Like Clockwork

12

Clare drove west, towards Sea Point. As she rounded the huge yacht basin at the Waterfront – eviscerated in preparation for new luxury apartments – she caught sight of Cornelle again and slowed, ignoring the impatient drivers behind her. The girl changed direction. She was walking away from the shops and cinemas – already starting to seethe with scantily dressed teenagers – towards the bunkered luxury of The Prince’s Hotel. She dipped out of sight, obscured by the masts of the yachts anchored in the marina. Impulsively, Clare turned and drove back in the direction she had just come from. She parked deep in the shadow of an empty building. She grabbed her bag and, pushing her arms into her coat, walked down the access road that led through the luxury apartments to the marina. She looked for Cornelle, but she seemed to have gone into The Blue Room. The bar overlooked the most expensive yachts in the basin. Clare did not slow her pace. Instead, she walked around the hotel and entered the lobby. Her well-cut clothes earned her a welcoming nod from the concierge. She slipped past the receptionist busy on a call and took the narrow service passage that led to the bar. Then she slid behind a waiter and sat down at a table that was not visible from the mirrored bar.

The Blue Room was empty except for three men drinking at a table near the entrance. Cornelle was sitting at the far end of the bar. She had exchanged her tackies for needle-heeled boots and adjusted the neckline of her T-shirt, displaying a generous cleavage as she leaned over to take a practised sip of her cocktail. As the barman turned to serve a new customer, the suited man who had bought her the drink tucked a bloated finger between her breasts, pushing her top down further. Cornelle pressed her arms against her body and smiled, spilling more of herself towards the man. Clare stared at the exposed tattoo on her breast. The same elegant verticals bisected with an X. The same design as Charnay’s. The man edged closer to the girl, slack mouth wet with anticipation. Cornelle avoided looking at him by checking her hair in the mirror behind the bar. She caught sight of Clare and shame blazed briefly in her eyes, which then glazed over. She turned her smiling mouth to the man whose left hand was moving up her naked thigh towards her crotch. His wedding band flashed in the light and then disappeared under Cornelle’s skirt. Clare saw him squeeze hard at some imagined resistance. Cornelle’s thighs parted at once. She smiled when he twisted her nipple into pertness as the barman came to take Clare’s order.

‘A whiskey and water, please. No ice.’ The young man went back to his station, busying himself with bottles and glasses. The man put a hundred-rand note on the counter and handed Cornelle her bag. She followed him obediently into the night. Clare sipped her drink, hoping that the alcohol would stop the churn in her stomach.

Clare went to pay for her drink. She passed a picture of Charnay over to the barman with the money.

‘Do you know her, Tyrone?’ she asked. He looked startled, then touched the silver name tag on his shirt. ‘I’m Dr Clare Hart.’ He shook her outstretched hand.

He picked up her picture. ‘Shame, it’s that girl they found in Sea Point, isn’t it? This is a better photo than the one they put in the paper.’

Clare nodded. ‘Charnay. Charnay Swanepoel. Did she ever come in here?’

Tyrone glanced towards the three men drinking steadily at their table, then he nodded.

‘She did come in here once or twice.’ He looked back at the picture. ‘She was pretty. My type. She looks like a fairy princess with all that hair.’

‘When was she here last?’

‘Last Friday,’ he said reluctantly.

‘Who was she here with?’

The barman did not look Clare in the eye. ‘Nobody. She left early. By herself.’

‘Why did you not tell anybody?’

‘I didn’t know that I had to,’ he replied.

Clare’s hands curled into fists. She put them into her pockets. ‘A girl is dead. Surely that worried you?’ He shifted from one foot to the other, but he didn’t reply. Clare turned away from him and walked down to the yachts rocking in the wind-chopped water. The engine of a gleaming blue and mahogany yacht purred to life. Clare had managed to control her rage – and then the barman appeared at her side.

‘She went in this direction,’ he said. ‘The same way you walked when you left – this way down to the marina.’ Clare looked down – there was a broad deck that stretched out into the water, providing access to the vessels moored there.

‘Do you know what she was doing?’ Clare asked.

‘Same as you, I suppose. Looking at the lights. It’s beautiful.’ It was. The lights gleamed like pearls in the inky black water. The mournful bellow of a seal was all that punctuated the quiet. The blue yacht manoeuvred – graceful as a dancer – around the quay and towards the channel that led through the harbour to the sea.

‘What a beauty,’ said the barman.

Clare admired the sleek lines of the yacht as it sliced its way down the channel. The pedestrian bridge across it reared skywards, and the tall vessel sailed out towards the open sea.

‘Who else was here last Friday when Charnay was here?’

‘No one. Only those guys you saw this evening – they are always here. It seems like we are their new hangout. They pay, though,’ he added. ‘And they tip well. Which is more than some of these yachting ous.’

‘No one else?’

‘No, nobody that I remember. But I was a little bit late coming in that evening. The trains were all over the place. As usual.’ He grimaced. ‘What do you need to do to get a boat like that?’ he asked, staring at the gracious yacht sailing away.

Clare smiled. ‘Get lucky, I suppose.’ She handed him a card. ‘You call me if you think of anything else. Anything about Charnay. Doesn’t matter if it seems trivial.’

He put the card into his pocket. ‘Thanks. Take care now.’

Clare headed towards the Waterfront. Two glasses of wine and a nigiri platter took the edge off the day. It was later than she thought when she headed back to her car, and the evening crowds had thinned. The bar at The Prince’s Hotel was busy, but the evening was chilly and the outside tables had been stacked away. She held her bag closer and quickened her stride, her key braced in her hand. She scanned the darkened street. Nothing. She let go of the tension in her shoulders and unlocked the door.

‘Hello, Dr Hart.’ The voice in her ear was chilling, the fingers gripping her elbow ice tentacles. Clare forced herself to turn and look at the man trapping her between his hard body and the car.

‘I hear you’ve been looking for me. Here I am. I thought you’d recognise me.’ He sounded disappointed.

Clare forced her mind to function. He was so close she could feel the heat of his body, but the man made no further move towards her or her car. She looked at the face, lit by a distant street lamp. It was familiar. Then he moved and the white scars etched down his cheek were visible. ‘Kelvin Landman,’ she whispered.

‘The same.’ He smiled, mouth turning up, wrinkling his scar, his eyes untouched. ‘I hear you are looking for a star.’

Clare’s mind had been so far from her film that it took her a few seconds to remember that she had put the word about that she wanted to talk to Kelvin Landman, to interview him for her film. She swallowed. ‘I wanted to interview you, yes,’ she said. ‘Get your side of the story. See how the business works.’

Kelvin Landman shrugged. ‘I am a simple man. Bit of import, bit of export. Bit of pleasure. It’s a service that I provide. There’s a demand – so why not?’ He smiled, the muscles in his neck taut.

‘Did you know Charnay Swanepoel, the girl whose body was found in Sea Point?’ Clare was irritated that her voice quavered.

‘Why? Should I?’

‘It’s meant to be your territory now,’ said Clare. She tried to free her arm from his grip. Landman held her for a single menacing second, his physical power needing no other demonstration. Then he held the door open for her.

‘Let’s do lunch. It sounds like we might have some interests in common.’

Before she could respond, he took her hand. The silver pen flashed like a knife in the moonlight. He wrote a phone number on her exposed palm. ‘Call me,’ he said, folding her hand closed, closing the door. He waited until she’d started her car and driven back towards the exit. When she glanced into her rear-view mirror he was nothing but a shadow between the trees. She kept her eyes on him as she waited for a gap in the late-night traffic. As she slipped into her lane the shadow moved in the direction of the marina.

Clare started to shake, but she managed to keep the steering-wheel steady. Rear-view mirror. Brake. Breathe. Indicate. Turn. Park. She rested her forehead on the steering-wheel. The panic was gone. She was home.