The Monster's Daughter (53 page)

Joey's car was parked outside, but Joyboys' doors were locked. Across the street, a young coloured man sat outside a newly erected stand, tinkered together from an old caravan and some zinc plates. A handwritten cardboard sign next to him advertised twenty-four-hour coffee for R10. Alet walked over, fishing loose change out of her pockets.

“Howzit!” The man jumped out of his flimsy folding chair. “Some tea, some coffee? I got some
lekker
Coke, nice and cold. What can Giel do for the law today?”

“Just coffee, Giel. Black.” Alet handed him her two R5 coins. “How long have you been here?”

“Since the weekend.” Giel smiled. “There was a need.”

“For twenty-four-hour coffee in Unie?”

“Is right,
ja
. Sometimes people drive past on the highway and it's late. Sometimes a thirsty man need a little something after bar-time before going home to the missus, I say.” Giel winked. “You check, Constable?”

“I check, Giel.
Baas
Joey from Joyboys is going to think you're giving him competition.”

Giel's broad face beamed with pride. “Is free enterprise, I say. You got to be sharp-sharp. Joyboys don't like it, they can stay open twenty-four hours too. Is like my
pa
, Poena Junior Junior used to say. If you don't grab opportunity by the balls, it'll kick you in the behind. Sorry, sorry, Constable,” Giel held his hands up. “That's no talk in front of a lady.” He placed a paper cup under a push-button coffee machine. “You sure you don't want cappuccino? Vanilla latte? We do all sorts here. Five-star service.”

“Just black.” Alet's eyes trailed the electric cable snaking out from underneath the stand, through the bushes, and along several extension
cords. She wondered who Giel convinced to subsidize his twenty-four-hour electricity needs.

Giel pressed a button on the machine and, after a short delay, thick black liquid spewed into the cup, the process terminating in death-rattle sputtering. “Is nice, is nice.” Giel handed Alet the cup.

“
Jissis
that's strong!”

“Quality. No watered-down coffee here. People need to stay awake, see? It's serious business this.”

Alet perched her lips on the rim of the cup, careful to let only a little bit of the liquid into her mouth. The bitterness traced an acid trail through her mouth and down her throat. “Have you seen
Baas
Joey today, Giel?”

“I have.”

Alet sighed. “Okay. Where?”

Giel stretched out his arm, the tip of his index finger pointing at the converted vestry.

“Why doesn't he answer the door, then?”

“He's in there. True's bob. I've been here the whole night.”

Alet wondered if Giel worked the stand twenty-four hours, or if he had help. She crossed back to Joyboys, leaving her coffee cup on the doorstep before she knocked again. “Joey! I know you're there. Open up, man. I need a decent cup of coffee. Joey?”

Alet was met with silence. She walked around the building, testing the handle of a narrow back door she'd never seen anyone use. The ancient metal resisted her efforts, then gave way noisily. She found herself in Joyboys' dressing room. Hangers were strewn across the floor, and an old wooden school bench, used as a dressing table, was turned over. Alet pushed the black curtain in the doorway aside and walked onto the small stage, the scene still set for Andre's performance. Trickles of light penetrated Joyboys' high windows, bouncing around the myriad of mismatched crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. A support beam creaked from the heat of the day. Alet squinted into the half-light. It felt like the shadows in the restaurant were moving, alive, taking form in the negative spaces between refracted light shards. Alet jumped down from the stage and reached for a light switch against the wall.

“Don't.”

The sound of Joey's voice spun her around. Alet searched the dark
room for a human form. A pale face appeared from underneath a blanket on one of the mismatched sofas. Alet flipped the light switch. As she walked closer to Joey, she gasped.

Dark bruises stained the skin around Joey's eyes, the lids almost swollen shut. Dried blood caked his nose, tracing a path that joined up with a rivulet from a large cut on his lips.

“Are you okay?”

A sarcastic laugh emanated from Joey's throat. He pulled the blanket up under his chin. Alet knelt down next to him, touching his shoulder. Joey jerked, pulling away from her.

“You need a doctor.” Alet reached for her radio.

“
Nee
.”

“Joey, I don't know if you've had a look at yourself, but you're going to need stitches for that cut. It's going to leave a scar.”

“The mark of Cain.” Joey's voice was dull, matter-of-fact.

“What happened?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it bloody well matters. You've been assaulted. Did they take anything? They might be out there going after someone else.”

“He won't. It's only me.”

“Is it André? You guys fight or something? I'll have him
kak
himself in a cell tonight, hear?”

“Alet, no.” Joey raised his voice. “André had nothing to do with this.”

“Where is he, then?”

“It's not him!” Joey sat up, throwing the blanket off. His shirt was ripped, some buttons missing. Alet noticed bruising on his clavicle.

“
Fok
, he got you good.”

“Wouldn't be the first time. Turns out I'm not too old for a good old-fashioned hiding.”

“
Jissis
. Your
pa
?”

Joey coughed, his arms wrapping around his waist, his face scrunching up.
“Eina.”

“You have broken ribs. I'm calling an ambulance to come get you.”

“No. It will get out. People will … Don't. Please?”

Alet nodded reluctantly. “But I'm calling Oosthuizen, okay? He needs to take a look at you.” Joey stared listlessly at the floor while she called the clinic.

“How long has this been going on?” Alet sat down next to Joey as they waited.

“I was seven, maybe eight, I don't know.
Pa
caught me skinny-dipping with a coloured boy in the farm dam.”

“You were too young for him to think—”

“He knew. He always knew. Said he needed to put me on the narrow path.”

“By beating you?”

“Spare the rod …” Joey coughed again.

“Don't defend what he did.”

“I behaved, made sure I went to Oudtshoorn or George to … you know.” Joey smiled wryly. “I thought that maybe he'd come to accept it. The laws are different now, you know? Men marry each other in church. I thought that if he saw me serious with someone, that I wasn't just fooling around …”

“André.”

“I really liked him, Alet.” Joey dropped his gaze, subservient shame settling over him like a dense fog. “It's my fault. I embarrassed
Pa
in front of the whole town.”

“Is that what he said?” Alet's anger flared. “He's the one who should feel ashamed. He can be lucky I don't—”

“If you do anything, I'll deny it.”

“Joey, I don't understand.”

“He's my father. He has a place in the community. I won't ruin his life anymore.”

“Any more than he ruined yours?” Alet sighed when Joey looked away. “What are you going to do?”

“I have friends in George. I can try to get a job at a hotel there or something.”

Alet heard a car pulling up outside. She opened the door for Oosthuizen. Joey placidly let Oosthuizen examine him, their exchange conducted in semi-whispered confidences. Oosthuizen managed to convince Joey to go with him for X-rays. Joey had trouble standing, so Alet helped him to Oosthuizen's car.

“Thank you, Doctor.” Alet closed the car door once she got Joey inside.

Oosthuizen nodded, walking over to the driver side. Alet suddenly
realized that Oosthuizen had never asked what happened. He already knew. He'd probably been the one who helped
Dominee
Joubert keep the abuse of his son under wraps all these years.

“Bastard,” Alet muttered through clenched teeth as she watched Oosthuizen's car turn the corner at the end of the block. This town … these people. It was getting to her, all these so-called God-fearing souls who couldn't care less about the cesspool at their feet.

Alet plunked down on a plush chair inside Joyboys, her cell resting in her hand. She thought about her future, surprised at the sudden clarity she felt. Since coming to Unie, she'd had an overwhelming feeling of powerlessness as she went through the motions of each day, just trying to get to the other side. She had tried to become invisible, hoping to please her father. The realization stung, but it was time to wake up from that daze, to rip open the wounds and face the truth. Not only for the sake of the victims, but for her own sake as well.

Alet flipped the phone open and dialed Adriaan's number.

“It's gotten to me,
Pa
, I'm sorry,” she told Adriaan after stilted greetings were exchanged. “I don't think I can be here anymore.”

“Alet, I told you, I'll make a few calls.”

“I mean, I don't know if I'm cut out for the police.” There was a long silence on the line.

“Are you telling me you want to quit?” The disdain in Adriaan's voice was unmistakable.

“I don't know. It's just, everything is going wrong. I need time to figure out what to do.”

“Perhaps a break is a good idea,” Adriaan said tersely.

“I don't have any leave.” Alet knew she was pushing it, but she forged ahead. “I just don't think I can hold it together right now.”

“I'll talk to Tokkie,” Adriaan sighed. “Tell him to give you unpaid time. Frieda and I will pick you up tonight.”

It took careful treading, but Alet managed to convince Adriaan that she needed to spend some time alone, maybe have a real vacation so she could gather her thoughts. He reluctantly agreed, ordering her to be in Port Elizabeth by Christmas. As she hung up the phone, Alet thought about how good she had become at manipulating people. Family trait? Thinking of herself as Adriaan's daughter, a chip off the old block, didn't make her proud anymore.

“It's my word against theirs.” Tilly slumped over on the concrete bench in the court's holding cell. White paint chipped off the gate where countless detainees' hands had gripped the bars over the years, while they stared out at the courtyard, waiting. Alet had escorted many a drunk and disorderly local there after they had slept it off in the police station's cells next door. Cases weren't heard over weekends, so by Mondays, the miasma of stale alcohol and vomit hung thick in the air.

“Tilly, I'm desperate. Please, man. There must be something that proves Jeff paid Mynhardt off.”

“I'm the only one who spoke with the buyers. The only one they can identify.” Tilly hugged her knees against her chest. She looked childlike, her chestnut curls sagging over her narrow shoulders. “I didn't think about protecting myself. I trusted him.” She shook her head. “Stupid.”

Alet leaned against the bars. “Boet only owns half the farm. Seems old Mr. Terblanche leased the rest.” Alet dug her middle finger into her palm. “Records indicate that the farm belongs to your
ma
. The part where she was found.”

Tilly looked up, a startled expression on her face. Alet wondered if she knew the truth about what her mother was, if she should tell Tilly about what she'd found in the town's archives, the fact that the farm was transferred into Trudie's name by Tessa Morgan, and that they might be the same person.

Tilly shook her head. “We always lived on Pierneef Street.
Ma
never went out to the farms.”

Alet decided not to say anything more until she figured things out for herself. “Okay. You think I can have a look through her things? Just to make sure we didn't miss anything?”

“You're asking permission now?” Tilly's gaze challenged Alet.

“I was trying to—”

Tilly clicked her tongue, waving Alet away with a dismissive hand.

“Tilly, I think the killer was in the house the night she died, that he might have been looking for something of hers.”

“Maybe he found it. There's nothing of value there now.”

“At least let me have a look.”

Tilly shrugged. “Do whatever you want, Alet. It's not like I can do anything about it now.”

“Captain Mynhardt and Sergeant Strijdom have gone through the house.” Mathebe looked apologetic. “I do not believe we will find much.”

“Maybe they missed something.”

“Miss Pienaar is a suspect in a crime. The captain has taken the case on himself. It might not be wise to go.”

“I'm not backing out now, Johannes.”

Mathebe sighed. “I did not find anything the first time, Constable.”

“Maybe you just didn't realize it was important.” Alet bit her lip, certain that Mathebe would take offense.

A frown lodged between Mathebe's eyes. “Yes,” he said. “That is possible.” He pulled the van out of the police-station lot and took the road to Trudie's. As they turned onto Pierneef Street, Alet noticed a car with a Cape Town registration parked in front of Trudie's house.

“Koch, maybe?” Alet replied to Mathebe's unspoken question. He got out of the van and followed her through the gate and up to the house.

“Alet! Hallo.” Mike Engelman emerged from the peach trees that lined the path to the back of the house. “I was just going to slip this under your door when I heard the car.” He held up a manila envelope.

The surprise of seeing him in these surroundings took Alet aback. In the daylight his features seemed more prominent, the intensity of his blue eyes contrasting with pale skin. His thick-rimmed glasses were gone, and she noticed the gelatin edge of contact lenses around his iris. “Beautiful” was the first word that popped into her head. It surprised her, but she had to concede that it was correct. Mike Engelman wasn't handsome in the traditional sense, but there was something fragile about him she couldn't put her finger on. It imbued him with an essence of elegance, even grace. I should probably try to stay sober on dates, Alet thought.