Blue Sunday. Irma Venter
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as though someone’s just dived in.
I look at the dense greenery and measure the distance to the ground. Did Katerien and Cath perhaps jump off from here when they heard Lafras shouting downstairs?
Probably not. The plants don’t look damaged.
The water’s drawing me.
I walk down the steps and out the front door. It’s quiet outside, the thick grass still wet from the afternoon’s rain.
I take off my shoes and sit on the edge of the pool. I stare at the dark surface. What draws someone to deep, deep water? To slip in there alone, your breath your enemy? The air that eventually wants to climb out of your lungs like a raging, mad animal, and all you want to do is open your mouth and …
I paddle my hand in the lukewarm wetness, drip water onto my trousers. I get up, take my clothes off and slip into the water.
I can hold my breath for 86 seconds.
At first there’s peace. Absolute, weightless, blue-grey peace.
Then the fear sets in. My hands start digging upwards through the water in raw panic, breaking through the surface, the night air sweet and fresh and perfect.
I lie at the edge of the pool, panting. Cough until the chlorine pushes up in my nose.
I know what kind of people dive this deep. You have to be fearless. In control. You can’t be afraid of the silence the water brings, of the rushing of blood in your ears. Of the beating of your heart that gets harder and faster, until it deafens your logic and you open your mouth, desperate for air.
Katerien van Zyl must be the calmest person in the world. And oh so in control.
I sit outside until I’m almost dry. I don’t want Farr to crap on me for walking through her crime scene with wet feet. I put the iPod’s earphones in and find Depeche Mode.
Nothing is better than eighties music. The lyrics still make sense, say something meaningful. “Words like violence break the silence, come crashing in, into my little world.” I sing along.
I go back into the house. It’s already eleven o’clock …
I go upstairs to Cath’s room, shift the curtains aside and wait for the security patrol to walk by at twenty past eleven. Two men with torches, alert and ready, looking for strangers in dark corners.
Familiar corners.
I can see at least two places they fail to look. Two shrubs that, perhaps a year ago, were knee-high, but now provide plenty of cover.
You get used to things – that’s the problem. You don’t adjust your thinking as the world slowly changes around you.
I sit on the snow-white bed.
I take a deep breath and scream as loudly as I can.
3
Thursday, 8 February, 23:30
I knock on the front door, louder this time. “Come on, it’s the police, open up!”
But the door stays closed, and the lights stay off.
I stand back, looking for signs of life in the house two doors down from the Van Zyls.
The lights went on when I screamed in Cath van Zyl’s room, just to be switched off in a hurry when I came to knock.
The only sound inside the house is non-stop barking. Little yappers with razor-blade voices.
Security didn’t even show up after my Oscar performance. Goes to show. All the money in the world makes little difference. A big bank balance buys space and security, but the two aren’t always reconcilable.
Sydney and his team couldn’t find any eyewitnesses at the Stables. No one heard or saw a thing that night. I refuse to believe that every single one of the Van Zyls’ neighbours was away on Christmas Eve.
I knock on the door again. What kind of stubborn ass lives here?
I turn around and walk away quickly, out the gate, swearing loudly, turn right up the little side path … then right again, behind a shrub from where I can keep an eye on the front door.
Whoever lives here chose a place with large windows and low walls, as though they wanted to know what was going on in the neighbourhood. The burglar bars on the windows ensure that no one will think the house is an easy target, though.
After a few minutes, the door slowly opens, the house still dark. Four, five handfuls of fur bounce out. Yorkshire terriers. Why am I not surprised?
I step forward. The biggest of the bunch stops and growls.
It’s now or never. I run through the gate, grab the barking dog. Shout at the blue dressing gown standing there: “Police!”
The other dogs yelp and scamper into the house. The door slams shut, then opens up just a sliver. One eye stares at the Yorkie panting in my arms.
“Give me my dog.” The voice is that of an old man. “You’re stealing my dog. I’m going to call the police.”
“I am the police.”
Silence.
“My dog,” says the man.
Instead of answering, I take my ID out of my pocket and show it to him.
The front door opens a little more.
I put the dog down. “Sir, I want to know …”
The dog scrambles into the house. The door slams shut.
Seriously?
“Hey?” I call, knock again. “What the hell …”
I’ll have to make another plan to talk to this idiot.
ALEX
1
Thursday, 8 February, 23:31
“Would you mind doing it?” I ask nicely.
Sarah takes the red-brown lollipop out of her mouth and rubs the six platinum earrings in her right ear, one for each member of her family. A mother, three brothers, a sister and a father, who passed away just over a year ago.
“Why do you want to go digging around in this mess, Alex?”
“Because I want to know what’s going on. And maybe we can help these people.”
“It’s a story. You’re after the story.” She sweeps a hand through her messy red hair, taps out an irritated tune on her thigh with three fingers. Her two Dobermanns, chewing something sinewy in the corner of the living room, look up, consider me for a moment, then carry on chewing.
“Naturally,” I concede, “but I also want to know what happened to the Van Zyls.”
“And now you want me to trace their phones.” She pages through the list of information. “And poke around in their bank accounts and their cars’ navigation systems and tracking devices.”
“Yes.”
The lollipop goes back to her mouth. Sarah must be craving a smoke.
“Nothing you do is unlawful. Me, on the other hand …” She narrows her green eyes.
“If you don’t want to do it, it’s fine. But it’s been six weeks and these people are still missing. And Cath van Zyl is just twelve years old. Believe it or not, it’s more than just a story.”
“Hmph.” She gets up. Her black leather boots stomp across the tiles to the kitchen. It’s almost midnight, and Sarah Fourie is awake. And bored. That much is clear. She’s just got back from wherever she’d been racing around on her motorbike.
She hops up onto the kitchen counter where Ranna is waiting for the kettle to boil. She hates standing next to Ranna because it makes her look even shorter than