The cops should give the killer to the people for 5 minutes. We don’t need more time than that.
Harlequin49
–
2 minutes ago
I heard the police called in an occult crime unit to help with the investigations. Can anyone confirm or deny this?
Hannes Vermeulen
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2minutes ago
@Harlequin49
–
Well, we live in Malherbe Street, and I can confirm there were occult specialists on the premises, but they declined comments to every reporter they came across. I think the police want to keep their involvement in the case quiet.
Francine White
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1 minute ago
I wouldn’t put it past the police to call in specialists. The SAPS is up to [email protected]^! except when they’re taking bribes. They can take bribes better than anyone else.
ArmchairDetective
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1 minute ago
Carol-Anne Brewis looks a lot like the type of girls Gert van Rooyen targeted back in the day. It’s eerie.
[view image]
RickyRockyRoad
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a few seconds ago
She DOES look a lot like Odette Boucher.
Vincent
–
a few seconds ago
Okay, that’s uber-creepy.
Continue to Read Comments?
~
Pink Ladies Show Up in Support of Carol-Anne Brewis
September 5 2015 at 11:45 a.m. 25 Comments
By Bianca Otto
Pretoria has been in a state of uproar after officials discovered the body of twelve-year-old Carol-Anne Brewis earlier this morning, on the property once belonging to infamous paedophile, Gert van Rooyen.
There was a heavy police presence at the scene as neighbours and concerned citizens flocked to the site to show their support. A row of police officers blocked off one part of Malherbe Street, creating a barrier between van Rooyen’s house and the upset crowd. Police vehicles lined the other side of the street, to keep the crowd at bay.
Around nine o’clock, the Pink Ladies arrived, all dressed in pink T-shirts.
The Pink Ladies, an organization of predominantly women who first started rallying against child abuse, child kidnappings and child murders when Sheldean Human went missing in 2007, arrived on the scene to show their support for Carol-Anne Brewis and her family.
The colour pink was chosen by the Pink Ladies as Sheldean Human was last seen alive wearing a pink T-shirt and a denim skirt.
Human’s decomposed body was found at a storm water drain outlet near the Tshwane Fresh Produce Market in 2007 two weeks after she had disappeared from outside her home in Pretoria Gardens. Andre Jordaan was tried and convicted of Human’s rape and murder and died in prison when another inmate attacked him.
Sheldean’s name has become synonymous with the fight against crime in South Africa.
“Today is a very sad day,” said Pink Lady, Lynette van der Graaff. “Not only does Carol-Anne remind us of the terrible deeds Gert van Rooyen committed back in the 1980s and 1990s, but little Sheldean wasn’t found too far from here either.”
The Pink Ladies protested peacefully in Capital Park today, out of respect for Carol-Anne Brewis and her family.
“This little girl was kidnapped out of her bed in the middle of the night. If children aren’t safe in their own homes, where are they safe?” said van der Graaff. “Enough is enough. The government needs to start listening to us and keep our babies safe.”
— IOL News
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Chapter 7
It’s painful to be beautiful, but it’s absolute murder to be lionised.
In life, Carol-Anne Brewis was just another impoverished child with an alcoholic for a mother and a deadbeat for a father. She shared the same origin story countless other children have to suffer through. What makes her special?
Her future was not as bright as everyone claims it was. If she had been lucky, her parents
might
have enrolled her into one of the better schools on the other side of the Daspoort Tunnel.
Maybe
she would have kept her nose clean and gotten good enough grades to attend the University or the Technikon (highly unlikely from what he’d witnessed during the months he’d studied her). And if the stars were in her favour,
perhaps
Carol-Anne would have found herself a mediocre job somewhere, settled down with a mediocre man, and had herself a bunch of equally mediocre babies. Then the whole cycle would begin anew.
She wasn’t going to cure AIDS, or perfect Nikola Tesla’s intercontinental wireless transmissions. She wasn’t going to be a supermodel unless she drastically altered her appearance with plastic surgery after she hit puberty. Her genetics simply weren’t up to par in
that
regard.
No.
If she had died when she was an old lady with a handful of regrets and a wasted life in her rear-view mirror, only close friends and family would mourn her. Eventually, though, even they would have forgotten her. No matter how badly people want to believe it, Carol-Anne Brewis was
never
going to amount to much.
Thanks to him, Carol-Anne doesn’t have to be a disappointment to herself or to anyone else. She will be remembered. She will be celebrated.
By all means, let her be the poster child for everything wrong in this country.
He will admit this: there might not have been greatness residing within Carol-Anne, but there was power. He craved that power.
For months, he had stalked the little girl. For weeks, he had searched for every vulnerable part of her parents’ property. For days, he’d contemplated taking her life—and ultimately her power.
He’d almost released Carol-Anne after he’d devoured every bit of Valentine’s essence. Almost. He very nearly moved on to one of his other targets. But that was before he realised how badly he wanted to play his morbid game with Esmé Snyders.
That’s her name—Esmé Snyders.
She’s the one who’d exuded the greatness he’d been waiting for.
She
is worthy to play his game, even though she doesn’t know she’s already playing.
He has big plans for her.
Wonderful plans.
Chapter 8
Cicadas buzz in harmony as the African sun ascends to its peak. Sweat droplets accumulate on my upper lip and snake from my hairline down the back of my neck, causing hair and clothes to cling to skin. The air is uncomfortably stagnant, dry, and hotter than seven levels of hell. The warm breeze carries an echo of exhaust fumes with it. Whenever a large truck or Putco bus roars past sputtering carbon monoxide into the atmosphere, nature’s sounds are drowned out.
The strange symphony of nature versus man offends my ears as I stand in the shade of a feeble looking tree. Fat blowflies sluggishly float through the sky, landing on my bare legs for a quick reprieve from their flight. They move only when I do and return as soon as I’m still.
The sun-bleached road is lined with sun-bleached buildings dating back fifty years or more. People swarm amongst the informal vendors, weaving in and out for a chat or a smoke or a quick purchase of whatever is on sale. Taxis swerve dangerously across the lanes to pick up or unload passengers.
Marabastad is the type of place Americans would describe as being “downtown.”
But Marabastad isn’t anywhere near as dangerous or as frowned upon as Jo’burg’s inner-city slum, Hillbrow. It is however, the closest equivalent Pretoria has. There’s a lot of history here; mostly forgotten history but interesting stories surround the township.
Formal businesses are situated in the old rundown buildings, sharing customers with informal vendors on the sidewalks—often run by refugees from diverse backgrounds. Vacant lots have been turned into mini-shantytowns by the destitute, where corrugated metal gleams atop unsound structures built from plywood, plastic and cardboard. It’s a poverty-stricken neighbourhood where you can find knockoffs of anything. Here, drugs of every flavour are available if you know who to ask. Shops sell poorly made clothes at cheap prices, because South Africa has turned into China’s product dumping site. Chop-shops hide in the backyards of proper businesses, but everyone who grows up around these parts know what’s happening after the taxman leaves. You can find a new identity, citizenship, a hit-man, or anything black-market for a relatively good price.
People eyeball me whenever I walk around Marabastad by myself. I can only speculate on their thoughts when unsubtle glances, filled with suspicion or surprise or curiosity, get my attention. Proper white girls don’t walk around here without a chaperone. Usually said chaperone is classified as a bullish Boer with a rattan cane lying somewhere in his oversized pick-up truck—a
bakkie
.
Good thing I’m not entirely proper.
Truthfully, the only reason I ever come to Marabastad is when I meet with one of my informants who trades between Marabastad and Hillbrow. Her name is Feyisola, or so she claims. I don’t care. As long as she gets me information on illegal human organ and body part trade, I’ll call her whatever she wants. Feyisola’s information is expensive but her tips pan out. The only problem I have with the arrangement is the risk we take every time we meet.
She works with shady characters; the type who kill first and don’t give two shits later.
I walk across the street to a small tailor shop located in a relatively busy side street. The shop is dark and smells musky when I pass through the front door, but the heat overwhelms all of my other senses. I greet the shop owner with a flash of teeth and a half wave but she turns her back on me to busy herself with clothes on a rack, like always. I don’t take it personally. Clandestine meetings frequently occur in the shop’s back room and this is her way of saying she doesn’t want to become more involved. I respect that.
The back room, which is even darker, hotter and muskier than the front, is separated with a curtain of beads and a wooden accordion door. Not very secure if you ask me, but it’s not like I have a say in where we meet. Maybe she’d be open to meeting at the Casbah Roadhouse across from the Pretoria Show Grounds, at least then there’s the option of air-conditioning. Here there are no windows and no back doors. There’s only the ancient plastic patio furniture squeezed into the tiny room where Feyisola waits with stale biscuits and cheap cool-drink.
She’s dressed in a crimson pantsuit paired with a sheer black camisole underneath her jacket. I’m certain if her shoes were in view I’d covet them. Feyisola’s plump lips are coloured in scarlet and twitch into an uncomfortable smile when I approach. Fake eyelashes brush against high cheekbones whenever she blinks.
Feyisola is drop dead sexy and painfully intelligent. It’s best not to get on her bad side. She knows people, the type of people you don’t want to run into in the middle of the night.
“Juice,” she asks in an indistinct accent. A manicured hand waves across the perspiring glass jug when I take a seat beside her.
“No, thank you,” I reply.
Feyisola’s face smooths out and she shifts in her seat. “I would have sent a text, but you know how it goes.”
She doesn’t have to continue. A message delivered via courier works just as well as a text.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say in the most reassuring tone I can muster. “What do you have for me today?”
Feyisola leans closer and begins in a hushed voice. “When I heard about the girl and woman who recently got killed, I asked around town about any dealings you might be interested in. Turns out, none of the usual suspects are involved. I did, however, learn of a large shipment of body parts making its way into the country from Namibia.”
“When?”
“In the next few days,” she says. “From what I gather, the shipment is expected to be distributed from Johannesburg to various parts of Southern Africa.” She slides a small manila envelope across the table. “Some names you might want to look into.”
I pocket the envelope without looking at its contents. “Do you think the killer placed an order?”
“I have no way of knowing but your killer took a chance by murdering a white child. Ain’t no way the police will let that shit fly,” Feyisola says, her accent shifts to something resembling a lower-class American gangster’s dialect, without her realising. She sits back in her chair. “I also heard your grandfather will be back in town next week.”