Blood Rose

thirty-two

Clare loosened her hair and leant back on the sofa, drifting with the haunting music that filled the room. The sea, moving with repetitive restlessness beyond the grey rocks, lulled her and she gave up trying to archive the fragmented information she had gleaned. Instead, she gave herself over to the pleasure of being at home, cocooned in the textures and views she had chosen. She picked up a celebrity gossip magazine that Rita must have left behind. Five pages of the antics of footballers’ wives and she was asleep, her hair tumbling over one outstretched arm.

The hand under Clare’s shirt caressed her bare skin. She arched towards it instinctively, fitting her breast into the familiar palm, a tiny involuntary gasp parting her lips as forefinger and thumb teased her sleepy nipple to a rosy peak. She breathed in the familiar smell: the tang of cigarette smoke, cold night air, biker’s leather. The low laugh pulled her awake and she brought her knee up hard, the groan telling her she was satisfyingly on target. Clare opened her eyes to see Riedwaan leaning over her. She pushed herself upright, straightening her clothes and pinning up her hair. Riedwaan sat down beside her, keeping a wary eye on Fritz, who had leapt to a belated but impressive defence of her mistress.

‘That was a nice welcome,’ he grinned. ‘The first bit.’

‘How did you get in?’ Clare was wide awake now. She sat on the edge of the couch and decided to ignore the self-satisfied smile playing in the corners of Riedwaan’s eyes.

‘Spare key.’ Riedwaan dropped it on the table.

‘You copied one?’ Clare’s skin was fiery where Riedwaan’s hand had been. ‘You broke in.’

‘You could look at it like that, I suppose.’

‘What do you mean, you could look at it like that?’ she snapped. But she was pleased to see him and he knew it.

‘I’ve brought you a peace offering.’

‘What?’

‘Coffee and a message from Shorty de Lange,’ said Riedwaan. ‘He says he’s got some news for you.’

‘I accept,’ she said, holding out her hand for the steaming espresso.

‘On one condition.’ Riedwaan held the coffee just out of her reach.

‘This is like the Gaza Strip,’ said Clare. ‘First an invasion, then unilateral conditions.’

‘It’s felt a bit like Gaza to me recently.’ Riedwaan ran his fingers along the inside of her arm. ‘But the strip sounds good.’

‘What’s the condition?’ asked Clare, folding her arms.

‘You stop being so angry with me,’ said Riedwaan.

Clare considered, her head on one side. ‘Okay,’ she capitulated. ‘It’s late and I’m tired. Give me the coffee and I’ll consider an armed truce.’

Riedwaan put the coffee down and pulled her towards him. ‘No haggling?’

‘I thought you said ballistics had something for me,’ said Clare, disentangling herself. ‘That was part of the deal.’

‘Shorty wants to meet,’ said Riedwaan, letting go reluctantly.

‘What? Now?’ Clare looked at her watch. It was close to eleven.

‘Yup. He’s waiting.’

The flag above the khaki-green shipping container that served as Cape Town’s Ballistic Unit testing range was at half-mast, indicating that the unit was in use. From inside came the muffled thud of bullets. It had to be De Lange. At eleven o’clock, his was the only car left in the parking lot. Riedwaan lit a cigarette and waited. When there was an interval, he banged on the door.

‘You still trying to kill yourself, Faizal?’ At six foot six, Shorty de Lange looked like a Viking. He pushed open the door, releasing the smell of cordite into the cold night air.

‘Sounded like Baghdad in there,’ said Riedwaan, grinding his cigarette under his heel.

‘Taxis,’ said De Lange, ‘are worse when they get going. I tell you, they’re cooking now. Three shootouts today. Two commuters dead, a little kid shot walking to school. Two drivers. It’s a fucking war.’ He tucked the AK-47 he had been testing under his arm so that he could lock up.

Clare got out of the car as Riedwaan and De Lange walked over to the low buildings that housed De Lange’s office.

‘Hi, Shorty,’ she said, joining them.

‘Clare,’ he said, a delighted smile on his face. ‘A sight for sore eyes, as always. What a pleasure to see you. You need an Irish coffee?’

‘I’d love one.’

De Lange ducked into his office, then took them through to the bar. One wall was covered with pictures of his rugby-playing days. He looked around. ‘No kettle,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to settle for whisky.’

‘Suits me,’ said Riedwaan.

‘You pour then, Faizal. One for me too. Here you go, Clare.’ De Lange tossed a folder onto the bar counter. He looked pleased with himself.

Clare flicked open the report, excitement flooding through her. She smoothed out the crisp pages. Nobody would accuse De Lange of being talkative, but his pictures were. There were two images of the striations on a bullet. They would match if you overlaid the one with the other in the same way as a fingerprint would. The concentric patterns were the unique print of the gun from which they had been fired.

‘Where did you get this?’ she asked.

‘There’s more.’ De Lange unrolled a long sheet of white paper. The image spread out on the table was an explosion of colourful lines, branching off from clusters of dates and place names.

‘What is this?’ asked Clare. ‘A family tree?’

‘It is, in a way,’ said De Lange. ‘Although a tree of death would be a better way of describing it. I told you I’ve been working on the gang wars. I started mapping them to see if I could link specific firearms to different crime scenes. This one was done during an upsurge of fighting about drug turf and taxi routes. I fed your bullets from Walvis Bay into our computer system, and, bang, this is what came up.’ He pointed to a small gold star on a branch that ended in a cul-de-sac.

‘All on its own?’ Clare leaned in to decipher De Lange’s writing. ‘In McGregor? Who was it?’

‘I don’t usually ask,’ said De Lange. ‘If I start with a name, then next thing I’ve got a wife and kids crying and then objectivity is in its moer.’ He pushed the docket towards Clare. ‘I pulled this for you, though. Ex-army. A Major Hofmeyr found in a vineyard off the main road into McGregor a few years ago. His car was left at the farm entrance, and two little girls found him at midday. He’d been dead for a few hours already. According to the pathologist he was shot at about seven in the morning.’

Clare paged through the thin report. There wasn’t much to go on. Major Hofmeyr was survived by his wife and daughter, but there were very few details for such a gruesome killing. ‘No evidence?’ Clare looked up at De Lange.

‘No tracks, no witnesses. Nothing.’

‘Nothing except a bullet embedded in the tree where Hofmeyr’s body was found,’ Riedwaan pointed out.

‘The police speculated a gang killing, maybe an initiation,’ said De Lange. ‘He was tortured. His skin was carved up, all over. It hung in ribbons, looked like broekie lace.’

Clare turned to the crime-scene photographs. A man’s body was slumped against the tree, blood and flies crusting the shattered forehead and lacerated chest. ‘Hofmeyr must’ve welcomed the final shot when it came,’ she said, looking at the skin hanging from his fit soldier’s body.

‘Could’ve been a hired gun,’ Riedwaan said to De Lange. ‘What does it cost now, a weekend special on the Flats? Fifty bucks to hire, ammo thrown in?’

‘Pretty much,’ said De Lange. ‘But how did it get to Walvis Bay?’

‘A gun like that could easily make its way up the West Coast,’ said Riedwaan. ‘The border is as porous as a sieve, so it could be in Walvis Bay in a couple of days.’

‘I’ve thought of it,’ said De Lange. ‘But I’ve never seen this before or since. It bothered me, this one. That’s why I kept a copy of the docket.’

‘What bothered you?’ asked Clare.

‘Same thing that bothered Februarie, the officer who investigated the case. The ammunition,’ said De Lange. ‘Full metal jacket. That’s professional. It’s what the security industry uses, the military. Not drug lowlife.’

‘We’ll check it out tomorrow,’ said Clare. ‘Talk to his wife. Is she still in McGregor?’

De Lange nodded. It seemed he knew more about surviving relatives than he cared to admit. ‘Keep those then,’ he said, pouring himself another whisky. ‘You go ahead. I’ve got some things to finish.’

It was nearly one o’clock before Clare and Riedwaan were back on the empty highway. ‘Does he ever go home?’ Clare asked.

‘No,’ Riedwaan replied. ‘He’s looking for the gun that killed her.’

The whole force knew that the murder of De Lange’s wife had nearly killed him too. She’d been shot in a botched hijacking over a year ago. ‘He’s convinced that once he gets that gun,’ said Riedwaan, ‘then he’s got the tik-head who killed her, and his life will be what it was before. In the meantime, he’s trying to keep track of every stray bullet in the Cape.’

‘Which works for us,’ said Clare, looking out at the cityscape. Compared to the desert sky the few visible stars were faint, eclipsed by the carpet of streetlights and the flashing neon signs.

‘We’ll see.’ Riedwaan parked in front of Clare’s apartment.

His hand on the back of her neck stopped her from opening the car door. He turned to look at her, his face faceted by the orange glow of the street lamp. He brushed his thumb across her full bottom lip, silencing her protest.

‘I missed you,’ he said, moving his hand down her neck, seeking out the hollow at the base of her throat, down further, his hands on her breasts, knowing, peaking her nipples beneath his palms. Clare closed her eyes. Riedwaan’s skin was warm against hers as he kissed eyes, ears, mouth, tunnelling desire through her. She put her hands on his chest, felt his breath coming sharper, faster. Gathering what was left of her will, she pushed him away.

‘I can’t do this.’ Clare yanked the door open and got out. She stood on the pavement, her arms folded across her chest. Riedwaan looked straight ahead at the Atlantic hurling itself at the rocks.

‘You’re coming to McGregor tomorrow?’ she asked. She was starting to shiver.

‘I’ll pick you up at six.’ Riedwaan started the car. Still Clare stood on the pavement. ‘Go in,’ he said. ‘I can’t leave till you’re inside.’

‘I…’ Clare started.

‘You what?’

‘I… I’ll see you later.’ She disappeared up the staircase.

When her bedroom light came on, Riedwaan drove home. He let himself in to his empty house and sat down in his only chair. He couldn’t decide which maudlin cliché suited him better: Leonard Cohen or Tom Waits. So he sat and smoked until the dawn call to prayer crackled from the mosque down the road.