Blood Rose

‘I tried to call her earlier,’ said Clare. ‘It just says the number is unavailable and to try again later.’

‘That means she’s out of range or her phone is off,’ Carl explained. ‘Or her battery’s dead.’

‘If Mara was in the vicinity of the airport,’ said Clare, ‘then why did she never go in?’

‘Oh no,’ said Carl, excited at the prospect of playing detective, ‘she got on the plane all right. Check this out.’ He pointed to a column on the next page, listing all the SMS messages. ‘This is what she said.’

Riedwaan looked at the screen: On the plane. Sorry. I love U. X Mara.

‘I saw that,’ said Clare. ‘But it seemed pretty standard to me. Anybody could have sent that text.’

‘Amateurish as a cover,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Someone was going to phone when she didn’t get to London.’

‘But if you go missing in the desert, it can be a long time before anyone finds you,’ said Clare, deciphering the columns of digital information that Darren had teased from the phone.

‘Unless you’re a homeless boy. Then after two days you’re stuck up like a billboard advertising the fact that someone really didn’t like you.’

‘Have a look at this.’ Clare pointed to the time the message was received: nine-twenty.

Riedwaan and Carl looked at her blankly.

‘Her plane was two hours late. Nobody was even on the plane until eleven.’

Riedwaan parked his bike outside the station. Clare was heading for the door before he even had a chance to switch off the engine.

‘That schoolteacher you mentioned in McGregor,’ Riedwaan called after her. ‘Did she marry again?’

‘Darlene?’ Clare turned around, remembering that she had meant to talk to her again.

Riedwaan nodded.

‘No, she’d had enough of men after her first husband. She just shed her married name. Why do you-?’

The shrill sound of Clare’s phone interjected. She took it out of her pocket and looked at the flashing screen. ‘Tertius Myburgh,’ she said to Riedwaan. ‘My pollen expert. I thought he’d vanished. Let me take this.’ She held the receiver to her ear and nodded a greeting at the receptionist as she entered the station.

Riedwaan followed her down the passage in a daze, his manner unusually calm.

Clare sat down at her desk and disconnected. ‘He’s got my results,’ she said, reaching for a mapbook. ‘I’m going to meet him at Dolphin Beach. It’s halfway between Walvis Bay and Swakopmund.’

‘Can you handle this on your own?’ asked Riedwaan. ‘There’s something I must do.’

‘I’ll call you when I’m back,’ said Clare, grabbing her keys. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To see your ballet-dancing divorcee,’ Riedwaan smiled. ‘Darlene Ruyters. To find out what she can tell me about centaurs and phoenixes.’

forty-eight

One kick would have ripped the newly installed chain out of the door, but Riedwaan rang the doorbell.

‘Yes?’ Darlene Ruyters opened the door a crack.

‘Captain Faizal. Police.’ Riedwaan always felt stupid holding up his badge like an American movie cop, but he did it anyway. People watched so much television these days they expected it. Darlene put out a hand for the badge before sliding back the chain and letting him in. Riedwaan stepped into the gloomy hallway. The smell of a thousand houses he had visited: the combination of yesterday’s cooking and fear.

‘Where is he, Darlene?’

Darlene’s eyes widened. ‘There’s nobody here.’ She crossed her arms. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

Pushing past her, Riedwaan went down the passage. He opened the first door, Darlene’s bedroom. Peach nylon lace and pale-green walls. A worn, shaggy carpet and a pile of teddy bears on the bed. He opened the next door: a bed, a table, a chair, a lamp. Not a thing out of place, but the windows closed, and the smell of a man in the stale air.

‘Where’s he gone?’ Riedwaan demanded.

Darlene was right behind him, her dark hair framing her pale, once-beautiful face. ‘You can see. There’s no one,’ she said, turning away, but Riedwaan caught her arm and swung her around again, light as a bird against his arm. The bruises on her wrists had faded to shadows. Riedwaan nudged her collar away from her neck. There was a livid contusion on her clavicle. He felt the back of her head. She winced. The skin there was broken.

‘Tell me where he is,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Your house guest, who left such a charming thank-you gift.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Darlene whispered. Riedwaan let her go. She swayed on her bare feet.

‘The guy who hired the car. Centaur Consulting,’ said Riedwaan. He pulled the car-hire forms out of his pocket and showed them to her. ‘Fifty-three 2nd Avenue. Your address. He hasn’t returned the car yet. Your ex- husband.’

‘Malan.’ The name twisted Darlene’s mouth as if it were poison. She slid down the wall until she was folded, small as a child, on the floor.

Riedwaan was unmoved. ‘When did he leave?’

Darlene stopped resisting, a drowning woman too tired to fight any more. ‘The day before yesterday,’ she whispered.

‘Where did he go?’ Riedwaan knelt down in front of her. He lifted her chin so that she had to look at him.

‘To cash in his pension.’ Darlene laughed, her bitterness corrosive.

‘What’re you talking about?’ said Riedwaan. ‘I’m out of time.’

‘What are you going to do? Hit me too?’ She looked him up and down. ‘I’m an expert in that area and you,’ she spat, ‘haven’t got it in you.’

‘Why did Malan come here to you?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘I don’t know. He didn’t explain. He wanted somewhere to stay. Somewhere where he wouldn’t be seen. I don’t know.’ Darlene got up slowly, the pain of movement making her wince.

‘You didn’t refuse?’

‘This is what I got without arguing.’ Darlene unbuttoned her blouse. Her delicate body was black and blue to the waist. ‘I thought, it can’t last forever. And it didn’t. He left.’

Riedwaan put out his hands and gently buttoned up her blouse again. ‘Where will I find him?’ he asked.

‘If he’s not out in the desert then I hope to God he’s gone.’

‘The desert?’

‘The sand on his boots. He made me clean them for old times’ sake. They were full of the golden dust you find further in. Fool’s gold.’

‘Why would he be back? Think, Darlene.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. But if I know them at all, I can guess.’

‘Them?’ Riedwaan took her by the shoulders. She winced again.

‘Malan. Hofmeyr.’ She waved her hand dismissively. ‘Except he’s dead now.’

‘Janus Renko?’ Riedwaan tested.

A shadow passed over Darlene’s face. ‘I haven’t heard that name in a long time.’

‘You haven’t seen him?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘Not since the South African army left, and please, God, I won’t see him again. He made my husband and Hofmeyr look like Sunday school teachers.’

Darlene took a packet out of her back pocket and fingered out a cigarette. Riedwaan held out his lighter for her.

‘What was this pension?’ he asked.

Darlene shook her head again. ‘Guess then, Darlene.

Guess.’ Riedwaan kept the urgency out of his voice. It was like coaxing a wild bird to take food from his hand.

‘I’d say it’s something to do with the weapons they worked on during the war.’

‘What?’

‘You saw all that stuff, guerrilla fighters drugged and dropped from planes. People bleeding to death after being