Gallows Hill Read Free Page A

I want it,’ said Clare. ‘You knew I’d want it.I just wondered why you wanted me involved now. With this.’
    ‘I thought if anyone could get it right,’ he said, ‘if anyone could find a way to tell this story –’ Riedwaan took out a cigarette, put it back. Playing for time. ‘The violence of it. Where these people came from –’
    He took the cigarette out again, lit it this time, tried to order his thoughts. Reached for words that would clothean instinct, an impulse, with logic. Failed.
    ‘Fuck it, Clare. Don’t ask me to explain. You’re making a film about Cape Town’s history. A film about slavery. This grave here, how many dead? And it’s too fucking old to be a crime scene. If the money-boys from Jo’burg get their way, it’ll all be wrapped up and under the ground before you can say Daar kom die Alabama . Finish and klaar. But you’vegot it now, from the beginning. It won’t be so easy to hide. You’ll see.’
    ‘If anyone wants to find someone to blame, it’s going to be you,’ said Clare.
    ‘That ever worried me?’
    ‘No,’ said Clare. ‘It hasn’t.’
    ‘It’s Valentine’s Day next week,’ he said. ‘Think of it as a present. From me to you.’
    ‘Most people would give red roses.’
    Riedwaan touched her cheek.
    ‘You’re notlike most people.’

4
    At 9.20 a battered Isuzu pulled up. A giant of a man stepped out. With his shock of grizzled hair, Solly Friedman looked like an off-duty Viking. The woman with him didn’t even come up to his shoulder.
    ‘Morning, Clare,’ said the towering forensic anthropologist. ‘Shirking work again, Faizal?’
    ‘Morning, Prof Friedman,’ said Riedwaan.
    ‘You and Mouton want the guys with the brainsto help you?’ asked Friedman.
    ‘We thought we’d give you a chance to show off,’ said Riedwaan.
    ‘Raheema Patel,’ said Friedman. ‘My new forensic anthropologist. On loan from the Missing Persons Task Force.’
    Raheema’s glossy black hair was bundled under a hat. She was dressed in khaki pants and shirt.
    ‘Good to see you again,’ said Clare, shaking hands.
    Major Shorty de Lange, ActingDirector of Ballistics, pulled up behind the Isuzu.
    ‘Faizal,’ he greeted. ‘Clare,’ giving her a brief hug. ‘Morning, morning,’ nodding to the others.
    ‘De Lange, you’re looking in the wrong place if you need work,’ said Riedwaan.
    ‘I was meeting with Phiri, your boss –’ said De Lange.
    ‘I figured out who my boss is,’ interrupted Riedwaan.
    ‘Proof at last that you can teach on olddog new tricks,’ said De Lange. ‘He told me about this. Looks like you’re in for some interesting times, Faizal.’
    ‘One way or another, shit’s going to hit the fan big-time,’ said Riedwaan. ‘But this is for the archaeologists, looks like.’
    ‘Okay, I’m gone, I’m gone,’ said De Lange. ‘Call me if you need me, Faizal. And you come shooting again, Clare, you sure know how to use a gun.’
    ‘Thanks, Shorty,’ smiled Clare. ‘I will.’
    ‘Is Tim Stone here yet?’ asked Friedman.
    An even older truck pulled up.
    ‘Speak of the devil,’ Friedman smiled.
    A rumpled man heaved himself out of the driver’s seat. He opened the back, freeing a motley lot of archaeology students.
    ‘Tim,’ said Friedman. ‘You’ve brought your storm troopers, I see.’
    ‘Americans,’ said Stone. His darkeyes were sharp and intelligent as a hawk’s in a face as plump and benign as Friar Tuck’s. ‘Experts in mass burials.’
    ‘They’ve worked on these before?’ asked Clare, watching the students gathering their tools.
    ‘No need,’ said Stone. ‘They’re Americans, so by definition they’re experts. That’s why they’re sent to me by their alma maters. My task is to undo years of parentally encourageddelusions of grandeur and cultural over-confidence, and to excavate their intelligence. With this lot I haven’t reached the latter phase yet, but they’re able and willing, and they all can dig. Which I