Read Zulu for Free Online Page B

attacker both unseen and omnipresent, made her look as if she was petrified with fear.
    â€œThe murder took place about two o’clock last night,” Neuman said, in a mechanical voice. “The ground’s dry, but the flowers are trampled and stained with blood. Probably the victim’s. There are no bullet holes. All the blows are concentrated on the face and the top of the skull. Tembo thinks it was a hammer, or something similar.”
    Brian was looking at the white, blood-spattered thighs, the slightly plump legs—a girl David’s age. Chasing away these visions of horror, he saw that she was naked under her dress.
    â€œRape?”
    â€œHard to say,” Neuman replied. “We found her panties beside her, but the elastic is intact. We know she had sexual intercourse. What we still have to establish is if it was consensual or not.”
    Brian moved a finger over the girl’s bare shoulder and lifted it to his lips. The skin had a slightly salty taste. He put on the latex gloves Neuman handed him, examined the victim’s hands, her bizarrely retracted fingers—there was a little earth under the nails—and the marks on her arms: small grazes, in almost straight lines. The dress was torn in places, leaving big holes.
    â€œTwo fingers broken?”
    â€œYes, on the right hand. She must have been trying to defend herself.”
    Two male nurses were waiting on the path, their stretcher on the ground. Standing in the sun all this time was starting to get on their nerves. Brian straightened up, his legs like mercury.
    â€œI wanted you to see her before they took her away,” Neuman said.
    â€œThanks a lot. Do we know who she is?”
    â€œWe found a video club membership card in the pocket of her cardigan, registered to Judith Botha. A student. Dan’s gone to check it out.”
    Dan Fletcher, their protégé.
    The insects were buzzing under the acacias. Brian swayed for a moment to avoid them. Neuman’s eyes were like two black suns—the sense of foreboding that had been with him since dawn hadn’t left.
    Â 
    Â *
    Â 
    Outside the 7-Eleven in the working-class district of Woodstock, the wailing siren of an ambulance had attracted a crowd. There was a body on the sidewalk, people were holding their heads in alarm, the men from the Explosives Unit had arrived in their bulletproof vests. Dan Fletcher drove along the seedy avenue before turning onto the M3. Although up until now Cape Town had largely avoided
brinks
, those everyday acts of terror of which Johannesburg was the epicenter, this kind of scene was becoming increasingly frequent, even in the center of the city. It was a worrying development, and the press were having a field day with it.
    Dan had searched Judith Botha’s studio apartment without finding any vital clues as to her disappearance. The neighbors hadn’t seen her over the weekend, and the apartment seemed to be a typical student pad—law books, paperwork from college, stupid postcards, DVDs, slices of pizza, a photo of a blonde who fit the description of the victim smiling at the camera. Dan had found a number for her parents, Nils and Flora Botha. The servant who had finally answered the phone didn’t have any idea where Mrs. Botha was, but her husband, Nils, must be “at rugby.”
    Fletcher didn’t know Nils Botha, and didn’t know anything about rugby, but Janet Helms, who was steering the investigation from headquarters, brought him up to speed. A former selector for the national team, the Springboks, and himself a player at the time of the embargo and the sporting boycott, Nils Botha had for the last twenty years been the celebrity coach for the Western Cape team, the Stormers. He and his wife, Flora, had two children: a son, Pretorius, who lived in Port Elizabeth, and Judith, who had just started university at Observatory.
    Dan remembered the disfigured face surrounded by flowers, the viscous