Hyena Dawn (21 page)

In the enlargement that Deon had had made, the woman on the table looked as if she were in her late teens - the lines on her face were only there because she was in a lot of pain. She was extremely attractive; a slim body, from what he could see, perfectly formed. Her hair was dark and short. What was the story behind this photograph? How could this man have performed such a bestial act on such a beautiful creature?

The man next to Deon coughed to break the silence. He was a slight, anaemic-looking man wearing blotchy horn-rimmed spectacles; Major-General Deon de Wet made him feel uneasy, and the claustrophobic atmosphere of the darkroom put him on edge. ‘Good picture, don’t you think, Marcus?’

‘
Well, sir, it could be clearer, but then with this sort of enlargement one does lose a little detail. Who is she?’

Deon had prepared a story to ward off probing questions such as this. ‘Oh, some prostitute who I think could answer a few interesting questions on the Weppener murder. She may not even be alive, this picture could have been taken twenty years ago.’

He felt the lie sounded very convincing. The Weppener case was genuine, he had just added a few more leads to it that hadn’t been there before.

‘
But the paper is quite new, sir.’

‘
Are you sure, Marcus?’

‘
Yes, sir. Ten to eleven years old at the most.’

He would have to watch himself. Marcus was obviously no fool.

‘
Don’t worry, sir. I’ll have it checked through every file we’ve got. I can promise we’ll go back fifteen years - further, if we don’t come up with anything. Pity you’ve only got a bit of it. How come it’s cut round the edges?’

‘
Er. I found it in an album. Someone obviously cut it out from a larger shot.’

‘
Anyway here are the enlarged prints you wanted, sir.’

Major-General de Wet felt uncomfortable. He let himself out of the darkroom. What if they couldn’t find out who she was?

Deon met Abe Solomon at the bar of the Carlton Hotel. The place was crowded but they found a quiet corner. Abe was a crime reporter he relied on for the occasional lead; in return he gave him a lot of good stories.

Now he eased the black-and-white photo from his pocket. Anyone who knew this woman would be able to recognise her. The police records department were checking it against their files of convicted prostitutes; she might be a prostitute, but he didn’t think so.

‘
God, the expression on her face is awful. Do you want it in the paper?’

‘
Definitely not. I’m following up something that could be very interesting, though I’m afraid I can’t tell you what it is now.’

Abe drew in closer. He sensed that Deon felt he was onto something big. ‘I’ll tell you what. I’m not too busy at the moment, crime’s having a holiday. I’ll show this picture to every person I know who I think might be able to put a name to the face.’

‘
That’s a good idea, Abe. How soon can you start?’

‘
Right away.’

Sonja Seyton-Waugh turned away, hoping that her friend would not notice how she had reacted.

‘
Sonja, are you all right? You look as though you’re going to faint.’

Hermione du Plessis, journalist-turned-authoress, was one of Sonja’s best friends. They’d been at university together, and later Sonja had provided Hermione with the finance to write two books on the people of Soweto. The books had created a stir abroad, and put more pressure on the South African government to improve conditions in the township.

Now Hermione watched her friend with concern. She had always admired Sonja, a woman so wealthy she employed an investment team to manage her interests. Normally Sonja’s manner was calm, even cool, but the casual remark Hermione had made about her boyfriend Abe and his search for the woman in a photograph taken some ten years before, had clearly affected Sonja deeply.

Sonja was very tall, with a beautifully slim figure that could have made her a top model. The face was aristocratic, with high cheek-bones, an exquisite small nose and piercing green eyes. Her hair was dark, worn short round her head in a page-boy style. Hermione had often wondered why Sonja had never married. Even now, sitting in the exclusive restaurant in Johannesburg’s luxurious Hyde Park shopping centre, she was attracting admiring glances. Her dress was fashionably short, revealing long legs in pale stockings. Hermione couldn’t help being envious. An attractive woman herself, she was nothing in comparison to Sonja.

Sonja’s main interest in life, apart from running the giant mining company she had inherited from her father, was expanding the consciousness of modern women. She wanted to stimulate more women to work in commerce and industry. She had a doctorate in business administration from Harvard and was known as a brilliant speaker on business matters throughout the world. It had been said by a leading international magazine that Sonja Seyton-Waugh had done more for the women’s movement than any of the most ardent feminists in the United States. People gossiped that she might be a lesbian, but most of her friends realised that she was just more interested in business than men.

Hermione called the waiter and asked him to bring a glass of water. ‘Sonja, you should see a doctor. I think you’ve been pushing yourself too hard lately.’

‘
I’ll be fine, really. If you’ll excuse me I think I should go now. I haven’t been sleeping much lately, that’s all it is.’ Sonja got up, and Hermione watched her with concern.

‘
Why don’t you wait? Abe will be here in a minute, he’ll drive you home.’

‘
No!’

Hermione looked at Sonja aghast. She’d never shouted at her like that in all the ten years she’d known her . . .

Sonja was shaking as she got into her car. She couldn’t believe this was happening; they must have released the photograph. They had promised they wouldn’t as long as she did what they told her to.

God, the disgrace. How could she possibly live with it?

Deon put the phone down. It was a lead of sorts, nothing really substantial, but worth following up - Abe Solomon’s information was always accurate. It was just that Deon had seen several photographs of Sonja Seyton-Waugh - she was always appearing in the press - and from what he could remember she didn’t look much like the woman in the photograph. Still, it had been taken at least ten years ago. People changed.

Deon phoned Miss Seyton-Waugh and was greeted by an answering-machine. All right, he thought, I’ll go over.

The house was of a very modern design, the front door a polished wooden square with a large yellow handle in the middle. The stone walls that surrounded it soared up into the evening sky. To his left was an open garage and Deon could just glimpse the outlines of a couple of cars that were certainly worth more than everything he owned.

He rapped on the door several times before it was answered by a coloured woman who was obviously a personal secretary. She was well-spoken, and clearly regarded him with suspicion. He had taken the precaution of wearing plain clothes; this was private business.

‘
I’d like to see Miss Seyton-Waugh, please.’

‘
She is not at home.’

‘
She most definitely is.’

He hoped to hell she
was
at home. If not, he wasn’t going to leave this house until he knew where he could find her.

‘
I will call the police if you do not leave.’

‘
I am the police.’

‘
You don’t have a uniform!’

He pulled out his police identity document. She glanced down at it cursorily and said, ‘You do not have a warrant?’

‘
If you don’t let me in I’ll break this door down!’

What was he saying? He could be demoted for this sort of behaviour. He pushed the door open, walked past the woman and into what was obviously a reception room. The coloured woman screamed out from behind him, ‘Miss Seyton! Miss Seyton!’

A woman walked into the room, and her beauty took his breath away. She showed no fear. ‘Who the hell are you?’ she said coolly. ‘How dare you force your way into my house!’

‘
Major-General de Wet, Miss Seyton-Waugh. I felt obliged to see you personally.’

‘
You may leave, Sally.’ Then she turned back to Deon. ‘Major-General de Wet, you act more like a thug than a policeman. I would appreciate it if you would leave this house immediately.’

Everything about her was perfect. He had never in his life seen a woman so well groomed, so beautiful. ‘I think we should talk, Miss Seyton-Waugh.’

He saw her mouth tremble. She was losing control. Instinctively, he knew why.

‘
Sit, sit down,’ she said. He relaxed into the leather suite and tried his best to put her at her ease.

‘
This is not an official police matter, Miss Seyton-Waugh. I have come to talk to you in a personal capacity. As you have no doubt guessed, it is in connection with what you discussed with Miss du Plessis this morning.’

‘
I think you must have the wrong end of the stick, Major- General de Wet. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He studied her face closely, the photograph still in his mind’s eye. There was definitely a resemblance.

‘
Why are you looking at me like that?’ She stared at him coldly. He took the full picture out of his jacket pocket.

‘
Do you recognise this?’

He noticed the tremor of her lips, and then she turned on him. ‘How dare you show me such a picture. Get out!’

He strode over to her and grabbed her hands. She tried to scream but he picked up one of the cushions and held it over her mouth. He unfastened the back of her dress and ran his left hand down her back.

He felt her skin hot beneath his hands. She struggled to get loose and he firmed his grip. She screamed out with pain. Then he dragged her from the settee towards the mirror in the hall. He lifted the cushion from her mouth.

‘
Scream, and I’ll put it back.’

He turned her head so that she could see the back of her body in the mirror. Slowly he let his fingers work their way down her back to her buttocks.

‘
Miss Seyton-Waugh, plastic surgery can hide many things, but not perfectly. Your face has been subtly, beautifully changed - but there are still the faint outlines of scars on your back. Only you can tell me who gave you those scars and why.’

She fainted in his arms. He carried her back to the lounge and saw that Sally was watching him from the other doorway, terrified. He turned to her.

‘
Get me some cold water and some towels. And please don’t worry. I had to do this. I don’t want to harm her, I want to help her.’

The first words Sonja spoke when she opened her eyes five minutes later were to Sally. ‘This man will do me no harm. Don’t worry, and please, above all, don’t tell a soul about this.’ She waited till Sally had left the house and she’d heard the front door close behind her. Then she raised herself up and stared at Deon, tears running down the smooth skin of her face.

‘
You can’t know what it’s been like for me. All these years and no one I could talk to. People wonder why I’ve never married, the men wonder why I won’t sleep with them. God, if only they knew. I’ve worked to forget, I’ve worked so hard, and still the memory of it, the pain of it, won’t go away. I was twenty years old at the time and still a virgin.’

She was crying openly now. He was appalled, he had opened the door into a place which perhaps he should never have entered, but now he knew there was no turning back.

‘
Miss Seyton-Waugh, I apologise for my behaviour. I hope I didn’t hurt you. That photograph I showed you is one of many, along with a film of the same incident. You see, I had to find the woman in it. I am determined that the man who abused you should be brought to justice.’

She looked horrified. ‘Photographs? They must have released them. Oh my God.’

‘
No, I found them in a safe, in a house where I was investigating a robbery.’

‘
Whose safe?’

‘
Bernard Aschaar’s. Your secret is safe with me, you must trust me. I will bring that man to justice.’

‘
You know who the man in the photograph is?’

‘
No.’

‘
Bernard Aschaar was there, but he must have stayed out of the picture. The man in the photograph is Jay Golden. Yes,
the

Jay Golden. He’d asked me out that particular night. He’s good- looking and wealthy, I found him attractive at that time, God alone knows why.

‘
When he arrived to collect me, he was the epitome of charm, politeness itself. Anyway, we went to a night club. I enjoyed myself and he invited me back to his house for a nightcap. I accepted.

‘
Aschaar was there when we arrived. He was also pleasant, and we sat and had drinks together. Then Jay Golden came up to me and hit me across the face. He laughed. Bernard Aschaar did nothing. Then Jay hit me again and told me to kneel. I said I wanted to leave. Aschaar locked the door, I screamed but they didn’t care. Jay Golden hit me quite a few times after that, across the head, with a telephone directory. I was pretty groggy. They made me take off my clothes.