The Monster's Daughter (56 page)

“Go.” The policeman slammed the trunk and waved them through.

The men parked the Audi on the corner of Bree and Von Wielligh streets, got out, and walked away. Five minutes later, the ninety-kilogram bomb exploded. Concrete disintegrated in the wake of the force. Glass rained down from the sky. Bodies arced weightless through the air, flesh torn from bone. The blast was heard all the way to Pretoria, an hour's drive away. Then silence. As if all who heard it held their breath.

A solitary wail broke the spell, ringing in chaos. A woman ran through the debris, her hands in the air, blue domestic overalls sprayed with blood.

“A witness states that the police let the bombers through.” The reporter, a man with a receding hairline and a stiff British accent, held an enormous black microphone to Adriaan's face.

Adriaan fought the impulse to knock it out of the man's hand. “We cannot confirm that at this time.”

“Is it possible the police were complicit in order to jeopardize the election?”

“There is absolutely no proof to support that claim.”

More foreign journalists yelled through the throng of cameras. Adriaan knew that the world was gaping at the war zone behind him, the bent steel rods protruding from leaning walls that stopped halfway up the building, the nine black bodies on the sidewalk, the people whose wounds were being treated by paramedics. He bit back his rage. The people responsible for this were idiots. The whole world was watching, sympathies increasing a hundredfold for the Commies.

“Surely, you have to admit that the police are guilty of negligence.”

Adriaan checked himself before answering. “A thorough investigation into today's events will be conducted, and all guilty parties will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. The South African Police Force will not allow anyone who terrorizes the citizens of this country to get away with it.”

“But, Colonel, how did such a large explosive device go undetected by your men?”

They weren't listening to him. All they saw was a uniform to hang the blame on, a symbol of a past that refused to let go. Whites were the bad guys now and blacks were the heroes, on the verge of taking Troy. How quickly they forgot about the ANC bombs that had killed pregnant women, children, limpet mines destroying families on vacation. Nobody wanted to hear that now. He had to smile and shake hands with those bastards, pretend that he was pleased by the direction the country had taken, or they'd have his neck. But Adriaan knew how to play the game. He had already covered his tracks. His men were loyal. They knew that implicating him in anything would mean their own downfall. And they also knew what he was capable of if they had a change of heart.

“Colonel, is it true that—”

“That is all I can give you for now.” Adriaan walked away from the microphones. “Keep them out,” he barked at a constable in riot gear as he crossed the cordoned-off area.

“Call came in for you.” Kalo, dressed in his constable uniform, waited behind the wheel of a squad car at the edge of the scene.

Adriaan closed the door. “Media?”

Kalo shook his head. “A warrant officer from Murder and Robbery. Stofberg. He gave an address. Said you should come immediately.”

“
Jissis
. Has he been in a coma for the past five hours? We have to deal with this
kak
.”

Kalo started the car. He made a deft U-turn, barely avoiding a news van coming down the street. “He said you'll definitely want to see this.”

Only one yellow van stood parked in the driveway of the address Stofberg had given. It was a house in Linden, one of the Jo'burg suburbs. The house looked old, mildly neglected. Even from the street, the distinct odor of something burning assaulted the senses, thick and noxious. Adriaan walked in without announcing his presence, the smell intensifying by degrees. Little natural light penetrated the thick curtains in front of the windows inside. He and Kalo found one of the new black hires in the kitchen taking photographs. The constable had a relaxed arrogance in his attitude that no white policeman would have dared around Adriaan.

“Where is Warrant Officer Stofberg?”

The constable pointed down the hall. He turned his back and sauntered out into the backyard of the house.

“Keep an eye on him, Kalo. Teach him his place if he gives you any trouble.”

Kalo smiled. His teeth seemed unnaturally white against his dark skin. Kalo had made a small fortune working for Adriaan, every kill rewarded, every mission carried out with relish. He owned a huge house in Soweto, a brand-new BMW, two wives and family who had grown accustomed to luxury. But the more precarious the whites' position became in the country, the more his demands grew. Adriaan wondered if Kalo could still be trusted once the well of money dried up.

Stofberg, a short man in his forties with an intelligent face, came out of one of the rooms at the end of the hallway. “Colonel Berg. I appreciate you coming.” He extended his hand.

“I'm not at Brixton anymore, Stofberg. And you know we're in the middle of a shitstorm. So what do you want?”

“I thought that …” Stofberg retracted his hand. “Perhaps you should see for yourself.” He turned around and led the way into one of the bedrooms.

The door frame was scorched black, the inside of the room almost totally destroyed, the floor covered in water. On the bed was a human
form, female, the outer layer of skin burned black, exposing raw flesh underneath.

“Neighbors called when they saw smoke. The whole house almost went up in flames.”

“Where's forensics?”

“Everybody's been called to Shell House. Only me and Lucky left to process it.”

Adriaan studied the scene with a practiced eye. “The fire started on the bed.” He held out his hand. Stofberg handed him a pair of latex gloves.

“
Ja
. The firemen had the same conclusion. The house is being rented by three flight attendants. The other two are out of town, so it's possible that this is the third girl, Fransien van der Merwe.”

“Why am I here, Stofberg? The girl probably fell asleep with a lit cigarette.”

“After she threw petrol all over herself? The firemen confirmed an accelerant was used.” Adriaan carefully lifted the skull, finding traces of scorched blond hair beneath it. “Do you have a photograph of her?”

Stofberg left the room briefly and came back with a small square frame. A smiling young couple, their arms around each other, looked back at him, the man making bunny ears behind a girl with white hair and high cheekbones. Adriaan knew without a doubt that Benjamin De Beer was back in Johannesburg.

“You were the lead on the Angel Killer, Colonel. I read all the files. I thought you could perhaps—”

“The Angel Killer hasn't been active in years.”

“But he has also never been caught.”

Adriaan looked at the Fransien van der Merwe in the picture. She was only a few years older than Alet. “We followed all the leads. We got nowhere. The murders stopped. He's probably dead.”

“But, sir …”

“Listen to me, Stofberg, I'm not going to tell you this is the Angel Killer just because a blond girl was burned in her bed.” Adriaan barely contained his agitation.

“You were close. I studied the file.” The accusation was clear in Stofberg's voice. “If it's him there will be more girls, you know,” he said when Adriaan didn't answer.

Adriaan peeled the gloves off. He recognized the flimsy concern that veiled Stofberg's true ambition, the potential for besting the legend of Adriaan Berg by solving the one case he couldn't. He gave Stofberg a smile. “You think you can do better? Be my guest.”

“Wait. I pulled the case files. While you were working on the Angel Killer case, you requested DNA tests on some old unsolved murder case of a student in Pretoria.”

“
Ja
, so?”

“You also had samples processed. But there's no record of the results in the file.”

“After all these years and the state of that evidence locker, I'd be astonished if you found anything. Look, I'm a busy man, Stofberg. Can you get to the point before our new government takes over?”

“What was in that report, Colonel?”

“It was a dead end.”

“I think you found him, Colonel. That you matched him up with that early case. That you know who he is.”

“If we could convict criminals with theories, you'd be a champion, Stofberg. As it is, you have nothing. Why would I let a killer go free?”

Stofberg stared at him without answering. Adriaan snorted and walked away. Stofberg was digging, getting too close. Adriaan would have to make sure his line of inquiry was quashed.

After De Beer left his blood on the car door at the zoo, Adriaan had had it tested. The results came back negative for human DNA. It had puzzled the hell out of the techs. It sounded like nonsense, the stuff of myth and nightmare, a monster preying on humans. Nobody would have believed it. But Adriaan had known Benjamin De Beer, had seen what he was capable of. There was no doubt in his mind that the man wasn't human. Not a day had gone by since the incident at the zoo that Adriaan hadn't thought about taking that animal down. He kept his investigation off the books, though, leading the official line of inquiry away from De Beer. The trail had been cold for so long, Adriaan had almost given up.

Kalo pulled into Berg's parking spot at John Vorster Square. In front of them loomed the granite monolith. Adriaan had always been proud to walk into that front entrance. This was all he ever wanted to do. Find the criminal, destroy the enemy. But the thought of going
in there now, dealing with the bureaucratic fallout of the bombing instead of hunting De Beer, felt oppressive.

“You right, Boss?”

Adriaan came out of his reverie, contemplating the meaning of De Beer's return. “I need you to do something for me, Kalo. On the quiet, see?”

Kalo nodded.

“I need to find someone. Double pay if you do.”

Kalo's smile seemed to extend beyond the confines of his face. “You give me a name, Boss. It's done.”

“I don't have a name. Couldn't find anything on her either.” Adriaan took the faded photograph out of his wallet, pointing at the girl.

“Nice. You want me to take care of her?”

Adriaan considered it for a moment. “No. Not yet.”

“Homicides, all of them. According to the coroner reports they were killed before their bodies were burned.” Theo yawned. He dropped the notebook on his desk. “Only the last two in here were part of the Angel Killer investigation, though.”

“He started a new notebook.”

“If it's the same guy, he only played with the idea of fire in the beginning. Or he was a huge bungler.” Theo pointed to the list of names on his computer screen. “These first girls, in the late fifties, only had partial burns. The strangulation marks were still visible. After the mid-seventies, the bodies were all beyond recognition. That's a really slow learning curve.”

“Or he changed his MO. But why?” Alet looked at the printouts of case-file pictures spread out chronologically on the floor in front of her, all of them blond females, all of them vaguely resembling one another. She took out the picture she'd found of Trudie from the seventies, when her hair was long and blond like the others, a startled expression on her face as if she didn't expect the camera. Her eyes were pale and ethereal. Alet dropped it into the final spot. Something bothered her about the picture, but she couldn't put her finger on it; an unsettling memory, buried just beyond her reach.

Theo got up and walked to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“It's too late, I'll never sleep.”

Theo glanced at his watch. “Wine?”

Alet nodded.

“I thought you said that the DNA matches were negative.” Theo
took a bottle of red wine from the rack and dug around in the drawer for a bottle opener.

“Ja.”
Alet sat down on the floor, crossing her legs. “Koch said Trudie was the only one with the gene mutation.”

“So was she killed because she looked like the others?”

“I don't know. I think she might have been the reason he killed them.”

“What do you mean?” Theo poured the wine and handed Alet a glass.

“The victims got progressively older. Look here—they all died around the time their biological age matched up to hers. That can't be a coincidence.”

Theo looked over her shoulder at the photographs. “A very old guy, then.”

“Who likes blondes.” Alet put a fist to her mouth, trying to stifle a yawn.

“We're talking about a huge chunk of the male population.” Theo sat down next to Alet. “Why didn't he just kill Trudie Pienaar if she was his target? What do these other woman have to do with it?”

Alet's cell vibrated on the table. “Johannes? What took so long? It's after midnight already.”

“Mr. Wexler admitted to selling the children.”

“And Mynhardt?” There was a short silence on the other end of the line. “Please don't tell me—”

“He refused to say anything more.”

“He can't explain how he pulled the whole thing off without implicating Mynhardt and Jana Terblanche.” Alet shifted in her seat, watching Theo at the computer. Theirs was an uneasy truce. She had apologized to him for her outburst, he in turn for his unflattering remarks, but the air wasn't quite clear. Alet didn't know how to broach the subject, didn't know that she wanted to. But she needed him to help her solve the case. She'd deal with the rest later.

“Theo managed to pull the numbers off Mynhardt's cell, Johannes.” Alet caught Theo's eye and smiled at him. Theo gave her a small nod and turned back to the computer screen. “Mynhardt and Wexler definitely talked, especially around the date when the Bravermans were in town.”