Blood Rose

four

On the desolate southwest coast of Africa, Mara Thomson turned between the houses to take the short cut to school. A year ago, she had arrived as a volunteer teacher in Namibia with hope and two suitcases. The summer heat had buckled her knees as she stepped off the plane in the capital, Windhoek. The light had seared her eyes, but her heart had soared and she had walked across the blazing tarmac as if she was coming home. She had expected acacia trees etched against an orange sky. Instead, she was assigned to Walvis Bay. She cried herself to sleep for a week; then she’d decided to make a life for herself amongst the grime and the fog. A life that she was going to miss, now that she was leaving.

Mara jumped off her bike and wheeled it up the narrow alley, wondering why the dogs were barking. Elias Karamata was standing guard at a breech in the fence that was looped with chevronned tape. Black and yellow, nature’s danger signal.

‘Morning, Mara,’ Elias Karamata greeted the girl. Skinny and brown, in her hoodie and jeans, she looked like one of the boys she coached rather than a volunteer teacher.

‘What’s wrong, then?’ asked Mara, the clipped vowels marking her as foreign. English.

‘Kaiser Apollis,’ said Karamata, a gentle hand covering her arm. ‘He was found dead in the playground.’ He felt Mara tremble. At nineteen, she was still a wide-eyed child herself. ‘Go around the other way.’

Mara walked around to the main entrance of the school, glad that she had her bike to lean on. Her legs were shaking.

‘Where are you going, Miss Thomson?’

Mara had not seen Sergeant van Wyk until he had peeled himself off the wall and blocked her path.

‘I volunteer here,’ she said.

‘I’m sure you do. ID.’

Mara handed it to him, even though he knew full well who she was.

Van Wyk looked her passport over. ‘Only two weeks left on your visa.’

‘Since when did you do immigration?’ she shot back.

‘The dead boy.’ Van Wyk’s eyes were cold. ‘He’s wearing one of your soccer shirts.’ Mara paled. ‘Interesting coincidence.’

‘I know what you did to him. To Kaiser,’ said Mara. ‘I reported you.’

‘Oh, I know you did.’ Van Wyk was dismissive. ‘Didn’t get you or your little friend very far either, did it?’

Mara made for the entrance. That’s when Van Wyk moved, trapping her body against the frame of the door. His breath was hot with intimate menace. ‘I hear that you’ve been picking boys up in the clubs.’ His fist, hard and hidden from view, came to rest on the soft mound between her legs. ‘A step up from a rubbish dump, but sailors are a dangerous game, don’t you think?’

‘Why won’t you leave me alone?’ whispered Mara.

Van Wyk’s thin lips twisted into a smile. ‘It was you who started-’

‘Sergeant,’ Karamata interrupted. He was standing at the wall, his arms crossed. ‘The staff are waiting to be interviewed.’

Van Wyk dropped his hand, and Mara pushed past him, tears in her eyes.

‘I was just checking on Miss Thomson’s movements,’ Van Wyk said to Karamata as they walked back to the playground.

Tamar was sealing the last evidence bag, noting the time and date on each one. Karamata handed her the list of people who had been at school before they had arrived. ‘Who’ve you got here, Elias?’ she asked.

‘Calvin Goagab, of course, and his sons,’ said Karamata.

‘Really made my day, seeing him so early in the morning.’ Tamar grimaced. ‘Who else?’

‘Erasmus, the headmaster. Herman Shipanga you met, the caretaker who found the body. Darlene Ruyters, the Grade 1 teacher. She was in at six-thirty, but says she saw nothing. The only other person here was George Meyer. He drops his stepson Oscar early. Darlene Ruyters is his teacher and she keeps an eye on him until school starts.’

‘Oscar’s mother?’ asked Tamar. ‘Wasn’t she killed in that car accident six months ago?’

‘That’s her,’ said Karamata. He held the door open for Tamar. The school staff fell silent as she stepped into the stuffy staff-room. The preliminaries were soon over: statements, times for interviews, arrangements to close the school, the staff dismissed for the day.

Tamar drove back to the station, glad that she could lock her office door behind her. She let her head drop into her hands, allowing the first tears to splash onto the desk. It didn’t help to dam them all. When she decided it was enough, she made tea while she waited for her photographs to download. She wrapped her hands around the hot mug and stared at the images of the dead child on her screen. Again, she thought of Clare Hart.

She found Riedwaan Faizal’s number and dialled. ‘Captain Faizal? Tamar Damases here, Walvis Bay police.’

‘Tamar, it’s been a while,’ said Riedwaan. ‘You’ve got a body if you’re calling me.’

‘A dead boy in a school playground. Looks like the third in a series,’ said Tamar. ‘I’m going to need your profiler friend Dr Hart.’

‘We’ll need to pass it via the official channels,’ said Riedwaan. ‘But if you can get it past Supe Phiri I’ll persuade Clare.’

‘You’re on first-name terms now?’

‘You could put it like that,’ said Riedwaan, with a smile.

Clare closed her suitcase and went into the kitchen. Jeans and a white T-shirt. No make-up yet, her damp hair in a twist on top of her head. Riedwaan was leaning against the counter, the paper spread out in front of him. Her stomach grumbled as she kissed him.

‘I’m hungry,’ she said.

‘You look nice.’ Riedwaan drew her against him.

Clare dampened down the lick of desire that flared between his hands. She would lose the rhythm of her day if she let her body distract her.

‘We’ll be late,’ she said, prising herself loose. She sat down and helped herself to breakfast. ‘Who were you talking to?’

‘Phiri.’

‘So where’s the body?’

Riedwaan felt in his pocket for cigarettes.

‘Don’t smoke. It’s too early,’ said Clare.

Riedwaan shrugged and started stacking the dishwasher. She watched the muscles on his back flex under his shirt as she finished eating.

‘Very domestic,’ she said. ‘Maybe I should just stay here with you. Play housey-housey.’ She handed him her empty plate and slipped her arms around him.

Riedwaan laughed. ‘Ja, right.’

‘The other call?’ She had him, trapped between her and the dishwasher. ‘When I was in the shower?’

‘Captain Tamar Damases. From Namibia,’ said Riedwaan. Clare didn’t miss a thing. Why did he always forget that about her? ‘She came to your lectures last year on serial killers.’

Clare’s right eyebrow shot up.

‘Pretty. Soft voice. Tiny waist,’ said Riedwaan.

‘No wonder you remember her,’ said Clare. ‘Just your type.’

‘Was my type. You’re my type now. Skin, bone and attitude.’

‘So there is a body.’

‘It’s Monday morning,’ said Riedwaan. ‘There’s always a body.’