Like Clockwork

36

Clare needed her map to find the Kings’ house. It was positioned discreetly at the end of a three-kilometre cul-desac that traced the crest of a wooded ridge. The avenue was lined with stately oaks that obscured the palatial houses set far back from the road. Security guards, stupefied with boredom, sat at the gateways. The King mansion was a sparkling white jewel set in an acre of emerald lawn. Clare rang the doorbell. A well-trained maid asked who she was, what she wanted. The gate glided open at the mention of India’s name. Clare parked behind the garages and crunched across the gravel to the unwelcoming front door. The same maid, generously built, her broad face kind above the black and white uniform, let her in.

‘I’m Dr Clare Hart.’ Clare held out her hand. The woman looked surprised, but she shook it.

‘I’m Portia,’ she replied.

‘And your surname, Portia?’

‘Qaba,’ she volunteered, again with some surprise, and continued, ‘The master is not yet home. And Madam is in her room. She is not well.’

Clare had not made an appointment. Riedwaan had told her that he found the King home unsettling, so she had thought it best to visit unannounced.

‘I am part of the team investigating India’s murder,’ said Clare. ‘Perhaps I could have a look at India’s room while I wait for Mr King.’

‘This way, Dr Hart.’ Clare followed her up the curved staircase. India had had the whole eastern wing of the house to herself. Portia opened the heavy curtains. The bedroom windows faced north and east, giving her a view of the undulating Constantia valley. No expense had been spared on India’s room. It was tastefully feminine, all expensive French quilts and imported furniture, but it was soulless, like a room in a boutique hotel. Its intimacy could have wrapped itself around any anonymous occupant. Clare tested the bolt on the inside of the door. It was clear that an amateur handyman had installed it. Or an unpractised girl.

She moved round to the neat desk. There was a maths book open, and a half-completed algebra exercise next to it. Clare picked up the books, put them down again. They were as impersonal as the room. She opened the top drawer. India’s homework diary lay there. Clare flicked through it. Notices about hockey matches, tests, letters from the head of the exclusive school India had attended. These admonished against piercings, tattoos, highlights. Clare put it back, pushed the drawer closed. She felt it stick. So she felt along the back of it. A small pencil case had wedged there. Clare unzipped it. Inside was a half-finished package of contraceptive pills. India had taken the last one on Friday. The day before she had disappeared.

‘It’s for her skin,’ said Portia. ‘She doesn’t have a boyfriend.’

‘You sound very sure,’ said Clare. She replaced the contraceptives. India had obviously meant to be home that night.

‘I was her nanny since she was born,’ said Portia, her voice cracking. ‘She told me everything. Sometimes she would come and sleep with me, if she was afraid.’

‘Where was she going that evening?’ asked Clare.

‘She went to her rehearsal, for the theatre. Then she said she wanted to go to Long Street. Her friend was there. She told me she would come back with a taxi.’ Portia wiped her eyes with her apron. ‘She never came back. I waited for her. Her mum waited for her. She never came back.’

The crunch of a car on the gravel broke the quiet. ‘It is Master,’ said Portia. ‘Come with me. I will take you to his office.’

She hurried Clare out of India’s room and led her downstairs, ushering her into a large study. It looked precisely as the study of a wealthy man should. Clare walked over to the bookshelves. A decorator must have chosen the expensively bound books. The collection was incoherent, revealing neither taste nor education. Clare ran her hand along the virgin spines. Not a single book had been opened. She pressed her hand against the smooth back of The Collected Works of Shakespeare. To her surprise, the entire shelf swung away. Behind it were four shelves of neatly stacked videotapes. The alphabetically arranged titles revealed Mr King’s taste for the more extreme forms of discipline, the finer forms of bondage and fear. The tapes on the bottom shelf were pushed right back. Clare bent down to look at them. Each bore the deep-blue Isis logo, though they seemed to be copies. There was a single cassette lying across the top of them.

Clare heard voices at the bottom of the stairs, the man’s filled with irritation, Portia’s placating. On impulse, she picked up the loose tape and dropped it into her bag before quickly closing the concealed shelf again. She turned to find Brian King at the door. He greeted her urbanely enough. Clare recognised his face, but she couldn’t place where she had seen him before.

‘I’m Clare Hart.’

‘Yes, I know who you are, Dr Hart. I’m sorry I wasn’t at home when you arrived. But I didn’t know you were coming. How can I help? I thought we had been over everything with the police already.’ He shrugged off his overcoat and hung it on a coat rack.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr King, and I’m so sorry for what has happened.’ Clare sat down and he took the chair opposite hers. ‘I am developing a profile of the man who killed India. I was hoping to discuss India with you. Who her friends were, what she did, what her interests were. I know this is painful, but the more we know about her, the more likely it is that we can find whoever killed her.’

‘I can’t tell you much more about her than is in my statement. That is her mother’s domain. This is most upsetting, most unnecessary. I warned Cathy so often that the girl was not disciplined enough. That she gave her too much leeway.’ Clare kept quiet, waited for the anger just below the surface to bubble over. ‘India was cheeky, dressed like a tart. They all do, don’t they?’ Clare’s incredulity must have shown, because he caught himself. He avoided Clare’s gaze, running his fingers through his hair. His wedding band glinted in the subdued light.

‘Did she bring her friends home? Did you know them?’ Clare stood. She walked to the bookshelf and looked at the single photograph displayed there. It showed Brian King with his arms draped over his wife and daughter.

‘No, none of them. I work long hours, you know. And she was not very sociable. Recently, I think she went out more. But other than that, I can’t tell you much else.’

‘India was interested in acting. She went to a drama school in town, didn’t she? Did you ever see any of her shows?’ asked Clare.

‘No. No, I didn’t.’ He stood up. ‘I am upset, as you can see. I’m not myself. And with all the funeral arrangements…’ He walked over to the desk and picked up a sheet of paper. ‘Her school wants a memorial service. Some march against violence against women. Most unfortunate.’ He paused again. ‘It’s so difficult for me to deal with. My wife, of course, is hopeless. Has completely collapsed. Not that I blame her, of course.’

‘Can I see Mrs King?’

‘Not now. She is devastated, and our doctor has had to sedate her. Now, if you wouldn’t mind…’ taking her cue, Clare stood up, too ‘… I have several things to attend to.’ He held the study door open for her. ‘Mr King,’ said Clare, ‘do you have any idea why India installed a bolt on the inside of her bedroom door?’

‘I have no idea. I never went to her room. What were you doing there? Do you have a search warrant?’

‘Oh, I didn’t search. I just wanted to get a sense of her.’ Clare stepped past him. She saw Portia slip away. ‘I’ll find my way out, thanks.’ Clare held her hand out to him. He shook it, his grip unnecessarily hard, hurting her.

‘I hope you find him. The police are not known for their competence, are they?’

Clare did not rise to this. ‘Please contact me if you think of anything. Or anyone that India met recently.’

‘I will. Goodbye, Dr Hart.’ She turned to leave. ‘Oh, by the way, I enjoyed your documentary on the DRC immensely. The one about the women. Excellent.’ His tone sent a shiver down Clare’s spine.

‘Thank you,’ she said politely, and turned round again. ‘There’s one more thing I’d like to ask you.’

‘Yes?’ he said, looking at his watch.

‘Where were you on the night India disappeared?’

‘Why?’

‘We need to check everything,’ said Clare.

‘I’ve already spoken to your colleague. Rizza – or something like that.’

Riedwaan Faizal?’ asked Clare.

‘Something like that. Rather a chip on his shoulder, I thought.’ Clare did not respond. ‘I told him I was having a celebratory dinner with some business associates.’

‘All night?’ said Clare.

‘Well, you know what business is like – we had overseas clients, from the East, and that’s how they do things.’

‘How do they do things, Mr King?’

‘They expect to be entertained.’

‘So I hear,’ said Clare. ‘I presume that they will corroborate?’

‘If it’s absolutely necessary, I’m sure it can be arranged.’ His face had purpled with rage. ‘Your colleague asked me the same question. I supplied him with the name of the business manager. I hope he’ll be discreet.’

‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll be as discreet as he needs to be. You will remember, I’m sure, that we are investigating a murder case. You had a booking at Sushi-Zen that night. The restaurant where India’s body was found. Any reason why you didn’t make it?’

A vein pulsed in King’s temple. ‘Dr Hart, I am her father. Surely you can’t be so crass as to interrogate me when I have just endured the most tragic loss.’

‘Where were you, Mr King?’

‘We changed our minds and went to the Isis Club instead. Nothing sinister. Just a change of mind.’

‘Oh,’ said Clare. ‘And what was the reason for this celebratory dinner?’

‘Just a potential property deal. Really, Dr Hart, I do find this most intrusive.’

‘Who were your companions?’ persisted Clare.

‘Our Asian investors. Two fellow directors. The City Manager, Hermanus Fipaza, and two local investors.’

Clare looked up from her notebook. ‘And who are these investors?’ she asked.

‘Otis Tohar and Kelvin Landman.’

‘Surely the Isis is a bit noisy to discuss business. A bit distracting?’ asked Clare. She brushed against King’s luxurious coat hanging near the door.

‘You are naive, Dr Hart,’ said King.

‘What time did you say your dinner was?’ asked Clare, ignoring his derision. She closed her left hand over the smooth black fibres she had pulled from the sleeve of King’s coat.

‘I didn’t,’ said King. ‘But we ate at ten, ten-thirty. Landman and Tohar were a bit late.’

‘Did they say why?’ Clare asked, facing him.

‘We have mutual interests, that is all. I did not consider it appropriate to pry.’

‘You will be asked to come and make a formal statement.’

‘Is that necessary?’ asked King.

‘Mr King, this is a triple murder investigation. One of those is your own daughter.’

‘One cannot forget, can one?’ King hurriedly ushered Clare through the door, closing it before she could say anything more. She walked rapidly to her car, relieved when the side of the house hid her from his view. Then she slammed her door shut and rested her head on the steering-wheel. With trembling hands, she pulled an envelope from her bag and dropped the threads of black cashmere into it. Clare jumped at the quiet knock on her window. It was Portia.

‘Hello, Portia,’ she said, opening the window and wiping away tears she had been unaware of shedding.

‘He is not her father, Dr Hart,’ said Portia. Her gentle face was twisted by fear and fierce anger. ‘He hates her. Hated her.’

‘What do you mean, Portia?’

‘The reason her mother couldn’t speak to you is he beat her.’ She spat. ‘He beat her because her baby was murdered. He married Cathy. Yes. When she already had India. He just married her to punish her. You find who killed that baby girl.’

‘Where did she go that night, Portia? Who did she go with?’

‘She went to town. Her mummy dropped her to meet her friend. But she never came back. Cathy waited all night but she never came back. Mr King never came either. In the morning Cathy was more afraid for her baby than she was afraid of her husband. That is when she went to the police. To the inspector who came here.’

‘Where was King?’

‘I don’t know. He is never here on weekends. I think he has other women somewhere. It gives Cathy some peace at least.’

‘There wasn’t anyone India was seeing?’ Portia shook her head, and Clare continued, ‘Her friend said they had no plans to meet on Saturday. That she was at home working for exams.’

‘I don’t know, but I hope she had a boyfriend who loved her. She was a very unhappy girl, her heart was breaking,’ said Portia.

‘Will you tell Mrs King that she should phone me? I would like to talk to her too. Tell her I’ll meet her somewhere else. And please give me your phone number, Portia – I may need to get hold of you.’

‘I’ll tell her,’ said Portia. ‘You remember you asked about that lock?’

‘Yes,’ said Clare.

‘I put it there for her. So she can be safe.’

Clare looked up at the house. Security beams were discreetly positioned everywhere. Portia shook her head.

‘The danger in this house – it is right inside.’ She stepped back into the shadow of the garage as Clare started her car.

There were only two lights on in the enormous house. One was in King’s study. It had a blue television flicker. The other was in a bedroom upstairs. The curtains parted slightly as Clare drove back up the lane. Behind them, Cathy King pressed her swollen cheek against the wall as she watched Clare’s headlights flicker past the trees. The coolness relieved the pain of her bruised face. She watched the lights until they were gone. Then she counted the pills that lay in a neat row in front of her. Soon there would be enough.