His word. She tells Him about the dead water man’s blue eye and missing heart. Then she climbs onto the mattress, sets her clock, and falls asleep. She doesn’t have nightmares. In the morning, when the sun wakes her minutes before the alarm sounds, she will thank Him for that.
FIVE
T HE SCENE REPORT, READY TWO DAYS LATER, GIVES Zembe little to work with. There are three flagged pictures. The first is a close frame of the left gouge mark in the chest. Flesh splits in jagged strands. The skin is blue under the white light of the coroner’s lab. A note is scrawled over the red flag: “Serrated edge knife, no larger than 4.5 cm in width.” Zembe makes a rough estimate with her fingers in front of the magnified cut. It would have taken serious force to cut through the thick chest muscle to access the ribcage. She starts the profile in her head.
The second picture is of the back of the head. At the base of the skull there looks to be a soft impression. The notes to the side identify cause of death as a cracked skull. Injuring a grown man this seriously would have taken strength or a surprise attack that incapacitated him for longer than a few seconds. Black marker arrows point to a few places on the skin. Zembe peers closer, holding the frame up to the single light on her desk. She can’t see anything.
Outside the office, she hears the sound of a group of officers in for their morning break. Tosh, her newest andmost promising recruit, laughs his high-pitched laugh as he walks past the door.
“Tosh,” Zembe bellows. “Get in here. I need your help with something.”
Tosh looks uncertain, always nervous. His fingers shake when he reaches for the photo, his lips stay pursed long after he’s done scrutinizing.
“I can’t see what’s flagged. These glasses are no good.”
“They’re hairs, ma’am.”
“Pardon?” Zembe takes the photo again. She sees nothing, no black at all cutting across the white skin.
“Right there.” Tosh motions to one of the arrows. “Small black circles. My hair does that. Drives my mother crazy, says she’s always picking little rings out of her clothes.”
Zembe looks at Tosh’s hair. It’s long enough to add a centimetre or two to his height. The hair is soft, but tight to the head, rolled into thin coils sticking out in all directions.
“Is there a skin tag on them?”
“A what?”
“Do these hairs come straight from the scalp?” Zembe hands Tosh her glasses, he holds them like a magnifying glass.
“Oh, no, they’re just pieces that break from the end.” Tosh looks sad to disappoint.
“So, no good to us, then,” Zembe says more to herself than to him. “Thanks, officer. That’s all.”
Tosh’s lips, which had almost relaxed, scrunch back up upon his dismissal. He thinks he’s done something wrong.But Zembe doesn’t take the time to make him feel better, she’s already concentrating again on the photo. She picks out the other ten hair rings on the victim’s body.
The third photo is of a piece of paper. “Found ten inches from right side of body, half buried in the sand,” the note says in the coroner’s scrawl. It is a receipt. The top has a faint sun-shaped logo and the words “Central Sun” printed in cursive. There is a bill for one drink: a beer. The space for the room number at the bottom is blank.
Zembe puts down the file and straightens the papers on her desk, then she walks out to the front foyer.
“I’m going downtown. I’ll have my phone on me.”
The young woman in uniform looks concerned. “Shall I forward your calls there?” She must be nervous about so much attention from senior officers.
“Give them Sipho’s number if they insist on speaking to someone.”
Z EMBE ARRIVES AT THE WATER COMPANY’S MAIN office by noon and walks briskly into the marble atrium of the building. There are two security guards in white uniforms stationed on either side of the front desk. It is a small room, and the four big men press into one
FIVE
T HE SCENE REPORT, READY TWO DAYS LATER, GIVES Zembe little to work with. There are three flagged pictures. The first is a close frame of the left gouge mark in the chest. Flesh splits in jagged strands. The skin is blue under the white light of the coroner’s lab. A note is scrawled over the red flag: “Serrated edge knife, no larger than 4.5 cm in width.” Zembe makes a rough estimate with her fingers in front of the magnified cut. It would have taken serious force to cut through the thick chest muscle to access the ribcage. She starts the profile in her head.
The second picture is of the back of the head. At the base of the skull there looks to be a soft impression. The notes to the side identify cause of death as a cracked skull. Injuring a grown man this seriously would have taken strength or a surprise attack that incapacitated him for longer than a few seconds. Black marker arrows point to a few places on the skin. Zembe peers closer, holding the frame up to the single light on her desk. She can’t see anything.
Outside the office, she hears the sound of a group of officers in for their morning break. Tosh, her newest andmost promising recruit, laughs his high-pitched laugh as he walks past the door.
“Tosh,” Zembe bellows. “Get in here. I need your help with something.”
Tosh looks uncertain, always nervous. His fingers shake when he reaches for the photo, his lips stay pursed long after he’s done scrutinizing.
“I can’t see what’s flagged. These glasses are no good.”
“They’re hairs, ma’am.”
“Pardon?” Zembe takes the photo again. She sees nothing, no black at all cutting across the white skin.
“Right there.” Tosh motions to one of the arrows. “Small black circles. My hair does that. Drives my mother crazy, says she’s always picking little rings out of her clothes.”
Zembe looks at Tosh’s hair. It’s long enough to add a centimetre or two to his height. The hair is soft, but tight to the head, rolled into thin coils sticking out in all directions.
“Is there a skin tag on them?”
“A what?”
“Do these hairs come straight from the scalp?” Zembe hands Tosh her glasses, he holds them like a magnifying glass.
“Oh, no, they’re just pieces that break from the end.” Tosh looks sad to disappoint.
“So, no good to us, then,” Zembe says more to herself than to him. “Thanks, officer. That’s all.”
Tosh’s lips, which had almost relaxed, scrunch back up upon his dismissal. He thinks he’s done something wrong.But Zembe doesn’t take the time to make him feel better, she’s already concentrating again on the photo. She picks out the other ten hair rings on the victim’s body.
The third photo is of a piece of paper. “Found ten inches from right side of body, half buried in the sand,” the note says in the coroner’s scrawl. It is a receipt. The top has a faint sun-shaped logo and the words “Central Sun” printed in cursive. There is a bill for one drink: a beer. The space for the room number at the bottom is blank.
Zembe puts down the file and straightens the papers on her desk, then she walks out to the front foyer.
“I’m going downtown. I’ll have my phone on me.”
The young woman in uniform looks concerned. “Shall I forward your calls there?” She must be nervous about so much attention from senior officers.
“Give them Sipho’s number if they insist on speaking to someone.”
Z EMBE ARRIVES AT THE WATER COMPANY’S MAIN office by noon and walks briskly into the marble atrium of the building. There are two security guards in white uniforms stationed on either side of the front desk. It is a small room, and the four big men press into one
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