Authors: Vernon W. Baumann
Human stepped into the Mayor’s foyer where Colonel Witbooi met him. He put his hand on Human’s shoulder. ‘It’s looking bad, my friend,’ he said sombrely.
The spacious foyer was crowded with people, mostly senior policemen from the Hope police station. All of Joemat’s aides and assistants were also there, as well as his two hulking bodyguards. Joemat was seated on the leather couch, occupied a few hours before by his son. Seated next to him, holding his hand was his P.A., Tina. The woman who had ushered the kidnapped boy into the limelight a few days previously. Next to them was the Mayor of Hope, looking appropriately crestfallen. In a corner of the foyer, standing next to a massive Delicious Monster pot plant, were Dirk Engelman and his group of detectives. Witbooi led Human inside, followed by Lerato and some of the senior detectives Human asked to accompany him.
Joemat’s eyes were red and bloated. Unashamed tears streaked across his face. He looked up and saw Human and jumped to his feet. ‘Detective, oh my God.’ He grabbed Human’s hands. ‘I am so glad you’re here. Thank the Lord.’ He grabbed Human and hugged him fiercely. ‘Oh God, detective. Can you save my boy? Oh God, please can you save my little boy.’ Human stood awkwardly with his hands next to his side while the premier wept openly onto his shoulder.
‘Of course, sir. I am going to do everything in my power to get your son back.’ Human looked at Lerato next to him. ‘I promise you that.’
‘Oh God, detective,’ Joemat said, cradling Human’s head in his hands, ‘oh God, you’re a good man.’
‘Mr Premier,’ Human said, not knowing what the official appellation for Joemat’s post was, ‘why don’t you sit down and tell us exactly what happened.’
Joemat nodded meekly. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Shuffling backwards he resumed his seat on the couch.
Human looked around. ‘Can someone please bring us a few chairs?’ Witbooi snapped his fingers and a few uniformed policemen scurried about, quickly delivering a few ornately carved wooden chairs to Human and his detectives. Lerato, however, indicated that she preferred to stand. Human seated himself right in front of Joemat. ‘You guys taking notes?’ He asked his detectives. To his satisfaction he saw that all of them had little notebooks ready. ‘Now, can you please tell me exactly what happened?’
Through tears and sobs and sniffing, the premier recounted how he had received a worried call from Tharina Cilliers, the mother of Alex Joemat’s play date, Pieter. She had arrived at the Mayor’s house, delayed by a minor household emergency. She and her son had arrived to find the house empty. Human turned to one of the detectives and instructed him to interview Tharina Cilliers. After searching the house and calling his name, Tharina Cilliers had called Joemat. ‘What about the guards?’ Human asked. He knew that Joemat had posted two guards outside the house. ‘Didn’t they see anything?’
Joemat shook his head, an ugly snarl surfacing through the sorrow. ‘No!’ He looked towards the open door of the house. ‘Those ... sons of bitches were off somewhere. Screwing around.’
‘I see.’ Human nodded in compassion, not wanting to say the obvious. That the killer more than likely donned a Guardian disguise himself in order to gain entrance to the house. ‘Okay. And then what happened? After Mrs Cilliers phoned you.’
Joemat sniffed loudly. ‘I ... I immediately rushed to the house. When I arrived, I found Tharina and her son, waiting in the empty house.’ Joemat started weeping again. ‘And my boy was gone,’ he howled through heaving sobs.
Human thought for a moment. ‘Tell me, Mr Premier, I assume your son has a phone. Did you try calling him?’
‘Of course I did, goddammit,’ Joemat said, slamming a fist down on one knee. ‘He’s got one of those fancy new phones, whaddayacallit?’
‘A Blackberry,’ Tina added helpfully.
‘Yes.’ Joemat wiped his nose with an embroidered handkerchief. ‘I called his number, but there was no answer.’
‘It went to voicemail?’ Human asked with excited anticipation. If that was the case the police could track the phone.
‘No, it said something about ... erm, subscriber not available, or something.’
‘I see,’ Human said, disappointed. He knew what that meant. The phone had been disabled, with its battery and SIM removed.
‘Why do you ask?’ Joemat looked at Human with sudden hope. ‘Can you track it? Can you find my little boy?’
Human patted Joemat’s hand. ‘Maybe, sir. We’ll see what we can do.’ He turned to another detective. ‘I want you to contact Mrs Joemat in Kimberley and see if you can get the IMEI number for the Blackberry. It should be on the box.’
The international mobile equipment identity (IMEI) number is the unique digital I.D. assigned to each cell phone and is used by a GSM network to identify a specific phone. It can be used to permanently block a cell phone and can also, in some cases, be used by the police to track a phone whose original SIM card has been replaced.
Human turned to Joemat. ‘Do you still have the original box and documentation for the Blackberry?’
Joemat wiped his eyes, his features revived by the hope of finding his son. ‘Yes, I’m sure. He’s only had the phone for a few months.’ Joemat turned to his P.A. ‘Tina, please won’t you help the detective.’ The P.A. stood up and accompanied the detective Human had addressed to a corner of the foyer where they quietly talked. Human’s phone rang. Irritated he plucked it from his pocket and looked at the caller ID. It wasn’t a number he recognised. He gave it to Lerato.
‘Please take this for me.’ Lerato took the phone, and turning her back to Human and Joemat, answered the phone.
Human turned and noted the time on the wall clock. He turned to Joemat again. ‘Tell me, Mr Joemat, can you maybe give us an approximate time when your son was kidnapped? What time did erm ... Mrs Cilliers phone you?’
Joemat was about to answer when Lerato turned and grabbed Human’s arm. She addressed him, her eyes wide with excitement. ‘They have the killer’s voice on the recorder.’
Human’s head snapped back. With all the drama of the day’s events, Human had completely forgotten about the recording device they had hooked to the phone system of the
Hope Gazette.
His mouth agape, Joemat looked at Human, then Lerato, then back to Human. ‘What? You have a recording? Of the son of a bitch that took my boy?’ He jumped up, drawing startled glances from the others in the room. ‘I want to hear it. Right now. I want to hear his voice.’ Human rose quickly, placing a hand on Joemat’s arm.
‘Please, Mr Joemat, you have to let us take care of it.’ Joemat looked around frantically, not heeding Human’s words. ‘Mr Joemat.’ Human raised his voice and grabbed Joemat by both arms. ‘This is a police matter. Please let us deal with it.’ Joemat stared at Human, fresh tears rising to his eyes. ‘The moment we know something ... the moment we have a suspect, you will be the first to know.’ Joemat swayed on his feet, weeping openly yet again. ‘Mr Joemat, listen to me. I ...’ Human pointed to those around him, ‘we ... are giving everything we have to this investigation. Please trust us. And allow us to do our job.’ Joemat nodded almost imperceptibly. Tina approached, wrapped an arm around his shoulder and led him away. Human turned to his group of detectives. ‘Let’s go.’
About five minutes later, Human’s car came to a grinding halt outside the modest offices of the
Hope Gazette
. Seconds later four more squad cars came to a stop in the dusty parking lot. The policemen rushed into the premises. Greeting them at the door was a terrified Gerhard Volkers, owner and editor-in-chief. At the sight of the policemen he instinctively backed up against the wall. ‘Oh my God,’ he wailed.
Behind the receptionist desk sat a young man with a ponytail and an unbelievably large beard. It was Johannes Volkers, Gerhard Volkers’s cousin from De Aar, hurriedly conscripted after Mitzi Booysen resigned, convinced all the drama would dampen her creativity. Human walked up to the young man with the ponytail. ‘I want to hear the recording. Now!’ The young Volkers gave Human an odd look, shrinking into his chair as the lead detective approached him. Human leaned forward, both hands on the reception desk. ‘Do you recognise the voice on the recording? Is it someone you know?’
The blood drained from the young man’s face. His bottom lip started trembling uncontrollably. ‘It was him,’ he said, staring with huge terrified eyes at Human. He lifted a tremulous hand into the air and pointed at Human. ‘It was his voice on the phone.’
The morning sun pilfered the darkness from the room, licking the corners of Kyle’s bedroom like melting ice cream. He stirred, slipping effortlessly out of a pleasant dream with vague – and fading – erotic undertones. For a moment, as his mind rebooted, loading a lifetime of memories and habits, he was just a drop of morning dew, fresh and inchoate. And then he remembered the previous evening. The scent and taste of a woman. Odette. Like a pleasant aftertaste, she lingered in his memory ... and on his skin.
Kyle rolled over, now thoroughly awake. In his solar plexus he felt a warm glow. A blurred happiness. A foggy halcyon. Yes. It was true. He was starting to fall in love with the girl from his past. It was an awesome feeling!
He had been spending the last few nights at Odette’s place. Wrapped in the warm passion of her fevered embrace. Making love. And learning to love. Again.
He sat up in the bed, feeling re-invigorated. Looking forward to the day ahead. It had been so long since he felt anything like this. God, he could hardly remember when last his dark soul had been stirred by such exhilaration. Could happiness really be such a distant memory? Damn, he thought to himself, rubbing sleep from his eyes, what a terrible year it had been.
Outside, half a dozen birds vied for attention, weaving a morning symphony out of merry birdcalls. Unlike Johannesburg, however, the morning song was not flayed by the persistent drone of traffic. Out here, the frenetic chirping and twittering was like a reflection in a crystal pond. Pure and clean. Kyle breathed deeply, allowing himself to enjoy the moment. The images and sensations from the previous evening’s lovemaking flittered through his mind. Her hot full mouth on his neck. Her taut nipples pushing against his chest. The deep moist bliss inside her.
‘Wow, what a night,’ he said to himself. Yes. What a night.
And yet, at the edges of this thing he was starting to feel, there was an undefined anxiety. A peripheral gangrene. Eating at the heart of his joy. Kyle shook his head as if to dislodge the feeling. But he couldn’t. It was like creeping dusk. Unavoidable. Inevitable. More powerful than a thousand armies.
Kyle ran his nails across his scalp, digging deep. Agitated. When would the shadows dissolve. And when would his darkness cease having a name. Because it did. His hurt. And everything that was standing between him and a new life. It had a name. It was called Angelique.
As Kyle thought of his ex-wife, he felt a hot pang of regret. And hurt. And love. After all this time. After everything that had happened. She was still there. Like a burning ember. Not hot enough to provide thankful warmth. Yet not cold enough to stop searing his soul. He realised instantly what the source of his disquiet was. He still loved her. And the thought of letting her go – in his heart – was filling him with fear. She had long since ceased to be a part of his day-to-day life. But abandoning her – in the only place he still possessed her – was a frightening prospect. Kyle groaned. The pleasant glow left over from the previous evening now entirely dispelled. Why could he not let go? She was never coming back. That was sure. James Burton was obviously everything she had ever wanted in a man. He had given her everything. And more. Much more than Kyle ever could. And now. With his brat growing inside her...
Unable to stop himself, Kyle whimpered. She had started a glorious new life. A wonderful happy new existence as Mrs Burton – wife and mother. And here was Kyle. Trying desperately to grasp phantoms. And possess a past life that had long since ceased to be. Even now, as the merciful prospect of new love loomed on the horizon, she was still with him. Blocking his emotions. Obstructing his way forward. She was like a favourite mug, whose chipped rim wasn’t nearly enough motive to discard it. Like a once treasured garment which he no longer wore, yet whose frayed edges nonetheless guaranteed it a cherished place in his closet. She was there. Like a bloated toad in his heart. And as long as she remained there, he could not allow anyone else inside.
Kyle cursed loudly, the last vestiges of the previous evening now gone. His good mood thoroughly soured. He threw the comforter from his body and climbed out of bed. Sighing with chagrin.
At the doorway to the bathroom he stopped. His heart thudding in his chest. He had just seen something out of the corner of his eye. Could it be? He hesitated. Struck by the ridiculousness of the thought. No. It was a figment of his imagination. And yet something, some dark fear, restrained him. Kept him from going back. And looking at the mirror. Where he had seen it. A splotch of red. The scrawled letters. It was straight out of a bad movie. It couldn’t be real.
Slowly. His throat constricted. His fists clenched. He took a step backward. And another. Until he was standing in front of the mirror in the main area of his room. He hadn’t been imagining things. There it was. Scrawled across the full length mirror. Scrawled in lipstick. Angelique’s lipstick. Oh irony. The only thing of hers he still allowed himself. Her only possession that remained behind. The brown-red Clinique lipstick she so loved. The lipstick
he
so loved. A tiny yet powerful reminder of the woman who had broken his heart into an irretrievable million pieces. There it was. Written across the mirror. In ugly, jarring capital letters. Someone had left him a message.
HICKORY DICKORY DOCK
LET’S ROCK AROUND THE CLOCK
WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES ONE
YOUR TIME HERE WILL BE DONE
Kyle grimaced. ‘Engelman. You bastard!’