nose as he’d lowered his head to study Dorcas’s face. Now his eyes flashed over the frame. “Or are you going to give Ella’s case to someone else, Silas? And mess up our entire investigation?”
Our investigation. Ella avoided looking at the colonel, waited for his reaction. The forensic pathologist and he had come a long way. They hadn’t always got on, as might be expected of two grumpy old men. And now she was part of their team. By default, having stepped into her father’s shoes.
“As long as she doesn’t come to the office before the counsellor has signed her off. General Pitso –”
“Bloody bean counter,” muttered Dr Koster. He pulled the sheet back over Dorcas’s face, shoved her back into the fridge.
“It’s my case,” said Ella. “And I won’t give up until I’ve caught him. I’ll arrange with Poppe & Sons. I’ll be at the graveside – unofficially – to witness her burial. I’ll make quite sure that she’s lowered into the grave this time and covered with soil.”
“Well, we’re done here for now,” said Silas. “Let’s go home. It’s pitch-dark outside.”
As he headed for his office, Dr Koster stopped and called, “Ella!”
Ella turned. Silas sighed.
Dr Koster beckoned with a crooked finger. “Come.”
“See what he wants,” said Silas. “I’ll wait in the car.”
She followed the pathologist into his office, where she found him in front of a large safe. He handed her a mask.
“This was on Dorcas’s face when they discovered her body in that house. Must be symbolic or something. You might want it as evidence.”
“I saw the police photos of her with the mask on her face.”
“Authentic, I think. Perhaps you should have it analysed, trace its origin. Might give you new insight into Abel Lotz’s psyche.”
She knew about Abel’s passion for masks; she’d visited his gallery. He’d even left one of his masks on a victim’s face after stripping off the skin. He seemed obsessed with faces.
Following her near-fatal confrontation with Abel, she’d been given no choice: it was mandatory sick leave and counselling. The stomach wound had healed, but not the scars, nor the psychological wound. That was Fred Lange’s diagnosis: a wound to her psyche. Ella suspected he’d heard or read it somewhere. Dr Landsberg called it psychological trauma.
Standing orders – and there was no leeway. Every member of the force who’d been involved in a violent situation had to undergo trauma counselling, she knew that. It was not negotiable. Stress levels in the police were high, and there was reason for worry. Every time a member was buried, the commissioner was in attendance, embracing and consoling grieving relatives. At every funeral the battle cries rang out. The commissioner had had a large bouquet of red gladioli delivered to her hospital bed, accompanied by a get-well card, incorrectly addressed to a Warrant Officer Anna Nasser.
She’d wanted to get back to the office, back onto the trail of the Nightstalker, but she’d been stopped.
“Not a good idea, Ella,” Silas had come to tell her at home. “Take a proper break. Your thoughts and feelings are in turmoil. You’ve had a brush with death, remember? Let Dr Landsberg help you.”
“Please, not Dr Mimi Landsberg,” she’d sighed.
Mara Alkaster, who’d come along, had placed her hand on Ella’s. “You’re like a daughter to us, Ella. Listen to Silas.”
Silas and his merry widow, who couldn’t get round to tying the knot.
He had personally made her first appointment with Dr Landsberg, a clinical psychologist and trauma counsellor consulted by the police. And then the Murder and Robbery team had called on Ella in a steady stream. Fred Lange had brought beer – that was how old hands dealt with trauma, he’d said. Jimmy Julies from Forensics had brought milk tart – his wife baked the best milk tart in the universe, he’d said. Tabs Makgaleng from Fingerprints had brought Midnight Velvet – chocolate soothed the emotional centre of the brain, he’d said. Young Stallie Stalmeester from Dispatch had brought a sheaf of white chinkerinchees and blue forget-me-nots, kissed her cheek and said he missed her. Even Gen. Pitso had arrived at her humble home – with bath oil from Pick ’n Pay, forms in triplicate (for mandatory sick leave), which she had to sign for his IN basket (the one next to his OUT basket) and the standing orders about cutting expenditure.
* * *
The trauma counsellor’s consultation room had been cosy and comfortable, the wooden furniture radiating warmth; fresh flowers in large vases, framed family photographs, magazines, inspirational books, bright, fluffy cushions, landscapes painted with flowing, confident brush strokes, and the subtle scent of potpourri. The décor had been carefully assembled to put someone with a wound to the psyche at ease.
“Tea?” asked Dr Landsberg.
“Coffee: black, no sugar,” said Ella. Like the pathologist, the trauma counsellor would soon learn about her coffee.
“You’re angry. I’m getting a sense of suppressed rage … ”
“Of course I’m angry. After everything that has happened, wouldn’t you be angry, Doctor?”
“My feelings are irrelevant, Ella.”
“But your signature isn’t. On the official report. You can sign me off. I’m fit, ready to return to work.”
“I’m sure it won’t be long. Only a few sessions. It’s important that we access your emotions. How’s the wound?”
Sessions. Feelings. Emotions.
“Would you like to see it?”
“There’s no need.”
She pulled up her T-shirt anyway, tugged at her jeans, exposed the purple welts, the mutilated, puckered skin of her stomach.
“I’m twenty-seven and I’ll never wear a bikini again.”
“They do wonders with cosmetic surgery nowadays.”
“One scalpel was enough, thank you very much.”
“Be positive, Ella. See the glass as half full. A healthy outlook is the first step on the road to recovery.”
“I could have been dead. Another ten minutes and they would have buried me, played the last post. What’s positive about that?”
“It’s positive that you’re alive.”
“I’m alive, but four others are dead, and I could have prevented their deaths.”
“Blaming yourself is never good. We’ll have to work on your self-reproach. You couldn’t have prevented it. It’s not your fault.”
“I could have prevented the last murder if I hadn’t been so stubborn.”
“Would
