Blood Rose by Margie Orford

beautiful young Spaniard called Juan Carlos. I doubt she can think straight at the moment.’

thirteen
    The Walvis Bay private hospital was a drab building. The mortuary, housed in a weather-beaten prefab round the back, was the grim heart of the establishment. A young woman in hospital greens opened the door when Tamar knocked.
    ‘Welcome.’ She stood aside for Clare and Tamar. The lemony scent of her hair held the institutional smell of disinfectant and instant coffee at bay.
    ‘You must be Dr Hart.’ The hand she offered Clare was broad and capable, the square nails cut short.
    ‘Call me Clare. I feel like a fraud around proper doctors. You’re Dr Kotze?’
    ‘Helena, please,’ the woman said. She turned to Tamar, looking her over. ‘How are you?’
    ‘Fine. Here’s some breakfast for you.’ Tamar gave Helena a pastry.
    ‘Thanks. It’s good to meet you, Dr Hart. I’ve read some of your work.’
    ‘And your old professor, Piet Mouton, was singing your praises.’ Clare returned the compliment.
    ‘I’m just sorry I wasn’t here to do those other two boys,’ Helena said. ‘A medical intern did the autopsies on Fritz Woestyn and Nicanor Jones. They’re about as much use as a politician’s election promises. Those boys were buried and the intern went back to Cuba, so a lot rests on this post-mortem.’
    Helena gave Clare and Tamar gloves and gowns, usheringthem into a cubicle off the entrance hall. Clare pulled the shapeless green gown over her clothes and tucked her long hair into the disposable hairnet. Helena opened a door, releasing the smell of the morgue. The ammonia was biting, but it was no match for the cloying stench of decay. Thick plastic curtains thwacked against metal when Helena Kotze wheeled in the metal trolley.
    Kaiser Apollis’s scrawny body was curled under the white shroud Clare had seen in the photographs. Helena pulled back the cover to reveal the child’s head and face. The back of his head was missing and there was a small, neat hole in his forehead, the caked blood erasing the delicacy of his features. The three women circled him.
    ‘A single gunshot wound to the forehead,’ Helena said, more for her tape recorder than for Clare and Tamar. ‘Probably a pistol. Nasty exit wound at the back, so no bullet for ballistics. Cause of death, I’d say. Put the call through to Piet Mouton, won’t you Clare? The red button switches it to speakerphone.’ She pointed to a machine near the window.
    Clare busied herself, relieved to have something to do. She was also glad to have Mouton orchestrating this, even if it was remote. His experienced eyes missed nothing.
    ‘Dr Hart,’ bellowed Mouton, right on cue. ‘You girls ready?’
    ‘We’re here, Piet. Me, Dr Helena Kotze and Captain Tamar Damases of Nampol.’
    ‘Where’s that useless bastard Faizal? He leave you in the lurch in the desert?’
    Clare kept her voice light. ‘Looks like it.’
    ‘Tell him from me that absence makes the maiden wander. Doc Kotze, what you got there?’
    ‘You’ve got the photos?’ Helena asked.
    ‘Yes, of course I have the photos. They jammed my e-mail allmorning. Photos help me bugger-all. Forensics is science in court. On the slab, it’s intuition and luck. Put me in your head and let me see through your eyes.’
    Helena took a deep breath. ‘Body of a child. Male. Looks twelve. Sixteen next week, according to his ID book. Weight: forty-two kilos. IDed as Kaiser Apollis. Bullet to the head. Close range. Body placed in a rubber swing. Blue and white nylon ligatures around both wrists. My guess is washing line.’ Helena moved closer to the still form on the gurney and looked at the rope that had held the child’s wrists together. ‘A clean cut. Looks like—’
    ‘Cut with what?’ interjected Mouton.
    ‘Looks like it was a pair of pliers,’ Clare finished for Helena. ‘Something rough.’
    ‘Body folded into a foetal position,’ Helena continued. ‘Arms wrapped around the legs