Murderous by David Hickson (best ereader for comics .txt) 📕

pronounced. Fehrson liked to start and end any discussion with a forceful negative.

“Hendrik van Rensburg’s father,” said Andile, “Piet van Rensburg, has become a powerful man. Has the government in his pocket, they say. A word from him and entire government departments are closed down.”

A nasty silence descended upon us.

Andile shrugged and his shoulders drooped a little further. “I felt it was my duty, that was all. I had the sense that you might agree that the investigation should continue. And that you could contribute, given the circumstances.” He collected his papers and returned them to their pink folder. He closed the folder and looked up at us with a brave smile. Admitting defeat.

“Circumstances?” said Khanyi, who had never seen the point of not rising to the bait.

“Well,” said Andile, “the fact that Dirk Fourie was an employee of yours.”

Ten

Andile and I indulged in a cigarette on the open terrace on the seventh floor while Fehrson and Khanyi discussed his proposal. Fehrson had not denied employing Dirk Fourie, but we had gone over the spelling of the name a few times and he’d adopted the vague look of a man whose memory was failing him. When we returned, Fehrson’s memory was restored, and he delivered a powerful speech about the benefits of working together. We did a round robin of handshakes and we all smiled at each other.

Andile had a question with which he wanted to kick off our new partnership – about the other instances of the graffiti on the wall. In the spirit of transparency, it became Khanyi’s turn for show-and-tell. Her buff coloured folders were not as fetching as Andile’s pink folder, but the contents were equally foul.

“The symbol on the wall,” she announced, “was found at three separate farm killings in the ’90s.”

She opened the folder and spread out the photographs she had shown me in the coffee shop of Minhoop the day after the massacre. There were typed pages that accompanied each one, and several copies of old newspaper clippings. “Names, addresses, everything is in here,” she said and slid the folder over to Andile. It was a casual move on her part, but none of us missed the significance of the short journey that the buff folder took across the table.

“Those killers are surely long gone by now,” said Fehrson. “Or are you suggesting they took twenty-five years off, and have now returned for a few last killing sprees in their retirement?”

“I am interested in the victims,” said Andile. “Which is why I asked Miss Gabuza for the details of the families that were killed.”

Fehrson frowned with confusion until he remembered that Khanyi’s surname was Gabuza.

“My interest is in those families,” said Andile, “and not the people who killed them.”

“The dead families?” said Fehrson. “What good are they?”

“I am interested to know whether there were any survivors.”

“Survivors?” said Fehrson, as if the idea was preposterous. “What on earth would survivors have to do with it?”

“Who would paint that slogan on the wall? Killers from twenty-five years ago? Someone who stumbled across it in a history book? Or a survivor who has a newspaper clipping, or personal memory of the symbol? Something they pull out occasionally and obsess over.”

“You are one of the new breed of policeman, aren’t you?” said Fehrson with barely concealed horror. “Putting yourself in the killer’s mind, and all that nonsense.”

“Perhaps I am,” said Andile, and he smiled grimly.

“But a survivor who obsessed over a newspaper clipping would be white,” said Fehrson. “Why on earth would a white person walk into a church and kill thirty other white people?”

Andile shrugged. “At this time I have only questions.”

“It is perverse,” said Fehrson.

“Killing thirty-three people in their place of worship is perverse whichever way you look at it,” said Andile.

“There is one person who could be considered a survivor,” said Khanyi after another nasty silence. “Not a survivor as such, because they weren’t in the house at the time of the attack. But there is a connection that we have been looking into.”

“A connection?” said Andile.

“Piet van Rensburg. The farm he bought and is now turning into a game park was the site of one of those farm killings.”

“I see,” said Andile.

Khanyi glanced at Fehrson. His head moved a fraction, and she continued: “There is a deeper connection.”

Khanyi took the folder back from Andile and found a page with a typed report. She handed it to him. “Look at the maiden name of the mother, the woman killed in the attack.”

Andile frowned at the page. He looked back up at Khanyi and did not conceal his surprise.

“Van Rensburg,” he said.

“Older sister of Piet van Rensburg,” said Khanyi. “Estelle van Rensburg. She was ten years older than him. She was killed before Piet started his business. Before he was in the media spotlight.”

“Are you saying Piet bought his sister’s farm?”

Khanyi nodded. “Many years later.”

“We need to take a closer look at Piet van Rensburg,” said Andile.

“You are not going to suggest that Piet van Rensburg has been obsessing over a newspaper clipping about his sister’s death, which motivated him to kill everyone in a church where he was a revered leader?” said Fehrson. “It makes no sense.”

“None of it does,” admitted Andile. “Which brings us to the other perplexing part of all this. Your employee, Dirk Fourie.”

Fehrson shifted in his seat in preparation for further denials. Khanyi folded her arms to lessen the distraction provided by her fox fur. Nobody said anything.

“Are you aware of a fight that took place between him and Hendrik van Rensburg on the farm?”

“We are,” said Khanyi.

“Nqobeni is refusing to talk about it. I need a fresh approach, I am hoping you could provide it.”

“Why is it important?” asked Khanyi. “It was an intoxicated brawl; it happened weeks before the massacre.”

“The morning after the fight, Nqobeni’s brother announced his pilgrimage and departed without performing the service. We need to know what happened that evening.”

“Fourie’s report has little detail to add. He was concussed in the fight. Taken to