he was found by some municipal workers doing a pipeline inspection.’
‘On a Saturday?’ asked Clare, disbelieving.
‘Water’s more precious than gold here. The foreman identified him. He’d seen him scavenging.’
‘Peculiar that there was anything to find,’ said Karamata. ‘A hyena, even jackals make quick work of anything dead.’ Fritz Woestyn stared up at Clare from the autopsy photograph. She looked over the small evidence boxes. Each contained the remnants of the boys’ lives – shoes, some bloodied clothes, a note found in a pocket – making the displays look like small, morbid shrines.
‘Easy targets, street children; many different reasons to do them in and no one around to report them missing.’ Clare paced up and down in front of the boxes. ‘You don’t think it could be some kind of unofficial clean-up operation? Out at the dump where there are plenty of homeless kids scavenging. The school, too’ – she checked Tamar’s notes – ‘where it looks like this Mara Thomson was running some soccer thing for homeless kids. That might make sense of the killer’s desire to display them: that the bodies are a kind of threat. That’s what happened to street kids in Rio.’
‘It crossed my mind,’ admitted Tamar. ‘But with those Rio killings, you always had two or three together, kids sleeping in doorways in a city of ten million. You’re not going to get away with that in a town of forty thousand people.’
‘Have you done a search for a similar pattern in other ports?’ asked Clare.
‘I did. Nothing came up on any of the databases I have access to,’ said Tamar. ‘Rita Mkhize did a search in South Africa too. Nothing.’
‘Nasty, brutish and very short, these lives,’ said Clare. ‘Unless the killer’s left town, there’ll be another body before too long.’
‘I have to get home,’ said Tamar, stretching her arms up to loosen her shoulder muscles. ‘Let me drop you off at your cottage.’
Clare picked up her bag and the three files. ‘I’ll go over these again tonight.’
Tamar drove alongside the deserted harbour. It was fenced off from the road by twenty feet of razor wire. The barbs were festooned with grimy plastic bags: Africa’s national flower.
Tamar stopped outside a secluded series of stone cottages, all of them closed up. Shadows were deep beneath the palms trees and narrow service alleys. ‘Lagoon-Side Cottages’ said a sign hanging from the bleached whale-ribs that arched up over the entrance.
‘The view is great on the few days when the fog lifts,’ said Tamar.
‘You don’t like this weather?’ Clare asked, taking her suitcase out of the car.
‘I hate it,’ said Tamar. ‘I grew up in the sun, so this cold worms its way into my bones.’
‘How did you get posted here?’ asked Clare.
‘It was my choice.’ Tamar fished in her bag for keys. ‘My sister needed help before she died, and there’s plenty of scope for promotion in the police force.’
‘Your husband?’
Tamar ran her hand over her swollen belly. ‘There’s only me for this little one.’ Her tone invited no further questions.
‘I’d like to see where Kaiser Apollis was found before the autopsy tomorrow morning,’ said Clare, switching tack effortlessly.
‘You have to see everything yourself?’
‘Photographs flatten things. I’ve looked at your pictures, but there’s something about being where the body was found.’
Tamar opened the door of the cottage. ‘I hope you aren’t superstitious. It’s number 13; that’s how the police got it cheap. No one ever wants to rent it.’
‘Did you think I might be?’ asked Clare.
‘From your lectures,’ said Tamar. She unlocked the French doors onto a small stoep. The sea air was welcome in the stuffy room.
Clare was glad to put her suitcase down. It had been a long day. ‘I usually get accused of being too scientific,’ she said.
‘There was one thing you said that stayed with me.’
‘What was
‘On a Saturday?’ asked Clare, disbelieving.
‘Water’s more precious than gold here. The foreman identified him. He’d seen him scavenging.’
‘Peculiar that there was anything to find,’ said Karamata. ‘A hyena, even jackals make quick work of anything dead.’ Fritz Woestyn stared up at Clare from the autopsy photograph. She looked over the small evidence boxes. Each contained the remnants of the boys’ lives – shoes, some bloodied clothes, a note found in a pocket – making the displays look like small, morbid shrines.
‘Easy targets, street children; many different reasons to do them in and no one around to report them missing.’ Clare paced up and down in front of the boxes. ‘You don’t think it could be some kind of unofficial clean-up operation? Out at the dump where there are plenty of homeless kids scavenging. The school, too’ – she checked Tamar’s notes – ‘where it looks like this Mara Thomson was running some soccer thing for homeless kids. That might make sense of the killer’s desire to display them: that the bodies are a kind of threat. That’s what happened to street kids in Rio.’
‘It crossed my mind,’ admitted Tamar. ‘But with those Rio killings, you always had two or three together, kids sleeping in doorways in a city of ten million. You’re not going to get away with that in a town of forty thousand people.’
‘Have you done a search for a similar pattern in other ports?’ asked Clare.
‘I did. Nothing came up on any of the databases I have access to,’ said Tamar. ‘Rita Mkhize did a search in South Africa too. Nothing.’
‘Nasty, brutish and very short, these lives,’ said Clare. ‘Unless the killer’s left town, there’ll be another body before too long.’
‘I have to get home,’ said Tamar, stretching her arms up to loosen her shoulder muscles. ‘Let me drop you off at your cottage.’
Clare picked up her bag and the three files. ‘I’ll go over these again tonight.’
Tamar drove alongside the deserted harbour. It was fenced off from the road by twenty feet of razor wire. The barbs were festooned with grimy plastic bags: Africa’s national flower.
Tamar stopped outside a secluded series of stone cottages, all of them closed up. Shadows were deep beneath the palms trees and narrow service alleys. ‘Lagoon-Side Cottages’ said a sign hanging from the bleached whale-ribs that arched up over the entrance.
‘The view is great on the few days when the fog lifts,’ said Tamar.
‘You don’t like this weather?’ Clare asked, taking her suitcase out of the car.
‘I hate it,’ said Tamar. ‘I grew up in the sun, so this cold worms its way into my bones.’
‘How did you get posted here?’ asked Clare.
‘It was my choice.’ Tamar fished in her bag for keys. ‘My sister needed help before she died, and there’s plenty of scope for promotion in the police force.’
‘Your husband?’
Tamar ran her hand over her swollen belly. ‘There’s only me for this little one.’ Her tone invited no further questions.
‘I’d like to see where Kaiser Apollis was found before the autopsy tomorrow morning,’ said Clare, switching tack effortlessly.
‘You have to see everything yourself?’
‘Photographs flatten things. I’ve looked at your pictures, but there’s something about being where the body was found.’
Tamar opened the door of the cottage. ‘I hope you aren’t superstitious. It’s number 13; that’s how the police got it cheap. No one ever wants to rent it.’
‘Did you think I might be?’ asked Clare.
‘From your lectures,’ said Tamar. She unlocked the French doors onto a small stoep. The sea air was welcome in the stuffy room.
Clare was glad to put her suitcase down. It had been a long day. ‘I usually get accused of being too scientific,’ she said.
‘There was one thing you said that stayed with me.’
‘What was
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