Sanguinous

By Allison Glass

Rory Tate is a young journalist on her first job with a reputable news agency. Her investigations lead her into a bloodthirsty criminal underworld she could never have imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allison Glass
• Release date: Jul 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005603267

Book preview

30 December 1687

Francois Mouton had not planned to board a ship bound for South Africa. The gangplank that spanned the gap between the pier and the ship’s deck had been his most immediate route of escape. Thinking about it later, he mused that it had been his destiny - if the lantern lighting the boarding area had not blown out and if the quarter master had not turned his back momentarily to reprimand a rowdy sailor, his rapid ascent to the deck would not have gone unnoticed. A minute later, crouched behind a row of barrels, gasping for air, the gangplank had been pulled up on board. Yes, it had been his destiny.

He remained motionless until he heard the crew retiring for the night. Cautiously peering between the barrels, he saw his pursuers still there, loitering in the shadows. On board a sailor stood guard, pacing along the deck from time to time with a cough and a spit of phlegm. Francois was surprised that the men made no attempt to board the ship. He had no doubt that they had the ability to do so, even without a gangplank, and no sailor would stand in their way. He slumped back against the barrels and raised his hand to the wound in his neck. Taking his hand away, he looked at the blood that covered his fingertips.

He had been caught off guard when she bit him. He had thought she was trying to seduce him - her billowing red hair; her glowing eyes; the intoxicating smell of jasmine. Caught up in the moment he had forgotten his decision to stand firm, to not be swayed. And then she had bitten him. After that things were a blur. He had been filled with the most intense terror. He could not remember how he managed to pull himself away from her, dodge the grasp of her bodyguard and get a head start on the henchmen. A native of Paris, he did not know Rotterdam well. He had torn through the dark streets of Delfshaven, tripping on the uneven cobblestones, until he found himself on the pier. Just as his legs were threatening to cramp, his chest burning with each breath, he had seen the gangplank.

Now that he was sitting still, he was more aware of the pain in his neck. It was a burning sensation, gradually increasing in intensity, spreading up into his scalp and down his arm. His head began to throb and beads of sweat gathered on his brow.

His thoughts turned to his wife - beautiful, gentle Sophia with blonde ringlets falling to her shoulders and deep blue eyes.She was so soft and innocent. She thought that the silk trade enabled him to buy her all those pretty things, but his desire for wealth had driven him to dark places and nefarious dealings.

The pain spread to his chest, closing around him like a vice. He bit his lip, knowing that any sound would draw the guard’s attention. He lay in agony for hours, the cold sea breeze doing nothing to reduce the searing heat. As the horizon started to colour, the pain began to settle. His shirt was soaked with perspiration, the breeze chilling him now that the fever had subsided. He looked for his pursuers. They were still there, but were looking at the dawn with agitation, talking animatedly with each other and finally, they disappeared into the last of the night. Francois released a sigh of relief. He turned his head as the sun threw its first rays over the deck.

The pain stabbed through him causing him to double over. His eyelids snapped closed, protecting his eyes from the intense glare. He had to get out of the sunlight. Peeping through slit lids he saw, to the side of the barrels, a hatch in the deck. He crawled through it. The cool darkness on the other side of the hatch provided immediate relief, although his eyes still ached. He stumbled down a ladder into the hold below, collapsing behind a pile of sacks. Curled up on the floor, with his back to the sacks, he fell into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 1

It was springtime in Johannesburg. The last of the winter chill had faded and the days were warm. The city, clothed in the vivid lilac splashes of jacaranda trees in bloom, had a vibrancy that was absent in the colder months. Rory Tate stepped through the door in the wall with a smile on her face and climbed onto her red scooter. Life was good. For the first time in years she felt alive – a new job and a new home minus the self-absorbed, overbearing boyfriend. The previous week she had started her first job as a journalist with e-Goli, a web-based daily news publication. As she weaved her way through the minibus taxis and cars, carbon monoxide fumes from unroadworthy trucks occasionally filling the air, she pictured herself a year or two from now - Johannesburg’s most sought-after crime reporter. She did not think it was an overly ambitious dream. She was inquisitive, level-headed, a good listener and adept at summarising a situation in 500 words or less. She pulled into the parking lot of the building that housed the e-Goli offices filled with anticipation. This week would see her first article published.

Morning Frank, Rory said to the man stabbing away at a computer surrounded by untidy piles of paper.

He mumbled an inaudible reply. Frank, the most seasoned journalist on the team, was rough, both in looks and attitude.

Good morning, Rory, said a man in designer jeans, a crisp white shirt and tan blazer. John asked that you see him as soon as you get in.

Thanks, Bheki. You’re looking suave today.

He always looks like that, said a deep voice. You’d think a bunch of investigative journalists would have discovered the name of his sugar mommy by now.

Rory turned to find Gerrie standing behind her with a cup of coffee in his hand. Bheki snorted and rolled his eyes.

Some of us believe in putting an effort into our appearance, Gerrie. After all we’re journalists, not farmers, he said looking with disdain at Gerrie’s khaki trousers, plaid shirt and mop of hair.

Well, if there is no sugar mommy, you must get paid a whole lot more than I do. How much do those sunglasses you’re always wearing cost? What are they? Gooci? Goochi?

They’re Prada, laughed Larissa. I love it that there is at least one other person in this office who takes care of himself.

Larissa headed up the social news section of the newspaper. She was always perfectly manicured herself, wearing the latest trends. Her reference to only one other person in the office was not lost on Rory. She felt particularly dowdy next to Larissa whose thick copper tresses lit up a room when she entered it, drawing stares which rapidly relocated to her hourglass figure and ample bust. Rory was starting to wonder if she should try to grow her hair out of its short pixie cut when Steve, the sports reporter, arrived. He was a sweet guy, oblivious to the effect that his boyish good looks and athletic build had on women.

Hi everyone, hello Rory. Did you have a good weekend? Are you settling in? Is there anything I can do for you?

Rory wanted to laugh. He reminded her of a boy at school wanting to carry her suitcase. Best of all, his focus on Rory seemed to irk Larissa who stalked off to her desk, breaking up the group.

I’m good, thanks Steve. John has asked to see me. I’ll catch up with you later.

She excused herself and knocked on the door of the editor’s office.

Rory liked her new boss and was excited to be working for him. He was willing to take risks and encouraged his journalists to do the same. He was willing to give them a long leash if they delivered. He called her into his office which smelt of filter coffee and the cigarettes he pretended not to smoke.

Are you settling in? he asked while continuing to scroll through his emails.

Yes, thanks. Everyone is very helpful.

Good. Then that means you are ready to start doing some real work. We are a small team and we need everyone to bring in news. I want you to cover a house robbery that took place late last night in Parkview. A family of four were killed in the process. Are you up for it?

He lifted his eyes from the computer screen and peered at her over the rim of his glasses.

Yes, definitely, thank you for the opportunity.

He seemed satisfied and went back to his emails.

Come back with something catchy. We don’t want just another story about a house robbery.

Before joining e-Goli, Rory had worked as an intern for a popular weekly celebrity mag. She was reluctant to tell people this as she considered herself a serious journalist, but jobs had been scarce. After finishing her studies at the University of Johannesburg, she had been unable to find a job for six months. Eventually she had swallowed her pride and applied for any job for which she met the requirements. Her work at the magazine had not been unpleasant, but she longed to report on issues that actually mattered. She wanted to highlight problems in South Africa so that in some way she could contribute towards positive change in society.

She was nervous travelling to the crime scene. This was new territory for her. She was used to tracking down B class actresses at the airport or in shopping centres, not negotiating police cars and no-entry tape. She arrived outside the house situated on a steep incline in the upmarket suburb of Parkview. The road was blocked off with police tape stretched between yellow plastic barriers. There were Metro Police cars parked on either side of a Gauteng Forensic Pathology Services van. She spotted two men leaning against a tree and assumed they were fellow journalists. She stopped her scooter down the road and walked over to them.

Hi, I’m Rory Tate from e-Goli, she said.

The younger of the two, a short, neatly dressed man with a sarcastic face, looked her up and down before returning to his notebook.

Good to meet you, Rory. I’m Dave from The Daily Dispatch and this charmer here is Gary from the Citizen. He has no personality so don’t pay him any attention, said the older man winking at her.

Dave was in his early fifties. His thinning, grey hair topped a round, lined face.Gary glared at Dave before giving Rory a polite smile.

Have you spoken to anyone yet? asked Rory.

We’re still waiting for the cops to come out and give us a statement. Ah, speak of the devils, said Dave looking in the direction of the house.

Through the open gate they saw three policemen emerge ahead of a stretcher that was being carried by two men from the Forensic Pathology services. The little mound covered in a black body bag did not appear to weigh them down.

One of the sergeants approached them. He was a bull of a man. In his younger days he had been an amateur boxer, but now his pendulous belly peeped out of his shirt just above his belt as he sidled over on thick legs.

Good morning gentlemen and lady. Can we help you? Ah, it is you Mr Smit, he said, addressing Dave.

Hi Sergeant Vilakazi. What happened here?

We have four casualties - a man, his wife and two children. It would appear to be a house robbery given that there are electronics and a car missing. We are still trying to determine how the perpetrators gained access to the house.

While he was talking, Rory watched as the empty stretcher went back into the house and came out with a heavier load.

How were they killed? she asked.

Their throats were cut, Sergeant Vilakazi said without any emotion.

Even the children?

Yes.

Can we have a look inside? asked Gary.

This is a crime scene. We can’t have you wandering around inside.

We won’t touch anything, Sergeant. Please. You’ve had an early start to the day. Here, take this as a contribution towards an early lunch.

Dave handed the sergeant a folded R100 note. Sergeant Vilakazi took it with a casual glance over his shoulder.

You can go inside for a few minutes once all the bodies have been removed, but if I catch you touching anything…

He turned his back on them and sauntered away.

The next one is on you, Dave nodded at Rory.

They stood around watching another body being removed. Dave and Gary discussed an ongoing court case involving an actor accused of killing a child in a hit and run. The case was dragging on and was unlikely to end in a conviction.

After the last body was safely stowed in the back of the van, all four bodies snuggling together one last time, Sergeant Vilakazi lifted the police tape and waved them in. Rory felt her pulse quicken as she walked up the stairs to the front door.

Most of the action had taken place in the lounge. There were white markings on the floor indicating where the bodies of the adults had lain. The beige carpet was stained with two red patches where the heads had been minutes before. Rory wondered at the size of the patches. She would have imagined a lot more blood following someone’s throat being cut. The television and home entertainment system had been removed leaving cables sticking out of the wall. They went down the passage to the children’s room to find miniature versions of the white markings they had seen in the lounge.

Why would they have killed them all, why the children?

This is Johannesburg, dearie, you should be used to this by now.

It was the first time Gary had addressed her. He looked at her with a bland face, turned away and left the room.

You will get used to this unfortunately. We have seen so many senseless murders over the years. It seems to be either inexperienced criminals who get spooked and kill out of fear or guys angry with the world. Why they can’t just take what they want and leave the people alone is a question we’ve given up asking.

Dave squeezed her arm as he too left the room.

Rory stood for a while longer looking at the small silhouettes. The beds were unmade, the children’s sleep interrupted by the intruders. There were toy cars lying in one corner and a stuffed purple Barney dinosaur on the floor next to one of the beds. Looking past Barney, a small square card caught her eye. She bent down to get a closer look and was reaching out her hand to pick it up when Sergeant Vilakazi cleared his throat behind her.

No touching, Miss…

Uhm, oh, uh, Tate, Miss Tate, she jumped up and muttered an apology. I saw something under the bed that looked out of place. I was simply taking a closer look.

Sergeant Vilakazi moved across the room at a speed which was faster than she would have thought him capable. He bent down, enclosed the small square in his large hand, straightened up with a heave and grunt, before placing it into the pocket of his tightly stretched khaki pants.

It’s mine, he said when he noticed she was standing in the doorway looking at him. I dropped it by accident. No point sending the detectives on a wild goose chase.

She found Dave talking to the domestic worker in the kitchen. She had found the bodies when arriving for work that morning. Rory took some notes and asked if there were any family members living in the area. There were none. The only relatives, a sister of the wife, had immigrated to Australia the year before.

They left the house together. Gary had already disappeared.

Well, I’m sure I’ll see you around soon, said Dave. There’s plenty to report on in Jo’burg. Good luck writing this one up.

She thanked him for his help before walking back to her scooter. She started composing the article in her head. She hoped she could write something that would meet with John’s approval.

The card she had seen lying on the floor bothered her though. She kept thinking about it and wishing that she had seen exactly what it was. There was no reason to not believe Sergeant Vilakazi, but she did not trust the big policeman. After all, it had already been established that he accepted bribes.

Chapter 2

Her short article appeared in the next day’s edition. It required scrolling down to the bottom of the web page, but it was there. That evening she downloaded the article into a file entitled RT published articles. It was good to see her name in print, but what she really wanted was to write an article that would make the headlines.

She was imagining it while curled up on the couch with a glass of wine when her phone rang. She did not recognise the number displayed on the screen.

Rory Tate speaking, hello?

Hello beautiful, a cheerful male voice came through the speaker too loudly.

She glared at the phone, pressing the volume button to soften the familiar rhetoric, wishing she could make the voice disappear altogether.

You have a new phone number, Brandon. How did you get hold of mine?

I can’t believe you changed your number without telling me. Fortunately I bumped into a mutual friend who was able to help me out.

We don’t have any mutual friends. What do you want?

Ah don’t be like that, Rory. I’m phoning to congratulate you on your first article. It is very well written. I am so proud of you. It should have headlined. Your editor obviously doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Thanks Brandon, but my editor is very competent. Now if that’s all…

Let me take you out for supper to celebrate?

No, Brandon. We are not having this conversation again. It is over. I don’t want to see you again. I don’t want to talk to you again. Leave me alone.

Come on Rory, you are being unreasonable. I gave you two years of my life. I let you live in my house. I supported you when you had no job and now you don’t even want to talk to me. Is this…

Goodbye Brandon, she said firmly as she ended the call.

She sat looking at the phone. It had not taken him very long to find her new number. Her efforts to start a new life, free of him, had afforded her two weeks of peace. She downed her glass of wine and reminded herself that she would not let him rattle or manipulate her. She was done with him. She turned on the television in an effort to forget about him, but she could not shake the regret she felt every time she thought of the two years she had wasted.

Chapter 3

A week later she was on her way to another fatal house robbery in Westcliff, a suburb adjacent to Parkview. In the days following the previous family murder, she had written several short articles about various minor occurrences including a road rage incident involving a rugby player well-known for his short temper and the disappearance of a baby from the maternity ward of a highly reputed private hospital. Upon arriving at the house, she stared up at the high walls topped with electric fencing and surveillance cameras. The delicate white and red flowers of a clerodendrum creeping up the wall attempted to soften the hostile barricade.

How did anyone gain access in the first place?

Climbing off her scooter she saw Dave Smit talking to Sergeant Vilakazi. The sergeant walked off as she came over.

Hi there, Rory. Told you we’d be seeing each other again soon. How are things going?

She liked Dave. He was friendly and had a kind face.

What happened here?

A house robbery with a dead couple. They both had their throats slit. Fortunately no children this time. The only child was staying with his dad, the wife’s ex-, last night.

Just as well.

Sergeant Vilakazi is less obliging this time. He is reluctant to let us look inside the house.

Dave’s phone rang and he walked back to his car to take the call. Rory looked around and, reassured that no-one was observing her, quickly slipped through the gate into the plush garden, keeping an eye on the front door of the house. She was met by colourful flower beds, thick lawns and a large oak tree beneath which a bird bath attracted some of the local inhabitants. It was hard to believe that it was only a layer of bricks that separated this peaceful scene from the violent crime that had taken place. She circled the house wondering why a couple with only one child needed so many rooms. As she came around the back of the house, she noted a smashed window adjacent to a door. This must have been where the intruders gained access to the house. She heard voices on the other side of the door and hurried on. She was completing the circle when she heard Sergeant Vilakazi talking on a two-way radio. She peered around the corner of the house and saw him standing in the driveway. His back was to her. She leaned against the wall to wait for him to move away. She was admiring the shrubs trimmed into perfect rounds and the precisely lined up rows of lavender bushes when something lying in the recently turned soil caught her attention. She stood looking at the object thinking it an odd thing to find in a garden. Then she realised she had seen it somewhere before. It was a small square card like the one Sergeant Vilakazi had pocketed in the children’s room. She bent down and picked it up. It was a matchbook, a small card folder containing matches. It was cream coloured with the word Sanguinous splashed across the front in red. She turned it over, but there was nothing else printed on the card. She slipped it into her jeans’ pocket.

Having checked that Sergeant Vilakazi was no longer in sight, she walked down the drive towards the gate. As she turned out of the gate, she nearly walked into the back of the large sergeant. He was talking to Dave and a few other journalists. He turned when he saw the others looking past him.

Ah, Miss Tate, if I remember correctly. Have you just arrived? Well I am not starting from the beginning again. If you are late, that is your problem.

Rory fell in with the others and took some notes while he gave the usual story of a robbery, electronic equipment and car stolen, no leads yet, but the police hoped to make arrests soon. Staring at the creeper’s flowers gently bobbing in the breeze on the wall behind the sergeant, it occurred to Rory that they were aptly named Bleeding Heart.

When the sergeant left, Dave turned to Rory.

Where did you disappear to?

I was doing a bit of exploring, but I didn’t see much except a broken window.

Is this the same nervous girl I met last week? You are becoming more adventurous. I like it.

He laughed and patted her on the back. He scribbled something on a page in his notepad, tore it out and gave it to her.

This is my number. I’ve been in journalism for three decades. It’s important to have a friend. I’m not competitive like the young journalists. Give me a call if you ever need help with something or if you just want to get a drink.

When she got back to the office, she sat down at her desk and took out the matchbook. She wondered if she should have handed it over to the police as evidence. At the previous crime scene, Sergeant Vilakazi had claimed that the matchbook belonged to him. She was sure it had been the same as this one – the single red word stood out so obviously against the cream background. It seemed unlikely that Sergeant Vilakazi could have dropped a matchbook at two different murder scenes. If he was covering up for someone it would have served no purpose to hand it over to him.

Matchbooks are usually given out at clubs or as promotional gifts. She had never heard of Sanguinous. It seemed a strange name for a business. She did an internet search: Sanguinous, alternative spelling of sanguineous, adj. bloodshot, pertaining to blood. Aside from the definition she could not find anything useful. She walked through to Larissa’s office.

The socialite was sitting at her desk talking on the phone, twirling a thick lock of hair around her index finger. She saw Rory, but did not rush to finish the conversation. Her voice became more honeyed as she flirted with the caller, frequently throwing in a girlish laugh. Rory pulled out her cell phone and pretended to text someone while she waited patiently. At last Larissa finished her call and swirled around to face Rory.

Some men! she said as she shook her head and flicked back her hair. How can I help you?

You know the club scene in Johannesburg. Have you ever heard of a club called Sanguinous?

Sanguinous? What kind of name is that for a club?

Rory showed her the matchbook.

I thought it most likely comes from a club rather than a restaurant. There is something unappetising about naming a restaurant after blood.

Larissa frowned, turning the matchbook over in her hand. She shook her head.

"I’ve never heard of it. It’s either not in one of the main South African cities or else