The Serpentine Road (7 page)

‘He said “no”?’ De Vries says.

Don looks at him. ‘He said “no”.’

‘I thought so.’

At Katy’s Bowl in Kloof Street, they pick up sandwiches and cold drinks, slide across town from the café to St Jerome Street, park fifty metres down from St Jerome’s Chapel and Hall. They eat in a silence De Vries appreciates; it is his Warrant Officer’s ability to say nothing that he cherishes. He considers the interviews with Dominic van der Merwe and Lee Martin, realizes that they have defined Taryn Holt more vividly than any number of reports. This is why he personally interviews everyone close to the victim; answers always lie in these interactions.

The hall adjoining the chapel is dark, the wooden doors locked. De Vries leads Don to the entrance porch of the chapel itself. As he pulls open the Gothic arch door, blue frankincense smoke floats past them and into the street.

The small interior is unlit, but for the pale coloured light from the dusty stained-glass panels set into the small, deep window holes, and the Virgin Mary surrounded by candles. The statue seems to hover in the smoke, the haloed candle flames burning points of light in the damp, heavy air. De Vries, who has not been in a church for many years, now finds himself in a second one within the hour. He innately mistrusts peddled stories, prides himself on knowing a liar; he has never heard one word from a pulpit in which he has faith. At least it is cool here.

To the right of the altar, a door opens and a priest appears, straight white hair cut crudely above the collar, and bustles down the aisle toward them. Halfway down, he slows, narrows his eyes.

‘What do you want?’

De Vries holds up his ID. The man stops and announces from afar:

‘I’ve spoken to you people already. Our action was legal and just. I have nothing further to say.’

The tone is flat. It annoys De Vries.

‘Taryn Holt is dead.’

De Vries senses his words travel through thick air, sees the priest recoil.

‘Dead?’

‘That is why we must speak with you.’

The priest walks slowly towards them, gestures to what looks like a school table and chairs in the corner at the back of the church. He sits first and waits for De Vries and Don to follow him.

De Vries says: ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Father Jacobus.’

He hears the priest’s voice echo around the small chapel, made cold by the damp, thick air. He lowers his voice.

‘You work here alone?’

‘Apart from the lay volunteers, yes.’

‘Did you know Taryn Holt personally? Before you were involved in the demonstration outside her gallery?’

The priest folds his fingers together and stares upwards.

‘I did not.’

De Vries pauses, eager to hear what the priest might ask, but the man says nothing, his expression locked.

‘Had you met her?’

‘Last Monday. I visited her with representatives of the women’s group who are based in the hall.’

‘Where?’

‘At her gallery. On Tuesday, at her home.’

‘For what reason?’

‘To demand that she cancel her revolting exhibition. To remove the offensive canvas from her shop window.’

‘You found it offensive?’

Father Jacobus breathes in deeply.

‘It is offensive.’

De Vries stares at him, scrutinizes the certainty in his expression. De Vries lives in a world of evidence and fact; he finds dogma inexplicable.

‘What was Miss Holt’s response?’

‘Freedom of expression, human rights, artistic license. Pornography comes in many guises, and boasts myriad defenders.’

‘This is artwork, sir. Paint on canvas. You can turn away if you do not like the subject.’

Jacobus leans forward.

‘It is not always easy to turn away from evil. You should know that.’

De Vries stares at him a moment, smiles in the right-hand corner of his mouth.

‘We have been told that the pictures were painted by a female artist, protesting against the mistreatment of women in Africa. Is that pornography?’

‘The treatment of women is exaggerated. If you see what these African women who claim to be raped are wearing. Most are prostitutes or, if not, they are seeking sexual pleasure.’ He flicks his wrist, dismissing the matter. ‘In any case, the process behind the pictures is irrelevant; the images are an affront to God, disturbing to children and to all impressionable minds.’

De Vries finds Jacobus hubristic and pompous but represses the urge to challenge him, knows that he must not become distracted.

‘Why did you speak with her twice?’

‘I wanted to lodge a final plea. I went to her home, hoping that, alone, she might see reason . . .’ He stares past De Vries, into the dark, small cavern of his church.

‘Did you threaten Miss Holt?’

‘Threaten? We do not threaten.’

De Vries raises his eyebrows. Jacobus continues:

‘We explained that we would picket the gallery, attend the opening from the street, that our vigil would not be broken. That is what we did. Ours was a peaceful protest.’

‘Apart from you and members of this women’s group, who else demonstrated?’

‘A few I did not recognize . . .’

‘And did you hear threats or intimidation?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see who threw the brick which broke one of the gallery’s windows?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see or speak to Miss Holt after talking with her at her home?’

‘No.’

De Vries follows Jacobus’s skewed focus, sees Don scrutinizing him.

‘Did she invite you into her house?’

‘She did. I did not sit. My reasoned request was quickly denied. I left.’

‘You didn’t return at a later stage?’

‘That would have served no purpose.’

‘How did you travel to visit her?’

Jacobus looks up.

‘What do you mean?’

‘How did you get to her house? Did you drive?’

‘I walked.’

‘From here?’

Jacobus nods. De Vries wonders how far from Taryn Holt’s house they might be now, wonders how much higher Jacobus would have had to climb. It seems a strange lie to tell.

‘This women’s group: it is part of this church?’

‘Some of their members worship here. Others not. I provide moral and spiritual guidance to those in need.’

‘They attended these demonstrations as individuals or as a group?’

‘Four women run the group. They were offended by those paintings and appalled that anyone could walk in off the street to view them. Those who chose to join them did so.’

‘When does this group meet?’

‘Every week day. From 2 p.m. One of the conveners will open up the hall . . .’ He reaches inside his robes and produces a small, gold pocket watch. ‘Any minute now.’

‘You didn’t see Taryn Holt again after your meeting?’

‘That woman lacked a moral compass; she showed no respect for her fellow human beings. We reached out to her but she spurned us . . .’

‘No, then?’

‘No.’

De Vries waits, but the priest says nothing more.

‘Where were you last night between 10 p.m. and 4 a.m.?’

‘You ask me that?’

‘I ask anyone who might be a suspect that question.’

‘Do you people understand who I am; who I represent?’

De Vries leans over the table at the priest.

‘If you think that because you work in here, you wear dark clothes and pray to a god I do not believe in, that somehow exempts you from suspicion, you are wrong. Answer my question, Father Jacobus.’

De Vries observes contempt and anger in the man’s face; he smiles inwardly.

‘I was at prayer here until 10.30 p.m. I locked the church and returned to my home, four houses along the road. That is my ritual, every day.’

‘And you didn’t leave your home?’

‘No.’

‘Can anyone verify that?’

Jacobus sneers at him.

‘Obviously not.’

De Vries nods, glances over his shoulder; Don February stands still and silent. He gets up and, without acknowledging the priest, lets himself out through the church door. When Don joins him on the street, he says:

‘You see why I don’t like these people, Don?’

‘I understand you do not have faith . . .’

‘We tell that man of god that Taryn Holt is dead and he asks us nothing. Instead, we have to listen to his opinion.’ He begins to walk away down the street, arms swinging; turns back: ‘He talks about morality, but these people, Don, these people, they fucking revolt me. Doesn’t matter which fucking religion it is. They always know best and it’s not enough for them to live their own lives the way they believe, they have to make others do the same, and if we don’t we’re condemned.’

Don says: ‘He is in denial about the problems in our country.’

‘I think he lied about walking to Taryn Holt’s house.’

Don says quietly: ‘I think he lied later too.’

De Vries walks up to him, his face close to Don’s.

‘When?’

Don takes a step back. Amidst his boss’s mood changes, he protects his own territory. He has learnt that this is the way to operate.

‘When he said that he had not heard any threats; when he did not know who had thrown the brick at the gallery.’

De Vries nods minutely.

‘You did not see this, sir?’

‘I wasn’t watching as I should. I was too busy disliking him.’

Taryn Holt’s body is uncovered, five entry wounds on her torso, the holes clean and dark and deep. Her mouth is open, empty.

Doctor Anna Jafari says: ‘You can see everything there is. Five shots. No defensive wounds, no sign of movement or molestation post-mortem. She was shot where she was found, fell backwards probably from the impact of the first shot, and then shot a further four times.’

De Vries sees two holes on the left side of her chest, a third on the right side, the final two lower on her abdomen.

‘Unless toxicology produce something, cause of death is simple and obvious. There is no alien material about her person. She had bathed earlier in the evening.’

‘Can you narrow the time of death?’

‘I will state that it occurred between 11 p.m. on Thursday evening and 1 a.m. on Friday morning. I can’t be more specific.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because there are extenuating factors and, considering our professional history, Colonel de Vries, if I am required to testify in court, I would be unhappy moving to a narrower time-frame.’

‘But, if it was off the record, would you favour the earlier or later time?’

‘I would favour what I have just told you.’

De Vries sighs.

‘What about what was in her mouth.’

‘I extracted it and sent it to Dr Ulton in the laboratory here. It was inserted post-mortem, almost certainly within minutes of her death, since the throat constricts quickly post-mortem, and there was no sign of force or trauma.’

‘What was it?’

Anna Jafari looks at him blankly.

‘Twenty-four centimetres.’

De Vries gags on a smart line, stays silent.

‘But I have not finished with the bullet wounds. The weapon was a nine millimetre; Dr Ulton has identified the bullets and suspects that they were shot from a Beretta, fitted with what seems to be the standard silencer. It is not clear whether she was standing when she was first hit, but it is certain that each shot was taken at a different range . . .’

‘The shooter approached her firing?’

Jafari hesitates.

‘That is a possible explanation. Perhaps I can explain?’ She produces a silver ballpoint pen, points at the five entry wounds in turn. ‘This shot is from the furthest range, probably about six metres. From the killer’s point of view, it is perfect. This shot punctured the heart and caused it to explode. Death would have been instantaneous. This is the shot responsible for most of the scattered matter discovered at the scene. It is possible that she had expired seconds previously, but it would be reasonable to assume that this was the kill shot, the cause of death.’ She leans forward and points at the shot on the other side of her chest. ‘This shot was taken at approximately four metres from the victim. This one from perhaps three metres, this at two metres and, this final shot . . .’ She indicates the entry hole just to the right of the likely kill wound. ‘This entry wound suggests that the shot was taken at virtually point-blank range, perhaps thirty centimetres – you can see scorching at the perimeter of the entry wound.’

De Vries stares at the fluorescent tube above the table, lets the image go out of focus.

‘The killer shoots her from six metres out – which puts him in the doorway to her bedroom . . . Then he moves towards her, shoots four further times . . .’ He looks up, turns to Don February. ‘I can see that.’

Don says: ‘Why fire four further times when your first shot is fatal?’

De Vries shrugs.

‘Perhaps you don’t know for certain . . . ?’

‘Doctor Jafari,’ Don says, bowing minutely at the pathologist, ‘told us that her heart exploded, that there was blood and organ matter exploding from her body. She would have gone down instantly.’

‘If you are angry, you keep shooting . . .’

‘You are assuming,’ Jafari interrupts, ‘that the shot from the fur-thest range was the first. It is possible that the killer was walking away from his victim.’

De Vries turns to Don February and back to her.

‘Why?’

‘It’s not my job to speculate, Colonel. But, to me, it is a mistake not to consider all possibilities unless excluded by the evidence. All five shots were taken within a very few seconds, but it is unproven which shot was first.’

Don says: ‘Maybe the killer crept into her room, saw her sleeping but, when he saw her waking up, began to shoot while retreating . . . ?’

‘No,’ De Vries says quickly. ‘We think that she was standing at the end of her bed, perhaps sitting, but shot where she was. She wasn’t
in
bed, and she wasn’t sleeping.’ He looks up at the pathologist, continues dryly: ‘With respect to Doctor Jafari, it may not be proven, but we can say that it is very likely that the killer approached as he shot.’

Jafari blinks slowly.

‘I will conclude my report. Doctor Ulton’s team may choose to attempt a sequence with trajectory information. That is not my concern.’