The Serpentine Road (18 page)

‘Okay . . .’

Ulton looks up at him. ‘The painting with the woman on the bed with the dildo in her mouth. It’s inside the leaflet.’

‘Which he might or might not have opened . . . ?’

‘Finally, his clothing. We found blood traces on both his sweat-shirt and his trousers. The blood belongs to Taryn Holt . . .’

‘It does?’ De Vries says. ‘Definitely?’

‘For sure,
ja
. There are two arcs of blood spatter.’

De Vries turns to Don, raises an eyebrow.

‘Note I said “spatter”,’ Ulton continues. ‘So, we come to the science of spatter patterns. I’m going to keep it simple: if there are blood spatters on a person’s clothing, as we see here, I would expect to see extensive, but minute, blood spotting. This is because if blood spurts from a wound it is, obviously, at pressure; from an explosion of an organ, as we saw with Taryn Holt, extremely high pressure. Therefore, we would expect extensive collateral spatter as well as the main arcs of spatter. My first observation is that there is virtually no collateral spatter present on Angus Lyle’s clothing. Secondly, the angle of path is peculiar and emphasizes my last observation. They emanate from above and to the side of him. This is odd, because I don’t see how the blood could come from that angle unless he was lying beneath her and, again, there should be blood spotting.’

De Vries is shaking his head. ‘I still don’t get it.’

‘Okay. If he was above the body – as you would expect – when this blood got onto him, the shape of droplet would indicate that it was rising to meet him. These are drops. They have come from above.’

De Vries frowns.

‘He was beneath Taryn Holt?’

‘That is what the blood spatter evidence suggests – even if it is hard to imagine.’

‘So, these spatters are illogical? What?’

‘Put it this way: if I was asked in court if I had doubts over my findings, I would have to say yes.’

‘Always doubt . . .’ De Vries muses.

‘Look, I may be wrong,’ Ulton says. ‘I’ve seen more dubious evidence turn out to be rock solid, but I know you want my opinion and I’m giving it to you.’

‘We need to know a great deal more about Angus Lyle,’ De Vries says, turning to Don. ‘Find out if he had experience with firearms, if he knew Taryn Holt and had ever visited her home . . .’

‘And you need to find out how he died,’ Ulton says.

De Vries looks behind him now. There are three technicians only at the opposite end of the lab.

‘If someone wanted to frame Angus Lyle for this killing, how would that fit?’

Ulton lowers his voice.

‘I thought about that. I have to say, if that’s the explanation – and, in all honesty, we both know it’s not likely – whoever it was has done a pretty good job.’

De Vries sighs.

‘I was afraid you might say that.’

‘I am recording time of death based on my examination and the notes provided for me by Metro officers Hendricks and Uzoma, who found his body, and the medical examiner at the scene, as between 10 p.m. and midnight on Friday, 3 April 2015.’

The slender body of Angus Lyle lies between them, his face and neck, arms and hands very tanned, the rest of him pale.

‘The cause of death is, in layman’s terms, a sudden cardiac arrest. Although he appears generally malnourished, he is reasonably fit and his organs all seem to have been in working order. Clearly there is some damage due to historic drug use, but nothing which suggests that the heart would fail catastrophically.’

‘So?’

Anna Jafari looks up at him.

‘So what, Colonel?’

‘So what is the cause of the death?’

‘I will discuss that in due course.’

De Vries runs his tongue over the back of his bottom teeth, glances at Don. His Warrant Officer looks mildly embarrassed.

‘Did he die where he was found?’

‘I have not reached a final conclusion,’ Jafari says forcefully. ‘I want to be clear on that.’

‘I understand,’ De Vries says. ‘Was he moved?’

‘No. It is likely that he quickly lost consciousness, fell into the hedge where he was found, and died there.’

‘What about stomach contents?’

‘A small quantity of chicken and potato fries, very recently consumed, within an hour of death. One of my assistants is analysing it now, but the quantity found inside him suggests that he did not eat a full meal.’

‘Scavenging?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘Anything distinguishing about the food?’

‘No.’

‘Chicken and fries?’

‘As I said.’

‘Greasy?’

‘A high fat content, certainly. Why?’

‘We have greasy fingerprints.’

‘I see.’

‘Evidence of previous drug use?’

‘There are old syringe marks presenting quite clearly on the inside of both arms. The damage I have observed is consistent with long-term drug use. However, none of these marks is recent.

‘So, a drug overdose is unlikely to be the cause of death?’

‘As I have explained, the cause of death is clear; the cause of the myocardial infarction is not.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Bruise marks on his left shoulder and neck. Again, recent and probably sustained at a time close to death.’

‘Any idea what caused the bruises?’

‘They are consistent with hand marks, but I would need more time. They look to me to be weight rather than impact.’

‘Something I can use, Doctor,’ De Vries says irritably. ‘Give me examples.’

Jafari shrugs.

‘I don’t give examples, Colonel. I tell you what is there.’ She hesitates. ‘I would say that if . . . If the bruises were caused by hand or hands, then they are not punches, but more likely restraining bruises. A hard grip, sufficient to bruise the flesh. That is a suggestion only.’

‘Thank you.’ De Vries studies the wounds. ‘Could they have led to his heart failing?’

‘I very much doubt it. A heart does not stop beating for no reason.’

‘Anything else?’

‘He has a tattoo of a crucifix on his chest. It is not a professional tattoo and may even have been self-inflicted.’

They look down at his body. The blue-black outline of a crucifix, perhaps twenty centimetres in height, is positioned centrally, the horizontal axis lining up perfectly with his small, brown nipples.

‘How recent?’

‘It is difficult to say. Over a year, certainly.’

‘You have his medical records?’

‘No.’

‘Have you requested them?’

‘No. If you wish for them, you can request them, Colonel. I will continue to investigate this matter, including blood and other trace testing. My conclusions will almost certainly not require any further research.’

De Vries nods.

‘Thank you again, Doctor. The time this early examination has bought us may prove crucial. You’ll get your final report to me?’

‘Yes.’ She stares at him.

‘What, Doctor?’

‘And is there anything else I must do for you, Colonel? I wouldn’t want General Thulani to have to prompt me again. Any further work in addition to my own carefully planned schedule?’

Don looks down at his feet. De Vries takes a breath, wants to explain to her the difference between crimes which can be solved – are likely to be solved – and those which cannot; priority must be given to those where the killer is still at large and possibly may strike again. In crime, there are gradations to everything; very little is generalized. As he studies her in the moment, he realizes that she probably does not care. It is not what she does.

He smiles at her, says quietly. ‘That’s all. Have a good day, Doctor.’

She turns away, leaves them with Angus Lyle.

‘Under the circumstances,’ General Thulani says, ‘I accept that such an important development in a murder enquiry should take priority over a casual interview. However, be aware Colonel, that your poor relations with David Wertner and the Internal Investigation Department is a matter of concern to me – and others.’ He points markedly at the chair in front of his desk. ‘Now, sit down.’

De Vries sits. He is calm now; a steely resolution has descended on him and he realizes that this is how it is when he is under pressure. Although he dreads this state, he craves it also.

‘It seems that you have convinced Colonel Wertner that what we thought was a serious leak of confidential information was nothing more than speculation by the newspaper journalists.’

‘That seems the most likely explanation. I have spoken to all my team. It is, as you are aware, sir, only a small group. I suspect that someone in this building saw Trevor Bhekifa, recognized him, and decided to make mischief.’

‘Well, they achieved that. Trevor Bhekifa is probably planning his complaint against us as we speak . . .’

‘He has no complaint, sir. There is no anonymity for witnesses assisting the police in the normal course of events. I visited him at his apartment in Stellenbosch, and he is angry but accepting of the way things turned out.’

‘You visited him?’

‘I did, sir. Out of courtesy, and also to fill certain gaps he left in his witness statement regarding where he was at certain times.’

‘Is his explanation satisfactory?’

‘Up to a point. He remains a suspect in the background. Personally, based on what we currently know, I think it is unlikely that he is involved.’

‘Obviously not.’

‘However,’ De Vries adds, ‘there are questions to be resolved. It seems that the victim liked sex games which involved the domination of, as far as we know, her male partners. I cannot rule this out as being a possible motive for her death.’

Thulani raises his eyebrows.

‘Trevor Bhekifa indulged in this activity?’

‘He did, sir.’

‘I can’t imagine that.’

‘I prefer not to.’

‘I understand,’ Thulani says, ‘that there have been other significant developments?’

‘There have, sir. I would also like to thank you for expediting the post-mortem examination of our latest suspect . . .’

‘It is in everybody’s interests to see this matter concluded efficiently. At the same time that I read your request, there was an enquiry from Pretoria about the state of the case.’

‘From Pretoria?’

‘I think the headlines about Bhekifa alarmed them. Tell me about this man, Lyle is it?’

‘You know about him already, sir?’

‘I was tasked to oversee the situation and, since Mr Classon has not been keeping me updated, I made some calls.’

De Vries wants to enquire who asked General Thulani to keep an eye on this new suspect but, instead, he delivers his report.

‘Angus Lyle. Yes, sir. The evidence is pretty clear. His background, previous behaviour, the physical evidence recovered from his body. We recovered his personal Bible. It contains highlighted passages condemning immoral women. He also had on his person a leaflet for the exhibition at her gallery which, you may know, is a graphic representation of sexually compromised women . . .’

‘It is conclusive?’

‘His cause of death is not fully explained.’

‘But his connection to Taryn Holt?’

‘Still to be understood.’

‘But the evidence against this man will close the case?’

‘The evidence is strong.’

‘How long do you anticipate it will take for you to conclude the paperwork?’

‘A few days, sir. I must speak to some of the people who knew Angus Lyle, including some of our colleagues at Central and Metro. Many had dealings with him over the months and years.’

‘Good work, Colonel. I hope that you can dismiss Trevor Bhekifa from suspicion and wrap this up. The moment the matter is certain, I want you to tell me personally.’

‘I understand, sir.’

They pull up outside the address in Fawley Terrace. The mushroom and pink apartment buildings are dilapidated, the first floor and above looking out directly over De Waal Drive, the high road on The Mountain which takes drivers to and from the Southern Suburbs to the centre of Cape Town. Residents who can see beyond the freeway look up at the looming form of Table Mountain, this evening topped by a tablecloth of thick, perfectly white cloud, which seeps off the flat surface like dry ice from a stage.

The wind swirls around a gap between two buildings, and as they open the car doors, they snap back against their hinges. Don indicates the next building along from them and they stumble forward, trudge up the fading painted concrete steps to the second floor of the Exbury building,They ring the bell, are let in straight away by a man of about sixty. He anxiously studies their IDs, ushers them in.

‘This is about Angus, isn’t it?’

They walk into a dark, thickly carpeted lounge and see cruci-fixes on the wall, a heavy Bible on a wooden lectern.

The man stands in the doorway. They turn to him.

‘Would you like to sit down, Mr Thorn?’

‘Is he dead?’

De Vries hopes that the man will sit, but he remains where he is, stooped and expectant.

De Vries sighs.

‘I’m afraid so.’

The man grips the doorframe, shuffles forward into his lounge, sits heavily on a blue velour sofa. He shakes his head sadly, wipes his eyes, looks up at them.

‘There is only so much I could do . . .’ He is pleading, head bobbing rhythmically. ‘He never knew his father; his mother – my sister – she took a path he could not understand, and then she left us. He came here; there was nowhere else for him, but he needed help. Medical help, mental help. I kept asking, but without insurance, they don’t even look at you.’

‘We need to ask you some questions about Angus. Would that be all right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Thorn, what was Angus’s mental state in recent months?’

‘What do you know?’

‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’

‘Angus . . . was a troubled man. Depressed and anxious. I thought that faith might see him through, but I don’t think he was comforted as I have been. I am afraid it played on his fears. He was a man of great convictions. Problem was, they changed all the time. One minute he would argue almost to the death for one thing, the next, the exact opposite.’

‘Did he get angry about these convictions?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. He stuttered, and that frustrated him. I never knew whether it was the stutter or the subject that got him so worked up.’