Like Clockwork

match.’

Riedwaan stood close by, listening to Mouton. He was a fussy, shy man and he muttered away to himself while he worked a crime scene. Riedwaan had long since learned to stick close and glean everything he could.

‘Look here.’ Mouton swabbed a streak on her stomach, ‘Could be semen.’ There was some of the same substance on the skirt too. He collected and labelled it.

Mouton was satisfied that he had enough photographs now. He told Riaan, and the photographer packed his bags and was circling Rita Mkhize before Mouton could close his clipboard.

‘She wasn’t killed here, Riedwaan. I’ll check during the postmortem but I would say she was killed somewhere else and dumped here.’

‘How long has she been dead, Doc?’

Mouton put his head on one side. The girl was cold and stiff. ‘Hard to say until I do the temp with a body probe. But at a guess I’d say between eight and thirty-six hours. I don’t think more than that. Once I start with the post- mortem, I’ll also be able to give you a better idea about when she was moved.’

Mouton picked up the girl’s hand and took a scrape from under her fingernails. He did a vaginal swab, too, bagging both of these and handing them to Riedwaan.

‘Did you have to do that here, Doc?’

Mouton pulled the girl’s short skirt down. ‘Man, you are getting soft. It’s hard to argue with evidence that’s gathered before the body has been moved. Whoever did this to her took her dignity with her life. Don’t you lose those, you fucker. You take that straight to the lab at Delft. And make them sign for it in their own blood.’

Riedwaan did not answer. He had seen enough rapists laugh into their victim’s faces as they walked free. It just took one break in the chain of evidence – be it specimen or statement – and a clever defence lawyer would have a paedophile waiting for his little girl of choice by tea break. There was no way that this evidence would be out of his sight for one second.

Mouton leaned in close and looked at the slash across her throat. ‘This is very high up,’ he said. ‘It’s like he was trying to cut out her tongue. Like he wanted to do a Colombian Necktie, but didn’t have the strength. Very sharp blade that he used, very sharp. Maybe a scalpel.’

‘Look at her eyes, Doc. Surely she hasn’t been dead long enough for that to happen,’ said Riedwaan. The girl’s eyes had sunken in. Mouton reached over and lifted an eyelid.

‘Ja,’ he said, ‘he cut her.’ He pointed to the incisions that formed a cross on the cornea. ‘The eyeball is just a ball of gel. Make a hole in it like this guy did, and the eyeball will collapse.’

‘When was she mutilated?’

‘The hand while she was alive. You can see it from the crusted blood. Her throat – that was done after she died. Look here, there is no blood to speak of.’

‘The eyes?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘Just before she died. Maybe as he killed her.’

Riedwaan shivered. ‘I hate to imagine what she saw that needed to be removed so viciously.’

The mortuary van arrived. The mortuary technicians brought their stretcher around to pick her up. ‘You ready, Doc?’ asked the driver. Mouton nodded. The assistant was hardly older than the murdered girl. The boy struggled to stop his hands from shaking as he lifted her body. Mouton looked at the place where she had lain, but it had not been there long enough for any fluids to seep out.

‘You coming to the post-mortem?’ asked Mouton.

‘You’re doing it right now?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘Ja,’ said Mouton. ‘I’ve got a feeling this is going to get hot.’ He looked back at the van. ‘I don’t think she’s going to be your last either. I worked on the PMs when they were looking for that killer who was into bondage in KwaZulu-Natal. That girl didn’t look like a once-off to me.’

‘Don’t jump to conclusions, Doc. They can lead you astray.’

The pathologist gave him a withering look. ‘Are you coming or not?’

‘Ja, I’ll be there. I’ve just got to drop this stuff off at the lab. I’ll be with you in an hour.’ Riedwaan walked with Mouton to his car. ‘Can I bring someone?’

‘Who?’ asked Mouton.

‘Clare Hart. I’m thinking of getting her to do the profile for me. If you’re right then we’ll need one. She’s worked with me before.’

Mouton put his hand on Riedwaan’s shoulder. ‘That’s a strange way to pull women, Riedwaan, even for you. But if she’s not in the police force, no way. You can tell her everything later. You can show her all the pictures if you can persuade her to go to dinner with you. But nobody who doesn’t need to be there gets to watch my show.’ Mouton opened his car and wedged his stomach behind the wheel. ‘Jesus, man, I’ve got to lose some weight.’

‘I’ll see you back at the station,’ Riedwaan called to Frikkie Bester, who pretended not to hear. Riedwaan shrugged. Not much he could do about trampled egos even if he had wanted to. He climbed into his own car, putting the swabs and samples down as if they were Ming porcelain. It was a pity Clare couldn’t be at the PM but there was no way he would get Mouton to change his mind. He headed for the lab in Delft and handed over the samples. He was glad it was Anna Scheepers who took the case. She was meticulous about her evidence and brilliant in court. Riedwaan had seen her impale enough lawyers, lulled into complacency by the volume of her hair and the length of her legs, with her expertise in the arcane science of DNA testing.

On the way there he called Clare. She didn’t answer, but he left a message asking if she would profile for him. She was the best there was. And he knew that he wanted an excuse to see her. Maybe this time he would fuck up less badly.

By the time Riedwaan headed for the northern suburbs hospital where Mouton presided like Orpheus in his basement laboratory, the last of the morning traffic had dribbled off the highways and his way was clear, delivering him to his destination sooner than he would have wished.

Riedwaan was not looking forward to the rest of the morning. Mouton supervised swarms of students, and they would be in full swing on the other trolleys while Mouton dissected ‘his’ girl. Mouton had phoned the ballistics experts and two of them were standing around discussing blades and angles, waiting for Mouton to get to the neck vertebrae to see what the marks on those delicate bones would tell them.

4

Riedwaan arrived back at the station late in the morning. He was about to sit down when Rita Mkhize put her head around the door.

‘Superintendent Phiri wants to see you, Captain Faizal. He’s in his office.’

‘Thanks, Rita,’ said Riedwaan. He felt her eyes on his back as he walked down the corridor towards Phiri’s office. He was wondering why he was being summoned. He knocked on the door.

‘Enter!’ His commanding officer’s affected military air never failed to irritate him. Phiri’s desk was compulsively tidy. Riedwaan thought of his own warren of papers, files and dirty cups and was relieved that Phiri had not sought him out there.

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ asked Riedwaan.

Phiri pointed to a chair. ‘Sit down, Faizal.’ Riedwaan sat and waited, the autopsy report clutched to his chest. ‘How did it go with Frikkie Bester?’ he asked.

‘Thanks for phoning him, sir,’ said Riedwaan. ‘I don’t think that he is too happy about me taking over. But he was okay. He didn’t klap me, at least.’

Phiri put his arms on his desk and leaned towards Riedwaan. ‘We go back a long way, don’t we, Faizal?’ Riedwaan nodded. ‘I’m giving you a second chance here, so don’t fuck it up. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Riedwaan. Phiri eyed him. Riedwaan thought he was going to say something more, but he didn’t. Instead he held his hand out for the preliminary autopsy report. Riedwaan handed it over, summarising Piet Mouton’s preliminary findings. ‘The scene was too carefully arranged for it to be a random killing. It doesn’t look as if she was raped, or even that she’d had intercourse recently. No boyfriend, as far as we know. She was missing since Friday but Piet is pretty sure she died on Monday night – about twelve or so hours before she was found. We know she wasn’t killed there. Someone took a big risk leaving her where he did.’