Betrayed (10 page)

Captain Kotze was kind, supporting and comforting my mother, chatting to my son with concern and gentleness.

But still I wanted to get away. To be alone. I escaped outside and was
just lighting up a cigarette when Glen sought me out.

“I want Tracey back,” he said, his eyes filling with tears.

“So do I, but we can't,” I snapped.

How I wish I could take back those words. What he had said had
echoed my every thought and emotion, but I was so immersed in my
own selfish grief that I couldn't comfort him when he needed me
most. I didn't know how to make things better, so I just watched as
he walked away, lost in his loneliness, cut off from his sister through death and from his mother through a pain that couldn't be shared.

Time dragged but at last the crowd dispersed in a flurry of pats and
handshakes and we could go home. Home, an alien place where I felt
I no longer belonged. Everything about it had changed, nothing felt familiar.

The afternoon was a constant ebb and flow of people, reminiscing and talking about all sorts of things, but still I wasn't part of the sur
real drama. Their laughter and tears bounced off my protective shield.
I just wanted them to go away and leave me alone. The phone rang
and rang, chafing at my jangled nerves. Many of the calls added to
my guilt – friends wanting to know when Tracey's service was going
to be held. I had forgotten to phone them. Too late, too late, too late.

Tracey's service had been the day before the Easter weekend, so there was a few days' respite from work, but Tuesday morning arrived an
d
life had to be faced again. Going back to work was the only way I coul
d
think of to get my life back on track and pull myself out of the twi
light zone I had been living in, but I wasn't looking forward to it.

The drive to work was filled with jumbled memories and thoughts
of what had happened over the last two weeks. I got to the office early
,
before many people were there, so I could slink to my desk and try
and pretend my world was still normal. But then people started to
trickle in, their reactions reminding me of my reality – whether it
was hugs from some or others turning and walking away to avoid
me, not knowing what to say.

It was as if I had started a new job in a strange environment. Noth
ing felt familiar, long-time colleagues felt like strangers. I couldn't
concentrate and I spent the day on tenterhooks waiting, hoping in
vain for a call from the police to tell me about their progress in what had now become a murder investigation.

When the funeral home phoned to tell me that Tracey's body had
been released and was in their care, I told them that only close family
would attend the cremation. They explained that the funeral home
had two crematoriums – one in Brakpan and one in Springs. But only Springs had a chapel and we wanted that one, even though it
was busier than Brakpan so there would be a delay. Perhaps fate had a way of playing into our hands . . .

I was starting to get a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Why hadn't the police called? I knew that they hadn't interviewed
Tracey's housemates yet because Trudy was still staying in my home.
Wally had also phoned to say that neither he nor his girlfriend Wilma
had been interviewed. Then he went into a convoluted account of why
he had to take some responsibility for what had happened to Tracey. If I had been thinking straight, perhaps I would have absorbed more of what he was saying. Finally he asked me if I could fetch him and take him into town.

“Me and Wilma can't get to work unless I can pick up spares for my
car and get it fixed,” he complained.

I was stunned. My daughter was dead and this comparative stran
ger was asking me to run him around because he had transport prob
lems! He hadn't attended Tracey's memorial service or offered any
help during the week she had been missing, yet now he expected my
help.

“Sorry, I can't help you out,” I said bluntly and put the phone down.

A week after Tracey's body was released from the mortuary, I was drinking a cup of coffee, staring blankly out of the window, when the sound of a telephone pulled me back to reality. It was the funeral
home asking if we'd like to change our minds and have an unattend
ed cremation.

“The crematorium with the chapel attached has run out of gas and
we don't really know when it will be operational again,” the woman
explained.

“We'll wait. My family want to say their private goodbyes,” I replied.
“By the way, do you perhaps have my daughter's armband that says ‘What would Jesus do?'?”

No, she hadn't seen it. When I had gone to identify Tracey's body,
I had asked the mortuary to keep it for me, but now it was missing.
Eventually the police officer at the mortuary told me to lay a charge
of theft.

“Bodies are often left unattended,” he said, “so anyone could have taken it.”

This little armband had no monetary value, but it was something
Glen wanted, an important connection to his sister. A small thing
under normal circumstances, but circumstances weren't normal and he was upset that it was missing.

This was only the start.

Days passed and still there was no phone call about the investigation
. It was as if the police had dropped off the face of the earth. I
tried phoning Captain Kotze, to no avail. It was the same old story: his
message box was full, his phone was turned off or he wasn't available
on the network. I tried the police station landline, only to be told he wasn't available, he was on leave, he was ill or he had been sent to
Namibia on a theft case. I battled to understand why the theft of a
few computers was more important than the investigation into my
daughter's murder.

The old feelings of unease resurfaced, but I bottled my grief and
persevered in trying to find out what was happening with the investigation. Eventually I got hold of Captain Kotze and asked for an
update. I particularly wanted to know cause and time of death. He tol
d
me that specimens from the autopsy had been sent to the laboratorie
s
and the rape test kit had been sent away as well – an answer that
would be repeated again and again over the next two months, with
out any progress. Frustrated and full of doubt, I phoned the mortuar
y directly.

“Yes, well, we'll have to wait for the results,” I was told.

“But I've been hearing that for weeks already. When will you have
them?”

“It could take up to eighteen months to get them back from the lab.”

I swallowed hard. This was a murder investigation; surely every
day that passed made the chance of catching her killer less likely? I
was desperate to find out more.

“I know there was a rope around her neck when she was found. What type of rope was it?”

“Nylon ski rope.”

Captain Kotze had told me it was a good old-fashioned hessian farm rope. Who should I believe?

I was now making multiple calls every day to Captain Kotze in the hope that I'd get hold of him at least every now and then. Each time
I succeeded, the promises flew fast and furious. But his promises wer
e
wearing thin, harder and harder to believe without any tangible
progress.

As a family, we had put our faith in the police force, but as each day
passed our concerns grew as our respect and trust waned. Then one day in April, a day like any other during which I was trying to cope
in a world turned on its head, I suddenly had a strong feeling that
I should stop Tracey's cremation. Driven by a conviction that I didn't
fully understand, I dropped what I was doing and phoned the funeral
home.

“Please stop the cremation. I want to get a private post-mortem
done,” I blurted.

“Ah, Mrs Thompson, I was just about to phone you to tell you the
cremation was set for Monday. But yes, of course, I'll tell the cremat
orium to reschedule.”

I outlined a bit of background for her, to explain my decision, then
said, “I have no idea where to find a pathologist I can trust. Is there
someone you can recommend to do a private post-mortem?”

“You could try Dr Pamela Kloppers. She's a senior state pathologist
but has permission to perform post-mortems in her private capacity.”

I thanked her and immediately dialled Buddy's number to tell him
what I had done. I didn't ask permission; I had made my decision and
I didn't care whose toes I trod on. I hooked up to the Internet to do a background check on the pathologist. She appeared to be well qualified and well respected, so I phoned to ask if she would be prepared
to perform this task for me. She listened to my story, asking one or two
questions, but was for the most part silent.

“Fine,” she said when I had finished. “I'll arrange to have your
daugh
ter's body transferred and I'll be able to do the post-mortem on
Monday.”

I felt sick. I was putting Tracey's body through more abuse and mu
tilation instead of just laying her to rest. As much as I wanted to be able to close the chapter on saying goodbye to my child, deep inside
me, at some level of instinct that my brain couldn't comprehend, I
knew I had made the right choice.

1
999–2003

Working in an office wasn't something that got Tracey excited. Though she was grateful she had a job, she wanted something more from life. After a
year in which she had dithered and been unable to decide what she wanted
to do with her future, she finally decided she wanted to become a teacher.
It was already the end of January, so the chance of her getting accepted at teacher's training college in Johannesburg at this late stage was small. But luck was on her side. The college didn't have its full quota of student
teachers for the year so she got in.

The months passed and a new Tracey emerged. Her self-confidence improved and she appeared to be content and happy within herself. The deep darkness that followed Peter's death seemed to have transformed it
self into a chronic ache rather than an acute pain. We weren't seeing nearly
as much of her as we had in the past, but this was to be expected: she was
commuting to college in Johannesburg and she was now a young adult
pursuing her own dreams. I was pleased to see that she made many new friends at college and was soon enjoying a full social life again. She still lived at home in Benoni, but the house, always quiet when Tracey was out, was now silent far more often. Then Tracey would bounce in and her voice and laughter would echo around the rooms again.

Soon her first bout of student teaching was just around the corner.

“
I've got no clothes to wear, Mom,” she said. “I can't wear shorts and
T-shirts. That's not what teachers wear. Can we go shopping for some skirts or something?”

So in preparation for Tracey going “back to school” at the primary school where she herself had been so happy as a child, we had the fun of a little shopping spree together. It was strange to see my tomboy daughter dressed in skirts and blouses – even a dress.

“You must be kidding, no way!” she scoffed, rejecting a pretty top I'd
pulled off the rack. “This one's much better.”

Her choices were staid and conservative by any standard. Nothing to draw attention to herself, no short skirts or revealing tops, just long skirts and
tightly buttoned blouses – as if they could keep her safe.

And so it was that Tracey became Miss Thompson the student teacher.
She was popular with pupils and teachers alike, but she struggled to address her ex-teachers as colleagues.

“It feels so funny talking to Mrs Ferreira and now being able to call her Tanya in the staffroom,” she giggled.

Although she enjoyed her stint as a teacher, she told her lecturers and
advisors at college that she wanted to change direction from primary
school to high school teaching. She took pleasure in the smaller children,
but she now thought that older children and teens would offer more of a challenge. Perhaps at some level she understood that as a teenager so recently herself, she might understand them and be able to help them deal with some of their growing pains, their questions about the injustices of life.
Her advisors agreed to let her make the change, so she stopped going
to classes, except for those that were part of the training for high-school
teachers too.

We thought all was well, but at the end of the year, she was told she
wouldn't be readmitted to college the following year because she hadn't completed all the courses for her first year. In vain did Tracey explain that
she had checked with the authorities and been given permission to drop
some of the courses. Wits University had taken over the college and the rules
had changed. They would brook no argument, telling her to re-apply in five years' time.

This was a major stumbling block, but Tracey appeared to take the disappointment in her stride. By now she was working as a salesperson and
buyer for a franchised company that bought and sold second-hand goods, as well as new products. Her hours were long and hard. Together with all her social outings and sport, she was burning the candle at both ends.

There were still times when she was in the doldrums and would lock her
self away from family and friends. Her self-confidence was up and down
like a yo-yo. From one day to the next we didn't know which Tracey would
wake up in the morning. Again, the spectre of drugs flashed through my
mind, even though she had always emphatically denied taking drugs.

Not that this stopped me from going through her room looking for any telltale signs like cigarette rolling papers, pipes, roach clips, small glass vials, plastic baggies or remnants of drugs, but I never found anything to confirm my fears. No valuable items or money had gone missing and Tracey would usually still tell us where she was going, and bring her friends home to meet
her family. Although one or two sometimes looked as if they might have been high, I tried hard not to judge or get suspicious of my daughter. Yes,
there were mood swings and Tracey didn't seem as happy as she used to be.
Yes, she spent a lot of time alone in her room and she was unwilling to share
her personal problems with us. But even the life stage of adolescence and young adulthood was a valid reason for much of this.