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coughed into life long enough to drive the three blocks to where Harry Rabinowitz had found the dead girl. There was a press of people around the taped-off area where the body lay. He could see Bester on his phone, bull neck distended with rage. That would be Phiri, thought Riedwaan, telling Bester that Riedwaan was in charge. Bester stalked over to Riedwaan, flinging his folder at him.
    ‘Good luck, Faizal. I hope you stay sober long enough to work out which bastard did this.’ Riedwaan straightened the papers in the file and said nothing. A
klap
from Bester was not something you wanted to provoke.
    ‘Thanks, Frikkie.’ He saw the man twitch at the use of his first name. Riedwaan suppressed a smile. Words could be powerful sometimes. He opened the docket to check it was in order. ‘Looks perfect. Thanks.’ He ducked under the tape, and did not flinch at the sight of the splayed girl discarded on the pavement. He bent down next to her.
    ‘Who covered her?’ he asked.
    ‘The old guy who found her,’ a young constable answered. Her name tag stretched across her breast pocket: Rita Mkhize.
    ‘Shit!’ muttered Riedwaan. He removed the coat and handed it to the constable. ‘Bag that.’ Then he snapped his phone open and made the calls he needed to. The photography unit was on their way. He looked at the knife wound to her throat. The force of it had all but decapitated her. He put a call throughto ballistics. They would work out what knife had been used if there were grooves in the bones. And if they found the weapon to match the wound then he would be one step closer to catching the killer.
    Riedwaan looked around. He could predict within seconds who had killed a victim. With female victims it was usually the husband or a boyfriend. He was willing to bet that this was a stranger killing. The body had been arranged. There was a message here, but it was written in a language he had yet to decipher. Riedwaan guessed she had been killed elsewhere and dumped here. He would wait for the forensic pathologist to tell him that: he was a cautious man despite his reputation. He called Piet Mouton.
    ‘Howzit, Doc. Riedwaan here. Are you on your way?’ He heard Mouton’s low laugh.
    ‘Jeez, no wonder they call you Super-cop. You must catch these guys all the time. Turn around.’
    Riedwaan turned to find the shabby, plump figure of the forensic pathologist right behind him. Riedwaan laughed. ‘Doctor Death and his bag of tricks. I’m glad it’s you.’
    ‘What have we got here?’ asked Mouton. He looked down at the dead girl. ‘Where is that idiot Riaan?’ he asked, looking around for the police photographer who was smoking and trying to flirt with Constable Mkhize. ‘Come and do your job and leave that poor girl alone. You’re so ugly you’ll frighten her!’ called Mouton.
    Riaan Nelson sauntered over with his camera. ‘What you want for your necrophilia collection this time, Doc?’ Mouton told him what to photograph. He was meticulous, and he knew his photographs were essential to Mouton and to Riedwaan. And to this dead girl, in the end. Piet Mouton sketched the girl while Riaan worked. A defence lawyer would pounce on one imprecise line on his autopsy report if it ever came to trial.Mouton checked all around the body. There were two Marlboros very close to her; one was smoked down to the filter, the other had been stubbed out when it was half smoked. He bagged them.
    ‘Hard to tell with these, but we can give it a try. If there is other DNA on the body, then maybe we can do a match.’
    Riedwaan stood close by, listening to Mouton. He was a fussy, shy man and he muttered away to himself while he worked a crime scene. Riedwaan had long since learned to stick close and glean everything he could.
    ‘Look here.’ Mouton swabbed a streak on her stomach, ‘Could be semen.’ There was some of the same substance on the skirt too. He collected and labelled it.
    Mouton was satisfied that he had enough photographs