coming up,” warned Mr Poppe Junior.
Ella turned towards the grave. The coffin appeared, supported by the strong straps of the hoisting apparatus, all glistening stainless steel with purple velvet ruffles draped around the sides.
“Take it to the forensic path lab,” said Col. Sauls.
“But we can open it up at our place!” Mr Poppe Junior sounded perplexed and Ella realised that he’d give his left pinkie to investigate his handiwork and study the long-term results of his embalming techniques.
“Dr Koster is waiting,” said Col. Sauls.
“What will Dr Koster do with the body?” asked Mr Poppe Junior.
“Compile a forensic report; that’s what forensic pathologists do. Thanks for your help.”
Mr Poppe Senior cleared his throat and shook his head. “Still so heavy. She should have been much lighter, dried out, just skin and bone.”
“We’ll send the account,” said Junior.
“Let us know when we must reinter her,” said Senior. “It’s a sin for a body to be disturbed like this.”
I am pure, without transgression. The words were etched into Ella’s mind.
“I want a guard here, Fred,” said Silas. “All night. No curious onlookers or reporters between the graves. The dead must be respected. It’s a cemetery, not a damn circus. And a crime scene, so keep them away. Come, let’s go, Warrant Officer Neser.”
“It’s not actually a crime scene,” said Fred Lange.
Next to her, Silas stopped, turned to Fred.
Oh hell, thought Ella. Here it comes! Fred and his big mouth.
“Do you want to split hairs, Lieutenant?”
“Just saying, Colonel…Technically, no crime’s been committed here.”
When you’re in a hole, Fred, don’t dig, thought Ella, with a spiteful twinge of delight – you didn’t act the wise guy with a tetchy Silas Sauls.
“Are you saying this is not a crime scene? That it’s just a scene that might be linked to a crime? Is that what you’re trying to say? Are you a bloody smart arse, Fred?”
“No, Colonel.”
“No, what?”
“I’ll summon two constables from Dorado Park, Colonel.”
“Right.”
“How long will it take, Colonel, their guard duty? What can I tell them?”
“How long? It’ll take as long as it takes. Until it’s over. Tell them that.”
Walking behind him, Ella ducked under the police tape and headed for the Wendy house. The caretaker, Thermos tucked under his arm, empty Tupperware in his hand, was limping towards his car, which was parked under a cypress.
“No one goes near those graves,” Silas ordered the caretaker. “Not even next of kin, understand? You stop every visitor, with or without a bunch of flowers. Then you phone us. Or ask the guys on guard duty to phone us.”
The caretaker frowned. “I can’t stop mourners from visiting graves.”
Here we go again, Ella thought.
“So you’re planning to fuck up a police investigation?”
“What? No, but…”
“That’s what you’re saying. You’re saying you’re not going to obey my orders. That’s what you just said.”
“That’s not –”
“Not? Now you’re calling me a liar? What are you saying?”
“Uh…. no one will be allowed near those graves, Colonel.”
“Good. If anyone wants to go there, you phone me. Or Detective Neser. This is Detective Neser here, right next to me. You’ve got our numbers and you’ve got a cellphone. You phone immediately, pronto, especially if a man arrives with flowers for Mrs Lotz’s grave.”
In the car Ella said, “You don’t think he’s back, do you, Colonel? That he’d have the audacity to come and see what’s happening?”
“I expect anything from Abel Lotz. He’s not rational. Remember to get that video the police photographer took of the onlookers at the cemetery fence.”
“I’m on sick leave, Colonel.”
“Watch the video. Look at every face, see if you recognise Abel Lotz, or anyone resembling him.”
Was he deaf or merely ignoring her? she wondered. “I’m on sick leave, Colonel. Not allowed to work. Regulation.”
“And see that you do it tonight.”
“He’s left the country. Crossed the border into Mozambique at Komatipoort. He’s somewhere in Africa.”
“For almost two months? He’s not the type.”
No, Ella knew, Abel wasn’t logical, not the type to stay away. He would visit his mother, even if it was only her grave. Without her, he was lost.
They drove through the deserted rural streets of Dorado Park, took the on-ramp to the R82 and headed north towards Johannesburg. Fifteen kilometres further, they passed Poppe & Son’s hearse, cruising at a dignified speed, the mossy old coffin visible behind the large glass windows. Junior was behind the wheel. Both father and son sat bolt upright, sparse hair plastered to their scalps. Undoubtedly engaged in deep discussion, Ella thought, about the marvel of Mr Poppe Junior’s embalming techniques. And the benefit of long-term embalming, bearing in mind that not a whiff had been discernible from poor Dorcas Lotz’s exhumed coffin. Perhaps they were even speculating an embalming patent based on the Dorcas Lotz case – if only they’d been granted the opportunity to open the casket and study her remains up close, touch her withered skin, probe and prick her petrified flesh, incise her mummified tissue…“Where can Abel be hiding?” Silas wondered aloud.
It was a rhetorical question and she knew he wasn’t expecting an answer. The same question was in the minds of all who’d witnessed Abel’s handiwork in the old house in Dorado Park.
It also haunted her.
“He can’t run forever,” she said.
Silas’s only response a grunt.
Ella was well aware that the serial killer dubbed the Nightstalker was not responsible for the largest number of serial killings in the criminal history of the country. Not by a long chalk. There’d been only four victims. And he wasn’t the most sadistic either. No limbs or sexual organs had been harvested for muti, the victims had not been tortured to express anger and frustration, none of the perverse sexual acts that typified such killings.
