The Monster's Daughter (58 page)

“Research notes.” Theo leafed through the pages. “Looks like the outline of a book. Something about the practical implementation of forensics in the field. Lots of notes here on cases he worked with your dad. I'll have to read it, but it doesn't look like anything damning. Bone-dry textbook stuff, if you ask me.” He put the folder down. “Alet, do you remember anything about the guy who attacked you?”

Alet suppressed a giggle at the seriousness of his expression. “I was a little preoccupied while he was strangling me, Theo.” The hazy image of a pair of brown shoes and jeans danced in front of her, a dark outline walking away. She took a breath and tried to remember with detachment. He had grabbed her from behind. Sense memory brought back the pressure around her throat. She pushed back the panic, fighting her raising heart rate. “He was taller than me.”

“A lot?”

Alet shook her head. The smell of leather, something clinging to her skin. “He wore gloves.”

“Good. What else?”

“His clothes were … It was jeans and a shirt but it didn't look modern. It was too … formal … I don't know.” His skin against hers. “He smelled sweet, but not pleasant.”

“What about his hair?”

Alet frowned, willing the memory into being, but stopping short. “He ran away.” She could remember nothing higher than his dark back, as if the rest of him didn't exist. “I think he was wearing a hat or a balaclava maybe …” Frustration gripped her. “I just can't remember.”

“It's okay. Don't worry.” Theo suddenly had his arms around her, holding her to him. Alet felt the wetness of her eyes sinking into his shirt. She wanted to push him away, swallow it back, but then something dawned on her. She felt safe. It had been a long time since she'd felt this way. Theo ran his hand over her hair, pressed his lips to her forehead, the gesture so tender it made her well up again. She looked up into his eyes, dark brown melting into hers. Then their lips touched, she didn't know how. They both seemed perfectly still, holding each other steady while the world around them spun into chaos.

Theo broke the kiss first, a frown sneaking across his brow. “Are you okay?”

Alet pushed away, suddenly irritated with herself. “I'm sorry.” She couldn't look him in the eyes. She focused on his pursed lips, his jaw tight, unforgiving. “I'm heading to George.”

Theo's shoulders folded in on his chest. “You can stay. I—”

“Mathebe is waiting for me. I need to talk to Wexler tonight. Get ahead of this thing.”

Theo ran his hand over his face. “That's it, then?” His arms shielded him against her.

“I don't know.”

Theo's face grew hard. “Fine. Let me know when you do.”

“Please understand—”

“It wasn't an offer of marriage, Alet.”

Alet balled her fists. “Don't be a bastard.”

Theo snorted. “Don't just expect me to be there every time you need help. I need to look out for myself too.”

She tried to find something to say, but she could only think of harsh comebacks. Why were things between them always so complicated? She wasn't even sure what she felt for him. Perhaps the things she felt around him, the flirting, the closeness, were just ghostly reminders of what they'd had before, ruined the day their careers in STF were over.

“I have to go,” Alet said to break the uneasy silence. She handed
the contents of Koch's safe to Theo. “Please hold on to this. See what you can make of it.”

Theo nodded and wordlessly followed her to her car. Their eyes met briefly as she backed out, an intensity in his expression that she couldn't read.

A constable from Bloemfontein called Alet as she was nearing the George city limits. They couldn't find anything on Theresa Morgan; it had been too long. But one of the secretaries gave them the number of a woman who used to teach at the school around the time Theresa would have gone there, a Mrs. Uys. Alet called the number as soon as the constable hung up.

“Hallo?”

“Mrs. Uys?”

“
Ja?
” The voice sounded sprightly for a woman in her nineties.

“I'm sorry,” Alet said. “I'm looking for a Mrs. Marie Uys, who taught music at a high school in Bloemfontein around 1940.”

“Oh. My mother-in-law.”

“My name is Constable Alet Berg. I'm with the SAPS investigating an old case. I was wondering if I could talk to her.”

The woman at the other end of the line paused for a moment. “She's in a nursing home, Constable Berg. She gets confused easily, and we couldn't take care of her anymore.”

“Could you please give me the number? It's crucial that I talk to her.”

George nestled against the coastline in the distance. Alet took the exit, snaking down the hill through the township, toward the city center. She pulled up to a gas station to write down the number.

“Marie Uys speaking.” Mrs. Uys measured out each word, as if it was an effort get them out.

“Mrs. Uys, I'm Constable Berg, with the police. I'm trying to locate someone and I was hoping you could help.”

“What's that?”

“Mrs. Uys, can you hear me?”

“Ja.”

“I'm wondering if you remember a student. Theresa Morgan.”

“Who?”

Alet sighed. The old woman was hard of hearing and the poor cell reception didn't make things easier. “Theresa Morgan.” There was a long pause. “Hallo? Mrs. Uys?”

“Tessa.”

Alet's pulse quickened. “Ja. You remember her?”

“Why do you want to know about Tessa? Who are you?”

“I'm looking for her, Mrs. Uys. I was hoping you could help. I know it's been a long time but—”

“She was gifted, but lazy. Never practiced. Her dad died, you know. A nice man. Back in …”

“Mrs. Uys? Are you still there?”

“
Ja?
”

“Do you remember what happened to Tessa?”

“She was always with that boy, you know. She was nice, but he never spoke a word to anyone.”

“Mrs. Uys, do you remember his name?”

“What's that, dear?”

“The boy Tessa was friends with. What was his name?”

“Oh. Let me think. It was a good Bible name. Reuben? No. I don't … 
O ja
, Tessa used to call him Ben.”

Alet navigated the subdivision's stop streets. The houses were all surrounded by high walls, some with spikes or barbed wire, some with signs warning that they were electrified. She remembered walking down the street to play with neighbor kids when she was a child, riding her bicycle to school and netball practice. The streets in George were devoid of children, and even adults seemed scared to leave the confines of their own fortresses. Alet pulled up to the curb across the street from the George Police office, where Mathebe stood waiting for her. She motioned for him to get into the car.

“I have a name. Ben. Tessa Morgan's teacher, Mrs. Uys, said they were going to get married.”

“Is there a last name?”

Alet shook her head, disappointed that Mathebe didn't seem excited by the break.

“Then we have little to go on.” Mathebe looked un​characteristically weary.

“It's a start,” Alet said. “Be glad it isn't something more common, like Hendrik or Johan.”

“Did Mrs. Uys know what happened after they got married?”

“She lost contact after Theresa's father's death. But listen to this: this Ben would have had to do military service back then when he got out of high school, right? Maybe we can find him that way.” Alet tried to remember her timeline. “Andrew Morgan died in 1948 when Theresa was at the university. So around that time? It's worth a try.”

Mathebe nodded. “We have to go,” he said. “The room is prepared for us.”

“Has Wexler changed his tune yet?”

“He refuses to implicate anyone but himself and Miss Pienaar. I do not know that there is more we can do.”

Alet stopped Mathebe before he could get out of the car. “One more thing, Sergeant. Do you know anyone in Cape Town? We need to find out if there was anything unusual about Koch's accident that wasn't in the report.”

“I will make a call.”

Jeffrey Wexler looked up listlessly as Alet and Mathebe entered the interrogation room. He had dark circles under his eyes, his pink complexion almost as pale as his cropped gray hair. He leaned on the table with his elbows, his back rounded, his hands cuffed. Alet sat down opposite him. Mathebe remained standing, his posture rigid as a stick figure's.

“Mr. Wexler.”

“Alet, luv. How nice of you to visit.”

“Constable Berg,” Mathebe said tersely.

“Psh!” Wexler looked away.

“Can I get you anything?” Alet said calmly. She smiled at him. “A Coke, maybe?”

Wexler shook his head, his fingers drumming on the table.

“Look, Jeff, we found evidence tying you to Trudie's death.”

“You have nothing.” Wexler smiled. “If you did, I wouldn't still be in a holding cell.”

Alet put her finger to her mouth, enjoying the feeling of slipping into a different persona, the one she used whenever she had to interrogate a suspect. It was self-assured, even a little arrogant. Most importantly, it made her feel invincible. She sometimes wished she had the guts to take it home with her. She dropped the file in front of Wexler. “We've contacted all of the foreign visitors in your guest book. Their local police were quite obliging to help us out with this. I think the thought of babies being sold and smuggled into their countries didn't sit well with them either.

“Quite a few of the families are willing to testify to escape prosecution. Their stories are all the same. An overseas contact instructed them to go to Zebra House. The money was left, in cash, in their rooms when they checked out. Then they were met on some desolate stretch of highway by someone with a child. We have a statement from Tilly Pienaar and some foreign bank statements in your safe.” Alet leaned forward. “You are going away, Jeff. How long is up to you.”

Wexler looked unimpressed. “What do you want?”

“I know you and Trudie go way back. That you helped her abduct Tilly.”

“I'd like that Coke,” Wexler said in a bored tone.

Alet looked over at Mathebe. “Sergeant? Would you mind?”

Mathebe hesitated for a moment, then nodded, leaving the room.

Wexler leaned back, a self-assured grin on his lips. “If you know so much, luv, why do you need me to tell you anything?”

Alet bit her lip. She had hoped that he would cave, but if he wouldn't talk to Mathebe, she was stupid to believe that he would just spill the beans to her. She decided to change tactics. “Why are you protecting him? Mynhardt, I mean.”

“Couldn't give two hoots about him, luv. But I'm in here, and as you pointed out, I'll be in here for a while. You obviously have no idea who your boss is.”

“Oh, I'm pretty sure I do.”

“If you did, you would drop this and go back to where you came from, darling.”

“What about Skosana? A big man like you ran away from the Thokoloshe? What is he? A meter and a bit?”

Wexler banged on the table, his mouth locked in a grimace of disgust. “You want to know about Mynhardt? You talk to Skosana. He's been paying Mynhardt off for years to look the other way. Sometimes they exchange favors. It's Christmas, after all.”

“What about Trudie? How does she fit into all of this?”

Wexler locked eyes with Alet. “She doesn't.” Even as he said the words, Alet knew he was hiding something. She could smell his sweat, see the panic in his eyes. The guilty ones always started sweating.

Alet leaned on the table, dropping her voice to barely a whisper. “I know who she was.” She hesitated for a moment, not sure if her gamble would pay off. “I know her real name was Theresa Morgan and I know her secret.”

Mathebe walked back into the interrogation room, a can of Coke in his hand. He looked from Alet to Wexler with a confused expression. Wexler put his face in his hands and started sobbing.

“Our aim is to bear witness to what has happened in our country. Investigate human-rights violations, restore the victims' dignity, and in some cases, consider amnesty for those who have applied.”

“So criminals will walk free?” The speaker was a brash Australian, his face barely discernible in the sea of journalists and microphones.

Cameras flashed intermittently, pointed at the Truth and Reconciliation Committee panel at the front of the room. The archbishop folded his hands, a look of exasperation passing between him and the other members. They had been at it for almost an hour, trying to explain the spirit of Ubuntu to the press of the world. A difficult concept, perhaps, but in this land, where retribution for the sins of the past would end in bloodshed, the spirit of African forgiveness was the only viable option.

“We all have to live together now,” one of the female members on the panel volunteered. “You must remember, no section of the population, white or black, escaped the violence, the abuse of their human rights. We want to avoid a victor's justice. Nobody is exempt from appearing before the commission.”

“But certainly those in the apartheid government will have to pay for what they did?”

“We are here to hear the truth. It is the only way to heal our land, to reconcile our people. It is a crucial step in our peaceful transition to democracy. It is up to the accused to prove that his actions were politically motivated, or that he was forced to commit these atrocities by those higher up on the command chain. If it is found that he has fully disclosed his crime, and that it was proportionate, amnesty will be considered.”

“But, Archbishop—”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a long road ahead of us. Perhaps you will gain a better understanding once you have spent some time here with us.”