‘Dr Myburgh?’
The man turned. His face was narrow, ascetic. He held out a pale, eager hand. ‘Dr Hart?’ His voice was soft, the hand that enveloped hers warm and dry. ‘Tertius Myburgh.’
‘I hope I’m not disturbing your work.’
Myburgh smiled and gestured to the phials and jars on his shelves. ‘My companions are very quiet, so I’m quite happy with the occasional interruption. Helena Kotze said you’d be coming. What can I do for you?’
Clare put the parcels of shoes and clothes and the posy of desert plants on a trestle table. ‘I’m helping with the investigation into the murder of four boys in Walvis Bay,’ she said. ‘The ones Helena autopsied.’
‘Those Aids orphans?’
‘A couple of them were, yes. Homeless children.’
‘How can I help?’ Myburgh looked puzzled.
‘Their bodies have been dumped all over the place,’ said Clare. ‘At a school, on the Walvis Bay pipeline, at the dump. The latest in the Kuiseb Delta. None of them were killed where they were displayed.’
‘Ah, you want me to tell you where they’ve been?’ asked Myburgh, fingering the pale blossoms on the table.
‘Can you?’
‘I can try.’ Myburgh’s eyes gleamed at the challenge. ‘Pollens are unique and they’re tenacious. If they brushed a flowering plant, it’s going to stick somewhere. Shoes, laces, hoodie ties. Pollen is the most conservative part of the plant. Mutations are rare. That’s why we can pinpoint it so accurately. If there’s a mutation it’s like a red flag, pointing you in the direction of the correct species.’
‘How long will it take?’ Clare asked.
‘This can wait.’ Myburgh gestured at the leaves, seed pods and dissected buds arranged on his table. ‘But it’ll take a day or so. Plants are like people. It’s the little differences that make them unique. What distinguishes one type of pollen from another will be just the tiniest mutation, the smallest difference. With a killer I suppose it’s the same: you look for that one calibration of difference that distinguishes him from me… or you.’
‘Those tiny discrepancies,’ said Clare, ‘that’s what I look for.’
‘My mother always told me you could judge a man by his shoes,’ said Myburgh. ‘When you have a suspect, bring me his shoes. They’ll tell me where he’s been. Take this in the meantime. It’s the plant list I’ve been working on, and here are the corresponding pollens.’ He handed her a pile of paper.
‘These are beautiful,’ said Clare, looking at the magnified photographs of the desert pollens. ‘How long have you worked on this?’
‘About two years, but most of the groundwork was done by an American ethno-botanist,’ said Myburgh.
‘He’s no longer involved?’
‘She,’ said Myburgh. ‘Virginia Meyer. She was killed in a car accident last year.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Clare. ‘I’ve heard of her, and I’ve met her son Oscar. One of the bodies was found at his school. Outside his classroom, in fact.’
‘Strange little boy, he is,’ said Myburgh. ‘He used to do fieldwork with her. Him and an old Topnaar man called Spyt, who was Virginia’s guide. Knows the desert like you and I know our own faces. If you want to know anything about anything in the Namib – plants, stones, animals – he’s your man.’
‘Where is he now?’ asked Clare.
‘Spyt?’ said Myburgh. ‘He could be anywhere. He’s even more of a recluse since the accident. He was devoted to Virginia and he loved Oscar.’ He paused. ‘I suppose Oscar was too young to see how odd Spyt is. All he knew was the magic places Spyt could find in the middle of nowhere.’
Myburgh walked Clare back to her car. ‘Give me your cell number. I’ll call you as soon as I have something.’
Clare wrote down her number for him. ‘There was one more thing I wanted to know,’ she said. ‘Maybe you can tell me.’ She stretched over to open the cubbyhole. The insect husks that Herman Shipanga had found tumbled onto her hand. She was revolted again by the scratchiness of the little ball of carcasses.
‘What’s that?’ asked Myburgh.
‘Something else’s dinner,’ said Clare. ‘I was hoping you could tell me more about it.’ She handed it to him.
Myburgh peered at the orb. ‘Moth wings,’ he said. ‘And long-horned grasshoppers. Some termites. Where did you find this?’
‘The school caretaker found it in the swing where Kaiser Apollis was found.’
‘Impossible,’ said Myburgh, looking at the insects again. ‘You won’t find these at the coast. Inland, yes. I’d say this comes from where Egyptian bats have been feeding. They don’t need full darkness, so they roost in large trees in the delta; otherwise caves or other shelters.’
‘So you’d find them in the Kuiseb?’ asked Clare. The importance of what Myburgh was telling her banished her exhaustion.
‘Yes,’ said Myburgh, ‘but they’re rare. There’s not enough food to sustain more than a few colonies, and the curious thing about bats is that they keep returning to established feeding sites with their prey. Find that, then you know where these little mummies came from.’
thirty-one
The flight from Walvis Bay circled Table Mountain, which stood in isolated splendour above the squalor of the Cape Flats. Clare was first off the plane. She slid her passport across the counter, her mind shuttling between everything she had to do in Cape Town and the fragmented picture she had of events in Walvis Bay.
‘This way please, Doctor.’ The immigration officer pulled down the grille in front of his booth. He had Clare’s passport clasped in his hand.
‘What is it?’ All she needed now was officiousness about smuggling body parts across international borders.
‘Come with me.’ He opened a door marked ‘Customs’, standing aside so that she could enter. Riedwaan was leaning against the wall, his shirt white against his throat.
‘Thanks.’ Riedwaan was speaking to the customs official, but his eyes were on Clare.
‘Any time, Captain.’
‘Can I have a look at those?’ said Riedwaan. Clare put her assortment of packages on the scuffed table and folded her arms.
‘You need anything else, Captain Faizal?’ the official asked. Riedwaan shook his head, and the man left, closing the door behind him. Riedwaan picked up the box of samples Helena Kotze had packed for Piet Mouton.
‘What are you doing?’ Clare hissed.
‘I’m here to see you. Like you said. Officially.’ Riedwaan opened the door. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Clare. ‘Officially.’
‘Security exit. It’s much quicker.’
‘Riedwaan,’ said Clare with an incredulous laugh, ‘you know I have appointments.’
‘I know. I’m driving you, officially.’ He turned to look at her. ‘Don’t look at me like that. Orders from Phiri.’
‘Well,’ she snapped, ‘I don’t really have a choice then, do I?’
‘Doesn’t look like it to me.’ He was relieved that she didn’t phone Phiri to check.
Getting her this far was easier than Riedwaan had thought. She got into his old Mazda and he inched through the chaos at domestic arrivals. He turned east along the N2, heading away from Cape Town. So far, so good. He suspected that getting her to talk – or to listen – might be harder.
‘Where did your friend at customs spring from?’ Clare asked.
‘An old friend from my narc squad days. He owed me a favour.’
‘I can just imagine.’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me about my family?’ asked Riedwaan.
‘After you’ve practically kidnapped me, does it matter what I do or don’t ask?’
‘It matters to me,’ Riedwaan said. ‘Yasmin is my daughter. I love her. And you… Look Clare, I’m sorry about that back there.’ He gestured at the space between them. ‘All this…’ He gave up.
