Like Clockwork

16

Clare picked up the Sunday papers and a takeaway on her way home, remembering to get cat food too. Fritz had been incensed that morning when she hadn’t been fed. The phone rang as she was fumbling with the key of her security gate. She got in just in time to answer it.

‘Clare?’ It was Rita Mkhize.

‘Hi, Rita. What’s happening?’ asked Clare, anxiety tightening her throat.

‘It’s bad news, sisi. Bad news. Another girl is gone.’

‘When? Who?’

‘Today. Right now. I took the call but I can’t get hold of Captain Faizal. He’s not picking up his phone. I thought maybe he was with you.’

‘He’s not,’ said Clare curtly.

‘Sorry, Clare… I didn’t mean anything, but we need him.’

‘I’ll go past Riedwaan’s house and see if he’s there.’

‘Thanks, Clare. There is chaos down here.’

Clare quickly poured some food into Fritz’s bowl and went to find Riedwaan. Parking on Signal Street, she crossed the cobbled road. There was no sign of life, but she could hear music. She knocked. Nothing.

‘Riedwaan?’ she called, knocking louder.

‘Who’s there?’

‘It’s Clare. Let me in.’ The door opened.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘It’s Sunday.’

‘Your phone was off. Rita called me.’

Riedwaan stiffened. ‘Now what?’

‘Another girl is missing. Here, speak to her.’ Clare dialled Rita Mkhize’s number and handed the phone to Riedwaan. She followed him inside. It looked as if Riedwaan had been doing housework. There was a pile of laundry on the kitchen floor. The sink was filled with a week’s worth of dishes.

‘Mkhize? Riedwaan Faizal here.’ He picked up a pen and jotted down notes. He handed Clare’s phone back to her, his face grim.

‘Who?’ asked Clare. ‘Where?’

‘Amore Hendricks: the only daughter of elderly parents, a dancer, current Miss Panorama High. Slim, seventeen, long black hair. Last seen on Saturday when a family friend dropped her off at Canal Walk shopping mall to meet a friend. Reported missing by her father. I’d better get down to the station. Rita’s waiting for me – and so is Phiri. He’s on the warpath, as you can imagine, worrying whether the press has already got wind of it. We’ll get the interviews started.’

Riedwaan had his keys in his hand. Clare handed him his jacket. ‘I’ll call you when I’ve got some news.’ He touched Clare’s cheek.

‘No news won’t be good news,’ said Clare, closing Riedwaan’s door behind them.

‘I hope you’re wrong.’

Clare grimaced, then drove home into the cold fog settling along the promenade.