Gallows Hill (22 page)

‘The last set of pictures,’ said Osman. ‘The title’s LOVE, but the body is covered in blood.
Bruises.’

‘I’ve seen enough of those on the autopsy table,’ said Clare.

Merle Osman laughed, a staccato sound. ‘Funny you say that,’ she said. ‘There was speculation at the time.’

‘Really?’ said Clare.

‘There was talk that she’d had an affair with a married man. You remember all that, Gilles? That it was Sykes.’

‘Damien Sykes?’ asked Clare.

‘Just rumours, my dear,’ said
Osman, firmly.

‘Oh come on, Gilles. We saw it at dinner that one time.’

‘What happened?’ asked Clare.

‘Nothing, really,’ said Osman. ‘We’d all been drinking too much. Suzanne included. It was just talk.’

‘What was the talk?’ asked Clare.

‘Gilles is being discreet because they bought so much from us. And because it’s his nature. What we heard,’ she dropped her voice, ‘is that
Damien freaked out, beat Suzanne because she had other relationships.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh,’ said Merle Osman, ‘you didn’t know her, of course. She could be so provocative. Look at Lilith. That behaviour of hers didn’t come out of nowhere.’

‘Suzanne told me,’ said Osman, ‘that someone had assaulted her. She never said who. But I do know that she took photographs of her injuries to the police.
In fact, she used them as a basis for this series of oil paintings.’

‘And the charges?’ asked Clare.

‘There were no charges. Nothing came of it,’ said Merle Osman ‘Then she had the opening. Then she disappeared. Was killed. If what you say is true. It’d fit, if it was a jealousy thing, a lover.’

Clare stared at the abstract paintings that Suzanne finished just before she died. Her
mind worked on the web of connections around Suzanne. Lovers, clients, dealers, friends. It was hard to distinguish one from the other.

‘What eventually happened to these paintings?’ asked Clare.

‘All sold at the opening, if I remember,’ said Gilles. ‘Damien Sykes was the buyer, wasn’t he, Merle?’

‘Yes, with his wife’s money.’ There was acid in Merle’s voice. ‘I imagine it’s why he
married her. It’s certainly why he’s stayed with her.’

The girl returned to collect the coffee tray.

‘
Dankie, skat
.’

Osman had his eyes on his watch. Peak season. Phones ringing. Deals to be brokered. A busy man, a busy day.

‘Can I keep this?’ asked Clare, the catalogue in her hand.

‘We should have a copy somewhere,’ said Merle Osman. ‘I can’t imagine what it will tell you,
though.’

‘No,’ said Clare. ‘Lilith’s work is probably the key. Its origins lie in the night her mother vanished.’

‘Let me know if you need anything else,’ said Osman, walking her to the door. ‘Please keep us informed. Suzanne played an important role in our lives, you know.’

He stepped out onto the hot, cracked pavement with Clare. She flicked her remote, but it was still not working.
Luckily, nothing was missing from the car.

Clare did a U-turn. Osman was still outside. He had turned his back so that his body sheltered his phone from the wind clawing at his linen trousers.

She took the road that hugged the east side of Table Mountain. The plush green suburbs flashed past her as she headed towards Constantia. Her second visit in two days. More than she notched up in
a year, usually.

‘I’m here to see Mr Sykes,’ Clare told the security guard. ‘You can tell him it’s about Suzanne le Roux.’

The guard phoned the house and waved her through. This time, there was no sign of Mrs Sykes or her Mercedes. The spaniel was lying in the shade of the veranda.

Damien Sykes emerged from the barn. ‘The guard said you were here about Suzanne le Roux. Come inside.’

A laptop and an array of papers were set out on a table. ‘My Churchillian office,’ said Sykes. ‘Apologies. So, what about Suzanne? We have quite a few of her works. The sweetest woman in Cape Town, she was.’

‘I’m investigating her murder,’ said Clare. Sykes was standing in a shaft of sunlight, and the colour seemed bleached from his face.

‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Sykes. ‘She went into
hiding, must’ve been right after her exhibition opening that February. Tried to skip the country, and died en route.’

‘She never made it up north,’ said Clare.

‘Why would you say that?’ he asked. ‘I paid for her headstone. I was there when it was put up.’

‘Suzanne le Roux’s remains were found buried at Gallows Hill,’ said Clare. ‘Under the floor of the building that I was asking you
about. There are some questions I’d like to ask you.’

‘On whose authority?’

‘The SAPS Specialist Detective Services.’ Clare found her temporary SAPS badge. Sykes gave it a cursory glance.

‘You’d better come in,’ he said. ‘And tell me how you think I can help you, since it’s clearly not art you’re interested in.’

‘I’ve been told that Suzanne was assaulted by a married man she’d
had an affair with,’ said Clare.

Sykes did not reply.

‘That he wouldn’t let her go when she wanted to end the relationship.’

Still nothing.

‘You had an affair with her, didn’t you, Mr Sykes?’

‘No,’ said Sykes.

‘I have it on good authority that you did,’ said Clare.

His shoulders slumped. ‘I slept with her,’ he said. ‘I did, but you couldn’t really call it an affair.
The intensity of my feelings was not reciprocated, let me put it that way.’

‘So you beat her?’

‘I never harmed her.’ Sykes avoided her gaze. ‘I loved her.’

‘You bought the paintings,’ said Clare. ‘And then she disappeared.’

‘That broke my heart.’

‘How involved with her were you?’ asked Clare.

He motioned Clare to sit down on a chair next to him. ‘This is what happened.
I told her I’d leave Saskia for her. Marry her. But she wasn’t interested.’ He nodded towards the triptych. ‘I bought those, but only after she left, and they remind me every day of how stupid I was to let her go. Suzanne was her own woman, and the more she withheld, the more we all wanted. In the end, nobody got her.’

‘Who did this to her, Mr Sykes?’ asked Clare, gesturing towards the lacerated
skin, the abrasions, in the artwork.

‘I didn’t do it,’ said Damien Sykes. ‘You must believe me.’ He was silent a moment. ‘But who
wouldn’t
have done it, might be a better question. Suzanne messed with your head. Worked her way in, and when you expected something more from her, there was nothing there.’

‘Isn’t that perhaps why you did it, why you beat her?’ Clare persisted.

‘Dr Hart.
I have many weaknesses, but abusing women is not one of them. I’m sorry.’

‘And your wife stood by you through it all?’

‘She had the moral high ground,’ he said.

‘I can imagine that it would have sorely tested her patience.’

‘Make no mistake, Dr Hart,’ said Damien Sykes, ‘She has made me pay for it all every single day.’

‘She’s your alibi.’

‘What are you implying?’ asked
Sykes.

‘For when Suzanne disappeared.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Suzanne went into hiding immediately after the opening. She was getting off on revolution then. An adrenalin rush. It killed her, though. She’s buried up in Mpumalanga. A place called Rietfontein.’

‘Have you been there?’ asked Clare.

‘Of course, yes,’ said Sykes. ‘I loved her. Don’t you get it?’

‘A rather
odd way you had of showing it,’ said Clare.

‘Dr Hart,’ said Sykes. ‘I’ve told you. I loved her. She drove me crazy. I was young, I fucked up. There’s nothing more I can say. Except that I have missed her every day for 23 years.’

‘Think about it, Mr Sykes,’ said Clare. ‘Think about what more you remember, what you would like to tell me. The truth is a heavy burden to carry for so many years.’

‘If I had more to tell you, I would,’ said Sykes.

‘I have to get back to town,’ said Clare, handing him a card. ‘Think about this. Call me. Or call Major Phiri, his number’s on the back.’

‘You have this all sewn up in your head, don’t you?’

‘No,’ said Clare, moving towards the open door. ‘But it’s a long time after the death and there are ways in which a deal –’

‘A plea bargain
for a crime I didn’t commit,’ said Sykes. ‘For the last crime in the world I’d have committed –’

‘Consider it,’ said Clare. ‘Peace of mind is the only luxury that cannot be bought with cash – yours or anyone else’s.’

Clare drove back to town, the old oak trees along Monterey Drive green and cool. As she rounded Hospital Bend, it was already five degrees hotter. In town, the wind seemed
enraged, knocking over dustbins and blowing grit into the eyes of pedestrians. She was already late for her meeting with Lilith, but with a traffic cop on her tail there was no way that she could phone. Her fuel gauge was flashing at her anyway, so she pulled into a garage and called Lilith.

‘There you are,’ said Lilith. ‘I’ve been trying to get you.’

‘Raheema said you went for your DNA
tests,’ said Clare.

‘I did,’ said Lilith. ‘Results coming tomorrow morning, but they’re going to tell me what we already know.’

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ said Clare. ‘My meeting with Damien Sykes took longer than I thought.’

‘It’s fine, it’s fine,’ said Lilith. ‘But I need you to fetch me. Like now?’

‘What is it?’

‘I’ve found her. Sophie Xaba, my old nanny. I’ve got an address,
but there’s no phone number. It must be her. How many Sophie Xabas can there be, Clare? Let’s go and see her. Please.’

‘Where are you?’ asked Clare.

‘Plein Street,’ said Lilith. ‘The Black Sash offices. Can you pick me up? I’d like to go now, before I lose my courage.’

Rita Mkhize had not made it out of Mpumalanga, but Riedwaan’s plan was that the place would not kill him too. He kept his eyes on the rear-view mirror. So far, nothing to worry about. He could see some way ahead, and he was making good time. But still, the back of his neck prickled.

The speedometer hovered around a hundred, with the windscreen wipers slapping time. Janis Joplin erratic
on some radio request show, as reception faded to a static hiss in the sodden valleys.

Visibility was getting worse and the rain came down even harder.Riedwaan changed down to third. Braking was not the best plan in these conditions. Up ahead was a bend. He slowed down further, skidded only slightly. The road dipped away sharply, a slick black ribbon of tar. The clouds had pulled back towards
the hills, leaving tendrils of mist in the gullies, and there was a brief respite from the rain.

He pulled over. He was a little early, but parked next to a slope he saw a big Ford truck. The broad-shouldered man who came towards him had the build of a rugby player.

‘Du Randt.’ He held out a very large hand.

‘Faizal. Pleased to meet you.’

The farmer held Riedwaan’s hand in his
grip, an assessment of sorts. They would never be friends, these two, but under the current circumstances there was no longer any reason for them to be enemies.

‘You sent me the photographs of the accident?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘Ja, well –’ said Du Randt.

‘Appreciated it,’ said Riedwaan.

‘What could I do?’ the farmer said. ‘What was her name?’

‘Rita,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Rita Mkhize.’

Du Randt shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, man.’

‘The photographs you sent didn’t match with the police report,’ said Riedwaan.

‘What the police said was kak. A good job done quickly. That should make you really suspicious.’

‘It does,’ said Riedwaan. ‘They’re my own colleagues, but if things happen fast, I’m suspicious.’

‘That’s why you believed me?’

‘Ja,’ said Riedwaan, one eye
on the darkening clouds. ‘They said that when they arrived the deceased was exactly that. Deceased.’

‘I saw that little girl die.’ Du Randt’s eyes were hard. ‘So did they.’

‘You saw the accident,’ said Riedwaan. ‘How?’

‘There’s a lot of farm murders up here,’ said Du Randt. ‘Up here, we’re still fighting the same dirty war.’

‘So, how did you find Rita?’

‘Chance,’ said Du Randt.
‘I was on patrol. Monday there was an attack a couple of farms away. Visagie. You drove past the turning on your way here. A woman raped and shot. Husband wounded. If there’s one farm attack, then there’s going to be another one soon. Farm commandos, we’ve been patrolling. It’s not exactly legal any more, but what else must we do?’

Riedwaan had no answer for him.

‘Were you alone?’

‘I know the bush. I was a recce in the old days,’ said Du Randt.

Not a rugby player at all, Riedwaan realised. The hardness in his body was from the army, from a war eventually fought and lost in the townships 20 years ago.

‘Listen. I like my own company. I’m the only guy I can trust who’s not going to shoot me in the back,’ said Du Randt. ‘I saw lights coming over the hill, from the direction
I thought the killers might come. I knew the bastards had stolen the bakkie after they shot the farmer’s wife, so I pulled over, waited here in the bush.’

Perfect line of fire, thought Riedwaan, looking back up the hill. If two murderers had come over that hill in a bakkie, he’d have had them in his sights.

‘It was only then that I saw the tree lying in the road,’ said DuRandt. ‘And then
wham, this small white car – not a stolen bakkie –comes over the hill, hits the tree, rolls.’

‘There was nothing about a tree in the accident report,’ said Riedwaan.

‘There it is, man, you can see it.’ Du Randt pointed to the verge. A large log teetered on the brink of the gully. ‘That was across the road. Your friend was going too fast for these roads, but she braked. She must have. Fok-all
happened, though. She must have turned the wheel too hard, because the car skidded across the road, past the tree. She went over the edge and moered into the ditch.’

Riedwaan offered him a cigarette. Du Randt’s lighter flared, Riedwaan bent towards him for a light.

‘Un-fokken-believable agony, a steering column through your chest,’ muttered Du Randt.’

‘She was alive?’

‘For a bit.’