bodies had been found at the mouth of a culvert that was a shelter for many of Cape Town’s homeless people.
There was an interview, too, with the detective who said there’d been a number of killings of bergies in the city: ‘We believe that these two murders are linked to other recent stroller killings. But ballistics reports willtake a while, so the public must be patient. If anyone knows anything, please call Detective Jones: Serious and Violent Crimes.’
Clare mulled this over. A serial killer – even if the victims were vagrants, even if the murders took place in the middle of an undeclared civil war – fired the public imagination. And that meant more eyes on the police. More likely then that cases would be tracked,evidence kept, handed over to the specialists – the Psychological Crimes Unit, Ballistics, out on the edge of the Cape Flats, would have done the tests.
And she knew Shorty de Lange, Acting Director of the ballistics unit. Acting because of the colour of his skin, director because of his ability. He had taught Clare how to shoot, getting her to fire round after round with her little Browninguntil she could sink a bullet into the heart of a target 50 metres away. Twenty-three years ago, Shorty de Lange would’ve been starting out. He and Riedwaan from different sides of the tracks. Riedwaan’s friend because neither of them liked bullshit. Both of them stuck half-way up the ranks because neither was capable of turning a blind political eye.
She took out her phone and tapped outa detailed email to De Lange while she waited for the archivist to bring the rest of the files.
She turned a few pages. Other stories snagged her attention, slowing her trawl for reports of missing women. Out on the Cape Flats, another serial killer had slithered through the sand dunes. The Station Strangler. His victims were pubescent boys, and that month’s body count was still mounting.It wasn’t likely that the woman in the green dress had been a victim of this killer. Wrong profile, wrong sex, wrong location.
Clare stretched her arms up and looked at the ceiling.
Unless the woman did not come from Cape Town, she mused. Her dress certainly did not. If no one had known she’d been in Cape Town, no one would have known to look for her. The image of a young woman shovedinto a box that was too small even for her petite frame was hard to banish. This woman who, 23 years earlier, had dressed herself with care one evening, feeling a sense of anticipation, perhaps. A mother who never returned home to slip off her sandals to tiptoe into her child’s bedroom to bestow a midnight kiss.
Who had missed her? Who had looked for her? Who had mourned her? And who had waitedfor her? Who had tucked her in and then watched the concrete harden? Did her killer still look over his shoulder?
Clare packed up her things and slipped out. She walked fast, but still the questions pursued her. She pressed the remote of her car. It didn’t beep. And the door was unlocked. Damn. It had been faulty before. She made a mental note to get it checked – yet another addition to herlist of uncompleted domestic tasks.
There were more pressing things right now. Clare called directory enquiries and found Saskia Properties. She asked to speak to Saskia, and a crisp voice told her that Mrs Sykes was only ever in for board meetings. Clare managed to extract the woman’s home phone number.
One call to Rita Mkhize got her the address.
15
Constantia Valley was green, despite the drought. The vines on the mountainside were uniformly neat. The address, far along Monterey Drive, was about as exclusive as one could find in Cape Town.
‘I’m here to see Mr and Mrs Sykes,’ Clare told the security guard. ‘Tell them I’m here about the properties at Gallows Hill.’ He went back into his booth, his eyes fixed on Clare as he spokeinto the telephone. He opened the boom for her and she drove up the winding driveway. The house was painted a blinding
There was an interview, too, with the detective who said there’d been a number of killings of bergies in the city: ‘We believe that these two murders are linked to other recent stroller killings. But ballistics reports willtake a while, so the public must be patient. If anyone knows anything, please call Detective Jones: Serious and Violent Crimes.’
Clare mulled this over. A serial killer – even if the victims were vagrants, even if the murders took place in the middle of an undeclared civil war – fired the public imagination. And that meant more eyes on the police. More likely then that cases would be tracked,evidence kept, handed over to the specialists – the Psychological Crimes Unit, Ballistics, out on the edge of the Cape Flats, would have done the tests.
And she knew Shorty de Lange, Acting Director of the ballistics unit. Acting because of the colour of his skin, director because of his ability. He had taught Clare how to shoot, getting her to fire round after round with her little Browninguntil she could sink a bullet into the heart of a target 50 metres away. Twenty-three years ago, Shorty de Lange would’ve been starting out. He and Riedwaan from different sides of the tracks. Riedwaan’s friend because neither of them liked bullshit. Both of them stuck half-way up the ranks because neither was capable of turning a blind political eye.
She took out her phone and tapped outa detailed email to De Lange while she waited for the archivist to bring the rest of the files.
She turned a few pages. Other stories snagged her attention, slowing her trawl for reports of missing women. Out on the Cape Flats, another serial killer had slithered through the sand dunes. The Station Strangler. His victims were pubescent boys, and that month’s body count was still mounting.It wasn’t likely that the woman in the green dress had been a victim of this killer. Wrong profile, wrong sex, wrong location.
Clare stretched her arms up and looked at the ceiling.
Unless the woman did not come from Cape Town, she mused. Her dress certainly did not. If no one had known she’d been in Cape Town, no one would have known to look for her. The image of a young woman shovedinto a box that was too small even for her petite frame was hard to banish. This woman who, 23 years earlier, had dressed herself with care one evening, feeling a sense of anticipation, perhaps. A mother who never returned home to slip off her sandals to tiptoe into her child’s bedroom to bestow a midnight kiss.
Who had missed her? Who had looked for her? Who had mourned her? And who had waitedfor her? Who had tucked her in and then watched the concrete harden? Did her killer still look over his shoulder?
Clare packed up her things and slipped out. She walked fast, but still the questions pursued her. She pressed the remote of her car. It didn’t beep. And the door was unlocked. Damn. It had been faulty before. She made a mental note to get it checked – yet another addition to herlist of uncompleted domestic tasks.
There were more pressing things right now. Clare called directory enquiries and found Saskia Properties. She asked to speak to Saskia, and a crisp voice told her that Mrs Sykes was only ever in for board meetings. Clare managed to extract the woman’s home phone number.
One call to Rita Mkhize got her the address.
15
Constantia Valley was green, despite the drought. The vines on the mountainside were uniformly neat. The address, far along Monterey Drive, was about as exclusive as one could find in Cape Town.
‘I’m here to see Mr and Mrs Sykes,’ Clare told the security guard. ‘Tell them I’m here about the properties at Gallows Hill.’ He went back into his booth, his eyes fixed on Clare as he spokeinto the telephone. He opened the boom for her and she drove up the winding driveway. The house was painted a blinding
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