| |
This was where he’d first seen Theresa van Wyk. She’d been drunk. The only time he’d seen her sober was the night she died. It was here in this small shopping centre’s parking area that he decided it was time for her to die. Now it was time for him to find another one to take that Bitch’s place in hell.
He watched people come and go. Some went into the small pizza shop or walked past him through the walkway to the Spar at the back. A young woman and a little girl walked out of the flower shop with a large bunch of mixed flowers. A wild array of colours, reds, yellows and blues blended together. That harpy never had flowers in her place. A weathered-looking man sold second-hand books outside the DVD shop. His brown knitted jersey should have found its way into the trash a few years ago. A middle-aged woman walked past his passenger-side door and almost fell onto the bonnet of his patrol car in her hurry to get to the bottle store. He watched her as she stumbled through the door. He sat there watching, waiting for another five minutes.
The woman came out of the bottle store carrying a black plastic packet with the neck of a bottle of Vodka sticking out. She walked past him once again and tripped; landing on her knees and hands on the tar behind his rear left bumper. He got out, walked over to her and helped her back onto her feet.
“Are you all right?” he asked her, once she was tottering on her feet.
“Yes. I’m fine, and so’s the bottle. Now get your bloody hands off me.” Her speech was slurred, and the smell of cheap booze drifted from her mouth.
She pushed him away and stumbled across the parking area. Drivers hooted and swerved to avoid hitting her. She managed to cross Anna Wilson Street without being knocked down and buzzed herself through the green gate of her block of flats.
“I’ll see you soon,” he mumbled to himself, got back into his patrol car and drove out of the parking area.
*
THE ROOM WAS DARK. The candles, which Janet insisted on lighting whenever she came over, gave the place a softness absent during the day. The street lights and the flickering candle flames danced on the walls. Janet’s head rested on Nico’s lap while his fingers played with her hair. His thoughts kept returning to the missing silver frame and the bathroom curtain. Why did the Strangler close the curtain after he killed them? Nico tilted his head back against his old leather couch and tried to concentrate on the movie Janet wanted him to watch with her. It was some romantic movie with Julia Roberts. He got a glance of Julia Roberts’s wild red hair from under his eyelashes. She was getting old. He closed his eyes and heard Julia Roberts laugh. Her laughter turned into the Strangler’s laughter. Yep, he thought, the murdering piece of shit was probably sitting at home laughing at him because he had no idea who the killer was. But he was getting closer.
“So laugh as much as you want you bastard. I’m going to get you,” he whispered.
“What did you say?” Janet was sitting up and looking at him.
“Hmm ... what?” he asked.
“You were mumbling something about ‘going to get you’.”
“Oh ... was I? I didn’t realise I’d said that out loud.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Aren’t you supposed to be watching old Julia over there? She’s much better looking than I am.”
“I’m not exactly into women and as attractive as she may be, I much prefer looking at you.” Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him. “So? Do you want to talk about it or are you just going to mumble to yourself all night?”
“It’s this case. It’s driving me nuts. That’s all. But I’m sure Julia Roberts is far more interesting.”
“You’re not getting off the hook that easily. So spill it.”
“Are you sure you want to hear about it?”
“Abso-bloody-lutely.”
“Okay, you win,” he said and took a breath, giving him time to consider what and how much he could tell her. “This guy is one sick puppy and it’s starting to look like the Doc's profile was right about it being a cop.”
“Why are you so sure it’s a cop and why does it have to be a guy? Why can’t it be a woman?” She frowned. He loved it when she frowned like that.
“Well, for one thing, the killer has to be incredibly strong, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t know any women who are that butch. Plus when women kill, it’s not usually the way they do it. Women tend to shoot or use poison. A male wearing what could have been a police uniform was seen leaving the first victims flat. I also went back to all the murder scenes and, at each and every single one of them, the caretaker or neighbour told me a cop had been back to the scene after we had cleared it. A man: not a woman. The cop told them evidence had been left behind. So, of course, they didn’t think twice about letting him back in to retrieve it. At each scene, he took something both personal and had a small cash value. But there’s something else that’s bugging me.”
“What’s that?”
“I think he feels sorry or regrets his actions or something like that, afterwards.”
“Why do you say that?”
“After he’s killed them and posed them in the bathtub, he closes the shower curtain. Pete tells me if a rapist, for example, puts his victim’s skirt back down and covers her privates, that he feels remorse. Whereas a rapist who leaves his victim’s privates open for the world to see feels absolutely nothing about what he’s done.”
“Oh, okay. Pete probably knows what he’s talking about.”
“Yes, he does. It took him long enough to get his doctorate in psychology. Anyway, where was I?” he asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “Oh, ja ... our killer, he closes the curtain on his deed. So he still has a bit of humanity left in him, and hopefully, that little bit of humanity will get him caught. Or maybe, if I’m lucky, he’ll get stupid.”
“Interesting, but do you know what?”
“No, what?”
“You think about this guy way too much, and I know just the way to get him out of your head, for a while anyway.”
“Oh really, and how do you intend to do that?”
“Mmmm. Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said as she unzipped his pants.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Oh yes.”
She stuck her hand inside his underpants and took a firm hold of him. Her fingers were magical tentacles, touching, stroking, and making him feel things he hadn't felt since Helen. He felt himself respond to her touch. She looked up at him with a pleased grin. He took her glasses off their perch on her nose and kissed her.
“What happened to wanting to wait?”
“We’ve waited long enough.”
She bent her head down, freed him from his jeans which were getting tighter and licked the tip of his penis.
“Oh, god,” he murmured
She started sucking.
“Oh, God. You’re incredible.”
“You like that do you?” she said, looking up at him.
He pulled her head up to his face and kissed her hard. Picking her up, he carried her down the passageway to his bedroom. It was the first time he'd had a woman in his bed in a very long time. He just hoped he'd live up to her expectations and his own.
*
“OKAY BOYS AND GIRLS, settle down,” Nico said, looking at his team. He focused on each of them, finding it difficult to believe any one of them might be the man he was after. He had worked with each of them for years. He knew them all, had gone out drinking with them, braaied with them and their families. Pete's profile had to be wrong. He had to be wrong. The caretaker and the other witnesses had to be wrong.
“Dr Papenfuss has amended and improved the profile on the Bathroom Strangler. According to him, our boy has a mother fixation. In other words, for those of you who don’t speak psyche, he wants to kill his mother. He probably also killed or maimed animals when he was a kid. The fact that he kills on Sundays has to have something to do with his mother. You know, the whole thing about Sundays being a family day and all of that crap. Also, statistically speaking, people are more prone to commit suicide on Sundays. Our boy decided homicide was a much healthier way of expressing himself. And considering he kills every Sunday, we only have a couple of days to go till the next one drops. So, people, we need to get a move on. Has anyone found out anything about the piano wire that our boy uses?” Nico waited for a response. His audience looked at the floor, at the wall, everywhere except where he wanted them to look. They avoided looking at him.
“So I take it that’s a ‘no’. Would one of you wonderful people please tell me why the fuck not?”
Silence. Someone in the back of the room coughed.
“Eben,” he shouted across the room at the man guilty of coughing. “Would you be so kind as to tell me why nobody here is able to tell me the reason why the forensic team’s hard work has not been able to bear fruit?”
“Because it’s a dead end,” Eben mumbled
“What was that Eben? Please speak up. We can’t hear you.”
“I said it’s a dead end. Manufacturers aren’t able to tell us what kind of piano it comes from because it’s the same kind of wire that they use for every single type of piano that's sold in this country. Do you have any idea how many pianos there are in this country? There are a shitload, okay? So short of doing a house-to-house search of everyone in Pretoria and asking them if they have a piano with a missing E sharp or F wire, we have jack-shit. Okay?”
“Okay. Thank you, Eben, but that sounds like a fucking cop-out, and I think you should check again. While you're at it you can check sales records for names of people who have bought that type of wire, also have a look at piano tuners who have had to replace that wire for any of their clients. No wonder the people out there think we’re useless. We can’t even find out about a piece of wire. The death toll is up to five. People are scared, so watch yourselves out there. Kindly get your arses in gear and catch the mother-hating bastard. Thank you and get out.”
He watched them file out of the room. When they found the next body, he would be ready and waiting. He realised that he would have to carry out his plan alone. Not knowing who he could trust was a royal pain in the arse.
*
SUNDAY, 7 JULY
She closed one eye trying to coerce the three dotted lines to become one. That didn’t work. She decided to aim her car at the middle line and straddled it. White flashing lights winked at her in the rear-view mirror. It took her a few moments and a disembodied voice telling her to pull over before she realised that the cops were trying to get her attention. Usually, the police flashed blue lights at her, and their sirens gave her a headache. She far preferred this new way of doing it, it was less noisy.
“Shit,” she slurred, as her fuzzy mind grasped that she could be arrested again. She hid the empty bottle of vodka under her seat with shaky hands. The policeman got out of his car and slammed his door. The sound of the slamming door ricocheted around her head a few times.
She put her hands in front of her eyes trying to protect them from the bright torchlight the policeman insisted on shining in her face.
“Have you been drinking, Ma’am?” a deep voice asked her.
“No, ozzifer. I never drink on the Lord’s Day,” she said, trying not to slur her words. She sounded like a weedeater, inadvertently placing zs in all the wrong places.
“I see, ma’am. Do you normally drive in the middle of the road?” he asked her.
“Yes, osfizer, I always drive in the middle of the road. I prefer to drive that way. It makes things so much more interesting.”
“I see, ma’am. I should actually take you down to the station for driving under the influence, but the holding cells are usually full on a Sunday night. So I think I’ll drive behind you and make sure you get home safely.”
“Thank you, Ozzifer, but I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll get home just fine.”
“I’d rather make sure you get home in one piece, ma’am. I'll sleep better tonight.”
“Suit yourself, but I live just around the corner. I can make it there on my own.”
“I know, ma’am, but I’ll feel better knowing you got home safe and sound.”
“I live just over there,” she said, waving her hand in the general direction of where she lived.”
“Okay, ma’am, I’ll be right behind you.”
The bright light disappeared, and she heard the footsteps retreating. A car door slammed shut, making her cringe. It took her a few engine-grinding tries before she managed to put the gear lever into first. She straddled the dotted white line and drove at 20km/h. The steering wheel decided to go its own way once or twice, and she bounced on and off the pavement. She veered right into Anna Wilson Street, bumped onto the pavement and screeched to a halt outside the green fence of her block. The complex was three different blocks of flats, each three storeys high.
She climbed out of her car on unsteady legs. He caught her when she stumbled and helped her to her feet. She fumbled through her oversized handbag for the remote control for the gate. She hated that remote. It was never where she put it. It always hid from her. Her trembling fingers found the remote. She dropped it. He picked it up. The gate wheels squeaked on their tracks as they opened. She stumbled once again and fell to her knees. She tasted vodka and bile. Her non-existent stomach muscles tensed as she heaved. Her mouth opened: it felt as though her jaw would dislocate as the hot liquid poured out of her open mouth onto the pavement.
She felt his strong hands grip her around her waist and help her to her feet once again. He half-carried her through the open gate, leaving her car on the pavement. She didn't remember locking the car door. He pushed open the wooden door to the second block and helped her inside. She tasted bile and heaved. They made it to the pot plant in the entrance hall just in time.
“Oh well,” he said. “The plant won’t need any other nutrients for a while.”
He propped her up against the wall and waited for the lift to take them to the third floor.
The lift rattled all the way up. On several occasions, she thought she would lose what was left of her stomach. Her jaw hurt and her throat burned. She felt like she was dying. Never again, she swore, would she do this to herself. A whole bottle of vodka in one sitting was not a good idea. If she didn’t die of alcohol poisoning tonight, she promised herself she would never touch the stuff ever again. She just had to get through tonight.
She felt the lift come to a jolting stop, which sent what was left of her stomach up her throat. His hands gripped her fleshy arms, and she was moving once again.
“What number?” he asked.
“Number thirteen.” She heard a strange voice reply. The voice sounded like hers, but she couldn’t be sure. The bile rose again, but she managed to swallow it. It tasted of acid and vodka.
“Almost there,” he said. “Just keep it in for a little bit longer.”
She felt the brick wall beneath her fingers as he leaned her against the wall at her front door. She heard the bell-like jingle of keys. She floated and then hit the floor with a thump. He left her on the floor while he fiddled with the keys, trying to find the right one for her front door. Her shoes, which were too big for her, slipped off her feet. The door creaked open. She felt his strong hands grab her and pick her up again.
The familiar smell of home wafted up her nostrils. She felt her carpet beneath her feet and wondered what had happened to her shoes. He let go of her, and she found herself once again on her hands and knees.
“Where’s your bathroom?” he asked her, his voice was distant, and she had trouble deciding where it was coming from.
“Down the passage. Somewhere over there.” She flailed her right arm about, pointing to the left. She started to gag and heave. She was sure there wasn’t anything left in her stomach to throw up. She crawled down the dark, narrow passage towards her bathroom. Muffled footsteps followed her, and she tried to crawl faster. The footsteps still followed her. The tiled floor was cold on her naked knees. She felt her way in the dark towards the toilet. The tiles felt gritty beneath her fingertips. The base of the toilet was wet and sticky. The smell of stale urine wafted up her nostrils, and she couldn’t hold it any longer. She managed to lift the toilet seat in time for the rest of her stomach to leave her body. The light had been switched on, and she wondered how that had happened.
She rested her head on the toilet seat and waited patiently for the next wave to hit her. The room turned slowly. Putting her hand flat on the floor, she tried to stop it from spinning out of control. She felt the man’s presence behind her and closed her eyes. The toilet seat felt cold against her hot cheek. It was strangely comforting.
A shadow passed over her, and she opened her left eye a fraction. He loomed over her and was fuzzy around the edges. She tried to focus but gave up and closed her eye again. Something rough and sharp bit into her throat. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to get a grip on it and pull it away. It pulled tighter. She tried to stand up but felt something push her back.
“Breathe, I need to breathe.” She tried to suck in some air. It never made it to her lungs. She had nothing left inside her. She let go and slipped away.