Blood Rose

sixteen

Karamata was finishing his coffee in Tamar’s office when Clare got back to the police station. ‘Are you ready to see the sights?’ he asked. He was scheduled to take Clare to the dump site where Nicanor Jones was found.

‘I’m ready. Are you coming, Tamar?’ asked Clare.

Tamar shook her head. ‘I am still going through all the ship logs to see if there’s any pattern with which ships were in and these murders.’ She leant back on her yellow couch. She looked so slight, despite her pregnancy.

‘Find anything yet?’

‘Not much. The Russian ships, of course. The Alhantra’s been in all the time. Ragnar Johansson’s the skipper. You know him, I think.’

‘I do,’ said Clare. ‘From the last time I was here.’ She couldn’t read Tamar’s expression.

‘There’ve been a couple of others, but there’s no consistency,’ said Tamar. ‘I need to do a few more checks. I’ll catch you later.’

Clare picked up her files and followed Karamata to the Land Cruiser. He opened the door for her, before heaving himself into the driver’s seat.

Karamata took the road past the lagoon, but soon turned off onto a dusty track. Clare opened Nicanor Jones’s file. A class photograph, taken several years earlier, was stuck in the front. A little boy with shiny eyes and a wide mouth smiled up at her, frozen in his last recording of an official moment. In the next picture, his eyes were hollows and the white cheekbones shone through. There was one of his torso. It was bloody, the skin on the bony chest torn away. Clare looked away.

‘Not pretty,’ said Karamata.

‘No,’ said Clare.

Karamata turned right, into pure sand. The wheels held and the Land Cruiser topped the dune. Hidden below at the foot of the dune lay a scavenger’s paradise.

‘That is where I found him.’ Karamata pointed to the rusting razor wire looped along the edge of the dump. He pulled out a panoramic shot and held it up. The composition foregrounded the boy’s limp body, giving perspective to the vast expanse of the sand.

From their vantage point, Clare could see the road that led back to town, the lagoon and the harbour beyond it. ‘On this side of the fence?’ she asked.

‘Yes. He had been tied to that pole.’ Karamata pointed to a sturdy log that held the swags of razor wire in place.

‘Whoever dumped him didn’t come through the dump then. If he’d gone through that wire, alive or dead, it would’ve lacerated him. Whoever dumped him must’ve come across the sand. You didn’t see any tracks?’

‘I didn’t,’ said Karamata. ‘But the wind had been blowing, so anything would’ve been covered with sand.’

It was as sparse a crime scene as the schoolyard, according to the docket. ‘He wasn’t killed here, was he?’

‘No,’ said Karamata. ‘He’d been dead five days when he was found.’

Clare pictured the shrine she and Tamar had made to the child full of woe, Wednesday’s Child. That made the time of death Friday, the same as Kaiser Apollis. She looked at the autopsy pictures again. The mutilation was the work of human hands. So where was he? Why keep his body away from scavengers? When was he put here?

Clare looked over the unforgiving sand and rock. It made no sense, the risky display, the complications of transporting a corpse several days dead, the exhibition in a public place. Or was it intended that children see it? A warning of sorts, like Shipanga had said.

‘The body must’ve been in full view of where the waste-pickers sleep,’ she observed.

‘They say they saw nothing and heard nothing,’ said Karamata. ‘They certainly said nothing.’

A blue dump truck moved along the black ribbon of tar. It lumbered past a windowless brick building then onto a weigh-bridge. A man with a clipboard took note of the number plates and weight before waving the truck on.

‘George Meyer. The boss.’ Karamata cut the engine. ‘That’s his incinerator.’ The chimney, dark against the grey sky, spiralled smoke into the still air. It drifted towards the town.

‘So much easier to just burn a body,’ Clare said, half to herself.

‘You’d think so,’ said Karamata, ‘but you’d have to get it past George first. He’s very German about his record-keeping!’

‘His movements have been checked, I suppose?’

‘We spoke to him,’ said Karamata. ‘He was at home all weekend. Him and that funny little boy of his, Oscar.’

The truck stopped in the middle of the dump site. Scrawny supplicants emerged from the heaps of waste and swarmed around the vehicle, heads bowed, hands lifted. The driver jumped out and walked over to the foreman standing to the side, sjambok at the ready. The waste-pickers worked with practised efficiency, filling sacks with discarded affluence.

‘The other economy,’ Karamata noted. ‘At the moment it’s the only one that’s stable.’

‘The fishing is over?’

‘Finish and klaar. Not even jobs left for pals.’

‘You didn’t put money in fishing?’ Clare asked.

‘Not me,’ he laughed. ‘I didn’t have the right surname or the right connections. I suppose I should be glad about that now.’

Karamata started the engine, and the vehicle pitched forward down the vertiginous dune. He pulled onto a track that led to the dump and parked outside the entrance to the building.

‘Let’s say hello to George Meyer,’ he said. ‘A courtesy.’ He pushed open the screen door and Clare followed him down the immaculate passage. The third door was open.

‘Mr Meyer?’ Karamata ducked slightly as he stepped inside the office. His bulky form dwarfed the furniture.

George Meyer was at his desk. The little redhead Clare had seen cycling along the lagoon was sitting at a small table. The boy’s eyes widened in recognition when he saw her.

‘Sergeant Karamata. Madam.’ George Meyer stood up and smoothed down his hair, nodding at Clare.

‘This is Dr Hart,’ said Karamata. ‘Dr Hart and I want to talk to the boys who live on the dump.’

‘Sign in, please.’ Meyer pushed a ledger towards Karamata. ‘New policy since that body was found here. The boys are afraid. This makes them feel safer.’

‘And are they?’ asked Clare.

‘I doubt it,’ said Meyer. ‘Whoever’s killing them wouldn’t start out here on the dump.’

‘Why not?’ asked Clare.

‘Well, everyone here would recognise a stranger, wouldn’t they?’

‘They would,’ said Clare, ‘if it was a stranger.’ She went over to look at what the child was drawing while Karamata took care of the formalities. Oscar had covered the page with drawings. Flowering people, winged trees, dolphins. The eerie whimsy was so at odds with this rough place.

‘Those are beautiful.’ Clare smiled at the boy, but the child looked down at his freckled hands, twisting them in his lap. ‘What’s your name?’ She bent down beside him.

‘This is Oscar,’ Meyer answered for the child. ‘He’s been mute since his mother died six months ago.’

The pieces clicked into place: Meyer, Virginia Meyer. Clare remembered a book she’d read the last time she was in Walvis Bay. She turned back to the child. ‘Your mother studied the Kuiseb plants, didn’t she? She worked with the desert people, trying to understand how they use them.’

The boy’s eyes lit up, confirming Clare’s question.

‘She was my wife.’ George Meyer looked down as he spoke. ‘Before that, she and Oscar lived in the Kuiseb for many years.’ He held out his hand, and the child sidled over, but Meyer did not draw the child into the shelter of his arms. The two of them stood, side by side, watching Clare and Karamata get back in the vehicle.

‘Unusual colouring Oscar has,’ she said as they drove away.

‘He takes after his mother,’ said Karamata. ‘Virginia was like Moses’s burning bush with all her red hair. And such a white skin, no good for this country.’

‘She wasn’t from here?’

‘She was American. She came here to work at the desert research centre. Then her visa ran out and she found George somewhere and married him. I think for her it was like collecting a rather dull specimen. A husband was something she needed. Oscar is what she wanted. The two of them were always alone out in the Kuiseb, her trying to preserve things, stop any kind of development. That’s where she died, in a car crash.’

‘George Meyer’s not his father?’

‘No. That child has no one now she’s gone. No one came from America to claim him, so he stayed here with the stepfather.’

Karamata stopped the car. The rubbish truck they had seen from the dune stood empty, everything of value winnowed from the rotting black mass lying around it. The truck driver waved as he headed back to town. A group of boys had left off scavenging and were watching them. The foreman came towards them, caressing his palm with his whip, a flock of ragged children at his heels.

‘You looking for work, Karamata?’ asked the thickset man.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Vermeulen. This is Dr Hart from South Africa. She is working with us on the murder of the boy here, and the one at the school.’

‘Nee, fok, Karamata. Foreign experts for a couple of dead street kids.’ He glared at Clare, his muscled neck bulging. ‘Don’t you have enough corpses of your own down south?’

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Vermeulen.’ Clare extended her hand; Vermeulen wiped his palms on his overalls and held her fingers for a moment.

‘These poor little fuckers, their mothers throw them away.’ Vermeulen caught the child closest to him, a boy of five or six, by the scruff of the neck.

‘Who’s your mother, hey?’ The boy giggled and Vermeulen tossed him aside. ‘He never even knew. He’s lived on the streets since he was three. When he gets a bit sicker, then maybe those nuns will come and get him. They’ll take him to their place out there.’ He gestured eastwards with an arm as thick as a pole. ‘So what you want here now?’

‘I’m not a social worker,’ said Clare. ‘But I might be able to help find who’s killing these boys.’

‘Ag, you can believe what you want, lady,’ Vermeulen sighed. ‘It’s nice of you to try to help. Not many do.’

‘Where do these boys sleep?’ Clare looked around the site; it was hardly an orphan’s haven.

‘A few go sleep in town,’ said Vermeulen. ‘The rest sleep here at the dump. You want to see?’

‘Sure,’ said Clare.

‘Lazarus!’ he bellowed. A scrawny boy was pushed to the front of the group.

‘We’ve met, I think,’ said Clare. Lazarus gave her a shifty smile.

‘Why weren’t you at school?’ Vermeulen demanded. ‘You know how I had to gatkruip that headmaster to get him to take you back?’

‘School’s a waste of time.’ Lazarus was careful to stay out of Vermeulen’s reach.

‘This is our Einstein,’ said Vermeulen. ‘Knows everything, cocky bugger, which is lucky because the school won’t take him back again this time. Take the doctor and show her where you sleep.’

Clare and Karamata followed Lazarus into an enclosure behind the truck. An old tarpaulin served as a roof, and a nest of mattresses was arranged underneath, neat bundles of clothes at the top of each one.

‘That was Fritz Woestyn’s bed,’ said Lazarus. ‘And Kaiser’s.’ Clare looked down at the yellowed sponge mattress. There was a photograph next to the bed.

‘That’s our soccer team.’ Lazarus came and stood next to her. His breath was rank. ‘We were in the newspaper for the Homeless World Cup,’ he said. ‘See, there’s Kaiser and there’s me. There’s Fritz and the other boys. Mara took it. She gave us all a copy. Look, here’s mine.’ He dived onto the last mattress and pulled out an identical shot.

Clare took it and turned it over. There was an inscription on the back. From Mara, it said. For my boys. Remember to always believe.

‘When was that?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’ Lazarus shifted from one foot to the other. ‘I suppose about four weeks ago. We went away for a weekend and she took it then. It was when she got us our new uniforms. Look, it says “The Desert Rats”.’ He pointed to the photograph.

It must have been cold when it was taken, because the boys were huddled together. They all wore the same shirt that Kaiser Apollis had been wearing when he was killed.

‘Cool shirts,’ said Clare.

‘Pesca-Marina Fishing sponsored them. Look, it says so here on the back.’ He whipped up his sweatshirt and turned around to show Clare the logo, pleased to have a witness to the small joys of his life.

‘Can I keep this?’ Clare asked.

‘Keep Kaiser’s picture,’ said Lazarus, handing it to her. ‘He won’t need it. Maybe in Cape Town you can get us some more sponsorship, find us a new coach.’

‘What about Mara?’ asked Clare, slipping the picture into her pocket.

‘She’s going back to England.’

‘When?’ asked Clare.

‘I don’t know,’ said Lazarus. ‘But they all do. What’s there to stay here for?’

There was no answer to that. ‘Is she still coaching you?’

‘Ja, we have a practice later. But it’s not the same any more.’

‘The boys who were killed, you knew them all,’ said Clare.

‘None of us live long, Miss. They went quick. You try going like him.’ Lazarus pointed to the darkest corner of the makeshift tent. There was a small mound of blankets. ‘He’s afraid to go to the nuns. If the sisters come for you, then you know you’re over and out.’ Lazarus gave a bleak laugh. ‘It’s not much of a team any more. Three dead.’

‘Who do you think did it?’ Clare asked.

‘Someone they went with, that’s what everyone’s saying,’ said Lazarus, watching the other boys kicking a makeshift soccer ball on the level patch of gravel that was their pitch.

‘You got any names?’ asked Clare. ‘Anyone in particular?’

Lazarus looked at her briefly, but the focus of his attention had shifted. ‘A sailor? Maybe one of the old men who live alone here in town. A lawyer from Windhoek? It happens like that to us boys.’

‘Is there anyone…’ – but Lazarus was gone, dribbling the ball expertly towards the goal posts – ‘regular?’ Clare finished the question.

‘Too much glue,’ said Karamata, watching Lazarus score.

‘Or too afraid,’ said Clare as Lazarus careened across the field, arms extended in the universal language of football victory. ‘I want to ask him some more questions.’

‘Another time,’ said Karamata, checking his watch. ‘We’ve got to get going now, if you want to get to the next crime scene before dark.’

Clare followed him reluctantly back to the car. She waved at Lazarus. He lifted one hand in salute, watching them drive away.

Karamata drove towards the Kuiseb River, a sinuous line of green that parted the vast ocean of the Namib. A group of oryx made their way in single file, their measured pace only emphasising the stillness. The road they took snaked through stands of dusty tamarisks. Their branches whipped against the windscreen as Karamata picked up speed.

‘Topnaars,’ he said, pointing at the donkey cart rattling home, feathering golden dust into the sunset. Clare could hear the crack of a whip above trotting hooves, the shouts of the driver urging his tired animals home.

‘You know this place well,’ she observed.

‘Like the back of my hand,’ said Karamata. ‘I grew up around here.’

Old flood-marks had scoured a wall out of the sand. Debris from upriver was stranded high above the dry bed. The road petered out into a sandy track, pocked and scarred with the previous year’s rains. The mud had dried and cracked as it had retreated from the relentless sun.

Karamata cut the engine. ‘Fritz Woestyn. This is where he was found.’ He pointed towards a bleak stretch of sand. The ridge of an old railway was visible in places where the water had churned and frothed in the riverbed, desperate to reach the sea.

‘Who found him?’

‘Pipeline maintenance. There was a leak and they came out to check. They found Fritz staring up at the sky with a hole in his head. Van Wyk was on duty. He came out.’

‘Saturday’s Child. Where exactly?’

‘Under that big tree.’ Karamata pointed to a spreading acacia.

‘Tied up?’

‘Curled up in a piece of cloth. His hands had been tied, but the rope had been cut through, like with Kaiser.’ Clare knelt down in front of the tree, photograph in hand. She traced the area where his head had lolled sideward. The bark was rough, pitted with age and heat.

‘You got the autopsy photographs there?’ she asked.

Karamata handed her the gory close-ups. Bare feet, calloused hands. She flicked through until she came to the close-ups of the bullet wounds. The bloom on his forehead was clear, the petals of crusted blood and bone delicate around the dark centre. The back of the child’s head was intact.

‘No exit wound?’ asked Clare. ‘So the bullet was still in the brain. I haven’t seen anything for ballistics. The autopsy?’ Clare knew what the answer would be; Helena Kotze had said that it had been cursory. So cursory that a bullet in the brain went undetected.

‘Not detailed,’ said Karamata. ‘Just enough to give a cause of death. Gunshot wound, easy. He was buried three days after he was found.’

‘Why?’ Clare tried to hide her frustration.

‘The head of cleansing ordered that the city pay for all the paupers’ funerals.’

‘Calvin Goagab?’

‘That’s him,’ said Karamata.

‘Generous.’

‘The state morgue is always full these days. Families can’t afford to bury their loved ones, and then the cooling systems broke down. The mayor is a practical man, so he went along with Goagab’s request to clear the backlog and get everyone buried. It had been ordered before the murder. Fritz Woestyn just happened to benefit from it.’

‘Captain Damases went along with it?’ asked Clare.

‘She was on sick leave,’ said Karamata. ‘Complications with her pregnancy. The case was with Van Wyk.’

‘Burying murder victims,’ said Clare, standing up. ‘It’s a novel way of getting rid of a caseload.’

‘I don’t know if this stuff seems worthwhile to him,’ said Karamata, opening a packet of biltong.

‘Murder?’

‘Street children. There are so many now. He says it’s just Aids orphans; that they’re going to die anyway. A lot of people think like that.’

‘Do you?’

‘I’m a policeman,’ said Karamata. ‘I don’t think about it. I do my job. To me a life is a life. I was like those boys once. Just a piece of rubbish.’ His eyes were so dark it was impossible to read any expression in them. ‘And now look.’