The Monster's Daughter (7 page)

“It's better that you stay on traffic duty for the time being, Alet. Sergeant Mathebe is CID. He'll request your help if he needs it.” Mynhardt patted her shoulder. “You're doing okay here, girlie. Don't mess it up, see?”

Strijdom lingered in the doorway after Mynhardt left. “Too good for traffic duty, hey?” He crossed his arms. “You're not special here, Berg. No matter who your
pappie
is. Remember that.”

Alet stifled her anger as he walked away. Strijdom was in charge
of road operations. She had pulled shift with him in her first month, saw him taking a bribe from a truck driver. Strijdom had caught her looking as he palmed the money and had been on edge around her ever since. He tried his best to get to her, implying that she was incompetent during parade, and getting her stuck on service desk duty. She had thought about going to Mynhardt, or the Hawks, but it was her word against Strijdom's. Anyway, getting a senior officer suspended or fired would not win her any friends.

Alet got her backpack from her locker and checked her cell. One missed call, no message. Boet Terblanche's number appeared on the monochrome screen. Alet stepped out the station's back door and sank into one of the faded plastic chairs in the backyard. Half-smoked cigarettes lined a rusted coffee can on the ground next to her. She stared at the can for a moment before reaching in and retrieving the longest butt, dusting the sand off, and pinching it between her lips. A squad car pulled into the yard, Mathebe behind the wheel. Alet quickly flicked the butt into the grass.

Mathebe was dressed in a clean office uniform, pressed long-sleeved white shirt, dark blue tie and pants, navy peaked cap with the yellow eight-point star emblem of the SAPS on the front. He'd probably gone home to shower and change after they transported the body to the clinic. Layers of stink and filth itched Alet's skin. She couldn't wait to go home and soak in the tub until her fingertips shriveled.

Mathebe headed for the station entrance, a manila envelope under his arm. “Good evening, Constable Berg,” he said curtly as he passed her.

“You know you can call me Alet, right, Johannes?”

Mathebe nodded and kept walking.

“Johannes, wait a second.”

“Constable?”

“Listen, I spoke to the captain. I mean, I'd like to help with the case since I know the farmers and the area.”

Mathebe seemed to clutch the envelope a bit tighter, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. “Captain Mynhardt approved this?”

“He assigned the crime scene evidence to me. And you're going to need help canvassing the area too, right?”

Mathebe nodded. “I will talk to the captain about this.”

“It's just that they're busy with parade right now, hey. But sure, check with him when they're done. No worries.” Alet glanced at the back door. “Look, I was just about to knock off. How about we go get a drink and you can catch me up on the case?”

Mathebe studied her for a moment. “We can do it here.” He sat down on the plastic chair, his back preacher-straight. He took a file out of the envelope and held it on his lap.

“You sure you don't want to get a drink?”

“No. Thank you.”

Alet pulled up a chair next to him. “So what's new?”

“I have the preliminary autopsy report from Dr. Oosthuizen.”

Alet held her hand out. “Can I see?”

“The victim is female, approximately one-point-five meters tall, weighing forty-three kilograms.” Mathebe recited the facts without opening the file. “Estimated age of fifteen.”

A soft grunt escaped Alet's lips. She tried to remember herself at fifteen, barely knowing up from down, meeting her father, her mother's death. Even though it felt like everything was falling apart, there was still the promise of time, of a life ahead of her. Fifteen was too young to die, much less to die like that.

Mathebe paused briefly, his expression taut. “The time of death is estimated between twenty-three hundred and oh-two-hundred. From the preliminary examination, the victim appears to have suffered extensive fourth-degree burns. Probable cause of death, asphyxiation due to inhalation of smoke and subsequent thermal burns.”

“Is there anything to identify her by? I didn't find any fifteen-year-old girls in missing persons.”

Mathebe's features briefly betrayed annoyance. “Dr. Oosthuizen took an X-ray of the victim's teeth. We will search for a match.”

“No race, hair color, nothing? No offense to Oosthuizen, but he probably treats HIV with beetroot and African potato. Isn't there anyone else we can call in? Maybe someone in Oudtshoorn?”

“Dr. Oosthuizen is qualified.”

Alet hid her frustration. “Must be one of the worker kids, you think? Why else would she have been on the mountain?”

“We will go door-to-door at the Terblanche farm in the morning.”

“It's going to be a hell of a job getting to everyone, Johannes. It's
Friday tomorrow. Most of them knock off early for the weekend. Even if we split up it's still—”

Mathebe stood up. “No. We stay together.”

Alet smiled. “Whatever you say, Boss. Pick you up at seven?”

“
Askies, Mies
.” Maria's voice rose an octave above the din in Zebra House's packed dining room. Alet stepped aside. The woman sidled past her with a tray laden with plates, a whiff of curried lamb rising from the spread. Alet's stomach growled. She lifted one of the plates off the tray.

“Looks
lekker. Dankie!
”

“
Aikona!
It is not for you. I will get you your own, now-now.”

“Put it on the bar with a brandy and coke and you have a deal,” Alet said. She put the plate back on the tray. Maria walked away, her enormous bottom canting back and forth like two pit bulls fighting in a bag. She stopped at the table of an unfamiliar couple. The woman was mousy and pale, the man had dark hair and glasses. Snippets of an American accent carried above the din in the room as they thanked Maria. Tourists. They probably thought Unie would be an authentic place to stop on the way to Cape Town and expected more than they got. Join the club.

Alet scanned the room. The tables were packed with locals. Boet Terblanche sat at the bar, talking to Petrus Brink, who ran the farmers' co-op. Boet's arms were crossed, his attention focused on Petrus, who gestured with puffy hands, two empty beer cans lined up next to a huge glass stein. Boet wore a crisp button-down shirt, a tan line visible just below the rolled-up sleeves. Alet remembered his pale skin from the neck down and the elbow up and looked away.

“Hey, sexy!” Joey Joubert suddenly stood beside her. Joey was the local theater-degree dropout. He managed Joyboys, a coffee shop nestled in the old vestry of the Dutch Reform Church. Alet had spent many entertaining lunchtimes there, catching up on local gossip. Nobody in town could
poep
without Joey knowing something about it. Plus he made the best iced coffee she had ever had.

Joey kissed her on the cheek. “You clean up nice.” They almost bumped heads. Alet could never remember if one or both cheeks was
the fashion now. At least Joey didn't insist on kissing her on the mouth like the older people did.

“The uniform doesn't do much for my social life, hey.”

“I don't know that dressing up is going to work for you here, doll,” Joey said. “Only old farts around.”

“
Ja
, well …” Alet shrugged, uncomfortable in her low-cut blouse. It was the only thing in her closet that didn't feel too tight at the moment.

Joey tapped her on the arm. “So, I hear you found a body?”

“How do you know about that?”

Joey rolled his eyes. “Please. Everyone knows. It's the most exciting thing that's happened here since Petrus's wife ran off with that educated coloured from Grahamstown. So? Who died?”

Alet recognized the pleasure in Joey's voice, the way he leaned in, his big-eyed anticipation. She felt off balance, strangely protective, as if discussing the girl's death would violate some secret bond they had. “Don't know yet,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Nobody has been reported missing.”

“Well, that's no surprise. The blacks have so many snot-noses running around, I don't think they'd even notice if one was gone.” Joey glanced around the restaurant and waved at someone. “Listen, I'm meeting my dad to discuss the Church bazaar. They want to get someone to perform at Joyboys for a fund-raiser. You want to come sit by us for a drink?”

At a table in the back,
Dominee
Joubert, the Dutch Reform Church's minister, sat talking with a middle-aged man, a half-empty bottle of red wine between them. The elder Joubert gave Alet a curt “
Goeienaand
” through tight lips. She sighed inwardly. Her lack of any effort to attend church since moving here was clearly frowned upon. She had always thought of God as a dirty, voyeuristic old man, who seemed to watch her every move. She kept this thought to herself in Unie, though. Here, Sundays were devoted to stiff necks and hypocrisy, led with perverse pleasure from the pulpit by the esteemed
Dominee
.

“Neels Burger. I'm a deacon,” the other man at the table volunteered. “I organize the school's participation in the bazaar.”

Alet wondered why he felt the need to explain his presence. “You teach high school, right?”

“History, grades three through seven. And I'm hostel master.”

“So you know all the kids?”

Neels nodded, a sudden air of authority lifting his sad-sack expression. “The whole lot.”

“Did any of the girls not show up this week?”

“Alet's investigating the murder, you know,” Joey said.

Minister Joubert looked up from studying the wine in his glass. “Terrible thing,” he said in a monotone. “We will pray for her soul.”

“Rather pray that we get the guy who did this,” Alet said.

Minister Joubert pursed his lips, a look passing between him and Joey.

“It's hard to tell.” Neels fingered his silverware. “You know, if there isn't enough money to pay for a ride into town, the farm kids don't show up for the week. And then there's the ones who drop out because fruit-picking pays better than going to school. They don't let us know, they just don't show up one day.”

Alet got impatient. Neels was obviously slow on the uptake. “I need to know if anybody didn't show up today.”

Neels paused. “Two girls from the hostel, I think.”

“How old?”

“One is twelve, the other sixteen. The twelve-year-old is white, though.”

Alet wondered why everyone assumed the victim was black. “What about the non-boarders?”

“I'd have to check attendance records.”

“I'll come by the school in the morning. And I need the names and addresses of the missing girls.”

“I'm sure everyone in town will do their best to help, Alet,”
Dominee
Joubert said. “Wine for you?”

The wine tasted like vinegar. Alet took labored sips while Joey proposed André du Plessis, an Afrikaans folk singer from Oudtshoorn, for the bazaar fund-raiser.

“I've not heard of him,” Minister Joubert said.

“He's famous,
Pa
. Got quite a following among the younger crowd.”

Alet's eyes wandered to the bar. Boet was gone, a R50 note wedged under his glass. An unfamiliar barrel-chested man with gray hair had taken his seat.

“Who's that?” Alet asked when Joey paused for breath.

“Where?” Joey looked over his shoulder. “Oh, you mean the pink version of the Hulk?” He smirked. “That is Jeff Wexler.”

“The owner?” Alet had never met the British ex-pat who owned Zebra House. According to Tilly, he had bought the place as something to do in retirement, but only stopped by a few times a year.

Joey lowered his voice. “Rumor has it he used to be a soccer hooligan, like on TV.”

“
Ja?
Whose rumor is that?”

Joey raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to the side. “
Ag
, you know. People like to talk.”

“There are all sorts around these days,”
Dominee
Joubert said. He smiled at Alet. “No way to keep them out, I'm afraid.”

Alet had stayed as long as a thin pretense at politeness required. “Hey, listen, Joey,” she said. “I've got food coming to the bar. I'll leave you to it.” She pushed her chair out. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Bye, doll,” Joey said. “Come tell us when you catch the bad guy, mmm? Milk tart and
koeksisters
on me.”

Alet made brief eye contact with Jeffrey Wexler before she took a seat next to him. Lukas, the bartender, placed a brandy and coke in front of her without a word.

Wexler ran his eyes over her. “A regular, luv?”

Alet smiled. “I don't recall you sleeping with me or handing me a paycheck. So don't call me ‘luv.' ”

“A paycheck, huh? Is that all it takes?”

“You have to draw the line somewhere.”

“A sense of humor. How refreshing.” Wexler took a sip from his drink. Alet noticed the small broken capillaries on the flattened bridge of his nose. “So what should I call you, then? Miss …? Or is it Missus?”

“Constable Berg.”

“The law.” He eyed her with renewed interest. “I don't remember you.”

“I've been here a few months.”

“I'm Jeff.” He extended his oversize hand, then squeezed too hard.

“Wexler, right?” Alet gritted her teeth.

“Brilliant deduction, Constable.” Wexler let go of Alet's hand, the
pressure still lingering. She felt like dipping it in the ice bucket behind the bar, but she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction. “A tire-biter with a brain.”

“News travels here.”

“So it does.”

“You arrived today, Jeff?”

“Landed in Jo'burg this morning and drove down.”