I glance at the Human-Tooth-Necklace-Guy, searching for the demonic eyes Henry had mentioned, but don’t find any trace of them.
“Do you remember this man?” I ask, suddenly unsure as to whether we have the right guy in custody. “Look closely.”
“I know nothing,” he spits out each word individually.
I’m not satisfied.
One after the other I pull out photographs of the victims, bitching every time he looks away.
The lawyer is quick to say I’m badgering his client, but I have a sharp tongue, and apparently Rynhardt’s well-versed when it comes to the law. Rynhardt keeps the proceedings in check with ease, much to my dismay. I would have enjoyed getting under his skin with a more brutal line of questioning. Finally, when every photograph is on display for him, something inside Human-Tooth-Necklace-Guy snaps.
Gone is the rage, the detachment, the defiance. All that remains is the broken man whose sins have caught up with him. Success is in my grasp.
“I’m not this man anymore,” he says, barely above a whisper.
“I need to convene with my client,” the lawyer chips in.
“No.” Human-Tooth-Necklace-Guy taps at a random photo with his index finger. “I’m not this man anymore. I’ve done bad things, I know—”
“You need to shut up right now,” the lawyer cuts him off, jumping from his seat.
“Sit down, Mr. Khumalo.” Detective Mosepi’s calm voice rings through the interrogation room for the first time.
The lawyer does as he’s instructed, but doesn’t seem happy about being ordered around.
“We all make mistakes,” Human-Tooth-Necklace-Guy says. “These are my mistakes. I’m not like this anymore. I’ve grown up. I have a wife and a baby, and I have a job. I don’t do this anymore.”
“
You
have a life,” I say. “But your actions have ruined the lives of not only these people, but also the lives of their families and friends.
You
have a life, yes. They do not.”
“Fuck you! We all make mistakes!”
“What is your name?” I ask, not allowing myself to be baited into another circular argument.
Human-Tooth-Necklace-Guy doesn’t answer. A veil of insolence glazes his eyes, making his intentions clear: he would not answer any of the important questions. There’s an unjustified loyalty between him and his brother, one I won’t be able to break in one sitting.
After an intense staring contest between the two of us, my cell phone vibrates in my pocket.
I fish it out, scroll to my messages and find an MMS from an unknown number with no explanation. After downloading the message, the image of a man with a warped face walking into a ruin of a building pops up. Colourful graffiti, gang tags, an image of a hawk, and
JOU MA SE POES
is visible against one wall of the desolate building. There’s also a black van parked nearby and overgrowth on the side of the building. Not a lot, but enough to hide certain illegal activities if the occasion called for it. The place looks familiar, but I just can’t place it.
Detective Mosepi leans closer, looking at my phone, before he whispers: “What is it?”
“We need to talk,” I say, jutting my chin to the door.
“Emergency?”
“Possibly,” I answer.
Without so much as a look in Human-Tooth-Necklace-Guy or his lawyer’s direction, I exit the interrogation room with Detective Mosepi in tow. Rynhardt follows us too. When we’re out of earshot I hold out my cell phone for them to study the image. “This just came in from an unknown number. The place looks familiar, but—”
“That’s what used to be Lucky Luke’s,” Detective Mosepi says. “It’s across the street, beyond the dip, and a few buildings over; just opposite the Cash & Carry.”
“I thought it closed down ages ago,” I say.
“Oh, it did. Lucky Luke’s closed down and fell into disrepair. Now it’s a heroin house.”
“Oh my god,” I breathe. “The police station is right here. Why the hell don’t you do something about it?”
Detective Mosepi’s unreadable expression is his only response, because duh. I should know by now logic isn’t in everyone’s nature, or in their vocabulary for that matter. The SAPS is no different in this regard.
“Fine, can we go see if he’s there?”
“You want to go snooping around in a heroin house, filled with druggies who are stoned out of their mind, in search of a guy whose face we can’t see?”
“A simple no would have sufficed, but yes,” I say. “I would like to follow this lead.”
“We can’t. There are protocols—”
“Protocols haven’t done jack in this case so far.”
“Don’t get snippy with me, Esmé,” Detective Mosepi warns. “Everyone’s frustrated.”
I wave my hand in the direction of the street for emphasis: “He’s right here, Mosepi.” The indignation I feel amplifies my voice, but I don’t care. We need to find
Him
, before he can kill again. Before
Him
can get his grubby hands on someone I care for.
“You know what?” I start, pocketing my cell phone and straightening my back. “While you’re following protocols, I’m going to catch a killer.”
The two steps I take aren’t enough to get me out of his reach.
Detective Mosepi clamps his hand around my wrist and says my name in a low, fatherly voice. I turn to face him, and feel my resolve wasting away.
“I need to clear things with the captain first, so give me a few minutes and we’ll go together. Okay?” he says. “Okay?”
I exhale through my nose, nod, and feel him loosen his grip on me.
“Rynhardt, keep an eye on her. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Rynhardt acknowledges the request with an unenthusiastic “Yes, sir,” and Detective Mosepi departs. He studies me in one quick look, the same technique he taught me not three days ago before leaning back against the wall again. “Are you still angry with me?”
I have a split second to make a decision, a decision I’ll likely regret in the morning.
Detective Mosepi rounds a corner, disappearing from sight. Now’s possibly my only chance. The captain is unpredictable, and I doubt he’d be in the mood to send some of his people on a wild goose chase.
I saunter up to Rynhardt, as close as I can without broadcasting my intentions to the whole world, before placing both hands against his chest. My fingertips draw circles against his crisp white shirt.
“Angry is too harsh a word,” I say, keeping my voice low and seductive. “Mildly disappointed, maybe, but I’m over it.”
Our gazes meet, and a somewhat familiar fluttering starts up in the pit of my stomach. The feeling catches me off guard, and I almost don’t go through with my plan. Unfortunately for Rynhardt, people’s lives are on the line.
“I didn’t mean anything by it, you know?” he says, one hand snaking around my waist.
I take a step closer, press my cheek against his shoulder, and allow my hands to slowly move down his chest and to his sides.
“I know.” My hands slide lower until they come to a rest on the hem of his pants. I tilt my chin to look into his eyes again. “I
really
do like you.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
I blush. “Take me out to dinner sometime?”
“Just tell me when.”
My left hand moves to his cheek, before I draw him closer and kiss him deeply. Meanwhile the nimble fingers on my right hand moves to his pocket, snatch his keys, and with deft movements make their way into my pocket. If I had come with my own car, I wouldn’t have had to resort to this treachery, but life loves throwing curveballs. So, here I am, ready to commit grand theft auto for the sake of following a lead which may not even pan out.
I break the kiss, feeling starry-eyed and guilty, and pull away.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to make use of the ladies’ room, and I suspect you need to get Human-Tooth-Necklace-Guy back to the cells.”
Rynhardt clears his throat and nods. “Yeah.”
“It’s this way, right?” I point in the opposite direction to where the bathrooms are. I’ve been here enough to know their exact location. My conscience is going to be gnawing at me, at least for a week.
Rynhardt shakes his head. “No, it’s this way. Turn right, second door on your left.”
“Thanks.” I smile, fluttering my eyelashes, before making my way to where he’d directed.
When I’ve turned the corner, I stop and peer around the wall to make sure he’s left before dashing across the corridor and towards the back door. Past the tarnished metal door leading to the parking lot, I start running for the Ford Ranger—a beastly thing beside the rest of the vehicles.
“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.” The mantra keeps my legs pumping, my boots smacking against the tarmac. I don’t look back. I can’t look back. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
I almost streamline past the Ford Ranger, needing to grab hold of the bullbar to stop myself from overshooting. As soon as the fob key’s pressed and the locks spring open, I’m climbing into the driver’s seat, singing my tune of obscenities. Then, I’m igniting the engine and pulling out of the parking space, finally allowing myself a glimpse at the door.
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Rynhardt hadn’t figured out I’ve gone missing yet.
I turn my attention to the road and drive out of the parking lot without even being stopped by the guard at the gate.
Chapter 39
I’m parked a few cars behind the black van standing in front of what used to be Lucky Luke’s.
Leaning down across the seats to keep a watchful eye on the door without being spotted, I set up my phone to the hands-free device in Rynhardt’s Ford Ranger.
If I knew what
Him
looked like, this would be easier. As it happens, I’m hoping my instincts will come into play when the murderer sets foot outside the door.
If all goes well, my mission will come to fruition before a cop pulls me over for stealing Rynhardt’s car.
When the set-up is complete, I call my grandfather to let him know what’s up. His phone rings a few times before he answers with a disengaged, “Yello.”
“Hello, Gramps,” I say.
“How’s the interrogation going?” he asks. “Is he talking?”
“No, I gave up on him when I got a tip off for
Him
himself,” I answer.
He mumbles an affirmative.
“Pops, could you stop whatever you’re doing and pay attention for two minutes?”
An audible sigh follows, before, “Sure darling. What’s up?”
“Can you get together some bail money?” I bite my lip, staring at the door of the heroin house.
A prolonged silence fills the conversation.
“Are you there?”
“Yes,” he draws out the word. “Why would you need bail money, Esmé?”
“I might have borrowed Detective Louw’s car without his permission, or knowledge for that matter.” I answer. “But there’s a perfectly good explanation for why I did it.”
“I’m listening.”
A man, wearing a remarkably similar outfit to the warped man in the MMS, walks out of the heroin house. He looks left, then right—a responsible (or suspicious) pedestrian—before walking towards the black van. Nothing about him screams “I’m a homicidal maniac!” apart from him coming out of Lucky Luke’s.
My heart pounds in my throat, my eyes widen, my thoughts reel. Could it be
Him
or am I simply desperate enough, crazy enough, to follow anyone around?
No, it’s
Him
. There’s no way in hell it isn’t
Him
. My instincts are lighting up like its Chinese New Year.
“Esmé?”
“Pops, I’ve got to go,” I say starting the engine, ready to follow the black van to the ends of the Earth if I have to. “Remember bail money, please.”
I cut the call, watching the black van and prepared to follow.
The black van slips into the lane first, behind a taxi, before heading west on WF Nkomo Street.
I keep two cars between us at all times.
We drive through the dip, past the Pretoria West Police Station, and towards Quagga Centre situated across the KFC and Debonairs Pizza. Taxis and vehicles turn off either to the restaurants, maybe looking for a lunchtime snack, or to the shopping centre for something entirely different.
We continue heading west, past the Pretoria West Golf Estates, although, it’s not
really
golf estates in anyone’s opinion. Even the residents aren’t deluded enough to be fooled by the massive signs proclaiming these two-bedroom, one bathroom properties as exclusive high-end homes. It’s low-cost housing with “Golf Estate” in its address, for lower middle-class home owners who want to feel important. Everyone knows this, but it would be in bad taste to mention it out loud.
At the WF Nkomo Street and Transoranje Road intersection, the robot—or traffic light as the Americans like to call it—catches the black van before he can turn left. With two taxis and one
skedonk
between us, I’m still safe from being discovered.