Webber looks up sharply.
“Sorry, Supe, he must have urinated,” Jantjies corrects himself quickly. “Then two shots were fired at close range in quick succession.”
Webber nods. “That’s also the way I see it. The weapon?”
“No weapon on the scene. Constable Mbane phoned, a woman handed herself over at the station, with the pistol. She says she committed the murder. The deceased’s wife says it’s her daughter.”
Webber nods again. Becomes aware of a weeping sound, looks questioningly at Jantjies.
“It’s the deceased’s wife. She is waiting in the lounge.”
“Let Mbane know I’m on my way. I first want to talk to the widow.”
“She just handed herself over without a lawyer.” Jantjies shakes his head. “Never heard of such a thing.”
“Nor me, but there’s definitely a first time for everything.”
Webber walks through to the lounge. He indicates with a nod that the constable sitting next to the woman on the couch may leave. The woman is wearing a dressing gown, presumably pyjamas underneath, bed socks on her feet, her hair rumpled from sleep.
“Ma’am?”
She lifts her head slowly, stares at him with reddened eyes.
She looks familiar. For a moment he considers asking her about this, but then decides against it. This is not the time or the place, and there is no sign of recognition in her eyes.
“I am Superintendent Webber. The deceased was your husband?” he asks just to make sure.
She nods.
“I am sorry about your loss, ma’am.” He always feels strange when he says this, as if he should actually know the person in order to feel any sorrow. “I must ask you a few questions.”
“That’s fine,” she says in a monotone.
“Ma’am, please tell me what happened here.”
She waits until he is sitting down. “We were woken by the ringing of the doorbell.”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t know. Three o’clock? Four o’clock?”
He nods.
“My husband got up to go and open the door. I stayed in bed. Then I heard such strange popping sounds. I came to have a look. She was here. Anna. She shot him. In front of me she shot him dead.”
He makes a note. “Anna?”
“My daughter.”
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you phone the police?”
“Yes.”
Bulldog can hardly hear her whisper, so he holds his head closer to hers.
“Did you touch anything?”
“No.”
“Can you think of any reason why your daughter would shoot her father?”
“He wasn’t her father.”
“Stepfather?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think your daughter would shoot her stepfather?”
She begins to cry, in spasms. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”
Bulldog shuts his notebook. “That’s all for now, ma’am. I’ll talk to you again later.”
He is certain that she does know why.
Bulldog sees red when Constable Mbane admits with embarrassment that the suspect, his suspect, washed her hands. This will bugger up the PR test for sure. He will have to ring forensics.
He controls himself with great difficulty. He has an overwhelming urge to grab the constable and shake him out of his uniform. But he knows from experience that this will only lead to trouble.
“Where is she?” he barks.
“In the top office, Supe.”
Bulldog is startled when he sees the young woman sitting in front of the desk. She is small, obviously terrified, and she is covered in blood. Sticky dry blood. The whole place smells of it.
He takes a deep breath and exhales before he can enter. “Miss Bruwer?”
She looks at him, frightened.
“I am Superintendent Webber.”
“I shot him. I had to. I did it for Carli. And for myself. I had to. I had to.”
He walks over to the telephone, rings the forensic division, arranges for a female constable to be sent to the top office.
“Who did you shoot?”
“Danie du Toit. I had to, Superintendent, believe me, I had to.”
“Where did you shoot him?”
She looks at him uncomprehendingly.
“In his leg, arm – where?”
“In his head. I had to.”
He looks up with relief when the door opens. It’s Constable Naudé.
“See that she is formally arrested. And I want all her clothes. Also look for trace under her nails, forensics is waiting.”
The woman with red hair leads me down the passage, past the toilet, down the steps to an untidy office where a desk is piled high with files. The constable with the soft eyes who found me in the bathroom is also there. He smiles encouragingly at me, but I am not able to smile back.
The woman leaves me standing, does not offer me a chair. I feel as if I’m about to collapse with exhaustion.
“Anna Bruwer, you have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney . . .”
I shut my ears, keep my eyes open, I do not want to hear. Not that, not those words. The right to remain silent. The right? Sometimes it’s all that you can do. Shush. Don’t talk. Don’t say anything. Shush. Anna who remains silent, mute.
The redhead opens a book, looks up at me without interest. “Name, date of birth, height, weight, eye colour, allergies, medication, doctor?” she rattles off the list.
I answer slowly, because I have to consider each word before I can allow it to pass my lips.
“Any distinguishing features?”
When I do not respond, she asks impatiently: “Tattoo? Birthmark?”
“Tattoo.”
“Where, what?”
“A dolphin, on my right shoulder.”
I had first considered angel wings. So that I could look into the mirror every day and know that I have goodness in me too, not only badness. But that would have taken too long, and I did not like the idea of having a stranger’s hands on my body. The dolphin was small, quick. The elegant curve of its leap out of the water represented freedom to me. Because I still thought then that I was free of the past.
She makes a note. “Handbag?”
“No.”
“Any personal items on you?”
My dignity? My pride? My clothes? The car keys in the pocket of my jeans? My cellphone?
I reach for my pockets, but her hands shoot out in a flash. “No, I’ll