Blood Rose

fifty-two

Clare yanked her car into gear and cut in front of a hooting taxi, her heart thudding against her chest. She drove towards the lagoon, the tears coming without her noticing.

There was no truck and no dog at Ragnar’s flat. She looked across at the harbour to see that the Alhantra was halfway down the narrow shipping channel, heading for the open sea. She drove back along the lagoon, but there was no sign of Ragnar there either. One place left to look. In five minutes, Clare was bumping along the track that led into the salt marshes where the Kuiseb Delta blurred into the sea. A dangerous place to kiteboard, but one that Ragnar loved.

The first thing she saw as she approached the beach was the Labrador circling the vehicle, yelping in distress. The kite-board was still tied to the roof racks, ready. Clare did not like the feeling in her chest. It felt like something hard and cold was expanding, squashing the air from her lungs. She drove towards Ragnar’s truck.

‘Come boy,’ Clare called to the dog.

The dog whined, but refused to move away from the vehicle. Clare approached slowly, expecting the worst, but Ragnar was sitting inside, staring straight ahead at the sea. Clare opened the door and to her horror he toppled towards her. She caught him in her arms. He beamed up at her, his eyes ice blue, the wound in his forehead blooming. He was warm against her breast, his blood on her shirt a cheerful red. Clare bit back a scream. She manoeuvred him back into the seat and placed a finger against his neck. A pulse.

‘I’m getting you help,’ she said.

Ragnar started to slide towards her again. She propped her hip against his weight and pulled out her phone. Her hands were shaking, but she managed to key in Tamar’s number. It was ten rings before anyone answered. Clare counted every one of them. It felt like a lifetime.

‘Hello.’

‘Tamar?’ asked Clare. The voice didn’t sound right.

‘She’s asleep right now.’

‘Helena?’ said Clare.

‘Yes,’ said Dr Kotze. ‘I’m sorry-’

‘It’s Clare Hart. Send an ambulance.’ Clare could not get the words out fast enough. ‘The road past the saltworks, towards Pelican Point. Ragnar Johansson. Head shot. He’s still alive but only just.’ She disconnected without waiting for an answer.

Ragnar slipped further. Clare dropped her phone and turned to the stricken man. She pulled his seatbelt across his chest to hold him upright.

‘Keep still,’ said Clare, her heart thudding. ‘The ambulance is coming.’

‘Angel.’ Ragnar’s breath was feather-soft against her ear. The blue eyes flared. The wound in his forehead oozed, and his eyelids started to flutter.

‘Don’t pass out, Ragnar. Look at me. Talk to me.’

Ragnar obeyed and looked up at Clare, struggling to focus, his breathing coming in sharp jerks. There was nothing to do but wait. Clare looked out at the deserted beach; it was hard to believe that on other days, it would be dotted with kites and dogs, and families enjoying a weekend outing.

Ragnar groaned and his eyes rolled.

‘Come on, Ragnar.’ Clare touched his face. ‘Stay with me.’ She settled him against the door and went around to the back of the truck in search of water. When she came back, the blood from his forehead had trickled over his lips. She sprinkled the water over his mouth.

‘Talk to me, Ragnar. Tell me who did this to you.’

‘Angel,’ he slurred.

‘Not yet,’ said Clare. ‘No angels for you.’ She cradled his bloodied head, counting the minutes.

A chopper at last, she could hear it. Ragnar inched his hand across the seat, as if he were looking for something. There was nothing there.

‘Here’s help for you now. Hang on.’

The helicopter hovered, buffeted by the rising wind blowing off the desert. An enormous flock of flamingos took off, turning the sky deep pink as they circled before heading for safety. Two paramedics jumped out, neat as paratroopers.

‘What happened?’ the first one asked as soon as he was within earshot.

The sound of the chopper drowned out Clare’s attempts to explain. She stepped aside so the paramedic could see Ragnar.

The colour drained from the man’s ruddy face.

‘Shit,’ he said as he bent over him. ‘Pulse is here. Just.’ He signalled the other paramedic over. ‘Let’s get him out of here.’ There was an efficient flurry of drips and needles.

‘Where are you taking him?’ Clare asked.

‘To Windhoek,’ the man said. ‘There’s no ICU at the coast.’

Clare restrained the frantic dog. ‘Will he make it?’ She was starting to shake.

‘If he made it this long, he has a chance. Sometimes the bullet lodges between the brain lobes. If nothing’s damaged, he might make it,’ said the paramedic.

Clare stood back, watching as the paramedics worked to stabilise Ragnar before lifting him into the chopper. They pulled the door closed and were gone, lifting up and over the dunes. Clare closed her eyes, but it did not drive away the image of Ragnar’s punctured forehead.

She walked around to the other side of Ragnar’s truck and opened it. A file of official-looking papers fell out. She picked them up, wondering if it was what Ragnar had been looking for. The Walvis Bay Port Authority letterhead. Records of load, of taxes paid, of inspections done, of a route filed. Spain via Luanda.

Clare thought of the Alhantra rocking next to the stone quay. Its sudden turn of fortune. Two. Three. Five. It was adding up. Ragnar was a sore loser and she knew he’d bent the law before: illegal crayfish, some dope, a bit of recreational coke. But transporting the ingredients for a dirty bomb was not his thing. He must have found out about his ship’s secret cargo and threatened to talk. The helicopter had vanished, leaving only the wind and the calls of seabirds in its wake.

Clare snapped the file closed as a car door slammed behind her. It was Van Wyk and a sergeant she did not recognise.

‘Captain Damases is off this case,’ said Van Wyk. ‘And I’m on it.’ He held out a hand and Clare reluctantly handed over Ragnar’s file. ‘It’s an offence to remove evidence from a crime scene,’ he added, tossing the file into his vehicle. ‘I’m running this case now, Dr Hart. So I suggest you run along.’

Clare let a violent fantasy that involved her, Van Wyk and a machine gun run its course before getting back into her car, his smile a knife in her back. She calmed herself with the knowledge that Tamar’s inquiry would put him behind bars and wipe that arrogant smile off his face for a long time.

The maternity ward was surprisingly quiet. It was not visiting time, but Clare had slipped in without anyone noticing. Tamar’s room was at the end of the passage. A single bunch of flowers – hand-picked by Tupac and Angela, Clare guessed – stood by her bedside. The aftermath of labour had smoothed the guarded toughness from her face. She looked fifteen, lying on her heap of starched white pillows. The baby curled in her arms was slack with sleep, a drop of milk pearled in the corner of its small, pink mouth.

‘Tamar,’ Clare whispered. ‘Tamar.’ It felt like sacrilege to wake her.

Tamar opened her eyes, and the illusion of the Madonna vanished. ‘Hi.’ She drew her child closer to her before she smiled. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m sorry, I know you’re off the case, but I really need your help.’

‘Any time,’ said Tamar. ‘What is it?’

Clare closed the door and told Tamar. The horror of it seeped through Tamar’s exhausted postpartum tranquillity like a poison. The baby’s face crumpled in distress, feeling its mother slipping away from it.

‘Pass me my phone. It’s in my bag.’ Tamar rocked the child and it settled again, lulled. Clare handed her the phone.

‘We’ll do a swap,’ said Tamar. ‘You take her.’

‘Who is she?’ asked Clare, taking the infant. ‘This new little person.’

The child was unbelievably light in her arms.

‘Rachel.’ Tamar ran a gentle finger over her baby’s plump cheek. ‘Rachel Damases.’

Clare looked at the child. ‘She’s beautiful.’

Clare watched Tamar’s features sharpen and her eyes focus as she made the calls Clare needed.

‘It’s done,’ Tamar said, snapping the phone closed. ‘Now you do what you have to.’

She held out her arms for her baby and Clare handed Rachel over.

‘Look in that drawer,’ said Tamar.

Clare walked to the bedside table and pulled open the drawer. It contained a tube of cream and a pistol.

‘You can leave me the hand cream,’ said Tamar.