The Serpentine Road Read Online Free PDF Page B

more nudes. He turns away from the New Worlds Gallery, beckons Don to follow him across the road to the Bree Street Bakery.
    At the door, they are welcomed by a young black waitress, who offers them the choice of sitting inside or upstairs on the balcony above.
    ‘It’s shady?’
    She nods, and De Vries lets her lead them to the upstairs balcony, which looks back over the road towards the gallery. They sit at a painted metal table set with autumn flowers, order two coffees. It is still far too hot for the time of year – an Indian summer of no end. When the girl returns with their order, De Vries shows her his ID.
    ‘You know the woman who owns that place?’ He points at the gallery.
    ‘Taryn? Yes.’
    ‘How well do you know her?’
    ‘She comes here for coffee.’
    ‘She there on her own?’
    ‘No. There’s a guy who works with her. Dominic. And a couple of other girls, but I don’t see them often.’
    ‘She ever come in here with anyone?’
    The waitress considers for a moment.
    ‘Not when I’ve been on duty. Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve only spoken with her when she’s come to take coffee away.’
    He gestures across the street.
    ‘Do you know what happened to the window?’
    ‘Don’t you?’
    ‘No.’
    The woman smiles.
    ‘They opened that new exhibition on Wednesday. You know, with a party and . . . what do you call it . . . ? A private view, for all the rich buyers. But, there is a demonstration, because of the paintings. Have you seen them?’
    De Vries nods.
    ‘There is a women’s group, and they were protesting . . . And some guy from the church in Saint Jerome Street. It was quiet enough at the start, but then more people arrived and they started singing and chanting and blowing their vuvuzelas. Some heavy guys came out of the gallery and there was a lot of shouting, and then somebody threw a stone, a brick, I don’t know, at the window, and all hell breaks loose.’
    ‘What happened then?’
    ‘Your guys turn up . . . You don’t know this?’
    ‘Different unit. Did you see Taryn Holt?’
    ‘No.’
    De Vries nods at her name badge.
    ‘That you?’
    She looks down, smiles.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Dayo.’ He seems to consider the name. ‘Thank you. Before you go, the police: did they talk to you about the demonstration?’
    ‘No.’
    She checks both their faces, turns and walks away.
    De Vries looks over to Don, silent but aware. De Vries is about to speak when Don says: ‘Look, across the road.’
    A man is unlocking the front door to the gallery. He slips inside when it is open only a crack and locks it behind him. They finish their coffee and De Vries glances at the little bill slip which came with them, snorts and leaves sixty rand on the saucer.
    When they reach the gallery, the lights are still off and there is no sign of the man who entered. De Vries rings the bell, knocks on the glass door firmly. After a few moments, he sees a figure peer at them from the back of the shop. He holds up his ID, shouts:
    ‘Police. Answer the door, please.’
    As the figure approaches, De Vries sees that he is a man in his thirties, red-haired, sporting a goatee and a moustache with the ends twirled.
    ‘Are you here about Taryn?’ His voice is clipped, a pitch higher than De Vries was expecting. He takes the safety chain off the door.
    De Vries says: ‘Who are you?’
    The man steps back, opens the door for them.
    ‘Dominic van der Merwe. I worked with Taryn. I guess I was the manager here.’
    ‘We need to talk to you.’
    ‘I thought you might.’
    He swivels, leads them to a long black desk at the rear of the gallery, gestures for them to sit, walks around it to face them. He presses a switch under the desk and three small lights glow in the ceiling, cast three crisp beams through the floating dust. It is not light which illuminates anything but small circles on the glossy surface of the desk. In the gloom, De Vries observes that the man’s eyes are red, his face rigid.
    ‘How did you