Like Clockwork

28

Across town, in a leafy, cloistered suburb, Cathy King sat cradling a phone, her shoulders bony under her cashmere cardigan. She drew up her knees, sharp beneath her fawn trousers, as she stared straight ahead. Her untouched teacup was dwarfed by the over-sized coffee table. It looked ridiculous. Much like she did on the enormous blue wave of a sofa. The French doors were open, the sage carpet blending with the luxurious sweep of lawn rolling down to the pool, its great, dead eye staring unblinkingly at the sunless sky. Cathy hated the swimming pool, and never swam in it. Neither did India.

The thought of her daughter was a knife twist where her most recently cracked rib was healing. Her doctor had raised an eyebrow when she went to him. ‘Again, Mrs King? You must be more careful.’

Indeed, she must. Cathy stared dry-eyed at the swimming pool. It stared back. She had tried so hard to be careful with India. Last night she had waited up all night, pacing, pacing. The beautiful daughter, who she loved with an aching intensity, had not come home. Cathy knew she had failed her daughter – her broken rib told her that. So did the burn scars down the inside of her thighs. Despite her love, she had failed India. Now she forced herself to phone Brian to say that she was worried about India. He hadn’t come home either. He never did on Saturdays. It was her one night of respite.

‘You idiot,’ he snarled at her. ‘That little slut is probably fucking herself silly. Just like her dumb bitch of a mother would, given half a chance. Make sure you do nothing to embarrass me. I’ll see she learns her lesson when she does come home. You don’t fucking move. You hear me?’

‘Yes, Brian,’ she whispered. She kept from her voice the steel forming where her heart had once been. ‘I won’t.’ And she waited humbly, as always, for him to cut the connection. Then she looked at the Cape Times she had pulled out of the recycling bin and keyed in the emergency number at the end of the article on Amore Hendricks.

It was light now. She closed her eyes and, gathering the remnants of her strength, she pressed ‘call’.

‘Faizal.’ The voice was guarded, rough in her ear. She was quiet. ‘Who is this?’

Cathy gritted her teeth, did not cower. ‘My daughter is missing. This is Cathy King.’

Riedwaan felt the strap of tension tighten across his shoulders. ‘Mrs King, why are you reporting this to me?’

‘She looks like the girl in the newspaper. The one you found. Amore Hendricks.’ Her voice was almost inaudible, as if the air had been sucked from her lungs. The terror she had held at bay all through the darkness overwhelmed her now. She heard his voice again. It sounded muffled, as if she were deep inside a well.

‘Can you come to the station?’ he was saying. ‘Mrs King? Immediately? Can you bring a photo of her – a recent one? Shall I send a patrol car? Or is there someone who can bring you? Your husband?’

‘No! Not my husband. He’s not here. I’ll come straight away.’

Cathy fetched her handbag and went upstairs to India’s room. Her school tights, left hanging on a chair, carried the outline of her slim legs, the grubby marks of her toes. She must have been walking somewhere with no shoes on. Just her lovely stockinged feet. Cathy picked up the tights and put them into her bag. A photo of India was propped next to the bed. Cathy slipped it into her bag, nestling it with the tights. She would not cry yet. She had to find her child. If she let go, even for a second, she would shatter finally. So she held the shards of herself together.

Downstairs, she took a second Valium. She checked her face in the hallway mirror. The skin was pale, smoothly sculpted over her cheekbones. She remembered to put on her lipstick, grateful that her face was unmarked this time. She went to the garage, hating the flashy little car Brian made her drive. She reversed and drove down the oak-lined road. The houses here were so far apart that no sound you made would ever carry to your neighbours. She took in nothing of the drive around the mountain to Sea Point.

The police station that Captain Faizal had directed her to was ugly, a squat face-brick building, the windows covered with anti-hand-grenade mesh. Riedwaan Faizal made her feel better. His face was hard, but the eyes had a vulnerability to them that comforted her. He escorted her to the untidy cubbyhole that served as an office.

She accepted the cup of milky tea he gave her, and then told him what she thought he needed to know. That India was sixteen. That she had gone to watch a friend at a theatre rehearsal. That the friend should have dropped her home at eleven. She did not tell him that none of India’s friends ever came inside the house – why should she? She did tell him, though, that her daughter had not come home. That her daughter had not answered her calls. Yes, she had contacted her mother. She had SMS’d to say she was having a great time and might be late. Cathy had been watching television then, so she had not heard the message come in. And yes. Here was the picture of India. Taken two months before when she and her friend Gemma had auditioned to be movie extras. Their role had been to mill around in a café in Long Street. They had loved the whole experience.

Riedwaan looked at the photo of the laughing girl. Her long mane of black hair was a blur, caught as she flung her head back, delighted by the photographer. She was holding her elegant hands up in a gesture of mock submission. High, rounded breasts were firmly held in place by the tight white T-shirt. A very beautiful girl.

‘Can I keep this, Mrs King?’ There was a feverish look in her eyes. He knew the look. He had seen it in Shazia’s eyes when their daughter had vanished. He must have looked like that, too. Cathy King nodded.

‘We need to take a formal statement and I need to get a list of her friends and activities,’ he told her. She nodded again and handed him her daughter’s address book. Then she made her formal, detailed statement, signed it, and handed it back to him.

‘She would have had most of her numbers in her phone, I suppose.’

‘We will do everything possible, Mrs King. If you think of anything, no matter how small, then call me. If anyone contacts you, any strange calls, let me know at once.’

She picked up the card he pushed across the table. ‘I’ll wait at home.’

‘I’ll be sending someone else to talk to you at home. She will want to look through India’s room – maybe there will be something there.’

‘Who will come, Captain Faizal?’

‘Dr Clare Hart. She’s been working on the investigation.’

‘The profiler – the one I’ve read about in the newspapers?’

Riedwaan nodded. Cathy King’s last vestige of hope drained away. She put her hand out, as if she was about to fall. But she didn’t. She winced as she straightened her back.

‘We will keep you informed, Mrs King. And we will do our utmost.’ The words rang hollow.

‘Goodbye, Inspector.’ She turned and walked to her car.

She looked so alone. Riedwaan went to get some coffee, thinking of Mrs King. The wedding ring was conspicuous on her finger, so it was odd that she had come alone. Where was India’s father? The anger that surged through him was intense. He deliberately turned his mind to the killer they were looking for. If they could just work out who he was. Or if the killer made a mistake, there would at least be a chance of finding India alive. That, to his chagrin, was the truth. He reached automatically for a cigarette, remembering that he had given up only when his hand found nothing there. He went out to bum a smoke, grabbing a cup of coffee on his way out. But he had made all his colleagues swear to refuse him a cigarette and they stuck to it: no one would give him even a drag. He tried to call Clare. There was no reply. She must have gone out of range or switched off her phone. Annoyed, he waited for the kettle to boil.

When he sat down again, he pulled out the two case files. Amore Hendricks. Charnay Swanepoel. He prayed that he would never label one India King. But he did not hold out much hope. They knew how these girls had died, how long it had taken for them to die, what they had last eaten. And yet nothing pointed them anywhere. There were no witnesses. The DNA they had didn’t match any on record. It could be gang-related – some new initiation method. Or perhaps a coded warning to the increasing numbers of freelancers – Charnay certainly seemed to have been one – who were being pimped in the more upmarket areas. Kelvin Landman was an ideal candidate. The right profile. Sadistic, ruthless, meticulous about cleaning up after himself. No witness had ever testified against him. That could be the answer. But something niggled. He knew Clare suspected that Landman was a candidate. But she was not convinced of this. Riedwaan slipped the note Rita had left for Clare into the file. ‘Only posh florists use that ribbon. See you Monday, R.’

Clare Hart’s profile pointed her elsewhere. Landman, she argued, was cruel for a reason. That was where he did not fit the profile of a serial killer. With this particular killer, Clare contended – with nothing to back her but her intuition – the killings were an end in themselves. They were too staged, the symbolism was too obscure, to be a message to others. If someone was trying to scare prostitutes, then why Graaff’s Pool? Why not Somerset Road? Riedwaan had worked with Clare often enough to know she was rarely wrong.