Daddy Long Legs

By Vernon W. Baumann

Knick Knack Paddy Whack
Daddy Long Legs is Back

Twenty years ago he took nine lives.
Nine boys.
Abducted. Tortured and mutilated.
Nine bodies dumped across the barren landscape of a small town in Apartheid South Africa.
Then – abruptly – the murders stopped. And Daddy Long Legs was no more.
Until now.
A young boy disappears in broad daylight. Swallowed by darkness ... on the dusty streets of Hope.
Specialist detective Wayne Human is called in. Forced by brutal circumstances to become an expert in serial killers, he must now face his most twisted adversary yet. Can he discover the terrible secret behind South Africa’s most notorious serial killer before Daddy Long Legs reaps another grim harvest?
On the other side of South Africa, advertising executive Kyle Devlin’s life is about to fall to pieces. Then a tragedy forces him to return to Hope. Can he find redemption in the town of his youth while forced to face dark demons from his past?
It’s a race against the clock as a dark spectre from history returns to haunt the people of this small Karoo town.
Why did he disappear? Why is he back? And what sick forces drive his twisted lust? The answers are more bizarre than anyone could ever have thought.
Spanning a historic period in South Africa, Daddy Long Legs is an epic novel that probes the depths of human depravity ... at the same time examining the ultimate value of redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Paper Corporation
• Release date: Oct 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310619762

Vernon W. Baumann

Vernon W. Baumann was born in Ermelo, South Africa. He studied at the University of the Free State where he obtained a B.A. (Hons) degree.He worked for several years as a copywriter in the South African advertising industry. Driven by a need to write, he abandoned the industry and began teaching at the University of the Free State.He now lives in Bloemfontein (Free State) with his beautiful wife, two dogs and five cats (at last count).Vernon William also published under the name Vernon W. - writing crime and espionage thrillers.

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DADDY LONG LEGS

A Novel by Vernon W. Baumann

Published by Vernon W. Baumann @ Smashwords

Copyright (c) 2013 by Vernon W. Baumann

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Although Hope is based on an actual place (as are all the surrounding towns), the people and circumstances are entirely fictitious. I apologise to anyone I may have inadvertently offended. All the characters (unless otherwise stated or previously arranged) are likewise fictitious in nature and any resemblance to persons, alive or dead, is purely co-incidental.

Cover design: The Paper Corporation / Shutterstock

As always, this novel is dedicated to my wife, Rouxlien.

This has always been your book.

Now it’s finally ours

.

Acknowledgements

I want to thank our Holy Father, my Creator and Source of inspiration. God. Thank you for everything. Thank you for this book. To you all praise be due. I want to thank my wife, Rouxlien, for being the main drive behind this novel. You’ve been waiting so long for this story. Finally here it is. I want to thank the Stander family from Luckhoff for their patience, interest and encouragement. I appreciate it. I want to thank my dear friend Wayne Myburgh for his input and participation. Thank you, as always, for your ideas. This time ... just review the damn book please!! Also, a sincere thanks to my good friend Shaun Young for lending an ever present ear. I will miss you bud. Big time. Thanks to Linda Sparks for her encouragement. I appreciate your input. I want to give special thanks to the policemen and officers of the Hopetown police station. Thank you for entertaining a stranger’s strange questions. Finally, I want to thank all those who take the time, effort and money to buy this novel. I hope you enjoy it!

Table of Contents

Part One

Then and Now

Part Two

Detective Wayne Human

Part Three

Knick Knack Paddy Whack

Daddy Long Legs is Back

Epilogue

Just One More Thing

About the Author

PART ONE

Then and Now

One

On twenty September, 1984, a very odd limerick appeared in the classifieds section of the Hope Gazette – a weekly newspaper published by Johan and Susan Volkers in a little Northern Cape town by the same name.

It was a beautiful cloudless Thursday in the town of Hope and spring was slowly awakening from a particularly cold winter slumber. With temperatures climbing steadily, the numerous cattle farmers in the surrounding areas were preparing for calving season while the region’s maize and grain growers were watching recently planted crops with keen interest. The various forecasts for the coming summer were all positive and optimistic, and for a town that largely depended on the prosperity of the surrounding farmers, it was good news all around. It was little wonder then that the week of the twentieth found most in the small Northern Cape town of Hope in good spirits. Gert Kiepersol, son of a prosperous local businessman, even chose this particular week to ask the hand of Maryna Bruwer in marriage. Being a small town, it was a widely celebrated event and featured prominently in the very edition of the Hope Gazette mentioned above. Yes. Despite the growing political turmoil, there was every reason to suspect that good times were ahead.

Who could possibly have guessed that the summer of ’84 would turn out to be the bleakest and most dreadful in living memory?

Looking back, it’s surprising that not more people realised the ultimate significance of the bizarre little limerick that appeared in the Hope Gazette during that fateful week. In all truth, most readers didn’t even notice it at all. It featured, rather unobtrusively, in the WANTED section of the classifieds. Making use of the budget option, the twisted little poem appeared in Times New Roman, point 9, had no headline and featured no bold type-faced words. The obvious child-like slant of the limerick may also have served to make readers of the Hope Gazette overlook it. However, employing the faultless efficacy of hindsight, we may now consider it a glaring oversight that no-one had immediately linked the limerick to the terrible events of the day before. After all, it’s not every day that a nine-year old boy disappears without a trace from a small town in rural South Africa.

Amongst the handful of people that did notice the strange entry in the classifieds section of the Hope Gazette was Mavis Vorster. She was immediately critical and dismissive. Someone at the Gazette had obviously dropped the ball. Again! The Hope Gazette was hardly a bastion of journalism but Mavis’s reaction was not due to a concern over newspaper standards. Some months before, Susan Volkers had published a less than complimentary review of Mavis’s new diner. Some would say that the negative review was in no small part due to Mavis’s blatant flirtation with Susan Volkers’s husband, Johan. You gotta love small town South Africa.

Jaco van der Merwe, yet another reader who specifically noted the entry, was equally dismissive upon seeing the limerick. But for other reasons. In a mind racked by rancour and recrimination, for him the apparent slip-up in the Gazette was just another sign of the deteriorating political situation in the country.

In an effort to democratise the Apartheid regime, P.W. Botha, beleaguered South African Prime Minister, had introduced the Tri-cameral Parliament some months before. An attempt to bring Coloured and Indian voters into the Whites-only system, the doomed system had been heavily boycotted. Despite resistance, earlier in that September of 1984, the system had been voted into the South African constitution nonetheless. Although Ronald Reagan would veto U.N. sanctions against South Africa less than a week later – according to his policy of Constructive Engagement – Bittereinders (political die-hards) like Van der Merwe knew that White minority rule was at an end. It was this kind of bitterness that made Van der Merwe see every little thing in the light of the white-knuckle politics of Total Onslaught South Africa. Even a disturbed children’s poem that pointed to a very sick mind.

This is what Mavis Vorster and Jaco Van der Merwe saw on the morning of the twentieth of September, 1984, on page 19 of the Hope Gazette:

Hush, little Paulie, don't say a word,

Daddy’s going to give you a little hurt.

And if that little hurt don’t bleed

Daddy's going to make you

choke on his seed.

The previous day, Paul Walters had been snatched in broad daylight and plunged into a sordid world of darkness. The killer had written a poem to commemorate the event. About a week later, little Paulie’s mangled and violated body would be found a few kilometres outside of town. The terrible reign of Daddy Long Legs had begun. Hope would never be the same again.

Two

‘Okay, so picture this ...’ Ed Jones looked nervously at the two senior creatives sitting before him in the spacious Sandton office. Behind them, a large French window afforded a view of a shaded courtyard teeming with lush vegetation. The junior copywriter looked down at the tattered piece of paper in his sweaty hands.

‘Uh-huh?’ Kyle Devlin was lying back on his plush leather swivel-chair, feet on his desk staring up at the ceiling. He nodded at Ed, motioning for him to continue. Somewhere a phone was ringing.

‘I thought this was a radio ad,’ said Thabo Mofokeng, senior art director and long-time creative partner of Kyle. In the glass-panelled studio visible through the open door of the large office, someone gave a piercing scream. It was followed by a round of raucous laughter. Kyle leaned forward and gave his art director a withering look. He motioned once again for the young creative to resume.

‘Carry on, Ed. Don’t worry about Thabo here. He’s black.’ Kyle winked at the junior copywriter.

Tall, confident, and possessed with a disarming attractiveness, Kyle Devlin leaned back and rubbed his hand across the short bristles of his brush cut. Dressed in a Diesel t-shirt and Levi’s jeans, Kyle was the very picture of advertising success; a creative director in charge of his own division. And barely into his thirties.

‘Um, okay.’ The young copywriter looked uncertainly at his two superiors and resumed reading from a tattered piece of paper. When he finished reading his radio advert, Ed placed the paper on his lap with shaky hands. Kyle folded his hands into a triangle beneath his chin and stared at the ceiling nodding slowly. Thabo Mofokeng sighed expansively.

‘May I, your worship?’

‘Of course, hon.’ Kyle winked at the slim and lanky black man seated at his table with a gigantic toy crayon between his legs. A paper plane whizzed past the open door. In the studio outside, two creatives were busy wrestling on a designer couch.

Thabo continued. ‘Dude, it lacks a bit of ... oomph, you know?’ He gesticulated dramatically. ‘It needs a little je ne sais quoi ...’ Kyle rolled his eyes at his art director’s theatricality. ‘A little chutzpah,’ Thabo said, throwing his hands into the air.

‘Yes,’ Kyle said after a moment, shaking his head, ‘Rabbi Mofokeng is correct.’ Thabo chuckled. ‘But at the same time, it’s just retail radio, man, so don’t over complicate it. No need to re-invent the wheel on this one.’ Kyle paused. ‘You know what a Creative Director of mine told me years ago? He said Kyle, some clients just aren’t worth it. Sometimes you just gotta take the money and run. And this is one of those clients. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ Ed said, slowly nodding.

‘What’s the deal again?’ Kyle asked.

‘Uh ...’ Ed looked down at the advertising brief, attached to his ad print-out. ‘Take out a cell phone contract and get a free TV.’

‘Okay, what about this? Start off with an announcement like Warning! This deal is only suitable for sensible viewers ... and then straight into the deal. Piece o’ cake. You got it?’

Ed thought for a moment. ‘Wow. Cool. That’s a nice idea,’ Ed said genuinely impressed.

‘Of course it is, bra. That’s why they pay me the big money. Now finish this stuff and get cracking on that L’orient Cosmetics brief. Now that shit will win you a Loerie, my main man.’

Ed stood up re-invigorated. "Schweet. Thanks, Kyle.’ He nodded at Thabo and exited.

‘Ah, the folly of youth,’ Thabo said with faux philosophical wistfulness.

‘Think fast, junior!’ Kyle said lobbing a rugby ball at his art director. Thabo reached for the ball but it bounced against his outstretched hands. And slammed neatly into the shocked face of Derek Lategan, Client Service Director.

‘Holy shit! Are you guys insane?’ Derek asked flailing wildly.

‘Chips! It’s a suit.’ Kyle ducked behind his desk screaming like a girl. Thabo took exaggerated slow motion strides towards Derek. Peering out from under his desk, Kyle mimicked the soundtrack of Chariots of Fire. The prancing art director flung himself onto the unimpressed agency executive, bringing both of them crashing onto the couch flanking the doorway. He made exaggerated sexual motions with his pelvis, flinging a hand into the air, cowboy-style.

‘Yeah, baby, yeah.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake ... really,’ Derek said with mild irritation. ‘You wouldn’t say the two of you were in your thirties.’

Kyle emerged from his desk laughing. ‘Hey, Lategan. How’s our favourite suit doing on this fine morning?’ Kyle’s tone was not patronising but genuine. Although a stiff, formal type – the ideal client service executive – Derek was one of Kyle’s most treasured allies in the fluctuating world of agency politics.

Thabo dug in the top pocket of Derek’s Hugo Boss suit and extracted a packet of Dunhill cigarettes. ‘Hey baas (boss), can I bum a smoke?’ He took out a cigarette without waiting for an answer.

‘Well, I was a lot better until I entered the frikking psychiatric ward,’ Derek said snatching the pack of cigarettes from Thabo.

Kyle chuckled. ‘Coffee?’ he asked walking over to his own personal cappuccino machine – a fringe benefit of being one of the senior Creative Directors at Davis Corke, (Advertising practitioners, Ltd) known as ‘Davis’ or ‘the Corke’ amongst industry insiders.

‘Yeah. Two Canderels, please.’ Thabo lit the appropriated cigarette and exited through the French doors that led to a little balcony outside. Yes. You got it. Yet another fringe benefit.

‘So, bru, what brings you to our little corner of the world?’ Kyle spurted the rich liquid into a Styrofoam cup. He clicked two pills into the steaming brew and handed the cup and a wooden stirrer to the client service director.

‘That stratcom meeting for Kamayota is on, man. Tomorrow, eleven o’ clock.’ Stratcom was agency speak for strategic communications. An important meeting in which the marketing strategy of a particular brand is formulated for an entire financial year.

‘Oh for God’s sake, Derek, man.’ Kyle spun around and slammed his hands down on the table.

Thabo peered in through the French doors. ‘Hey man, what’s up?’

Kyle turned to face Derek. ‘Dude, this is bullshit. I don’t have time for this ... this kak!’Kyle threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. He spun around and eyed Derek ominously. ‘It’s Charles, isn’t it?’

Derek Lategan sighed laboriously. ‘Yep. He insists.’

Charles Baker. Managing Director at the Sandton branch of Davis Corke; rising star in the agency ... and all-round prick, at least in the eyes of the majority of the creatives. Charles Baker was the true epitome of the advertising executive – patronising and obsequious in equal measure whenever the situation required it. He was a true wheeler and dealer with a Masters degree in backstabbing and manipulation. Whenever Kyle thought of Charles he always remembered something Billy Rosehill – a former creative director at the Corke – used to say: ‘Kyle, my son, this is the only industry in which shit floats to the top.’

The enmity between Kyle and Baker had a long history. During a particularly strenuous pitch for a new client’s business, Kyle had opposed Baker concerning the strategic direction of the brand. It had been a vitriolic clash. Kyle’s arguments had won the day, and even though his proposed strategy eventually won them the business, Baker never forgave Kyle for his public opposition. And the humiliation Kyle had dished out to him. The natural dislike between the two men had grown from there into something approaching simmering hatred.

‘Ah, screw him, man. Screw him.’ Kyle got to his feet. ‘These meetings are bullshit. Hours of tedious kak with a bunch of agency wankers blowing hot steam out of their asses trying to prove how bright and educated they are.’ He sat down next to Derek sighing in resignation. ‘Whatever. It’s not as if the opinions of a creative director matters upstairs, is it now?’

‘Come now, old man,’ Derek said slapping Kyle on the knee. ‘You should know by now us suits only keep you creative types around for the window dressing ... and to spice up agency parties.’ Derek paused. ‘Besides, client’s gonna be there. And you know the brass balls upstairs. They’re never going to miss an opportunity to bend for client.’

‘Aha.’ Kyle pointed at Derek in triumph. ‘Spoken like a true creative. It’s not too late. We can still save you, man.’

Derek chuckled absently. ‘Okay, let me be out of here,’ he said downing the last of the coffee in the cup and rising to his feet. ‘Thanks for the cappo.’ He straightened his suit. ‘You two dregs coming to the party tonight?’ Amongst many things, the Corke was famous in the local industry for its parties. Every conceivable excuse was employed to host yet another legendary Davis Corke hoe-down. In this case it was the annual Spring party – one of the year’s biggest events.

‘Hey, if we didn’t come it wouldn’t be a party,’ Thabo said.

‘Shame,’ Derek said smiling, ‘it’s good to have some value, isn’t it?’

‘Dammit, don’t we just love this guy,’ Thabo said to Kyle.

‘Yeah, you and my wife’s lawyer,’ Derek replied sourly.

‘Ouch.’ Kyle said, looking at his old friend with sympathy. ‘How’s that going, man?’

‘There are some things I just don’t discuss in polite company. Let’s leave it at that.’

‘Damn, I can imagine.’ Kyle shook his head. He thought of Angelique, his wife. ‘I’m just glad I’m not going through something like that.’

It was a statement that would come back to haunt Kyle.

‘Yeah. See you guys later.’ Derek disappeared through the door.

There was silence as both stared at the empty door frame. ‘Bummer,’ Thabo said.

Kyle sighed. ‘Sure is.’

Thabo looked at his Diesel watch. ‘Come, let’s get this party started.’

Kyle stood for a moment, in thought. ‘Ok wait. Let me just phone Angelique and tell her I’m going to be late.’ Kyle selected a contact on his cell phone and dialled. There was no answer. After a moment he killed the call, frowning. ‘I hope they’ve broken out the hard tack. I’m gonna need a strong drink, that’s for sure.’

Like most agencies in South Africa, the Corke had its own in-house bar that opened every day after five. Beers and ciders free on weekdays, hard tack gratis on Fridays and special occasions. Today was definitely a special occasion.

Kyle followed Thabo through the open door of their office. Next door, Lindsey – Kyle’s P.A. – was busy typing furiously. The sounds of 94.7 FM floated across the empty space. ‘You coming, Linds?’ Kyle asked. The pretty twenty-something girl smiled and held up her palm and extended fingers, indicating five minutes. Kyle gave her a thumbs up.

Kyle and Lindsey had been together almost as long as he and Thabo. Through good times and hard times, their relationship had grown into something far deeper than mere a mere professional association. In the dog-eat-dog world of advertising, Lindsey was the third point of the triad that assured Kyle’s department’s success. Kyle and Thabo had themselves been in a creative partnership for almost five years. In ad agencies, the creative work is usually done by a team consisting of a copywriter and art director. Successful teams often stay together for years. In the same way, when Kyle was offered the position of creative director at Davis Corke a few years back, Thabo was a part of the package and made the move with him.

‘Schweet,’ Kyle said, beaming.

Kyle and Thabo passed Lindsey’s office and ambled towards the staircase that would take them down to ground level where the bar was located. Festive noises drifted from below. Next to them, an elevator pinged and opened up. A tall black youth stepped out of the elevator interior. It was Sibusiso, a young art director from another department. He threw his hands up to the air and affected a falsetto.

‘Yo w’zuuuup, Niggaaaaa.’ He greeted Thabo with an elaborate series of handshakes. As the highest ranking black creative in the agency, Thabo was somewhat of a hero to the younger black creatives. ‘Hey Kyle, what’s up?’

‘Howzit dude.’

‘Hey Thabo, wha’d ya say?’ Sibusiso swiped his forefinger under his nose throwing his head back. It was the universal sign for schnarf ... blow ... icing ... cocaine. The Vitamin C that powered the agency engine. The powder that fuelled the high-octane lives of people in an impossibly demanding industry. It was also the same stuff that caused some of the industry’s most spectacular meltdowns.

‘Dude, now you’re talking,’ Thabo said with enthusiasm. He looked at Kyle. ‘You gonna join us, bro?’

Kyle shook his head. He had learned a long time ago to steer clear of the industry’s single biggest vice. ‘You kids go enjoy yourself.’

‘Catch up with you later,’ Thabo said walking with Sibusiso to the bathrooms.

Kyle carried on down the elaborate staircase. The building had once housed a firm of powerhouse attorneys and everything in the architecture and layout affirmed this. Several agency staff passed him on the staircase, most greeting him with fondness. With more than a few he exchanged jovialities and friendly words. The party mood in the agency was building to a fever pitch. Oh yeah, baby. It was going to be another legendary Corke soireé.

At the bottom of the staircase, Kyle passed the sweeping reception desk. He had met up with a girl from media planning, and they were skipping towards the bar area, arm in arm. Someone called his name. He turned around and saw Luz, the luscious Davis Corke receptionist, holding a phone in her hand. She motioned for him. ‘Hi Kyle. I’ve been trying to reach you in your office. I’ve got a call for you. Do you want to take it upstairs?’

‘Nah, it’s fine. I’ll sommer take it here.’ He took the receiver from a radiant smiling Luz and looked up at the towering foyer ceiling while he put it to his ear. ‘Yeah? Kyle speaking.’ There was silence. Kyle forced the receiver against his ear. ‘Hello.’ He listened carefully but there was nothing. Thinking the call had been dropped, he was just about to hand the receiver back to Luz. When he heard a rustle of movement. Somebody was at the other end. ‘Hello.’ Nothing. And yet. Once again he heard a sound. The unmistakable scrape of a stubbled chin against the phone on the other end. ‘Listen, can you hear me?’ He waited. But no-one responded. And yet. There it was again. Somebody was there. And they were messing with him. ‘Listen, I don’t have time for –’ And then he heard it. Something that made him bite his sentence in two. If he hadn’t had the receiver right up against his ear he probably wouldn’t have heard it at all. But he did. And for some reason it sent a cold chill down his spine.

Kyle.

Somebody had whispered his name. Hoarse and malicious.

Kyle threw down the receiver and walked towards the bar area. Badly shaken. There was something deeply disturbing about the voice on the other end.

If only Kyle knew.

Three

On the seventh of May, 1985, Barry Coetzee vanished without a trace.

Barry, aged ten, had been on his way home from tennis practice when he disappeared. Hope was a small town and it was less than two kilometres from the premises of Hope Primary School to Barry’s house in the lower-middle class suburb of Mooigenoeg. Barry would normally walk this distance, his tattered green school satchel on his back and dusty tog bag in his hand.

Barry was a gentle and trusting boy, small for his age. He liked nothing more than practising piano etudes and scales in the safety of his house. Yvette Coetzee, Barry’s mom, loved him dearly. And maybe because he was her only child, she was over-protective and preferred a sheltered life for her son. It was Barry’s dad, Roedolf Coetzee, who suggested he take up a sport. Since he was way too small for rugby and intimidated by the hardness of a cricket ball, he reluctantly took up tennis. It was after another unsatisfying practice session that Barry now walked home.

He took the same route home every day and had become a regular sight along his journey. And yet, witnesses were scarce on that fateful day.

Dusk was already settling over the small Northern Cape town when Barry stopped to purchase a packet of Super C’s at the Aurora corner shop (witnesses said). After that he walked a short distance along Main Road and took a right at Church Street (witnesses said). Outside the Moerdyk Auto Repair Shop, Barry cordially greeted Jan Moerdyk – who subsequently became the last person to see Barry alive. Somewhere between this point and the end of Church Street – less than half a kilometre away – Barry was swallowed up in a shadowy abyss. And became the second victim of Daddy Long Legs.

Regrettably, no-one saw anything. Details were few ... and vague. A white/beige/yellow late/early model Toyota/Ford/Nissan had been spotted in that part of town (witnesses said). The one moment he had been in plain sight and the next ... well, it was if the earth had swallowed him up whole.

Of course Barry was only reported missing later that night. After his hysterical mom had phoned up half of Hope (and knocked on the doors of the other half) in an effort to locate her missing son. By early the next morning, the worst suspicions of the small town’s residents had been confirmed: the disappearance (and subsequent discovery) of Paul Walters a few months earlier was not an isolated case. Somebody was abducting and brutally murdering the little boys of Hope.

Bizarrely, no-one had at this stage linked the twisted poem – that had featured a few months before in the Gazette – to the disappearance of Paul Walters. That was all to change when the following entry appeared in the classifieds the next day:

Little Miss Muffet

Sat on a Tuffet

But little boy Barry is

Locked in a closet

Poor Little boy Barry

Can kick and scream

But nothing will carry

And none will hear him howl

Now that he is mine

To relish and devour and foul

The disappearance of Paul Walters and the discovery of his bruised and battered little body had shocked and horrified the people of Hope. The publication of the poems, and its link to the abduction of the two boys, now raised the revulsion levels of the residents to fever pitch. It was not a situation helped by the realisation that some sick mind was toying with the good people of Hope with disturbed little compositions. For the first time people realised there was a serial killer in their midst – stalking and preying on their children. Overnight the town of Hope became a very different place.

The story made headlines across the nation and featured prominently in the radio and television news of the South African Broadcasting Corporation – back then, the country’s sole electronic news medium. Newspaper reporters from cities across South Africa descended on the little Northern Cape enclave.

Crimes like these were unknown – this was before the revelation of the perversions of the infamous Gert van Rooyen – and, as in the case of the first disappearance, the local police found themselves completely out of their depth. However, this time they immediately called in the help of two murder and robbery detectives from Kimberley. Detectives James Burke and Klaas Haasbroek hurried to the scene of the crime – and promptly became media celebrities. It was but one of many reasons why the investigation was doomed to failure right from the start.

Initially many of the residents of Hope suspected that some black or Coloured man from the local township was behind the crimes. It was a measure of consolation (believe it or not) for some to hypothesise that a white man couldn’t possibly be behind the egregious misdeeds ... and that logically a black man must be to blame. Some even conjectured (bizarrely) that the crimes were a part of the terror campaign of the outlawed African National Congress – in their efforts to demoralise the minority white population and thus destabilise the government. Although the ANC theory was never really taken seriously, these fears and suspicions did lead to sporadic attacks on black members within the community as well as other hate crimes. Thoko Motaung, an exiled ANC member living in London, reacted to the situation by saying that if it were an African committing the terrible crimes, the white community deserved it for their centuries-long oppression of the black population. Although it was a callous and cruel thing to say, Motaung received wide-spread support in the UK and US media.

The two Kimberley detectives soon put the whole matter to rest by pointing out that it couldn’t possibly have been a black man. The detectives surmised – correctly – that the abductor had to be known to the boys – else he wouldn’t have been able to commit his crimes, in broad daylight, with such apparent ease. A black man wouldn’t have been able to gain the required proximity to the abducted boys – especially in Apartheid South Africa. Furthermore, they indicated that the killer mentioned both boys by name in the – now famous – Gazette poems. As much as most people hated to admit it, it was one of their own who was behind the repulsive crimes. Of course, in the racially charged South Africa of the 80’s, there were many who refused to abandon their suspicions that it was a ‘non-white’ who was behind the crimes. For many years, a substantial sector of the white community continued to believe that a black man was behind the murders.

Whatever their suspicions, the crimes had disastrous consequences for the social structures within the ‘whites-only’ town limits. Paranoia and mistrust flared up. Neighbours eyed each other with suspicion. Social events all over the arid Northern Cape town were cancelled and even the annual Agricultural show was postponed. Kind gestures between citizens – formerly seen as polite social acts – were now frowned upon and viewed with deep enmity. Already having a reputation as a hard-drinking town, alcohol abuse sky rocketed. At the same time, church attendance was at an all time high. The children of Hope, for generations raised to be unreservedly respectful and deferential to their elders, were now taught to view grown-ups with suspicion. In this way, an entire generation of Hope children were inculcated with a warped view of their own society. Hope had finally joined the twentieth century. In a congruent act, some aspirant wit vandalised the Hope signboard on the N12. It now read HOPE(LESS). Things were not looking good for the little town on the edge of the arid Karoo.

As for the official police investigation, things were not going much better. Like so much in South Africa – then and now – everything became politicised. In addition, the investigation was dogged by small-town politics right from the start.

Frik Moerdyk, brother to the man who was the last person to see Barry Coetzee alive, was at that time mayor of Hope. A man with limited education and ability, it was only due to a burning ambition – and wholesale bullying – that he attained the position of mayor in the first place. It was this same ambition that assured him he could attain even loftier political positions – maybe even parliament! Bliksem! Imagine that. So it was with this misguided sense of self-worth that Frik insinuated himself into the investigation, right from day one. As can be guessed, his meddling had a seriously detrimental effect on the efforts of the detectives. Fashioning himself as the ‘champion of the people’ he insisted on total transparency in the investigation (Translation: he wanted his ‘important contribution’ to be clearly observable by his voters). As a result, he forced valuable evidence – which should have remained confidential in a case of this nature – to be leaked to the public. But Moerdyk’s meddling didn’t stop there. He insisted on daily meetings with the detectives to gauge the progress of the case and proffered a series of bizarre suspect lists – influenced more by his political dealings than anything else. In this and other ways, Mayor Moerdyk became the single biggest impediment to solving the case. Damage control was only – thankfully – applied late one night on an isolated stretch of Wide Road when Moerdyk was caught enjoying the services of a black prostitute known locally as Maria the Mouth. The Mayor’s unsolicited meddling – and career – both ended suddenly that Friday night. But the damage had been done. And the initiative had been lost. A possible effective strategy for apprehending the killer had been rendered ineffective. The killer simply adapted his modus operandi and thus evaded capture.

A few days after the Moerdyk incident, one of the detectives resigned to pursue interests in the private sector. He was immediately replaced by a political appointee – nephew to one of the National Party parliamentarians. Meanwhile a sadistic serial killer that exalted in the torture and violation of young boys walked unhindered amongst the community.

Just over a week after Mayor Moerdyk was unceremoniously stripped of his ambitions, the badly decomposed body of Barry Coetzee was found in the flatlands to the West of Hope. Yvette Coetzee committed suicide the following day.

On New Year’s Day of the following year, Jason Reed – aged eleven – was seen playing outside his house when he vanished into thin air.

Four

A much younger Kyle ran through the empty foyer and rushed towards the solitary woman behind the reception desk. ‘I’m here for the SADA’s,’ he said out of breath. And then as an afterthought: ‘I’m late.’ As a junior copywriter and newest member of the SADA judging panel his tardiness was an unforgiveable crime. And he knew it.

‘Really? Do you think so?’

Flustered and stressed by his late arrival Kyle’s attention was all over the place. Now, for the first time, he properly looked at the girl behind the counter. The first thing he noticed was that she was toying with him. The second thing was that she was stunningly beautiful.

‘You’re Tiaan’s boy, aren’t you?’ Her voice was low and throaty; her accent clipped and crisp. A product of one of Johannesburg’s numerous private schools, Kyle guessed.

‘Well, uh, I wouldn’t exactly call myself Tiaan’s boy,’ Kyle said self-consciously.

She laughed, throwing her head back, long blond hair cascading over her shoulders. ‘Relax, Pointdexter, I’m just pulling your leg.’ Kyle realised it wasn’t only her accent that betrayed an expensive upbringing. No. Merely the way she carried and projected herself was touched by a subtle but definite finesse. If it was at all possible, even the way she looked at Kyle was ... sophisticated? Urbane? He was immediately entranced. ‘Remember? We spoke on the phone,’ she said, giving Kyle a wink. There was a quiet confidence about her that Kyle found both intriguing and intimidating.

‘Oh yeah. That was you?’ Kyle remembered the phone call well. He had been flushed with excitement ... and shock. Tiaan Duvenhage, head of the agency’s design studio and a legendary figure in the world of advertising, had been in his office moments before.

‘Kyle, I’m going to nominate you as a SADA judge,’ Tiaan had told him in his characteristically pointed manner. ‘You good with that?’

Kyle had almost fallen off his rickety old swivel chair. The SADA’s (the South African Design Awards) was an acclaimed and much desired award that celebrated creative achievement within a vibrant and competitive industry. ‘Uh ... yeah,’ he managed to say without choking on his own spit.

‘Good. Phone this number and tell them you’re on board,’ Tiaan said handing Kyle a strip of paper.

Kyle was staring in dumb-founded shock at the paper when he realised that Tiaan had left his office. He jumped up and ran after him. ‘Tiaan!’ He faced the famous designer, a thousand questions, insecurities and objections racing through his mind. But all he could manage was, ‘Uh ... I just wanted to say thanks.’

‘No problem. Knock yourself out, kiddo.’ He pointed at Kyle’s office. ‘Phone that number.’ And with that Tiaan was gone. And Kyle was left trying to make sense of it all. He had, after all, barely spoken two words to Tiaan since he had joined the agency just over a year ago. But most importantly, Kyle was a copywriter, not a designer. And a very junior copywriter at that. It wasn’t just a big honour. It was a huge tribute.

‘Oh hi,’ the girl on the other end of the line had said casually, ‘Tiaan told me you’d be phoning.’ She had then given Kyle the details concerning time and place.

‘But listen,’ Kyle had said uncertainly after she had done, ‘I’m not a designer. Is that okay?’ He decided to omit the fact that he was a very junior copywriter with very limited experience.

‘If Tiaan nominated you then I have absolutely no problem,’ she had said without hesitation. ‘Okay. If there’s nothing else then we’ll see you there, Kyle.’ After the phone call Kyle was in a daze, trying to comprehend the surreal nature of the situation.

Now Kyle stood out of breath – and very late – in the foyer of the place where the SADA’s were to be judged. ‘You better get going,’ the girl behind the reception desk said pointing to a door on her right. ‘You might just make the last item on the list.’

‘Oh no.’ Kyle felt his spirits sink.

‘Hey relax.’ The girl leaned forward and placed a hand on his arm. ‘You’re awfully tense, Scooter. I’m just joking.’ She indicated the door. ‘They only started a wee while ago. And they spend absolutely hours on each category.’ Kyle breathed a sigh of relief and smiled at her. ‘Here’s your score sheet. Go knock ‘em flat.’ She flashed him a smile which made his heart jump into his throat.

Kyle grabbed the card and headed for the door. He entered a large well-lit room. And let the door slam behind him. A group of designers was clustered together in a corner. Some of them looked at Kyle with annoyance at the interruption.

You can spot a designer from a mile away. Preened, ridiculously well-groomed, sporting designer labels from head to toe, and usually shouldering the near obligatory ‘man purse’ they were difficult to miss. Kyle waved meekly but no-one returned the greeting. Sighing deeply he joined the group. In his short career Kyle had learned that creatives were almost invariably narcissistic with an unshakeable belief in their innate superiority. In their own minds they were an elite, governing and guiding the aesthetics of the commoners, the great unwashed masses. And mankind should feel deeply grateful that they were there in the first place to bestow their pearls of creative wisdom on everyone. Being from a small town, it was a sentiment that Kyle found laughable and absurd.

As he now sauntered towards the designers huddled around an exhibit, he wondered – yet again – if he had made the right decision to come to Johannesburg to pursue his dreams. The group was avidly discussing an entry that was neatly displayed on a long folding table. Arranged across the room were half a dozen of these tables, each featuring a host of entries similarly displayed. Everyone was scrutinising a specific entry with studious diligence. Kyle studied the group of men around him. He knew from the documents he had received before the time that some of the industry’s stellar talents were assembled as judges. As he looked around, Kyle realised with a shock that he was the youngest person there.

Kyle pulled away from his reverie and shuffled closer to the group where a very avid discussion was underway. It concerned a specific entry in the category ‘self-promotion’. The general opinion was that it was ‘excessive’ and ‘laboured’. Someone mentioned that he knew the creative director in question and he was, quote: ‘a Neanderthal’. That seemed to settle the discussion and they moved on with loud noises of self-assurance. Kyle lagged behind, studying the entry. He thought it was vibrant, bold and arresting. He promptly gave it nine out of ten. And decided that he would not – in any way – be swayed by the opinions of the creative Goliaths around him.

As Kyle stood self-consciously amongst the group of designers, he felt his cell phone vibrate. It was a text. From Candi. The traffic girl back at the agency. The message was short and blunt. New urgent brief. Monique, his creative director, needed him back at the agency. Now! Kyle cursed under his breath. What the hell was her problem? He felt an arid bleakness settle over his mood.

While the judges were hard at work studying an entry, Kyle heard a noise. Pssst. He looked around. It was the girl from the reception desk. What was her name again? She was leaning into the room waving at him. ‘How are you doing, Huckleberry?’ Kyle smiled meekly. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll crack it.’ She pointed at the group of judges. ‘Don’t mind them.’ She placed a hand over her mouth and widened her eyes with conspiracy. ‘They’re all a bunch of closet queers anyway.’ Kyle sputtered at her audaciousness. It drew more than a few admonishing looks from the others. ‘Remember, you’re a rock star.’ She winked and disappeared. Kyle felt