Devil's Peak (23 page)

* * *

His flat was silent. Suddenly empty. He sat down on the couch where Carla had sat. He turned the CD case over and over in his fingers. He had fuck-all to play it on.
He needed to do something. He couldn’t just sit here and listen to the silence. There was too much trouble in his head.
Where had Anna been today? Why was she all dolled up? What for?
Why did Fritz think they were getting divorced? Had she said something? Made some remark? “Your father won’t stop drinking anyway.” Is that what his wife believed?
Of course she fucking believed that. What else, with his record? So, if she knew how it would end, what stopped her from filling the vacuum in the meantime? Why not allow some or other young, handsome and sober shit to take her out. And what else did she allow him? What else? How hungry was she? Anna, who always said, “I like to be touched.” Who was doing the fucking touching now? God knows it wasn’t veteran Detective Inspector Benny fucking Griessel.
He got up from the couch, his hands searching for something.
What a day. His children. His wonderful children. That he barely knew. His son with his bass guitar genes and accusing words. Carla, who tried so desperately to pretend everything was normal, everything would work out right. As if her sheer willpower would keep him sober, if only she believed strongly enough.
We never had a father. Just some drunkard who lived with us.
Shit. The damage he had done. It burned him inside, the extent of it, all the multiple implications. It gnawed at him and he looked up and realized he was searching for a bottle, his hands itching to pour, his soul needing medication for this pain. Just one drink to make it better, to make it manageable, and that was when he realized he didn’t stand a chance. Here he was with all the shit of his life suffocating him, the shit his boozing had created—and he wanted a drink. He knew with absolute certainty that if there had been a bottle in the flat he would have opened it. He had already ticked off the possibilities in his mind—where he could go to get a drink, what places would still be open on a Sunday evening.
He made a noise in the back of his throat and kicked one of his new secondhand armchairs. What the fuck was it about him that had made him such an absolute shit? What?
He felt for the cell phone with trembling hands. He typed the number and when Barkhuizen answered he just said: “Jissis, Doc. Jissis.”

29.

A
t half-past six the next morning he walked to the reservoir and he knew the feeling he had was vaguely familiar, but he did not yet recognize it. First he looked at the mountain. And the sea. He listened to the birds and thought about one more day he had survived without alcohol. Even if yesterday had been touch and go.
“What is it about me, Doc?” he had asked Barkhuizen in despair. Because he needed to know the cause. The root of the evil.
The old man had talked about chemistry and genes and circumstance. Long, easy explanations, he could hear how Barkhuizen was trying to calm him down. The oppression and the gnawing anxiety slowly ebbed away. At the end of the discussion the doctor told him it didn’t matter where it came from. What counted was how he went on from here, and that was the truth. But when Griessel lay in bed with a great weariness upon him, he still searched, because he could not fight a thing he could not understand.
He wanted to go back to the source, wanted to remember how things were when the drinking began. Sleep overcame him before he got there.
By five o’clock he was awake, fresh and rested, with the assegai affair occupying him and his mind full of ideas and plans. It drove him out of bed, here to the park in shorts and T-shirt and he felt that pleasure again. The morning and the view belonged only to him.
“My name is Benny Griessel and I am an alcoholic and this is my ninth day without alcohol,” he said out loud to the morning in general. But that was not the reason he felt a certain rush. Only once he was on the way to work did he realize what it was. He shook his head because it was like a voice from his past, a forgotten friend. Today the race was on. The search was about to begin. It was the first tingle of adrenaline, expectation, a last short silence before the storm. What surprised him most was how hungry he was for it.

* * *

Matt Joubert told the detectives on morning parade that Griessel would lead the assegai case and through the tepid applause he heard the jokesters calling, “Klippies and Coke squad” and, “So, we don’t really want to catch him.”
Joubert held up a hand. “The officers who will assist him are Bushy Bezuidenhout, Vaughn Cupido and Jamie Keyter.”
Fantastic, thought Griessel. Now he had the sloppy one and the braggart and the semi-useful detective. Where the fuck were all the stalwarts? He did an involuntary stocktaking. Only Matt Joubert and himself remained from the old days. And Joubert was at least the commanding officer, a senior superintendent. The rest were new. And young. He was the only inspector over forty.
“This morning the commissioner is pulling in four people from the Domestic Violence Unit and ten uniformed people from the Peninsula to help with research,” said Joubert. Here and there people whistled. The political pressure had to be intense because it was a big team. “They will use the old lecture hall in B-block as a center of operations. Some of you are storing stuff there—please remove it directly after parade. And give Benny and his team all the cooperation you can. Benny?”
Griessel stood up.
“Drunk, but standing,” someone said in an undertone. Some muffled laughs. There was an air of expectation in the room, as if they knew he was going to make a fool of himself.
Fuck them, he thought. He had been solving murders when they were investigating how to copy their Science homework without getting caught.
At first he just stood there, until there was complete silence. Then he spoke. “The greatest single reason that we have case discussions at morning parade is because thirty heads are better than one. I want to tell you how we are going to approach this case. So that you can blow holes in my argument. And make better suggestions. Any ideas are welcome.”
He saw he had their attention. He wondered for an instant if it was astonishment that he could string five sentences together. “The bad news is the similarity between the assegai vigilante murders and serial murders. The victims are, I believe, unknown to the murderer. The choice of victims is relatively unpredictable. The motive is unconventional and, although we can speculate about it, still reasonably unclear. I don’t know how many of you remember the red ribbon murders about six years ago: eleven prostitutes murdered over a period of three years. Most were from Sea Point, the murder weapon was a knife, and all the bodies were found with mutilated breasts and genitalia and a red ribbon around the neck. We had the same problem then. The choice of victim was limited to a specific category, the motive was psychological, sexual and predictable and the murder weapon consistent. We could build a profile, but not one definite enough to identify a suspect.
“In this case we know he has a hang-up about people who molest or murder children. That is our category, regardless of race or gender. From that we can more or less deduce the motive. And the weapon of choice is an assegai that is used in a single fatal stab. The psychologists will tell us that indicates a highly organized murderer, a man with a mission. But let us focus on the differences between the typical serial murderer and our assegai man. He does not mutilate the victims. There are no sexual undertones. The single wound is deep. One terrible penetration . . . There is anger, but where does it originate? The only reasonable conclusion is that we are dealing with revenge. Was he personally molested as a child? I think the possibility is very strong. It fits. If that is the motive we are in trouble. How do you track down such a suspect? However, there is another possibility. Perhaps he lost a child through some crime. Perhaps the system failed him. We will have to look at the baby that was raped by Enver Davids. Is there a father who wants revenge? The families of the children molested by Pretorius. But it’s possible that he was not directly affected by any of these crimes.
“As far as his race goes, we must not be blinded by the assegai. It could be a deliberate ploy to mislead us. Here is a man who found Davids in a colored neighborhood just as easily as he got into Pretorius’s house in a white neighborhood in the early evening. We must keep our options open. But I swear the assegai means something. Something important. Any comments?”
They sat and listened in absolute quiet.
“We can approach this thing from four perspectives. The first is to find out if we can identify any suspects close to the original child victims. The second is to look at all unsolved crimes against children. We must begin in the Western Cape, since that is where he’s operating. If we find nothing, we must expand the search. A long process, I know. Needle in a haystack. But it must be done. The third thing is the murder weapon. We know it’s a typical Zulu assegai. We know it was made by hand in the traditional way, most likely in the last year or so. That means we might determine
where
it was made. How it was distributed and sold. But why would someone choose an assegai? We will talk to the forensic psychologists too. Everyone with me so far?”
He saw Bushy Bezuidenhout and Matt Joubert nod. The rest just sat and stared at him.
“The problem with all three of these strategies is that they are speculative. We must go on with them and hope they produce results, but there are no guarantees. They will take time too—the one thing we don’t have. The media is on fire and there are political aspects . . . That is why I want to try a fourth approach. And for that I need your help. The question I ask myself is how he selects a victim. I think there can only be two methods: he is part of the system, or he sees it in the media. All three victims were in the news. Davids when he was acquitted, Pretorius when he was in court, Laurens when she was arrested. So he is either part of the justice system, a policeman, prosecutor, court orderly or something—” they shifted around for the first time since he had begun to speak “—or he’s just a member of the public with time to read the papers or watch the news on TV. That’s more likely. But one or the other—that is how we are going to catch him. I want to know of every serious crime against children in the next week or so. We want something we can blow up in the media. We want something that will get everyone talking.”
Jamie Keyter’s voice came from somewhere near the wall: “You want to set a trap for him, Benny?”
“That is correct. We want to catch him in a snare.”

* * *

“Sup,” said Bushy Bezuidenhout, “there’s something I want you all to know from the start.”
Griessel, Keyter, Bezuidenhout and Cupido sat in Joubert’s office while they waited for the lecture hall to be cleared.
“Go on, Bushy,” said Joubert.
“I don’t have a problem with this guy.”
“You mean the assegai man?”
“That’s right.”
“I am not sure I understand you, Bushy?”
“Benny says he’s like a serial killer. I don’t see it like that. This guy is doing what we should have done a long time ago. And that is to take these evil fuckers who do things to children and hang them by the neck. Christ, Sup, I worked on the original Davids case. Lester Mtetwa and I stood and cried over that baby’s body. When we arrested Davids, I had to hold Lester back, because he wanted to blow that fucking animal’s head away, he was that upset.”
“I understand, Bushy. We all felt like that. But the big question is: will it prevent you doing your work? From bringing him in?”
“I will do my best.”
“Benny?”
He could not afford to lose Bezuidenhout. “Bushy, all I ask is: if you feel there is something you can’t do, just tell me.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t know what your problem is,” said Keyter to Bezuidenhout.
“Jamie,” said Griessel.
“What? All I said was—”
“I agree,” said Cupido. “He’s a murderer, end of story.”
“Listen,” said Bezuidenhout. “You’re still wet behind the ears and you want to—”
“Bushy! Leave it.” Griessel turned to Cupido and Keyter. “Everyone has the right to feel what he feels. As long as it doesn’t affect the investigation, we respect each other. Do you understand? I don’t need any trouble.”
They nodded, but without conviction.
“Talking of trouble,” said Joubert. Their heads turned to him. “The trap, Benny . . .”
“I know. It’s a risk.”
“I don’t want another Woolworths episode, Benny. I don’t want people in hospital. I won’t have civilians in danger. If there is any chance it could turn into a fiasco, walk away. I want your word on that.”
“You have it.”

* * *

Keyter told him it was Inspector Tim Ngubane who had investigated the murder of Cheryl Bothma. Griessel found Ngubane in the tearoom.
“Tim, I need your help.”
“Impressive speech this morning, Benny.”
“Oh, I . . . er . . .”
“You’ve got all the angles on this one.”
“I hope so.”
“What can I do for you?”
“The Bothma child . . .”
“Yes.”
“You handled that.”
“Anwar and I did.”
“An easy one?”
“Open and shut. When we got there, Laurens was already waiting with her wrists together, ready for the cuffs. Crying a river, ‘I didn’t mean to do it,’ that sort of thing.”
“She admitted it?”
“Full confession. Said she was drunk and the kid was going on and on, being disgusting, disobedient, a real little terror. Ignored her mother . . .”
“Bothma.”
“Yes, the mother. And then Laurens lost it. Grabbed the pool cue, actually wanted to hit the kid on the backside, but because she was drunk . . .”
“Fingerprints on the pool cue?”
“Yes.”
“Only
her
prints?”
“What are you saying, Benny?”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“It was open and shut, Benny. She confessed, for fuck’s sake. What more do you want?”
“Tim, I don’t want to interfere. I’m just curious. I thought Bothma—”
“You’re not just curious. What do you have that I don’t know about?”
“Did you test her blood?”
“What for?”
“For alcohol.”
“Why the fuck would I need to do that? I could smell the booze. She fucking confessed. And then the prints came back and they were hers on the pool cue. That’s enough, for fuck’s sake. What’s your story?”
“I don’t have a story, Tim.”
“You fucking whiteys,” said Ngubane. “You think you’re the only people who can do detective work.”
“Tim, it’s nothing to do with that.”
“Fuck you, Benny. It has everything to do with it.” Ngubane turned and walked away. “At least I was able to smell the booze on her breath,” he said. “Not everyone in this building could have done that.”
He disappeared down the corridor.