – ran from contestant to contestant, all the time shouting words of encouragement into his microphone. ‘Who’s going to be the master of all masters?’ He stopped at a man with a gargantuan paunch. ‘Is it gonna be Jannie from Bloemfontein?’

‘My name is Piet.’

‘Yes, absolutely,’ the DJ said jogging up to the next contestant. ‘Or is it going to be our own marvellous, masterful braai master from Coffee, Gert van Tonder?’ He pointed at the large crowd gathered before them. ‘Only time will tell, folks.’ He pushed down the microphone and leaned towards Gert van Tonder. ‘Speaking of time, how long before the good people can eat, big guy?’

‘Give it another twenty minutes or so,’ Gert said, looking at the massive spread on his barbecue grill.

‘Five minutes, folks. In just five minutes you’re going to get a mouthful of mouth-watering masterful meat – braai master style.’

The crowd cheered loudly.

***

The Defender tore around a sharp turn in the road. Hertzog stared at the road with unwavering focus, handling the Land Rover with easy dexterity. He shifted into a lower gear and floored the pedal. ‘How far are we?’

‘About forty clicks,’ Jools said, once again replacing the radio handset. There was still no answer.

Hertzog began to wind down the window. Then stopped abruptly. ‘Jools, I just realised something. Remember what van der Merwe said about the dead family in the township?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘He said it was death by poison.’

‘You think it’s related?’

‘We can’t afford to ignore the possibility.’ He nodded at the radio set. ‘Get paramedic units from Luckhoff and Petrusburg to meet us at Coffee.’ He stared ahead with a grim look on his face. ‘Tell them to prepare for mass poisoning.’

***

Nadine Rockcliff strolled through the jam-packed crowd, sipping Diet Coke through a straw. Next to her Sergeant Wilkins kept a vigilant eye on the young girl while struggling to manoeuvre through the throng of people.

The sun was at its zenith, beating down relentlessly upon the Coffee town square. Despite being in the depth of winter the heat was scorching. The mercury recorded a sweltering thirty degrees.

A burly man shoved his way through the crowd, momentarily knocking Sergeant Wilkins off his feet. Unaware of her guardian’s predicament Nadine Rockcliff continued strolling along the row of stalls. Wilkins regained his balance and ran after her. ‘Please, Miss Rockcliff. I cannot let you out of my sight for even a moment. Your father’s instructions were clear.’

‘Oh, boo hoo hoo,’ she said, sticking out her tongue at the tall policeman. Despite himself, Wilkins smiled. ‘Tell me, Mister Policeman, if I ran into that field over there ... would you chase me? Hmmm?’ She smiled coquettishly.

‘I would most certainly, miss. And a good spanking would be in order.’ Wilkins blushed, realising too late what he had said.

‘Sounds delightful. They teach you that at the police academy?’

‘Please just stay in sight, Miss Rockcliff.’

‘You’re so boring,’ she said, dunking the empty Coke can into a dustbin. She stopped in front of a stall. ‘Please buy me some candy floss. Oh pretty please.’

The policeman sighed with exaggerated chagrin. He dug into his pocket for his wallet and approached the vendor.

A blonde girl sidled up to Nadine. ‘Guess what I’ve got.’

Nadine turned to face her. ‘Hey! How are you doing? I haven’t seen you all day.’ She indicated the crowd with her head. ‘The festival’s a hit, hey?’ The blonde girl nodded, smiling. ‘So, what you got?’

The girl leaned forward and whispered in shared conspiracy. ‘One of the sponsors gave us a whole bunch of King Cones.’

‘No, King Cones?’

‘Yep, and they’re all yours. I even got a little portable cooler to give you.’

‘No, really?’ She held up her hands. ‘I surrender.’

‘Come, let’s go before your bodyguard sees us.’

‘Oh, Marike, you’re such a bad girl,’ Nadine said, laughing.

The girls disappeared into the crowd.

A short distance away, Tony Bredekamp kept a watchful eye, hiding under the peak of his baseball cap.

***

The Land Rover raced past Ja-Nee, the farm of world famous writer, Etienne Leroux. Up ahead in the distance loomed the hills that surrounded Coffee.

Jools clicked the radio handset into place. He had finally managed to get hold of the Coffee police unit returning from the township. He had also finally contacted Dog and Chaz. They had Jannie Duvenhage with them. As suspected they had been trawling the crowd for Tony Bredekamp. Jools had quickly briefed them on what he and Hertzog had learned. He instructed them to rush to the braai competition and stop it.

Jools stared ahead nervously ‘Another five clicks or so,’ He said as the famous farm sped past. Hertzog didn’t answer, both hands gripping the steering wheel of the Defender. Jools looked at his friend. ‘What are you going to do when you see Marike?’

Silence.

‘I’m going to do my job.’

Jools stared down at the floor, nodding. ‘I hope Dog and the boys stop the damn competition in time.’

‘Right now I’m more concerned that the paramedic units arrive on time.’

Jools sighed.

Up ahead fate lay waiting.

***

‘Get your braaivleis everybody. Get your braaivleis.’ The DJ stepped in front of a table behind which the judges were congregating, tallying the final scores. He gestured at the large crowd gathered around the marquee tent. ‘Boerie rolls, chops, wors, steak and ribs. It’s all here, folks.’ Several cashiers stood behind a makeshift counter. A mound of paper plates stood next to each. Behind them a board listed the prices of the various items. ‘Come. Come and enjoy yourself while we wait for the judges to make their final decisions.’ He ran forward. ‘The time has come, good people.’ He shoved his fist into the air. ‘Let’s eat.’ Several people cheered as the crowd surged forward. The Castle Lager beer garden had been doing good business all day. And the people were hungry.

Behind the DJ a judge leaned forward and clutched his stomach. He looked with concern at another judge.

***

The Land Rover charged down De Beers Street, its sirens wailing. It tore around a corner, tyres screeching and headed straight for the festival area.

What happened next had a dream-like quality to it. In the days that followed the media dubbed the fiasco the Barbecue Bloodbath.

Although hundreds of witnesses were interviewed following the event almost none of them could agree exactly what happened that day. The one thing that everybody agreed upon was that in the blink of an eye the whole festival turned into a maelstrom of chaos. Although the investigators struggled to pin down a reliable chain of events the following sequence was established (more or less):

Halfway through the points tally several of the judges began feeling queasy while others had turned a pale white. One of the judges abruptly jumped up, exclaimed loudly then teetered forward, smashing the judges’ table into smithereens. Another female judge began vomiting uncontrollably. Someone screamed. The rented DJ cursed loudly, broadcasting his curse word to five thousand people in high-fidelity stereo. Several others began to push and shove. In the crowd gathered near the braai stand someone vomited violently. Then someone else began to throw up. Then another. And another. And another. Numerous women began screaming. Someone else started crying. The pushing and shoving became more violent. A woman fell and disappeared under dozens of feet. She screamed in blood-curdling terror. Her partner tried to help her. But he too was knocked to the ground and was trampled by a horde of panic-stricken people. The DJ stared with bewilderment at the growing chaos. He turned and tried to run. But a judge, lying curled up on the lawn, clutched at his trousers. With a vomit-caked face the judge grabbed at the panicked DJ. ‘Help me, help me,’ he said as a fresh spurt of puke burst from his mouth. The DJ screamed. Using his microphone as a weapon he beat the feeble judge about the head. The dull thuds of the microphone crashing into the judge’s face reverberated across the seething crowd.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Those nearest the speakers thought they were gunshots and either crouched down or fell flat on their stomachs. They were immediately trampled by the stampeding crowd. The DJ smashed the microphone into the judge’s face with all his might. The judge sagged and sank into a puddle of puke. The DJ threw down the microphone and ran blindly. Straight into one of the support pillars of the marquee tent. He fell backwards, knocked out cold.

Andries Croukamp stood a short distance behind the DJ stand, safe from the seething mob. He tore at his wispy hair, a look of pure terror on his face. ‘No.’ He fell to his knees, sobbing loudly. ‘Nooooooo.’

From a southerly direction Dog, Chaz and Jannie were fighting their way through the crowd. Panicked and confused some of the men in the crowd swung at the detectives. A brawny man knocked Chaz on the chin. ‘Bliksem!’ He staggered backwards, reeling, almost losing his footing. In a deft movement he ducked forward and came up swinging, connecting the man with a sold upper cut. The man crumbled and fell to the ground. Immediately others behind him surged forward and began trampling him. ‘Dammit.’ Chaz barrelled into the crowd, pushing them backwards. He lifted the man, hooking his hands underneath the man’s arms. ‘Dog, go ahead,’ he said, shouting to make himself heard above the screaming and shouting. ‘I’m taking him to safety.’

Dog nodded while he and Jannie pushed towards the stand. Dozens of people were lying curled up on the ground, being crushed by the weight of the crowd. Dog tried to reach for those nearest him but immediately abandoned his rescue mission. The slightest loss of balance would dump him in the same position. With renewed vigour he pushed open a path to the stand. With a final surge, his face bloodied from numerous scratches and punches, Dog and Jannie pushed through to the stand. He frantically searched the ground until he located the microphone. He tapped it a few times. ‘Everybody, please, listen to me.’ His voice thundered across the undulating mob of faces and arms. ‘There’s no need for panic. Everybody please. If you’ve eaten any of the meat ...’ He looked over at the church, appearing like a distant beacon of safety amongst the sea of terror. ‘If you’ve eaten any of the meat, please report to the church immediately.’ He repeated the words.

Someone near him grabbed at his sleeve. ‘Why? What’s wrong with the meat?’

‘It’s just a precaution, sir. Did you eat any of the meat?’ The man nodded nervously. At the northern edge of the town square he saw an ambulance arriving. ‘Oh thank God,’ he said to himself. ‘Just go to the church,’ he said pointing the man in the right direction. ‘Please everybody. The paramedics have arrived. Please report to the church immediately. There’s no reason for panic. It’s just a precaution.’

Most witnesses said this was when the shooting began. They were right.

From behind a stand Tony Bredekamp stepped forward. He threw his shades onto the ground. He aimed into the crowd and began firing. The panic and chaos which had just started to dissipate flared up with even greater intensity. People ran screaming. Knocking into each other. Running over each other. A man took a bullet to the shoulder. He slumped to the ground as his wife began screaming hysterically. The crowd surged and throbbed as people ran for cover. Tony aimed and fired. And fired. And fired. A young girl fell to the ground. An elderly man stumbled, gripping his mid riff. A man ran, screaming, cradling his wounded child in his arms.

The uniformed cops fell to their knees and looked around wildly. Several returned fire. A tall youth’s chest exploded as a policeman’s poorly aimed bullet tore through his body. Many ran screaming for cover while others fell flat on the ground. Tony walked calmly through the crowd, slipping another magazine into this pistol. He aimed and fired. And fired. And fired. A policeman fell to the ground, screaming in pain.

Dog jumped behind the DJ stand and scanned the chaotic scene, trying to find the source of the gunshots. Jannie was ducking behind the overturned cashier’s counter. ‘Dog, there he is,’ he said pointing in Tony Bredekamp’s direction. He stood up and fired a shot, narrowly missing the gunman.

Tony ducked slightly, quickly locating the position of the policeman that had fired upon him. He turned towards Jannie and fired two shots.

Jannie Duvenhage screamed. And fell to the ground. Blood spurting from his neck

Dog ducked low and ran in his direction. ‘Jannie!’ He crouched next to the wounded youth. His face grew pale as he surveyed the wound. Dog threw his gun to the ground and pressed both hands onto the bloody wound in an attempt to halt the bleeding. ‘Medic! Medic!’ Dog shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Medic!’

Jannie stared up at Dog, his entire body trembling violently. ‘Wh- ... wh- ... what’s happening?’ Foam flecked with blood poured from his mouth.

‘Nothing kid, you’re fine,’ Dog said, lying. ‘You’re gonna be just fine.’

Jannie stared at Dog, his eyes wide with terror. ‘Help me ... please, help me.’

‘Shhh ... don’t talk. Don’t talk. The medics are coming.’ He peered over the meagre protection offered by the overturned table. ‘Medic!’ His voice was hoarse with screaming.

‘Do- ... do- ... Dog ...’

‘Shhh ... shhh ... everything’s going to be fine.’

Jannie’s eyes grew large. His body shook violently. Jannie began wailing. Dog forced all his weight on the wound, his hands swallowed up by the deep crimson of the dying youth’s blood.

‘No! No! No! Fuck you, kid. Don’t you fucking die on me.’ The shuddering grew more and more violent. ‘No! No! Nooooo!’

Jannie’s body shuddered one final time. And then slumped, lifeless. His eyes slowly glazed over.

‘Noooo!’ Dog pumped his chest, sobbing. ‘Fucking no.’ He closed the boy’s nostrils and placed his mouth over Jannie’s, forcing hot air into his lungs. It was a pointless gesture. And Dog knew it. ‘No,’ he said softly, tears streaking down his face. He looked at the dead boy. And gritted his teeth. His face hardened. A quick search located his gun. With bloodied hands he gripped it and stood up. ‘You fucking son of a bitch.’ He turned and marched towards the crazed gunman.

Tony Bredekamp quickly spotted the new threat. He fired at Dog. Then again. And again. People screamed. Others ran for their lives.

Dog marched with grim resolution towards his prey. Three bullets whizzed past his head, narrowly missing him. Tony fired again and again. Panic exploded in his chest as he continued to miss the wild cop bearing down upon him.

Dog marched towards Bredekamp, never once taking his eyes off the panicky youth. Tony fired another shot. And another. Everywhere people ran screaming.

Click.

With desperate fingers Tony tried to reload.

Dog lifted his pistol. And without stopping ... fired a single shot.

A round hole blossomed in the dead centre of Tony’s forehead. For a split second Tony’s eyes crossed, an obscene parody of a cartoon. And then he fell backwards. Dead.

Dog dropped his pistol. And stared at the ground, motionless.

***

Moments later Hertzog dashed towards the outer rim of the festival area. He braked hard, tyres smoking. The Landy crashed into a stall, knocking it down. He jumped from the car. Amongst the crowd he spotted dozens of uniformed policemen, fighting to control people who were running in all directions, screaming.

‘What the hell happened here?’ Jools asked, stunned.

‘Go find out. I’m going to find Marike.’ He paused. ‘And tell everyone what we discovered.’ Then softer. ‘Tell everyone who she is.’ Jools nodded, running off.

The festival area was pure chaos. People were running all over the place. Some were lying flat on the ground while others crouched against stalls and stands for protection. Dozens of people were rolling about, obviously injured by the stampeding crowd. Some of them remained ominously motionless. Everywhere little groups of people were congregated, many sobbing uncontrollably, some tending to wounds while others were providing comfort.

‘Did you see Marike?’ Hertzog asked the nearest policeman. The officer shook his head while he led an elderly lady to safety. Hertzog continued to move deeper into the core of the dispersing crowd, asking the question again and again. No-one had seen her. ‘Damn.’ He stood motionless while people streamed past him.

A girl looked at him while limping past. ‘Did you ask about Marike, detective?’

‘Yes. Did you see her?’

‘I went to my car earlier to get my wallet. I saw her and Nadine drive towards the hill,’ she said pointing at Signal Hill with its prominent cross. The cemetery lay just beyond it.

‘Thank you.’ Hertzog ran back towards the Land Rover. He flung open the door and was about to enter the vehicle when he paused, scanning the crowd for Jools. There wasn’t time. He was going to have to do this on his own.

***

Hertzog parked a short distance from the J.B. Vorster cemetery, ensuring the Landy wasn’t visible from the graveyard. He carefully made his way up the hill, gun drawn. Up here, the chaos of the doomed Coffee festival seemed to belong to another distant world. Not a single sound moved the deathly silence.

Hertzog crouched low, moving from cover to cover. A boulder, a bush, a thorn tree. When he reached the plateau he saw a Ford Cortina parked at the cemetery gate.

She was here.

He ran for cover behind the old Ford. Pushed up against its faded paintwork he looked over the bonnet. In the distance, at the far edge of the cemetery he saw two shapes. One figure, standing. Another kneeling. It was obvious which figure Marike was. Even from his remote vantage point Hertzog could see that she was holding a gun to Nadine’s head. There was no time to waste.

Still crouching low, Hertzog ran for the cemetery gate. Ducking from one tombstone to the next he silently made his way to the two figures, trying to maintain his cover while moving as quickly as possible. About a dozen yards from the two girls, Hertzog made his move. He jumped from his hiding place. Gripping his service pistol with both hands he pointed the barrel at Marike.

‘Marike.’ The girl stiffened. ‘Throw down the gun and slowly raise your hands into the air.’ Nadine looked in the direction of Hertzog’s voice. Her face was fraught with terror, long mascara tracks marking the tears running down her cheeks. Marike however didn’t move. Nadine began to sob anew. ‘Marike, please don’t make me do something I’m going to regret.’

She slowly turned to Hertzog, never taking the gun from Nadine’s head. ‘Don’t you think I’m beyond the point where I care what anyone does anymore? Even you ... Shaun.’ The mention of his name sounded like the crack of a whip. A strange surreal noise in the juxtaposed reality of the elevated graveyard. Transposed into a macabre world by the events of the last few hours. ‘Nothing matters anymore.’ She turned her cold eyes onto the sobbing girl, kneeling before her. ‘I’m going to finish this. If it’s the last thing I do.’

‘Marike, don’t do it.’ He paused. ‘It’s not too late.’

Silence.

‘The moment her father and his sick friends killed my mother it was too late, Shaun. Nothing can change that.’

‘There’s no need to take this any further, Marike. You’ve got your justice. Their crimes have been exposed. The world now knows exactly who they are.’ He took a step towards the two girls. ‘They’re going to be prosecuted. They will pay for their crimes.’

‘Oh really, Shaun. Are you that naive? You know how powerful they are. They’ll get lawyers. They’ll use their political power. Sure, they’re going to prison. But honestly, for how long? And didn’t you say Rockcliff will escape prosecution?’ She pushed the gun against Nadine’s head. The girl screamed. ‘Besides, do you think any amount of prison time can make up for what I’ve been through?’

‘No. No it can’t. But that’s no reason to make this terrible situation even worse.’ Hertzog advanced yet another step. ‘Don’t you realise how amazing you are?’ Marike looked at him, confused. ‘Don’t you realise you solved this crime ... years before we did. That’s incredible. You did it, all on your own. You exposed their crimes. And you discovered their identities. That’s extraordinary.’

‘Don’t you dare ... don’t you dare mock me, Captain Hertzog.’ She shoved the barrel into Nadine’s head. The girl whimpered.

‘I would never do that, Marike.’ Hertzog paused; interminable seconds passed. ‘You mean too much to me.’ For the first time a crack appeared in Marike’s frosty countenance. She turned her face away from Hertzog as if ashamed of her moment of weakness. ‘Tell me, please. Tell me everything that happened. I want to know.’

For a long time the three figures remained mute and motionless. Then Marike spoke, her voice low and devoid of emotion. ‘They did terrible things to us ... in that place with the ridiculous name.’

‘The orphanage?’

She nodded. ‘Men would come ... in the evenings. They would pay money ... and spend the night.’ She clenched her eyes shut. ‘Their breaths smelt terrible ... their dirty cocks even worse. It carried on for years.’ She leaned into Nadine’s face. ‘Do you hear that, bitch? Do you hear what your father did to me?’ Nadine wailed hysterically. Marike paused. ‘When the police started showing up, they decided to burn the place to the ground. I remember that night so clearly. I was about seven years old.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be. No-one else was.’ Her face hardened. ‘And then the Le Roux’s came to get me. She was sick. She would call me Bertie. Make me wear her dead son’s clothes. But compared to that place ... it was heaven. She ... my mom ... she had problems ... but they treated me well. It didn’t really matter, by that time I was a broken person. I had lost something infinitely fragile in that place. In its place was only anger and hatred.’ She looked at Hertzog. ‘Something happens to you when you become an orphan, Shaun. You see the world for what it really is. You see people for who they really are. It allows you to view things in a detached and uncomplicated way. In a world crawling with victims ... you become a hunter.’ Hertzog sighed softly. ‘In any case, I was about twelve when they took me away from the Le Roux’s. My next foster home was fine, I guess. It really didn’t matter. Not anymore. I wasn’t a little girl anymore. I hadn’t been for a long time. At that stage I just wanted to break things. I wanted to make someone pay.’ Nadine began sobbing again. Marike shoved Nadine’s head forward with the barrel of the gun. ‘Shut up. Stop crying like some pathetic baby.’ Nadine bit her lip, blinking hard. Marike waited for the girl to become quiet. ‘When I was close to matriculating, a social worker came to see me one day. There was a woman with her. She said her name was Isabelle and that she was a friend of my mother’s ... my real mother. It was the first time anyone had ever told me about her. She told me how much my mother loved me, how much I meant to her. She also told me that my mother had mysteriously disappeared with two of her friends. She said something terrible must have happened to them, because my mother would never abandon me. She also told me that my mother was on her way to see her aunt, who lived in a little place called Vanderkloof.’ She paused. ‘That was when the idea first started growing in my head. That was when I knew that I was going to avenge her death.’ She smiled, a cold bitter grin. ‘Isabelle came to see me a couple of times after that. She offered to introduce me to tannie Saartjie, my mom’s aunt. But I asked her not to say anything. I said I wanted to look her up myself, surprise her. I knew what I had to do. And I needed to stay anonymous – under the radar.’ She stared into the distance. ‘My plan started taking shape soon after that. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that my mother and her friends must have disappeared somewhere in this area. When I finished school I got a job. And I started coming here regularly, especially over weekends. It was during one of those weekend visits that I first met Jack.’ She snorted with contempt. ‘Jack was an idiot, a simpleton. But I realised instantly that he was my ticket into this place. So I allowed him to court me. Soon after we met I moved in with him. During this time I met Wouter. It was obvious that he liked me. I didn’t mind. Wouter was a gentle soul ... a good person. We became friends. One night, when Jack was in Kimberley for business ... which is to say he was out fucking one of his whores ... Wouter invited me to his place. He became horribly drunk. He could hardly stand. That’s when he told me a story. About a terrible event that had happened almost twenty years ago.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘On that night I had a vision ... a vision of my ultimate destiny.’ She glared at Hertzog. ‘It was beautiful.’ She smiled to herself. ‘I knew that I had come to the right place. Shortly afterwards, when Jack asked me to marry him, I said yes. Everything was in place and I could begin planning my revenge.’

Hertzog stared at her with undisguised sorrow. ‘So, all this time, you’ve been manipulating him? What about the bruises I saw on your face?’

She snorted. ‘Jack’s a peasant. It’s easy to provoke someone who lives in their pants.’ She didn’t meet Hertzog’s eyes. ‘It was in my best interest to play the part of the battered housewife. Who would ever suspect someone like me?’

‘Yes, Marike. You certainly fooled me.’

She turned her face away from Hertzog. Once again, for a split second something like shame (regret?) flashed across her cold features. ‘I never wanted to hurt you,’ she said so softly it was almost inaudible.

Hertzog nodded, his eyes focused on the mound at his feet. ‘Let me guess, the festival, it was your idea, right?’

‘Of course it was. Jack never had a good idea that didn’t involve fucking.’ Hertzog winced. ‘About a year after I married Jack, Wouter introduced me to his son, Tony. He was the one who told me what the town’s so-called elite had done to Wouter. Tony hated them. Almost as much as I did. I knew then that I had found somebody who could help me. One night, at Wouter’s place I told Tony about my plans. He agreed without the slightest hesitation.’ She paused. ‘In time Wouter himself became involved.’

‘You killed him, didn’t you? Let me guess, he got cold feet. He couldn’t go through with your ... cruel little plan. He was too ... gentle? Wasn’t that the word you used?’

Marike blinked hard, her lips pursed into a tight line. She averted her eyes. ‘You must think I’m a monster. But I’m not. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. He was a pathetic broken old man ... but he was my friend.’ She glared at Hertzog, animosity flaring in her eyes. ‘He was going to tell the police. He was going to destroy everything I had worked so hard to achieve. I couldn’t allow that.’

‘What do you think Tony would say if he knew you killed his father, Marike? I’m assuming you made him believe it was one of the townspeople who murdered him, am I right? It was just what you needed to enflame his hatred even more.’

‘I needed his help. I couldn’t do it all on my own.’

‘He helped you kidnap the teens.’

‘Some of them. I took the Trudouw girl on my own.’

‘What about the graves?’

She paused. ‘That was Wouter. The contraption was his idea.’ She looked at Hertzog. ‘The mannequins were mine.’

‘And the model?’

‘I built that, with Tony’s help.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I wanted them to know exactly why everything was happening. I wanted them to understand ... that they were all guilty.’ She paused. ‘We wanted to scare them. We wanted them to know that we were coming for them.’

Hertzog nodded. ‘But it was you who befriended the teens, wasn’t it?’ She said nothing. ‘You were Manie’s mysterious friend. The one he was going to see the night he disappeared. And you were in Bloemfontein the night Michelle disappeared, right? You were the “M” in her diary.’ Still she said nothing. He shook his head. ‘And all this time you were stringing me along ... playing me like some cheap, second-hand violin.’ Hertzog stared at her with hurt disappointment.

‘No ... no.’ She shook her head violently. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

‘And what about your words from yesterday? About wanting to be with me? You played your part so masterfully.’

She screamed in anguish. ‘Noooo. No. No. No. No.’ She stamped her foot into the earth with each word. ‘I’m not a bad person. Please. Please don’t look at me like that.’

Hertzog shook his head, a wounded expression on his face. ‘I trusted you. And more. I ... I ...’

‘No ... don’t ... don’t ...’

‘I ... I loved you.’

‘No! No! Don’t say that please.’ She began sobbing bitterly.

‘I thought ... we could be together.’

‘No ... no ...’ Marike’s face was twisted into a mask of agony.

‘I wanted to make you ... my wife.’

She screamed. A tormented howl of pain. ‘Noooo. Nooo. Don’t say that.’ Nadine cowered against the tombstone. Marike fell to her knees. ‘Please ... please love me. Please love me, Shaun. Nothing has changed.’ She held out a hand towards him.

‘Dear God, Marike, you’ve murdered people. Everything has changed. You betrayed me.’

‘No. I would never. I would never do that.’

‘Marike, you have the blood of three children on your hands.’

‘No. No. They’re not ...’ She held out her hands to Hertzog. ‘I didn’t ...’

Hertzog looked at her, stunned. Realisation dawned in his eyes. ‘Marike, are you telling me ... those kids are still alive?’ She bit her lip, her chin trembling. Tears flowed. ‘Marike, don’t you understand? It’s not too late. We can turn this thing around. You’ve done terrible things, but you can redeem yourself.’ Hertzog sprinted towards her. He threw down his gun and kneeled in front of her. ‘Marike, you have to tell me. If there is any way we can still save those kids ... you have to tell me.’ Marike wept bitterly, her whole body shuddering with the intensity of her grief. ‘Marike ... do it for us.’ He stared at her, tears flowing. ‘I love you. You know I do. Please do it for us.’ She grabbed the front of his shirt, sobbing into his neck. Nadine pushed herself up against the tombstone. Hertzog held Marike tightly. He caught Nadine’s eye. He motioned for her to run. Without a moment’s hesitation the young girl ran, falling and stumbling as she went. ‘Please tell me.’

Marike pulled herself away. She pointed at a nearby tombstone. Hertzog recognised it as the Rockcliff grave he had discovered a week ago.

‘Stay here,’ he said, rising. He ran over to the site. The grave was open. At the bottom was a worn casket. He could see the coffin was taped shut. ‘Dear God.’ He whipped out his two-way radio. ‘Charlie Foxtrot One, come in.’ Moments later Jools answered the call. ‘Jools, I found the kids. They’re alive. But I don’t know for how long. I need you to get to the cemetery. Bring about a dozen officers plus equipment.’

‘Shaun, Jannie is dead.’

Hertzog became pale, stunned by Jools’s words. He nodded sombrely. ‘Okay. Get over here as quickly as you can. Over and out.’ Hertzog clipped the two-way radio onto his belt. He covered his face with both hands, eyes tightly shut. ‘Oh God no,’ he said, whispering to himself. He remained like this for several moments. Then he turned and slowly walked back to Marike. She was still kneeling in the dirt. He lifted her gently and placed her hands behind her back. He handcuffed her. She began sobbing. ‘Marike ... you have the right to remain silent ...’

Epilogue

The cold winter breeze stirred the naked Jacaranda trees. Wispy Cirrus clouds flecked the blue-gray sky, cementing the sombre mood of the four detectives gathered at the Centurion cemetery.

Today was the first anniversary of Detective Constable Jannie Duvenhage’s death.

They stood in a semi-circle around the lone grave, mute. Hands clasped in front of them. After a while Dog leaned forward. He shoved a swizzle stick into the hard soil of the grave mound and placed two shot glasses on either side of it. ‘Punt innie wind, our vriend,’ Dog said softly. The others stared at Dog’s crude monument.

Almost exactly a year before they had all gathered here for the official police funeral. They had watched as the police flag draped over the casket was neatly folded and awarded to Major-General Duvenhage. And then, as a lone trumpeter played The Last Post, they had borne solemn witness to their comrade’s coffin slowly sinking into the earth. And then it was over. And life went on. As it always had. As it always would.

Their meeting that morning was poignant for more than one reason however. Chaz had resigned from the police force. And would soon be relocating to Bloemfontein to be with Linda van Wyk. That day would be the last they would share as a unit.

They stayed a few minutes longer. Then slowly headed back to the two unmarked police vehicles.

‘What did the report say?’ Jools asked Hertzog as Chaz and Dog walked ahead. He was referring to the official report following the investigation into the fiasco the media had dubbed “The Barbecue Bloodbath”. The report had been published only days before.

‘They concluded that our unit acted within the bounds of our official duties and that our timely intervention saved the lives of dozens of potential victims.’ Hertzog paused. ‘Both Jannie and Dog were awarded commendations for their actions. Jannie’s was of course awarded posthumously.’

The Barbecue Bloodbath had made international news. In the end, six people died from poisoning and a further five succumbed to gunshot wounds. Only the presence of the multiple paramedic units prevented more from dying.

Jools nodded. ‘That’s good, right?’ Hertzog said nothing. Jools eyed his friend. ‘Stop blaming yourself.’

‘I just feel sometimes that I could have acted sooner. I’m worried that I was blinded by my relationship with ... her.’

‘We did good, dammit. Not only did we solve a twenty-year mystery but we saved the lives of two teens.’

Hertzog stared at the lawn beneath his feet, mulling over the events of that terrible day. Even now, more than a year later, he vividly recalled the dread they all experienced as they tried to rescue the teens. Michelle Bismarck and Elizabeth Trudouw had been pulled from their family graves, barely clinging to life. Manie Botha was not so lucky. It was a failure Hertzog would have to live with for the rest of his life. ‘How are they doing, by the way?’

‘As good as can be expected, considering they were held hostage in a darkened room for almost a month and then nearly suffocated in their family caskets.’ Jools paused, shaking his head. ‘Tony Bredekamp’s house, where they were held prisoner, has since become a tourist attraction. Can you believe it?’

Hertzog chuckled. ‘Did you receive your subpoena yet?’

‘Yep. It’s going to be a long year.’ Hertzog nodded.

The first of several court cases of the Coffee accused was coming up. Attorneys for the accused had managed to split the trials. Johann Trudouw’s case was the first to be tried. Having turned state’s witness he had submitted a guilty plea. His court case’s sole objective therefore was to determine the length of his prison sentence. Next up was Dawid Bismarck, De Wet Bismarck and finally Lloyd Botha, disgraced mayor of Coffee. Alistair Rockcliff had died five months before. He would face a higher form of justice.

‘Oh, by the way, your girlfriend phoned.’

‘Huh?’

‘Nadine Rockcliff. She’s developed quite a crush on her “knight in shining armour”.’

‘Oh goodness,’ Hertzog said, smiling sheepishly. ‘It’s not a crush. She’s simply grateful.’

‘Yeah right. Well, she said you can expect another grateful bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label in the mail.’

‘I’m sure Detective Doober will be happy to hear that.’ Not having the heart to tell her that he was a teetotaller, Hertzog accepted her gifts each time with a letter of thanks instead. Dog had the most expensive collection of whiskies in all of the South African Police forces.

They halted in front of Hertzog’s police car. ‘So listen, you ruggedly handsome saviour of teen girls, you gonna join us for a drink at The Barrister?’ Jools winked at his friend.

‘I’m sorry, not today. I’ve got a long trip ahead of me.’

‘Oh, you sad romantic creature. When will you learn?’

‘See you Monday.’ Hertzog climbed into the car as Jools chased after Dog and Chaz.

Fifteen minutes later he was on the N1, heading south towards the Free State town of Kroonstad. It was a two and a half hour drive. Hertzog used the time to clear his head and focus on a new case that had just come across his desk. A series of prostitutes were turning up dead in an historic Western Cape town. Jools was right. It was going to be a long year.

Three hours later Hertzog turned into a sprawling complex, surrounded by a tall fence crowned with barbed wire. He flashed his badge to the guard who waved him through. Minutes later he was escorted down a long corridor by an officer wearing the brown uniform of the South African Correctional Services. The corrections officer opened a door and indicated for Hertzog to enter. It was a small bleak room equipped with a single wooden table and two chairs. Besides the door through which he entered there was another entrance, barred by a heavy bolted iron door. Hertzog seated himself in one of the chairs and waited. Minutes later the bolted door opened.

Marike entered escorted by a heavy-set female guard. She tore loose from the guard’s grip and ran towards Hertzog, laughing with glee. Hertzog stood up as she embraced him fiercely. ‘You came,’ she said, laughing through tears.

‘I was in the neighbourhood.’

She giggled at his joke. ‘Well, it just became a very happy neighbourhood.’

‘Let’s sit,’ Hertzog said, indicating the chairs. Marike grabbed the chair opposite his and plonked it down next to him. They sat facing each other, Marike cradling both of Hertzog’s hands in hers.

‘I’m so glad you’re here. I could hardly sleep last night.’

‘Hertzog smiled at her. ‘How are you Marike?’

She touched his cheek. ‘I’m good. So much better now that you’re here.’ She exclaimed with delight. ‘Oh wait. I made you something.’ She motioned for the female guard. The woman handed her a small knitted square, smiling. Marike proudly presented the item to Hertzog. ‘I’ve been learning to knit,’ she said with pride. Knitted in crude letters the little square piece of material bore his name. ‘I don’t really know what it is. But I thought maybe you can use it as a coaster or something.’

Hertzog took it and traced a finger along his name. ‘I love it. Thank you.’

‘I’ve also been taking hair dressing classes.’ She beamed at Hertzog. ‘You know, for when I get out.’ Hertzog nodded, delighting in her child-like enthusiasm. She stared at him, becoming serious. ‘Do you think my appeal will be successful?’

‘I’m sure it will,’ he said, lying. Due to the egregious nature of her crimes, Marike was lucky to escape the death penalty. Hertzog had personally been told that she would serve nothing less than thirty years. Now was not the time to share such information.

‘I’m on my best behaviour,’ she said. ‘I’m also seeing the psychiatrist regularly.’ She stared at him with frail tenderness. ‘I want to make you proud of me.’

‘I’m already proud of you.’

Marike smiled, elated. She grabbed his lapel and casting a quick look at the guard, pulled him towards her. She kissed Hertzog fiercely, moaning softly. The guard sighed and glanced up at the roof. Such intimate contact with visitors was not allowed. She brought her mouth up against his ear. ‘I fantasised about you last night.’ She cradled his head in her hand and stared passionately into his eyes. ‘And again this morning.’ Hertzog looked at the guard, blushing. Marike giggled with mischief. She ran her hand through his hair. ‘I love you, Shaun.’

‘I love you too,’ Hertzog said, tracing a finger along her cheek.

For the next two hours they talked about everything. And about nothing. Hertzog told her about his cases and about the other men in his unit. He told her about the things that were happening outside the walls of her prison. And about his black Labrador, Boef. He was careful to mention nothing about the cases proceeding against the men whose blatant act of criminality impacted her life so terribly. Marike in turn told him about the women who shared the prison with her. She told him about their crimes and the loved ones who were now separated from them due to their incarceration..

And then. Too soon. All too soon. Their time together was over.

Marike began crying as the guard informed her their time was finished. She hugged Hertzog, embracing him for several minutes, weeping softly.

The guard approached the table and they both stood. Hertzog kissed her on the forehead. He watched in silence as the female officer led her to the bolted door. As the door swung open she turned and looked at Hertzog. Mounting terror washed over her features. Her chin trembled as she fought to keep back the tears. ‘Shaun, please don’t leave me here. Will you come again?’ She pushed against the female guard’s iron grip. ‘Please. When will you come again? Please tell me when you’ll come again.’

Hertzog looked at her, overcome with sadness. ‘I will come again next week, Marike.’ He gave her a poignant smile. ‘Just like I do every week.’

She smiled as the guard led her through the door.

FIN

Bloemfontein

4th December

2014

About the Author

Vernon William Baumann was born in Ermelo, South Africa. He spent eight years working as a copywriter in the advertising industry and even did a short stint as a TV writer.

In 2006 he made a big leap and abandoned the advertising industry to focus on his writing. It was a huge sacrifice – but then again, a dream that doesn’t demand a sacrifice isn’t much of a dream to begin with.

Vernon William Baumann currently resides in Bloemfontein, South Africa, with his wife, seven cats and one dog. He lectures at the University of the Free State.

Vernon writes under two names:

Vernon William Baumann – Science fiction, conspiracy and esoteric fiction.

Vernon W. Baumann – crime / espionage thrillers and true crime.

Check out his other titles:

Daddy Long Legs

Knick Knack Paddy Whack

Daddy Long Legs is Back

Twenty years ago he took nine lives.

Nine boys.

Abducted. Tortured and mutilated.

Nine bodies dumped across the barren landscape of a small town in Apartheid South Africa.

Then – abruptly – the murders stopped. And Daddy Long Legs was no more.

Until now.

A young boy disappears in broad daylight. Swallowed by darkness ... on the dusty streets of Hope.

Specialist detective Wayne Human is called in. Forced by brutal circumstances to become an expert in serial killers, he must now face his most twisted adversary yet. Can he discover the terrible secret behind South Africa’s most notorious serial killer before Daddy Long Legs reaps another grim harvest?

On the other side of South Africa, advertising executive Kyle Devlin’s life is about to fall to pieces. Then a tragedy forces him to return to Hope. Can he find redemption in the town of his youth while forced to face dark demons from his past?

It’s a race against the clock as a dark spectre from history returns to haunt the people of this small Karoo town.

Why did he disappear? Why is he back?  And what sick forces drive his twisted lust? The answers are more bizarre than anyone could ever have thought.

Spanning a historic period in South Africa, Daddy Long Legs is an epic novel that probes the depths of human depravity ... at the same time examining the ultimate value of redemption.

The Third Chamber

“The only thing we have to fear ... is the end of the world.”

Franklin D. Roosevelt

(Propaganda Minister for the National Socialist government of Germany)

What does a ritualistic murder in 1940’s South Africa have to do with the end of the world? What is the Third Chamber? And why would the Guardians of the Chamber die – and kill – to protect its terrifying secrets?

Detective Chief Inspector Logan must confront enigmatic suspects, secret societies as well as bizarre anachronisms and historical oddities as he battles to discover the enigma behind the Third Chamber. It’s a race against time as the world around him slowly descends into chaos ... and Apocalypse.

Part Science-fiction, part murder mystery, this strange tale is a bizarre journey into a world where nothing makes sense. Yet where everything has a secret meaning.

Hurtling towards a startling and horrific conclusion, the Third Chamber holds the riddle to mankind’s extinction ... and genesis.

Dare you enter the Third Chamber?

The Disappeared

The Mysterious Death of RJS

Please feel free to contact Vernon at:

Email: vernon.baumann@gmail.com

Twitter @vernonwbaumann or

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/vernon.william.baumann.author or friend him at

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He would love to hear from you.