The Monster's Daughter (15 page)

Gerda didn't want Adriaan in their lives after the divorce. She seemed genuinely scared of him. She later married an Englishman, Rob Turner, and they moved far away from Jo'burg, far enough that regular visits with Alet's dad became impractical. Alet had always wondered if her mother had done it on purpose. Gerda kept suing for more child support, and Adriaan agreed to give up custody without much of an argument. Alet remembered how Gerda had coached her for the phone call, her dad's voice curt on the other end of the line, a stranger asking her if she wanted him or Rob to be her dad.

“Rob.” Alet had answered, the way Gerda had taught her.

“Are you sure?”

Alet had looked at Gerda, who stood next to the telephone, a cigarette clasped between her fingers. Gerda had nodded slowly, pressing her lips together in a tight smile before taking a drag.

“
Ja
.”

“You want Rob Turner to be your
pa
.” An emotionless statement of fact from Adriaan.

“
Ja
.” Alet wished it would be over. She wanted to go back outside and ride her new bike.

“Tell your mother to come talk to me.”

Alet never heard from Adriaan again. She later daydreamed about her real father rescuing her, showing up one day and telling her that she could come live with him, especially when her mother and stepfather were having a go at each other. She imagined Adriaan giving her all the attention Rob never did. Rob was nice enough, but his demeanor made her understand that she wasn't his. Then, just after she turned fifteen, Rob got a job in Kempton Park, a suburb next to the Jo'burg airport. Four months after they moved, Adriaan Berg sent her a letter in the mail, simply requesting that they meet.

“You look like your mother,” was the first thing Adriaan had said to her. He was late picking her up after school, their agreed-upon meeting point. She was on the verge of walking home, trying not to cry, when the Mercedes pulled up.

“She says I look like you.” Alet feigned nonchalance as her heart beat furiously.

Adriaan shrugged. “Is the Spur okay for you?”

Alet nodded and got into the car. Once they were seated at the restaurant, it was Alet who broke the awkward silence. “So, what now?” Her anxiousness had diminished as she studied his face. Adriaan wasn't the god she had always thought him to be. He was just a man in a white button-down shirt and dark-blue jeans, the way she remembered, only the lines in his face were deeper, his eyes sunken and wary as if he too spent his nights lying awake.

“I thought we might get to know each other.” Adriaan's words were quiet, measured. “You're almost an adult now. We can talk.”

“I'm not going to call you
Pa
, if that's what you're after.”

“I don't expect it.” Adriaan crossed his arms, his look inscrutable. “It wasn't my choice to be out of your life.”

“Whose was it, then?”

“I called. You said—”

“I remember.”

“My own child said she didn't want me in her life.”

Alet's temper flared, her temples pulsing. “I was six. I hadn't seen you in two years and all that time
Ma
talked about you as if you were some kind of …” She balled her fists under the table, trying to hide her hurt in a veil of resentment. “Don't you dare blame me. You were the adult.”

“You're right.” A hardness had suddenly crept into Adriaan's voice, his mouth set sternly under the peppered mustache. That would be the Adriaan Berg she would know from then on, distant, in charge. “But I knew exactly where you were, Alet. Always.”

“You kept tabs?” Alet's anger was momentarily knocked out of her.

“You are my only child.”

As if that was an explanation, or an excuse. Yet Alet was desperate to hold on to anything that might indicate he cared about her. She felt a reckless stubbornness, asking the question she had been mulling over all her life. “Why did you leave?”

Adriaan studied her for a moment. “You're old enough to know the truth, I suppose.” He looked away. “I was no good at domestic life,” he said at last. “My work got in the way. Your mother—”

“She says you hit her.”

Adriaan sighed wearily. “I lost control once. Only once.” And with that, the subject was closed. The rest of the lunch felt like an interrogation. Alet answered Adriaan's questions with reserve. Gerda had started intensive chemo, the prognosis wasn't good. Rob couldn't hold on to money and regularly uprooted the family because of some scheme that went sour. Some days were harder than others, but she didn't have a bad childhood, she told him.

“I have to go,” Alet had said during a drawn-out silence. “I have a test tomorrow.”

“Look,” Adriaan had said as they got up, “this didn't go well.”

“Really?”

“Sarcasm.” Adriaan curled his lips in disapproval.

“Can we go, please?”

“I have a pool.”

“What?” Alet was about to congratulate him, but the vulnerable look on Adriaan's face made her bite her tongue.

“We can
braai
and watch the game this weekend.”

Alet still wasn't sure if she wanted Adriaan to become a part of her life. She definitely wasn't going to pretend to like rugby for him. But perhaps he was trying. Perhaps she should too. “
Ja
. Okay,” she said quickly before she could change her mind.

They regularly spent time together after that, though this occasionally meant vacations with the latest in a succession of young bleach-blond girlfriends. He bought her a secondhand motorbike when she turned sixteen so she could get around, performing the maintenance himself. When her mother started losing the battle, his house became a refuge. It was the first time in her life that Alet had felt taken care of. In spite of herself, she looked up to him. She loved listening to the stories he told of his days as a detective in Brixton Murder and Robbery. It turned out that he was something of a celebrity, known for solving almost every case that had landed on his desk, his picture regularly appearing in the paper in connection with some high-profile case. He was later transferred to John Vorster Square, but he always missed Brixton, he said. By the time Alet matriculated, she was enamored of the life he described. She decided to enroll at the police college in Pretoria.

Some people became police officers because they couldn't find other work, some were just glorified bullies, but Alet knew she fit into the third category, the ones who had it in their DNA. All of her life, she had felt like she was pulling the wool over people's eyes, but the very first day she set foot on the police college campus, she knew that she was going to be good at it. She flew through Basic and in-field training, graduating top of her class. By the time she started in-service training, she couldn't imagine doing anything else. She loved the look of pride in Adriaan's eyes, especially when she told him that she had applied for Special Task Force training. There were no women in the unit, but Colonel Adriaan Berg's daughter would be the first if any woman was.

Adriaan pulled into the driveway of a red brick house in a suburb of Port Elizabeth, stopping in front of the enormous security gate. Barbed wire ran across the top of the fence. Aunt Mattie's dressing-gowned figure waddled past the barred living-room window of the house and the
stoep
light went on.

“Our flight for Mauritius leaves at eight.” Adriaan left the car idling. “I'll ask someone to come pick you up.”

“I'll call a taxi.”

Adriaan nodded. Alet noticed the edge of a scratch mark protruding from his dress shirt collar. She imagined Frieda digging her talons in passionately while screaming in ecstasy, then cursed herself for the image. If that was the kind of kink they were into, she really didn't need to know.

“How are things? You've gained some weight.” Adriaan's voice had a strained gravity.

“Don't worry, I'm not pregnant. I'm just fat.”

Adriaan pursed his lips for a moment, but let it go. “Are you getting along in Unie?” It was the first time since she'd been kicked out of Special Task Force training that he had shown any interest in her life. She grabbed the opportunity.

“I'm on a murder investigation.”

“Oh?” Adriaan looked puzzled. “Tokkie didn't mention anything.”

It didn't surprise Alet that her dad discussed her with Captain Mynhardt. He was probably the only reason she was still on the force, calling in favors from friends to keep her there after the affair with her superior came to light. She had the sudden urge to tell him about everything, how sorry she was for failing, for disappointing him. How scared she was of doing it again. How she hated small-town life and small-town people and arrogant assholes trying to kill each other on the N12 every day. How people like Strijdom held out their palms and turned their heads the other way and made her wonder why she even bothered doing the right thing. But if there was one thing Adriaan Berg had taught her, it's that what happens on shift stays there. It had nothing to do with the outside world. Nothing.

“You shouldn't jeopardize your probation.” Adriaan spoke in measured tones without looking at her. “If you mess up this investigation …”

Alet bristled. “I've uncovered most of the leads we have so far.”

“I'm sure you've contributed.”

“We don't have money for decent forensics and the labs are slow.” She forged ahead, remembering the stories he'd told her from the old days. “You said you sometimes consulted with a forensics guy at
the university when you were in homicide. He helped you catch that strangler guy when you had no leads. Maybe he can help.”

“Koch?” Adriaan had a look of distaste. “I don't think so, Alet. Let the investigating officer handle this. Is he experienced?”

“Mathebe is okay. He's—”

“You don't need outside help. Just do as he tells you.” Adriaan's words had bite.

Alet felt sure that she would burst into tears if she stayed in the car another moment. “Well, have fun on your honeymoon.” She got out and closed the car door before Adriaan could respond.

Alet snuck out, as soon as Aunt Mattie said good night and the lights went out. The velvet dress felt sticky and unglamorous against her skin, Cinderella after the clock struck twelve. The taxi she had ordered idled in the street, the driver surly, at the end of his shift, the smell of stale cigarettes and coffee permeating the upholstery. Her Toyota was parked in the lot among the last stragglers from the wedding. Alet fished the keys out of her bag, grateful that her father didn't get it into his head to take them. She exchanged her heels for a pair of old trainers she kept in the trunk before she took off, following the signs to the N2. A drowsiness hung over Port Elizabeth's abandoned streets, ghosts of the normal bustle illuminated by solitary streetlights. Shantytowns slumbered in the late hours, an occasional fire still smoking in a drum, the homeless crouching around it. Alet exited onto the R62 and the road opened up, illuminated only by the crisp white of her high beams, the speedometer wavering at 120 km/h.

Alet's head was pounding, every approaching headlight waging war on her optic nerves. She almost didn't see it, the feeble attempt of a thin arm to wave her down, the woman lying on the side of the road, pale breasts protruding from her torn blouse. It took Alet a moment to process the image, doubting her sanity even as she slammed on the brakes. The sedan strained, skidding on gravel before coming to a stop. Alet's purse fell off the passenger seat.

Oh, God
. Alet's hands trembled as she fumbled for her purse. She squinted at the rearview mirror, barely making out the human form on the ground. She found her phone between old tissues and lipstick,
almost dropping it again as she dialed 112, relieved when the call connected.

“This is Constable Alet Berg from the Unie Police. I'm about twenty kilometers outside Joubertina. I have Tracker installed. Toyota, license plate CA 893–919.” Alet pushed the tracker's panic button. “There is an injured female lying on the side of the road. Send an ambulance right away.”

Alet reached for her holster under her seat while she waited for the operator's confirmation, the butt of the 9mm sliding into her palm. She flipped the safety off and got out. Her eyes had trouble adjusting to the dark. She took a few steps forward, barely able to distinguish shapes. The picnic rest stop had a concrete table and bench next to a row of scraggly trees. The woman on the ground in front of it whimpered like an injured dog.

“Hallo?” The world around Alet held its breath.

The woman's right arm lifted a few inches off the ground, dropped back as if it were encased in lead. Alet realized that the whimpers were gasps for air.
Fok
. She ran to the woman.

“Help is on the way.” Alet prayed it was true.

The woman's eyes were wide with terror, her mouth opening and closing, a shrill, labored treble the only thing escaping. Dark patches of blood soaked the front of her cap-sleeved blouse. Her pinched face looked familiar, but Alet didn't allow herself to think about why. She knelt down, peeling back what remained of the fabric. A long gash ran unevenly down the woman's chest, as if the attacker had tried to trace a line with multiple stabs. Alet couldn't tell how deep the wounds were, only that the woman was bleeding profusely, the bone of her sternum visible in places.

“Stay calm.” It sounded ridiculous even as Alet said it.

The woman's eyes darted to the right. Alet turned her head in time to see a branch coming down. What would have been a blow to the back of her head caught her on her nose. A searing pain shot through her skull. She fell on her side, the 9mm pinned under her body. Something took over, instinct, or maybe it was training, but she immediately rolled onto her back. A shoe connected with her side as she lifted her gun. She pulled the trigger anyway.