grabs his service pistol and cellphone, bends down to give his sleeping wife a kiss on the forehead and walks to his Toyota Corolla.
Two blocks further on he stops in front of the house. Sunrise is just beginning to colour the sky. He looks for a moment at the garden in front of him, allows his eyes to wander over the flowers and shrubs on the left, the rose garden on the right. There are already two police vehicles in the driveway, as well as the car from forensics.
Thirty-five years of service, he thinks as he climbs out of his car, thirty-five years during which he has earned the nickname “Bulldog”. Because he can latch on to the scent of his quarry and not let go until the case is solved. Thirty-five years of service, and he still has to prepare himself mentally for each and every murder scene. Because the colour, the feel and the smell of blood nauseate him. He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath.
Of course there will be blood, he says to himself, and yes, it will have that strange metallic smell. There may be more than just blood. But: there inside the house is a human being lying dead. And he is here to find out what led to that. Just that. Not to become involved.
He climbs the steps to the front door. Nods to the other members of the police force, the man and the woman from forensics, the pathologist.
The deceased man is lying right at the front door, on his stomach, slippers on his feet, long pyjama pants, the right leg of the pants wet. The smell of urine mixed with the smell of blood. A short white vest, thin old-man’s arms, the one arm lying along his side, the other bent over his head. He is lying in a pool of blood that has already begun to dry, his blood-smeared face unrecognisably mutilated. Around him and underneath him are shards of red glass, and flowers, as if someone wanted to adorn the corpse, conduct a premature funeral.
Superintendent Webber glances at the table behind the body. Red glass fragments are strewn across the top, a few flowers are still lying there, water is drip-dripping to the floor.
“Supe.” Inspector Jantjies is standing in the doorway leading to the interior of the house.
“Inspector.”
Jantjies steps closer, open notebook in his hands, pen poised to write. “Supe, there are eight shots in total. It looks as if the deceased was standing when the first six shots were fired. They hit the red vases behind him. He must then have thrown himself to the ground and pissed himself.”
Webber looks up sharply.
“Sorry, Supe, he must have urinated,” Jantjies corrects himself quickly. “Then two shots were fired at close range in quick succession.”
Webber nods. “That’s also the way I see it. The weapon?”
“No weapon on the scene. Constable Mbane phoned, a woman handed herself over at the station, with the pistol. She says she committed the murder. The deceased’s wife says it’s her daughter.”
Webber nods again. Becomes aware of a weeping sound, looks questioningly at Jantjies.
“It’s the deceased’s wife. She is waiting in the lounge.”
“Let Mbane know I’m on my way. I first want to talk to the widow.”
“She just handed herself over without a lawyer.” Jantjies shakes his head. “Never heard of such a thing.”
“Nor me, but there’s definitely a first time for everything.”
Webber walks through to the lounge. He indicates with a nod that the constable sitting next to the woman on the couch may leave. The woman is wearing a dressing gown, presumably pyjamas underneath, bed socks on her feet, her hair rumpled from sleep.
“Ma’am?”
She lifts her head slowly, stares at him with reddened eyes.
She looks familiar. For a moment he considers asking her about this, but then decides against it. This is not the time or the place, and there is no sign of recognition in her eyes.
“I am Superintendent Webber. The deceased was your husband?” he asks just to make sure.
She nods.
“I am sorry about your loss, ma’am.” He always feels strange when he says this, as if he should actually know the person in order to feel any sorrow. “I must ask you a few questions.”
“That’s fine,” she says in a monotone.
“Ma’am, please tell me what happened here.”
She waits until he is sitting down. “We were woken by the ringing of the doorbell.”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t know. Three o’clock? Four o’clock?”
He nods.
“My husband got up to go and open the door. I stayed in bed. Then I heard such strange popping sounds. I came to have a look. She was here. Anna. She shot him. In front of me she shot him dead.”
He makes a note. “Anna?”
“My daughter.”
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you phone the police?”
“Yes.”
Bulldog can hardly hear her whisper, so he holds his head closer to hers.
“Did you touch anything?”
“No.”
“Can you think of any reason why your daughter would shoot her father?”
“He wasn’t her father.”
“Stepfather?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think your daughter would shoot her stepfather?”
She begins to cry, in spasms. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”
Bulldog shuts his notebook. “That’s all for now, ma’am. I’ll talk to you again later.”
He is certain that she does know why.
Bulldog sees red when Constable Mbane admits with embarrassment that the suspect, his suspect, washed her hands. This will bugger up the PR test for sure. He will have to ring forensics.
He controls himself with great difficulty. He has an overwhelming urge to grab the constable and shake him out of his uniform. But he knows from experience that this will only lead to trouble.
“Where is she?” he barks.
“In the top office, Supe.”
Bulldog is startled when he sees the young woman sitting in front of the desk. She is small, obviously terrified, and she is covered in blood. Sticky dry blood. The whole place smells of it.
He
