The Diamond

Prologue
The bush bakes quietly in the blaze of a midday sun, dead silence prevented by the constant shrill of cicadas. Nothing moves except the listless stretch of a thorn-bush's shadow. Under a lone baobab a man lazily scratches his head as he leans back against the tree trunk, a rusty AK-47 next to him. On the ground opposite, two of his comrades are lost in a game involving pebbles, the game pattern drawn with sticks in the sand. Another soldier is standing a few paces away with his back to the tree, following the rolling movements of a black-shouldered kite, hovering and circling in the light breeze.

They are unaware of the eyes watching. The face that belongs with the eyes is indiscernible from its surroundings, hidden under a helmet with pieces of bush stuck to it. Next to the face a hand rises, the fingers calmly signaling a subtle, deadly message. The attack is sudden and ruthless. The soldier under the tree is jerked backwards by a hand gripped over his mouth, stifling the scream now communicated by his panic-stricken eyes. The crunch as the vertebrae in his neck snaps is the only warning his companions receive. The standing officer wildly grabs for his rifle, but is driven to the ground, unable but to watch helplessly as the remaining soldiers - frantically struggling - have their throats cut in one, two sharp motions. His last view is of steely blue eyes hidden underneath a bush hat...

The three attackers stretch their limbs cautiously, relaxing slightly after the long stalk. One casually pops a piece of chewing gum into his mouth, taking care to return the wrapper to his pack.
The leader, his blue eyes surveying the bodies with disinterest, speaks first. 'Three seconds, not bad, troepe. Let's move!'
'Wait.' From his backpack, the soldier with the blank voice draws a short spear, its iron point crudely connected to a wooden shaft. Shifting the lance expertly from one hand to the other, he moves to the first body to plunge the blade smoothly into the victim's abdomen. As he moves to the next body, the gum-chewer whistles softly between his teeth.
'Has he finally lost his head, do you reckon?'
Blue eyes shrugs, watching as the maneuver is repeated. 'This is his way.'
Putting his weapon away, the man with the spear turns his impassive face towards the gum-chewer, his figure powerful, brutish. 'Release the spirit.' His emotionless tone is still as the bush. 'Or unyama will come for you.'

Chapter 1

There is time, and there is Africa time. The call, desperate, anguished, lasted three minutes. It took ten minutes for the first police station to respond, twenty-two for the first squad cars to arrive, sirens screeching, at the scene, and two minutes for the first neighbours to appear stealthily on the street, suspicious as antelopes approaching a water hole. Mari Kruger, reading through a paper, received her call an hour later.
'Are you ready, honey?' Pieter's smooth voice snatches her back to the present.
She takes a quick breath and absently touches her lips. 'Do you mean...?' She tries to contain the excitement rising through her body.
'Yep, it's what you've been waiting for; our very own murder mystery.' His voice becomes more serious, pausing for dramatic effect. 'Mandisa called me a few minutes ago. Apparently the police chief decided they could use our assistance on this one, it is that bad. I'm picking you up in five, ok?'
Her hands shaking, Mari pulls on a pair of jeans, draws the brush a few times through her dark-blonde hair and hesitates before the mirror. What do you wear to your first ever murder scene? She grabs her bag, checking for the folder, camera, notebook, and takes a deep breath before slamming the door behind her.

The neighbourhood is suburban, not too rich, not too bad. Pieter has been making occasional comments as they drove, Mari barely registering his voice. She has always considered Waverley the suburb of choice for middle class people with mediocre dreams, a place of safe predictability in a white, suburban haven. Not a place for a murder, she wonders and frowns at the crowd congregated in the distance.
'He said we should follow the driveway to the back, ' Pieter says, slowing down as he approaches the throng.
'Who is "he"?'
'Guy's name is Nkosi, I think he's a hot-shot inspector or something.' Now driving very slowly, people opening a passage as he indicates a right turn, Pieter halts at the yellow tape spanning the entire front of the property. A squat policeman approaches, casually putting his hand on his truncheon. He leans towards the open window.
'This is a police enquiry, please leave immediately...,'
'No, we won't leave immediately or later,' Pieter interrupts. We have permission to be here, go ask Inspector Nkosi. We are the Abafazi Bemela consultants.'
Taken aback by Pieter's haughty tone, the officer hesitates but lets them through with a nod. In the back of the yard, the designated parking area already crammed with official vehicles, they stop underneath a huge Jacaranda tree with its purple bell-like flowers in full bloom. A single blossom flutters to the ground, reminding Mari of the myth that a Jacaranda flower falling on your head means good luck. She could certainly do with some.
'Are you all right, Mari?' Pieter is pulling on his jacket.
'Fine, fine, just nervous', she glances at him and he winks back, the gesture making her smile.

'Well, if that is not Pietie Jacobs! Long time no see!' Pieter turns as the jovial officer with an impressive athletic physique struts towards them, hand stretched out in greeting. Pieter shakes it with enthusiasm and launches into conversation, suddenly remembering Mari.
'Go in there, honey,' he says, gesticulating at the back door entrance. 'You'll be fine, I promise, I'm quickly catching up with Rambo over here.'
She leaves the laughing men and continues towards the entrance. The house looks similar to others in the street. It is an unpretentious, single storey red brick house, typical of bored Public Service architecture. The main building, practical and sturdy with huge windows facing north, fronts the yard and a single outbuilding next to the garage. The nicest feature is the hillock behind the house, its side covered in smooth grass layers with clusters of boulders and shrubs decorating the surface.
The smell hits her the moment she enters through the back door straight into the kitchen. It smells of stew, lamb stew, of fried onions and cabbage. The smell suits the house. A forensic person in a suit frowns at her, busy dusting a light switch. 'Can I help?'
'I am Mari...uh...' She swears softly under her breath at the faintness of her voice, tries again, her voice firmer. 'I'm an Abafazi Bemela consultant looking for Inspector Nkosi.'
'In there,' he nods and continues sweeping fine white powder over the light switch. Every available surface in the kitchen is painted yellow, a bright, sunshiny yellow, contrasted with patches of red and white utensils. Walking through the next door she notices the scattering of family portraits against the opposite wall. Somebody took the effort of framing each photograph with matching colours and arranging the happy faces in chronological history - young mom and dad meeting, young mom and dad getting married; young boy, toddler boy, toddler boy with baby girl, toddler girl on bicycle. Grinning faces locked out of the drama playing in front of their eyes. Mari steps further into the lounge and sees the girl, stretched out in a pool of blood. She sucks in her breath as if going underwater for a very long time. Death in life is not a pleasing picture.
'Justice Nkosi. You were looking for me,' he says, approaching her.
She ignores him, too shaken to register much apart from the body on the floor. The girl is naked and lying on her side with her arms crossed over her abdomen like a feigned posture of innocence. Her face, positioned at a weird angle, looks calm.
'I still marvel at the peaceful countenance of victims like her who were subjected to horrible deaths.' Justice says quietly. Just below her face is where the damage begins: bruises and cuts, blood decorating the injuries on her neck, abdomen, and thighs. Tears come unbidden to Mari's eyes.
'Her temperature reads 92,6 degrees, approximate time of death four hours ago...' The examiner speaks into a dictaphone and brings Mari's thoughts back to the present. She looks up at Justice standing next to her, taking in the details. He is tall and strong, his features reflecting the noble look of his tribe with prominent eyebrows and a dominant nose.
He becomes uncomfortable under her gaze. ' Mari? May I call you Mari?'
'Yes, I'm sorry, of course you may. Inspector Nkosi, I presume?' He doesn't seem to catch the joke and they shake hands awkwardly. She notices that he doesn't offer his first name in return.
'I must apologise for your discomfort,' he says. 'Personally I think that your presence here is superfluous, but Mrs. Phoko felt differently.' Mari has recovered enough to take offense at the jab at her boss.
'I'm here now,' she says sharply.
He shrugs and continues. 'The victim has been identified as Janine Fereirra, 14 years old, the youngest member of the Fereirra family who lives here. Her brother discovered her and he is being treated in the ambulance outside. Her father has already confirmed the victim's identity.' He pauses, hesitates. 'He insisted on seeing the body in situ, against our advice.' Mari winces at the thought. 'She was raped and, looking at the disc-like bruises over here, ' he points towards her neck, 'she was probably manually strangled.' He glances at Mari. 'The high probability of rape is another of the reasons your organisation is involved. According to records, the police were summoned here once before to investigate a complaint of spousal abuse, but the wife refused to press charges.' He pauses. 'This, however, is the work of a monster.'
She is surprised at the sudden passion in his voice and catches his eyes for a fleeting moment. She recognised that look, she understands it intimately: a refusal to just let it be, to meekly accept the violence and damage in front of her. A look that promises to make a difference, no matter the cost.
Years of study and training finally kicks in and she begins to scribble notes, instructions dropping like options from a desktop window. Sex related homicides include rape-murders, serial murders, killings which involve anal and oral sodomy and other acts of sexual perversion, as well as interpersonal violence scenarios...the physical evidence that is most useful in a sexual assault case involves DNA, fingerprints, semen, hairs, fibers, and blood...they sexually assault their victims because they get gratification from intimidating, humiliating and degrading their victims.
Pieter has since entered the room and is taking photos at a furious pace while Mari makes a hasty sketch, capturing the frail face with soft reddish-brown hair.
'I have never seen anything like this before,' the examiner suddenly declares, having uncrossed the victim's arms. They all stop and stare. A hole has been cut in her abdomen, a gaping, pink breach hinting at still-glistening organs inside. And the moment Mari sees the wound, she knows that she is out of her depth, maybe for the first time in her life.