‘Your contact details?’
Nkosi hands it to him, shakes his head, moves on to an unmarked car.
De Vries turns behind him and nods at the Scene of Crime team. When they are inside, De Vries walks over to his Warrant Officer, Don February, who stands by the gate which leads down the side of the property to the terraced garden.
‘Those Central guys all go upstairs?’
‘Not when I arrived, sir. Just the Lieutenant and one other officer. Before that, the same officer and his partner, who answered the original call. But, maybe before I got here . . . ?’
‘You tell the Lieutenant that I was coming?’
‘Just that a senior officer from Special Crimes was coming. Not your name.’
‘Why not?’
‘I do not like the reaction when I say your name.’
De Vries smiles. His Inspector’s wit is dryer than the Karoo.
‘So you bought yourself a moment of respite . . .’
‘A senior officer thinks he is leading a case and then it is snatched away by some elite unit. It is no wonder that it breeds resentment.’
‘He should be glad of the break. That’s what our unit is for: take the tough ones and leave more officers available.’
‘Even you said nobody likes the system.’
‘I lied,’ De Vries says. ‘I like it.’
In the hallway, they dress in blue disposable boiler suits, over-boots and latex gloves. Although the house is full of people, there is a chapel-like hush. Don February speaks in a whisper.
‘Down the stairs is the kitchen and a casual living space, which leads onto the pool deck and garden. There is no evidence that anyone went there. The doors are barred and locked. Everything happened up here.’
They begin to climb the white staircase.
‘Did she live alone?’
‘Miss Holt? I do not know. It is a big house for one woman only.’
Don studies his notes.
‘Miss Taryn Holt, aged thirty-eight. She has been identified as the victim by the live-in maid, her ID, photographs of her in the house. But, I think I have heard that name . . .?’
‘Taryn Holt inherited her father’s company a few years back. Holt Industries is a major heavy-industrial player in Southern Africa. She’s richer than your Uncle Bob Mugabe.’
Don rolls his eyes.
‘I have not heard of Holt Industries.’
‘Me neither, till an hour back. Plenty of big, successful companies operating under the radar. She isn’t involved, but she owns most of it.’
They reach the upstairs landing and, immediately, De Vries can see through the expansive dual-level living space to a huge wall of floor-to-ceiling sliding doors which open to a breathtaking panorama over the city, the Waterfront and Table Bay. The shards of silver sunlight paint lines of smoky perspective over the scene until sea and sky merge on some unseen horizon.
A crime scene technician is bent over the lock on an open door in the corner of the room, another is searching the cream carpet for debris. Everything, De Vries thinks, is very bare, very pale. He looks at the large bronze sculpture on a cream marble plinth: a lioness attacks a wildebeest. De Vries feels that he has seen this scene before, in the same style, but cannot place where. He looks at the large paintings on the walls. They are mainly bright abstracts, garish and vulgar amidst the pure white, but there is one darker portrait of a black African woman. She stares proudly out from the canvas, demands that her gaze be met.
‘What else?’
‘There are many staff members, but they all travel in each day. There is one live-in maid. She has a room at the bottom of the garden. She called us early this morning. I have not spoken with her yet, but she told dispatch that she thought she heard something in the garden, went outside and looked up at the main house to see the terrace door in the corner open. As the alarm had not sounded, she came into the house to check that everything was all right. Her call to the station was logged at 5.14 a.m.’
‘And the victim?’
Don February turns, retraces his
Nkosi hands it to him, shakes his head, moves on to an unmarked car.
De Vries turns behind him and nods at the Scene of Crime team. When they are inside, De Vries walks over to his Warrant Officer, Don February, who stands by the gate which leads down the side of the property to the terraced garden.
‘Those Central guys all go upstairs?’
‘Not when I arrived, sir. Just the Lieutenant and one other officer. Before that, the same officer and his partner, who answered the original call. But, maybe before I got here . . . ?’
‘You tell the Lieutenant that I was coming?’
‘Just that a senior officer from Special Crimes was coming. Not your name.’
‘Why not?’
‘I do not like the reaction when I say your name.’
De Vries smiles. His Inspector’s wit is dryer than the Karoo.
‘So you bought yourself a moment of respite . . .’
‘A senior officer thinks he is leading a case and then it is snatched away by some elite unit. It is no wonder that it breeds resentment.’
‘He should be glad of the break. That’s what our unit is for: take the tough ones and leave more officers available.’
‘Even you said nobody likes the system.’
‘I lied,’ De Vries says. ‘I like it.’
In the hallway, they dress in blue disposable boiler suits, over-boots and latex gloves. Although the house is full of people, there is a chapel-like hush. Don February speaks in a whisper.
‘Down the stairs is the kitchen and a casual living space, which leads onto the pool deck and garden. There is no evidence that anyone went there. The doors are barred and locked. Everything happened up here.’
They begin to climb the white staircase.
‘Did she live alone?’
‘Miss Holt? I do not know. It is a big house for one woman only.’
Don studies his notes.
‘Miss Taryn Holt, aged thirty-eight. She has been identified as the victim by the live-in maid, her ID, photographs of her in the house. But, I think I have heard that name . . .?’
‘Taryn Holt inherited her father’s company a few years back. Holt Industries is a major heavy-industrial player in Southern Africa. She’s richer than your Uncle Bob Mugabe.’
Don rolls his eyes.
‘I have not heard of Holt Industries.’
‘Me neither, till an hour back. Plenty of big, successful companies operating under the radar. She isn’t involved, but she owns most of it.’
They reach the upstairs landing and, immediately, De Vries can see through the expansive dual-level living space to a huge wall of floor-to-ceiling sliding doors which open to a breathtaking panorama over the city, the Waterfront and Table Bay. The shards of silver sunlight paint lines of smoky perspective over the scene until sea and sky merge on some unseen horizon.
A crime scene technician is bent over the lock on an open door in the corner of the room, another is searching the cream carpet for debris. Everything, De Vries thinks, is very bare, very pale. He looks at the large bronze sculpture on a cream marble plinth: a lioness attacks a wildebeest. De Vries feels that he has seen this scene before, in the same style, but cannot place where. He looks at the large paintings on the walls. They are mainly bright abstracts, garish and vulgar amidst the pure white, but there is one darker portrait of a black African woman. She stares proudly out from the canvas, demands that her gaze be met.
‘What else?’
‘There are many staff members, but they all travel in each day. There is one live-in maid. She has a room at the bottom of the garden. She called us early this morning. I have not spoken with her yet, but she told dispatch that she thought she heard something in the garden, went outside and looked up at the main house to see the terrace door in the corner open. As the alarm had not sounded, she came into the house to check that everything was all right. Her call to the station was logged at 5.14 a.m.’
‘And the victim?’
Don February turns, retraces his
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