‘Ruyters,’ said Clare. ‘That rings a bell.’
‘She’s on your list for interviewing. She was here early, before Herman Shipanga arrived,’ said Tamar, looking at her watch. ‘Shall we get going? I need to get some coffee and pastries on the way. I can’t do pregnancy on an empty stomach. Post-mortems neither.’
The Venus Bakery was bustling with early-morning trade when Tamar pulled up on the opposite side of the road. At the stop street ahead, a familiar figure peered into the windows of cars caught by the traffic light.
‘That’s the boy I met last night,’ said Clare, feeling the bruise on the side of her arm. ‘I’ll need to talk to him again.’
‘Lazarus,’ said Tamar. ‘Lazarus Beukes. He’s sharp. Been living on the streets most of his life. He’ll spin you whatever story he thinks you want to hear.’
‘You wouldn’t believe him?’ asked Clare.
‘Put it this way,’ said Tamar, ‘Lazarus rarely lets the truth interfere with a good story.’
To the left of the bakery entrance, a wiry girl, her hair a wild black halo, chained her bike to a blue column. Lazarus approached her, trying to sell her a tatty-looking newspaper, his bony shoulders sharp against his worn jersey.
‘That’s Mara Thomson. The English volunteer.’ Tamar pointed to the girl as she entered the store.
‘They look so alike,’ said Clare as they crossed the road. ‘Funny to think they grew up six thousand miles apart.’
‘Two rolls with cheese, please,’ Mara was saying when they entered the bakery.
The woman behind the counter pulled two buttered rolls out of a tray, slapped the cheese onto them and wrapped them in plastic. She pushed them across the counter to Mara. ‘You shouldn’t talk to these street boys.’ Disdain curled her thin upper lip. ‘Six Nam dollars.’
‘They’re good kids,’ said Mara, ‘living a bad life.’
‘It’s easy for you foreigners to feel sorry for them, but we have to live with them. Aids orphans are just trouble.’ The woman counted out Mara’s change. ‘Look at that one who got himself killed. And the other two they found in the desert. What do they think that’ll do for our tourism?’
‘I’m sure they’d have avoided being shot,’ Tamar interjected tartly, ‘if they’d known what their murders would do to your business.’
‘Hello, Captain,’ said Mara, her relief at being rescued palpable.
‘Morning, Mara. This is Dr Hart,’ said Tamar. ‘She’s here from Cape Town, working with me.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m glad somebody’s bothered,’ said Mara, shaking Clare’s hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘And you,’ said Clare. ‘You knew Kaiser? And the other boys, I understand?’
‘Kaiser plays… played in the soccer team I coach. So did Fritz and Nicanor, on and off,’ said Mara, moving towards the door, out of earshot of the sour-faced shop assistant. ‘Fritz Woestyn’s death, that was part of the odds they play with anyway,’ she went on. ‘There’ve been murders before this. Nicanor Jones’s death made them scared. This last one…’ Mara’s voice trailed off.
‘I’ll need to talk to you,’ said Clare. ‘About the boys.’
‘All right,’ said Mara. ‘I rent a room in that double-storey on the lagoon. George Meyer’s house, if you need to ask for directions.’
‘I’ve seen it,’ said Clare. ‘A little redhead on a bike went in there.’
‘That’s Oscar,’ said Mara. ‘I’ll be back after soccer practice this afternoon.’ She nodded goodbye and walked outside. Clare watched her give a roll to Lazarus.
‘No meat?’ he asked, pulling off the wrapping and dropping it to the floor.
‘How about a thank you?’ said Mara, picking up the discarded wrapping.
‘Thanks,’ he said, throwing the cheese roll into the bin as Mara turned the corner.
‘Her visa’s almost expired.’ Clare had not heard Tamar come outside. ‘She’s got to go home, whether she wants to or not.’
‘And does she?’ asked Clare.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Tamar. ‘She’s fallen for a beautiful young Spaniard called Juan Carlos. I doubt she can think straight at the moment.’
thirteen
The Walvis Bay private hospital was a drab building. The mortuary, housed in a weather-beaten prefab round the back, was the grim heart of the establishment. A young woman in hospital greens opened the door when Tamar knocked.
‘Welcome.’ She stood aside for Clare and Tamar. The lemony scent of her hair held the institutional smell of disinfectant and instant coffee at bay.
‘You must be Dr Hart.’ The hand she offered Clare was broad and capable, the square nails cut short.
‘Call me Clare. I feel like a fraud around proper doctors. You’re Dr Kotze?’
‘Helena, please,’ the woman said. She turned to Tamar, looking her over. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine. Here’s some breakfast for you.’ Tamar gave Helena a pastry.
‘Thanks. It’s good to meet you, Dr Hart. I’ve read some of your work.’
‘And your old professor, Piet Mouton, was singing your praises.’ Clare returned the compliment.
‘I’m just sorry I wasn’t here to do those other two boys,’ Helena said. ‘A medical intern did the autopsies on Fritz Woestyn and Nicanor Jones. They’re about as much use as a politician’s election promises. Those boys were buried and the intern went back to Cuba, so a lot rests on this post-mortem.’
Helena gave Clare and Tamar gloves and gowns, ushering them into a cubicle off the entrance hall. Clare pulled the shapeless green gown over her clothes and tucked her long hair into the disposable hairnet. Helena opened a door, releasing the smell of the morgue. The ammonia was biting, but it was no match for the cloying stench of decay. Thick plastic curtains thwacked against metal when Helena Kotze wheeled in the metal trolley.
Kaiser Apollis’s scrawny body was curled under the white shroud Clare had seen in the photographs. Helena pulled back the cover to reveal the child’s head and face. The back of his head was missing and there was a small, neat hole in his forehead, the caked blood erasing the delicacy of his features. The three women circled him.
‘A single gunshot wound to the forehead,’ Helena said, more for her tape recorder than for Clare and Tamar. ‘Probably a pistol. Nasty exit wound at the back, so no bullet for ballistics. Cause of death, I’d say. Put the call through to Piet Mouton, won’t you Clare? The red button switches it to speakerphone.’ She pointed to a machine near the window.
Clare busied herself, relieved to have something to do. She was also glad to have Mouton orchestrating this, even if it was remote. His experienced eyes missed nothing.
‘Dr Hart,’ bellowed Mouton, right on cue. ‘You girls ready?’
‘We’re here, Piet. Me, Dr Helena Kotze and Captain Tamar Damases of Nampol.’
‘Where’s that useless bastard Faizal? He leave you in the lurch in the desert?’
Clare kept her voice light. ‘Looks like it.’
‘Tell him from me that absence makes the maiden wander. Doc Kotze, what you got there?’
‘You’ve got the photos?’ Helena asked.
‘Yes, of course I have the photos. They jammed my e-mail all morning. Photos help me bugger-all. Forensics is science in court. On the slab, it’s intuition and luck. Put me in your head and let me see through your eyes.’
Helena took a deep breath. ‘Body of a child. Male. Looks twelve. Sixteen next week, according to his ID book. Weight: forty-two kilos. IDed as Kaiser Apollis. Bullet to the head. Close range. Body placed in a rubber swing. Blue and white nylon ligatures around both wrists. My guess is washing line.’ Helena moved closer to the still form on the gurney and looked at the rope that had held the child’s wrists together. ‘A clean cut. Looks like-’
‘Cut with what?’ interjected Mouton.
‘Looks like it was a pair of pliers,’ Clare finished for Helena. ‘Something rough.’
‘Body folded into a foetal position,’ Helena continued. ‘Arms wrapped around the legs when discovered. Wrapped in an old piece of cloth. All held together with riempie. Riempie also used to attach the child to the swing where he was found.’
