Jigsaw, page 5
part #1 of Susman & Devil Series
"He cut off her breasts?" asks Khaya.
"No, it's the whole chest and back."
"It makes sense," says Susman. "What signifies a mother more than lactating breasts?"
"But what's he … doing with it?"
"That's for us to find out," says De Villiers. "Let's see what he's left us, shall we?"
Msibi's expression darkens. "I hope you didn't eat lunch."
They walk over to the sheet lying on the ground in the stretched shade of a willow tree. Msibi gestures to the person closest to the cloth to remove it.
Bile rises in Robin's throat. She chokes and looks away, blocking her flaring nostrils with her hand.
"As you can see," says Msibi, "the parts have been cleanly severed. Look at this shoulder joint—cut clean through—and this abdomen. I mean, you can see that it's been in the water, but—"
"How did he get such a smooth surface?" asks De Villiers. "Butcher saw?"
Susman is trying to swallow the vomit simmering in her throat. "He froze it."
Msibi moves towards Susman and holds her elbow. "Robin, are you okay?"
"I'm okay," she says. If she can just breathe, she'll avoid the panic attack.
"You're white," says Khaya. "Like, seriously white."
Robin is suddenly irritated. "Do you think this is the first dead body I've seen?"
Khaya stammers, but nothing comes out. Perhaps he's remembering the shotgun.
Devil motions to a nearby bank. "Maybe we should all … let's go sit down."
"I just need a minute." Susman walks away and sits under a tree.
Msibi hisses at them through clenched teeth. "What were you guys thinking?"
De Villiers looks sorry. He casts his eyes down at the muddy grass. "Denton insisted."
"And did the major force you to bring her to see a mutilated body within hours of fetching her?" seethes Msibi. "Do you know what that woman has been through?"
"Look, she's either on this job, or she's not," says De Villiers. "I can't shield her from the violence she's going to see. We've got a case to crack. She's not a child. And I'm not a babysitter."
"Yes, genius. Correct. She's not a child. She's a woman with severe PTSD. She's not the same ball-breaking detective you used to know. If she's going to be of any help to you on this case you will have to protect her to a certain degree. You must—"
De Villiers' phone rings, slicing the tension between them. He blinks his assent at Msibi, who nods back, and then he takes the call.
"André!" exclaims Anna-Mart. "Have you heard anything from Niel?"
"No. Still not. I was wondering if you had."
Her voice is shaking. "I would have told you! Of course, I would have told you."
"Have you seen the news? Rockets being fired all day. The pictures of those poor school kids."
"Yes," says De Villiers. "I've seen the news. It's terrible. But his kibbutz is far away from the Strip."
"He's not at his kibbutz," his wife says. "The phone there just rings. And his cell phone has been dead for days."
"Maybe they … maybe they've moved somewhere else," says De Villiers. "To be sure to be out of danger."
"André. What if he was travelling near the war zone? What if he's lying somewhere, injured? What if—"
"Anna. Stop. You'll drive yourself mad."
"Stop? How can I stop? I can't help thinking about it. How can I not think about it?"
Her meaning is clear. He may be a cold-blooded bastard, but she isn't.
"Worrying won’t help," he says. "We need to stay rational."
"Rational!" she yells. "He's not even nineteen. He's still a baby!"
"He is not a baby, lief. Niel is a responsible, resourceful young man. He'll be fine. I'm sure we'll hear from him any day now."
Anna-Mart is quiet for a moment, and De Villiers wonders if she's crying. But then her voice comes back, closer than before. "I lie awake at night."
De Villiers exhales silently and looks at the sky, which is turning a warm pink. It's scratched over with cirrus clouds.
She sniffs. "I lie there, and it's like I can hear the bombs going off. I can hear the whistling of the rockets."
"If there was bad news—" begins De Villiers.
"No news is good news, I know. But Niel could be buried under debris. He could be a … what do you call them? John Doe."
Khaya approaches looking grim. "We need you," he mouths.
De Villiers nods.
"Are you there?" asks his wife.
"I need to go. We're at a—"
"Oh."
"Anna. I know that … I know that our lawyers have recommended we don't speak to each other while the proceedings are underway."
"I don't care about that."
"Maybe we can see each other?" he says. "Talk more. About Niel."
"Okay."
"Devil," calls Msibi. He nods at her.
"So, you'll see me?" De Villiers asks Anna-Mart.
"You're the only one," she says, but stops.
His voice is gruff. "I'm here."
"You're the only one who can talk me down. I shouldn't be saying this, André, but—"
Hope is a flame in his chest. "But?"
"Ah, nothing. You need to go. We'll talk tonight."
11
Humming in Blood
Swanepoel is gunning his Mazda towards Roodeplaat Dam, Metallica rattling the windows. The music fades as a call comes through the Bluetooth speaker.
"I'm almost there!" he yells. "Five minutes. Maybe ten."
"Mr Swanepoel?" says a gentle female voice, mature and maternal.
"Hey? Who's there?"
"Mr Swanepoel, it's Boitumelo Gingaba."
"Who?"
"Sister Boitumelo, from the Holy Cross."
Swanepoel eases his foot off the accelerator. "Is my mother okay?"
"Mrs Swanepoel has taken a turn."
"What do you mean, a turn? What does that mean?"
The bass of the previous song is still humming in his blood.
"She … had a reaction, to the latest treatment."
He's at a loss for words.
"Mr Swanepoel?" says the nurse.
"Is she okay?"
"I think it would be best to come in."
If he didn't show up at the dam, De Villiers would kill him. "I'm late for an urgent meeting. I'll come straight afterwards."
"To be clear, I'd recommend you come in right away."
"Shit," he says, and brakes hard.
"Excuse me?"
"Sorry." He looks for oncoming traffic. "I'm turning around. I'll be there as soon as I can."
Parkview Police Station 13th of July 2014, 18:48.
Khaya spins his office chair to face De Villiers, who is behind his desk, searching a document and frowning as if his life depends on it.
"Msibi's just emailed her top-line autopsy report," he says.
De Villiers looks up at him, light in his eyes despite the time of day. "That was quick. She's efficient, that Msibi. She may drink too much Zamalek and cheat at poker, but she's worth having around."
Susman, sitting in the other chair, pipes up. "She was always my favourite Forensic."
Khaya is relieved to see that colour has returned to Susman’s cheeks. "Msibi said she'll send the comprehensive file soon, but there are a few things she picked up already that might help us."
"Good woman," says De Villiers.
A rough-looking lieutenant Swanepoel finally walks into the office and throws his car keys on his desk.
"Swanepoel!" says De Villiers. "Where the bloody hell have you been?"
"Just lay off, Devil," Swanepoel says. "It's been a tough day."
De Villiers blinks in disbelief. "You've had a tough day? Really?"
"Yes," says Swanepoel. "Really."
"You've been MIA the whole day doing God-knows-what while we've been looking at body parts."
The lieutenant doesn't apologise. "I'm here now."
"Well," says De Villiers, his face creasing in a fake smile. "Aren't we the lucky ones?"
"Did you say body parts?"
"Forensics identified her as the first victim kidnapped."
"Longman?" asks Swanepoel.
They nod.
"Shit."
Khaya looks at him. "What?"
Swanepoel shakes his head. "Nothing. I just … I'm the one who interviewed her family. They were so hopeful that she'd be okay."
"Miracles never cease," says De Villiers.
"What do you mean?"
"You have a heart, Swanepoel. What can I say? I'm shocked."
Khaya, for once, is less forgiving. "Breytenbach had to break the news to them. To the family. You weren't here."
Susman rotates her chair so that Swanepoel can see her. "Well, let's get on with it. We've got a lot to do."
The lieutenant freezes. "Holy shit, Susman? Is that you? You look completely … different. I hardly recognised you."
"It's me. Have I aged that much in a couple of years?"
"That's not what I meant. Maybe it's just that—"
Susman taps her shoe against the leg of the desk while she waits for him to answer.
"Maybe it's just that I thought I'd never see you again."
"Can we get back to the case at hand?" asks De Villiers, looking at his watch. "I need to get out of here soon."
"You have somewhere better to be?" asks Swanepoel. "That's a first."
Susman shuffles the papers on her lap. "Any evidence was likely washed away by the water."
"I thought as much," says De Villiers.
"But they found something."
They all look at her expectantly. "We're listening."
"Sawdust," she says. "At least, they think it's sawdust. Trace amounts wedged into the open flesh."
Swanepoel frowns. "Is that even possible?"
"Are you questioning Msibi?"
"Nope," Swanepoel shakes his head. "Never."
"So, in other words," says Khaya, "the killer used some kind of wood saw."
"A jigsaw," says Swanepoel.
"Hey?"
"It's called a jigsaw," repeats Swanepoel.
"Like the puzzles?"
"The puzzles are named after the saw, not the other way around."
"What kind of sawdust?" asks De Villiers. "I mean, what kind of wood?"
"S.A. Pine."
Swanepoel snorts. "As common as dog shit."
"That's a charming turn of phrase," says Susman, and Swanepoel shrugs as if the idea of charm had never occurred to him.
De Villiers stands up. "So our perp works with timber. He's possibly a carpenter, or his hobby is woodwork or furniture making. Or he works at some kind of a timber store…"
"And I was right," says Susman. "About him freezing the body before sawing it. The remains have signs of frostbite."
Khaya shudders. "Freezing the body … to store it? To keep it fresh?"
"To get that precise, clean cut," says Susman. "You wouldn't be able to achieve that with a fresh body."
They all look at her, slightly horrified.
After a while, Swanepoel breaks the tension. "Funny, hey, Susman?"
"What's that?"
"Funny how yesterday you were probably milking cows and today you're talking about a fresh body. Like you've never left the force."
"Ja, well," sighs Susman. "Somebody had to come show you guys how to crack a case."
"Haha," he says, without laughing.
De Villiers clicks his pen closed and grabs his jacket. "Okay, people, that's enough. It's seven o'clock. Let's call it a night."
Khaya frowns at him. "But, sir, we're … nowhere. Two women are missing who might still be alive."
The guilt De Villiers feels makes his jaws ache. "I need to be somewhere. And Susman needs a lift to her hotel. Her day has been long enough."
"I don't mind working for a few more hours," she says. "Chase some leads."
"I can also stay," says Swanepoel.
"No," says De Villiers, and they all look at him as if he's spoken in tongues.
"No?"
De Villiers leaves his desk. "Strict orders from the major."
An amused smile plays on Susman's face. She turns away from him, back to the file. "Since when do I listen to orders from the major?"
"Not your orders," De Villiers says. "Mine. I'm not to leave your side unless there is a guard on duty. He's waiting outside your hotel room as we speak."
"A guard? Why?"
"Better safe than sorry. Also, I was supposed to have you there by six."
Susman whips around, annoyed. "So I get a guard AND a curfew?"
"He's just trying to look after you."
"If the major knows anything," says Susman. "It's that I can look after myself."
12
Mercurial
Detective De Villiers brakes smoothly in the drop-off zone of the hotel and leaves the engine running. "Here we are. Can I walk you up? Carry your … bag?"
Susman wrenches the passenger door open and climbs out. "No, it's not necessary."
"Sure?"
"Yes, Devil. Thanks for the lift."
"I'll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning?"
"I'll be up at five."
"In that case, I'll see you at six. Here's your room keycard. And a phone."
Robin enters the building and strides towards the elevator. At the door to her hotel room, she greets the guard.
"Ma'am," says the uniformed man. She's already unlocked the door, so his warning comes too late. A rush of anxiety tears through her when she sees there's someone in her room.
"Robin, darling!" says Clementine. "You're an hour late!"
Susman breathes out slowly, trying to keep her pulse under control. "Holy shit, Clem," she whispers. "You almost gave me a heart attack."
Clementine's grin melts away into an expression of pure mortification. "Oh God, I'm sorry!"
Susman drops her bag where she stands. She didn't realise how exhausted she was.
"I sent a message to the station."
"I didn't get it."
"I can tell by the look on your face! Martini?" Clementine holds up the bullet-shaped steel cocktail shaker.
Susman doesn't move.
"I'm sorry I startled you! I wasn't thinking! Come here. I want a big hug."
They meet in the middle of the room and hug.
"Look at you," says Clem, a hint of tears in her eyes which she quickly blinks away. "You look wonderful."
"That I doubt very much."
"You do. You've … grown your hair. It's lovely."
"Not on purpose," says Susman. "There are not many hairdressers in Rosendal."
"Well, you look as pretty as a picture." She pours them both a generous Martini and pops two olives in each. "Here, take this. Let's drink to seeing each other again."
They chink glasses and take a sip. The drink is cold, but the gin warms Robin's throat. "You've always known how to pour an excellent Martini."
Clementine smiles. "It's one of my—very many—talents."
"Maybe the gin will stop my heart from beating right out of my chest."
"Oh God," chuckles Clementine. "No more unintended surprises, I swear! But I am so happy to see you. I can't believe you're here. It's marvellous."
"How did you know?"
"How do you think? I had to drag it out of Alistair. He forbade me from pestering you. I'm not supposed to be here, so don't you dare tell him!"
"I haven't even seen him yet."
Clementine shoots Susman a puzzled look. "Really? How odd. I thought he'd rush to welcome you."
"More like, avoid me at all costs." Susman takes a large sip of her drink.
"Nonsense," says Clementine. "He's so grateful to have you here—"
"He didn't leave me much choice."
"He sent flowers." Clementine gestures at an explosion of petals in the corner. Tulips.
"Oh."
"Not that you could miss them!" she chuckles. "Probably because he feels horrible about making you come out here."
Robin smirks. "You read the card, then?"
"Of course I did! I had to make sure you weren't keeping a secret lover or something like that."
"Really, Clem?" Susman chuckles. "A secret lover?"
"A farmer from the Free State who couldn't stand the thought of having one night without you."
"So it disappointed you, then, seeing that it was from—"
"—my dim-witted brother, yes."
"Alistair is anything but a dimwit. He's the best major the station has ever had."
"Dim-witted enough to let you go."
"Yes, well. I didn't give him much choice."
"You're both dim-witted, then. Let's have another drink."
Clementine tops up their Martinis and opens a box of fresh croissants. "You're perfect for each other, you both know that."
"No, we're not. Not anymore."
"Damn it, Robin!" exclaims Clementine in mock frustration. "How are we ever supposed to be real sisters if you two won't bloody co-operate?"
"We are real sisters, Clem," says Robin, and lifts her glass. "The same Martini runs in our veins." The women exchange an affectionate look. "Besides," Susman peels a crust off her croissant and pops it into her mouth. "Even if I wanted to move back—which I don't—and even if I wanted to be with Alistair again … it would be too late, wouldn't it? What is his wife like, by the way?"
"Pshh!" says Clementine. "Comparing the two of you is like comparing merlot to dishwater."
"That's a bit harsh! Wait, who is the dishwater?"
"She is! Truly, darling. She's pretty and athletic and platinum blonde…"
"Sounds like a terrible wife to have," mutters Robin.
"Clearly fertile, and frightfully clever—"
"Poor Alistair!" says Susman. "To be stuck with someone like that!"
"But she is as dull as anything."
"Ah, Clem. I'm sure she's not."
"Watching paint dry, darling. Conversations with her are like watching paint dry. Attractive paint, nicely packaged, but paint nonetheless. I avoid it at all costs."
"You're being especially mean," says Susman, looking into her empty glass and sighing. "You're a good friend."
"I'd literally rather look after all three of my kids for a whole day—okay, maybe a whole afternoon—than talk to her for 10 minutes."
