Poison City (13 page)

Parker frowns. ‘A hand?’

‘Yes. Look inside. See those furrows at the top of the lungs? Nail markings.’

‘Are we talking claws?’ I ask.

Jaeger taps the pen against her teeth. ‘I wouldn’t think so. The furrows are too wide. But whatever caused this injury is phenomenally strong. There are no probing wounds. This was one confident strike, scoop out what you want, and bye bye vic.’

I nod, take a deep breath, then turn to face Armitage.

Jaeger starts to pull the sheet down, but I stop her when it gets to her neck. I don’t need to see the wound. Don’t need to see her unclothed. Let her have some dignity.

I stare down into the pale face of a person who used to be my friend.

Blood spray covers her neck and chin. At least her head is still attached. The killer didn’t feel the need to decapitate her. Probably because she wasn’t a vampire.

‘What were you doing, you stupid cow?’ I whisper.

‘She seemed . . . agitated. Excited,’ says Jaeger.

‘What?’ I look up, confused. ‘When?’

‘Last night. She wanted me to get started on the ramanga’s post-mortem straight away. She stayed to watch.’

‘She was here? After hours?’

Jaeger nods.

‘When did she get excited?’ asks Parker.

‘When we emptied the contents of the victim’s stomach.’

‘What was in it?’

‘Goat. Salad leaves. Beer. And a coin.’

‘A coin?’

Jaeger nods. ‘An old-fashioned one. She took it with her when she left. This was about nine o’ clock.’

Right when Armitage first tried to call me.

‘Where are her possessions?’

Jaeger nods at a stainless steel table behind me. A clear plastic evidence bag sits in a tray. I open it up and tip the contents out. A box of cherry cigars. Her old pocket watch. (Really, who uses a pocket watch? What a poser.) Her purse. I open it up and look inside. Some money, business cards, a shopping list (Washing powder. Cake. Socks. Condoms – multi-pack. Massage oil.) I grin and shake my head, imagining her walking up to the checkout with those items in her basket.

I turn to Jaeger. ‘Where’s the coin?’

Jaeger points to a second metal tray on her desk.

I pick it up and examine it. It’s not really a coin. It looks more like a token of some sort. Like the sort you used to get at games arcades. But Jaeger’s right. It’s old.

‘Why is it in the tray?’ asks Parker, peering over my shoulder. ‘Why not with her possessions?’

‘Because it was in her stomach,’ says Jaeger.

I look at her. ‘In
her
stomach?’

Jaeger nods.

‘So . . . the killer made Armitage and Jengo swallow it before killing them?’ says Parker.

‘No. That’s a different coin.’

I frown, confused. ‘So . . . you find a coin in Jengo’s stomach. Armitage takes it, disappears somewhere, then she turns up dead with the same type of coin in
her
stomach?’

Jaeger nods.

‘And you’re sure they’re different?’ asks Parker.

Jaeger goes to her desk and picks up a photograph. She shows it to me. It’s similar, but the two are clearly different. The patina and colouring are distinct.

‘So the killer forces them into the victims’ mouths?’

‘Or Jengo and Armitage both swallowed them voluntarily,’ says Parker.

‘Why would they do that?’

She thinks about it. ‘To hide them from their killer?’

I study the coin again, but it still doesn’t reveal any secrets. ‘Can I take it?’

Jaeger point to an itemized list on her desk. ‘Sign it out first.’

I check the list and sign my name against ‘Stomach contents: coin – unmarked’.

‘What do we do with the body?’ asks Jaeger.

‘Keep it here. I don’t think she has any next of kin, but I’ll look into it.’

Jaeger nods. ‘Have you had a chance to look at the footage yet?’

‘What footage?’

‘From the kraal. We think the Chief’s CCTV picked up the perp.’

I stare at her, eyes wide with shock. ‘You’re kidding me. We have footage of the killer?’

‘Possibly. Not sure if it’s him or not. I uploaded it to the server couple of hours ago.’

I hurry back to my desk and log in to the Division intranet. I find Jaeger’s file and open it. Parker peers over my shoulder.

Four different images flicker to life. Different angles from the Chief’s cameras. Jaeger has trimmed them down to the exact point where the suspect comes into view.

My breath catches in my throat. My skin goes cold, prickling. Hair standing on end. Like seeing a ghost in an empty window smiling at you.

I stare at the image before me, my mind catching up with what I’m seeing. It . . . it can’t be. Can it?

I rewind the footage and freeze it. My heart is hammering erratically. I feel dizzy as I stare at the screen.

At the face of Armitage’s murderer.

At the face of the big man from the mountains. The guy with the shaved head and beard who ran out the back way with the other perp.

It’s him.

One of the people responsible for Cally’s death.

Chapter 7

Seven-thirty that night and I’m walking along the esplanade.

The cicadas are out, hiding in the trees along the sidewalk, their shrill shrieks a summer chorus as the sun drops behind the tankers and container ships queuing up on the horizon.

I pass a guy pushing a mobile ice cream fridge along the street. He nods at me, eyebrows raised. I usually buy a Cornetto from him but tonight I shake my head. I need something stronger. I need to sit down. Stop moving so my brain can catch up with everything that’s happened.

My heart is still hammering. I’m excited. Nervous. Terrified. This is the first real lead I’ve ever had. The first clue that the man actually exists. That he wasn’t a figment of my own imagination. (Because believe me, it’s something I’ve considered every day since that night in the mountains.)

I’ve already printed a copy of the perp’s face and circulated it to all the law enforcement agencies throughout the country, marking it as highest priority.

Never mind wondering how he connects with the ramanga, what his motive is for killing him. I’ll figure that out later. (I know why he killed Armitage. She got too close.) Right now I just have to focus on catching him. Making him talk.

Making him tell me where Cally’s body is buried.

After that I can get him for Armitage. For the ramanga. But Cally comes first.

The Cellar is a pub that was built below street level. Hence the incredibly original name. I hurry down the stairs and shove the reinforced door open. My feet immediately stick to the linoleum, and that’s about as classy as you’re going to get in the Cellar.

A pool table takes up the space to my left. An old jukebox straight ahead, one that still plays records. Booths around the walls to give the drinkers their privacy. Old movie posters hang on the walls.
Plan 9 from Outer Space. The Maltese Falcon. Metropolis
. That kind of thing.

Charlie is leaning against the bar that runs along the wall to my right. Charlie is a retired cop. Bald, with a trimmed grey beard. His face is weathered, lined and creased by the wind. He goes surfing every morning. Apparently he’s out in the water from sunup to midday. Crazy bastard.

He’s chatting to Mick, the old guy with one leg who I suspect actually lives here. He has a little dog that never leaves his side. Some kind of Jack Russell hybrid. It sits on the stool next to him, looking between Mick and Charlie like he’s following the conversation.

The rest of the pub is empty.

‘London Town,’ says Charlie. ‘Back again?’

‘Charlie.’ I nod at Mick, and, before I can stop myself, at the dog. ‘Glenmorangie. Double.’

Charlie pours the drink and slides it to me. No ice. No water. Just as God intended. Down in one go.

He raises his eyebrows. ‘Rough day?’

I gesture for a refill, which he does without any more questions. That’s why I like it here. It’s never full, and no one talks to you when you don’t want to talk.

I take my drink to a booth with a torn
Blade Runner
poster hanging above it. I slide in and stare at the TV mounted above the bar. The sound is down and some soccer game is playing. I sip my drink this time, letting my brain do its own thing. Not trying to pin anything down. Not yet. I don’t have nearly enough information to make any deductions. I know from past experience that it’s best just to stay out of my brain’s way for a few hours.

After the third double whisky I’m feeling maudlin. Armitage was such a huge part of my life over the past five years I’m finding it hard to accept I can’t just pick up the phone and call her.

I stare at my phone, sitting in a little puddle of sticky . . . 
something
on the counter.

It’s the suddenness that always gets me. That instantaneous severing of life. And everyone is supposed to just . . . adapt. Immediately. It makes you think in clichés. Life is short. You never know what’s around the corner, live each day like it’s your last, yadda-yadda-yadda.

But I’m feeling even worse because my grief is mixed with hope. A combination that feels . . . wrong. Hope is something I haven’t experienced in a long time. But I felt it flicker to reluctant life when I stared at that bearded face on my computer monitor.

Could this be it? Am I finally going to find him?

I pick up the phone and scroll to Becca’s number. I haven’t called her in . . . what? A year? Not my choice. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. Wants to move on with her life. To not live in the past. But . . . this is big. This is something, isn’t it?

My finger hovers over the call button. I stare at her name on the screen, take another sip of my Glenmorangie. I let the peaty taste swirl around my tongue, and a moment later the phone is dialling and I’m not sure if I hit the button accidentally or not.

She picks up after three rings. ‘Hello?’

She sounds the same, which is a weird thought to have. Why wouldn’t she sound the same?

I hesitate.

‘Hello?’

Why isn’t she saying my name? She should have my name programmed into her phone, right?

Unless she’s deleted me from her address book.

I lick my lips. ‘Becca?’

A pause. ‘Gideon?’

‘Yeah. . . .’

Silence. I swallow nervously. ‘How are you?’ I ask.

‘How am . . . ?’ I can almost see the incredulity on her face. That look of amazed wonder at the stupidity of some people. ‘What do you want — has something happened?’

Yeah, you could say that. I open my mouth to tell her. But then I freeze. What am I going to say? That I saw a grainy image of one of the men involved in the murder of our daughter? Then what?

‘No – yeah . . . It’s not . . .’ I sigh. ‘I . . . just wanted to hear your voice.’

‘Goodbye, Gideon.’

‘Becca—’

She hangs up.

I stare at my phone. And
that
is why I’m supposed to leave it with the dog. No good comes from having access to comms when you’re feeling the way I do.

It’s about ten o’ clock now. The bar has filled up a bit. Charlie’s wife, Sandra, has come down to help out from their flat above the pub. I say help out, but Sandra is sitting on this side of the bar with a glass in her hand as she chats to Charlie. They burst out laughing at something and I feel a twinge of jealousy. I want that. I want the easy understanding that comes from knowing someone completely. That feeling of companionship. Did I ever have it with Becca? I can’t remember. We had good times, sure. We loved each other. But there were problems there as well. Problems that were starting to outweigh the positives even before . . . before Cally went missing.

I sigh. No point in hanging around here anymore. Any more drinks and I’ll be on the other side of the buzz line.

Maybe the best thing would be bed. Look at all the evidence tomorrow with the team. Write everything up on the board and start searching for connections, points of convergence, that kind of thing. I don’t feel like it’s a real case until we start sticking photographs on the board, drawing in links and theories with our markers.

I step out into the humid night air. I can hear the waves from here, a whispered susurration, a gentle reminder of the tide of life.

Christ, the tide of life? Maybe I’m already on the other side of the buzz line.

I climb the steps to street level and start walking the half kay back to my flat.

I’m still a couple hundred metres from home when I realise I’m being followed.

The street is alive with traffic. Young kids heading to the clubs and pubs along the beachfront, an older couple heading home after supper, the beggars and the homeless who call the sidewalks their home. Cars drive past, honking at the girls. Taxis too, always the taxis, kwaito music blaring from the huge speakers in the backs, the bass actually vibrating windows in the flats as they drive past.