LITMIR.BIZ

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nothing.”

      “Girlfriend?”

      “All his electronic information indicates there’s no girlfriend.”

      “Maybe he used an Uber?”

      I look at Farr.

      “There’s nothing in his cellphone records,” she admits.

      “And there’s never been another sign of him? Nothing in the six weeks since the attack?”

      “No,” I say.

      “Nor of Katerien or Cath?”

      “Nothing.”

      “So what the hell happened?” Alex shakes his head. “Maybe you’re right, maybe the women were kidnapped. Maybe Willem was blackmailed to do something to secure their safety. Maybe there was someone in the car with him, someone you can’t see on the CCTV.”

      “But, once again, it’s weeks after the attack and Willem is still gone,” I argue. “Same for Cath and Katerien. No sign, not even a body. Three people, gone without a trace.” I gesture at the house around me. “And what did Willem have to go and do? There’s nothing in the Van Zyls’ lives that suggests that they were involved in anything sinister.”

      Well, not yet.

      “Okay, good point.” Alex takes the Bic out of his front shirt pocket again and fiddles with it as he puzzles. “Let’s go back to the first, more logical, theory. Willem is guilty. The media speculates that he had the bodies of his mother and sister in the BMW’s boot when he left. What if they’re right?”

      “It’s a possibility,” I admit. “But why not come back and load up his father as well? Willem is built like Lafras – tall and strong. He could have got rid of all the evidence. And the question remains: why would he do it? What about the life insurance?”

      Alex rubs his chin. “And it wasn’t a sudden rage either. The intruders’ movements indicate that this thing was planned.”

      “Correct. The other theories make more sense. Organise the hit on your family. Come back home and bump into the attackers, who decide to get rid of you too. Maybe they argued about sharing the money. Who knows?”

      “But then what about Cath and Katerien? Where are they?”

      “Kidnapped. Taken. But not for money.”

      I can see he suddenly thinks of something.

      “You’re sure the family was actually here, at home?”

      I nod. “We are. The CCTV shows the Van Zyls driving out the gate at about six o’clock to go on holiday, and then coming back at about seven. Everyone is in the car. It’s still light and you can see it clearly on the footage. The only one who left again after that was Willem. On foot.”

      “Okay, so they were here, and then they disappeared.” He clicks the pen. In and out. In and out.

      The cheap black Bic fascinates me. I’d have imagined he would write with something more expensive.

      “What are you wondering?” I ask.

      “Something … something else that doesn’t make sense to me, why would a twenty-year-old man slip away from his parents’ house? Why didn’t he just drive?”

      “I’m open to any theories.”

      He laughs and throws his hands up in the air. “Okay, I give up. Going around in circles like this could drive you mad, and it’s not my job.”

      He hooks the pen into his pocket again. “Let’s forget about this mess with Willem for a bit. You found Willem’s red BMW a few days later at Menlyn shopping centre. The same car his father was in the process of selling?”

      “Yes.”

      “Was there blood in the car?”

      “No.”

      “You can’t …” Farr wants to argue.

      I ask her with an open hand to calm down. “Only the family’s DNA was in the BMW. None of the attackers’ DNA, which we found in the house, was in the car.”

      “And no one knows where the attackers went? Or whether they were injured?”

      “No one has seen them. Not where they came in or where they left. And only one house in the Stables is rented out, and that to a family – three children, two mothers. So it’s not like the intruders rented a house and then waited for Christmas Eve to attack the Van Zyls.”

      “Workers? Painters?”

      “There was one house that was having work done in the holidays. A new garden was being laid on the 19th and 20th of December, but all the workers are clean. The rest is just the usual: rubbish removal, garden services, new installations on the fibre-optic cable network, furniture being delivered. But nothing on Christmas Eve. It was a Sunday, after all.”

      Alex shakes his head incredulously. “Willem is the key. Must be.”

      “I also think so.”

      Farr looks at her watch, walks towards the door. I can feel her irritation all the way over here.

      Alex looks at her as if he realises he needs to get her on his side. “And you’re none the wiser from Willem’s phone records, Sergeant? Surely he needs money to buy food? And where’s he staying?”

      I know, again, that Farr isn’t going to answer.

      “His friends haven’t seen him again since the 24th,” I say. “And there are no grandparents to help. They’ve all died. And no uncles or aunts except for Annabel. She also lives here in the Stables and she says Willem hasn’t contacted her since the attack. Her e-mails and phone confirm that. The family’s bank account is dead quiet, and Willem’s phone’s been dead since the Sunday of the attack. Ditto Cath’s and Katerien’s.”

      Farr, leaning against the door frame, snorts. “And tomorrow it’ll all be in the papers.”

      “No,” says Alex. “We have a deal. All of this is off the record. I’ve been a journalist for fifteen years. You don’t survive if you can’t keep your word.”

      He smiles at Farr, warm and sincere. A smile that shows his hands and his conscience are clean. Every mother-in-law’s dream. And every police officer’s nightmare. It’s smiles like those that make people trust journalists.

      I start to move to the next room, but he hesitates.

      “Most of the family phones were stolen, but can’t you work out where they last pinged? Surely you can see which cellphone towers they were near earlier in the day?”

      Farr’s eyebrows lift.

      One is good. It means she’s impressed. Two – the question mark, the are-you-stupid look – is bad.

      “I swear, if you write a story …” she says.

      “I won’t.”

      “I don’t believe you.”

      “You invited me here. With a goal, I assume? No one is ever just nice to journalists.”

      The man’s a pro. Oh so patient and logical …

      “I don’t like any of this.” Farr walks out.

      I ignore her.

      “Sorry,” I say to Alex. “The media’s been riding us non-stop about this case.”

      “It’s okay. Journalists aren’t exactly popular.” He points at his chest. “Leeches. Liars. Sensation-seekers. Lazy asses idling away their time on other people’s money.”

      I point at mine. “Useless. Affirmative action.”

      “Because you’re a woman. And coloured? Does that still count?”

      “I’m

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