Like Clockwork

48

Clare woke up feeling cold. The wine had left her with a headache and her duvet had slipped off. She got up, the taste of a nightmare bitter in her mouth. She stripped off the shirt and slacks she’d gone to bed in and showered. Then she pulled on her thick winter gown and wrapped a towel around her wet hair. Fritz badgered her until she fed her – the smell of the fish making Clare gag. She sat down at the kitchen table again, staring at what was left of three young girls – photographs, DNA tests, ballistics reports, interview transcripts. The fourth file was the slimmest, just a missing-person’s report at this stage. Clare prayed it would stay that way.

She stretched, her body stiff from too little sleep. Gathering the papers into her arms – Charnay, Amore, India – she carried them tenderly into her study. The walls there were blank. She pulled out a roll of masking tape from her top drawer and picked up the envelope of Tarot cards.

‘I’ll try it your way, Constance,’ she muttered to herself. She stuck the first card, the Female Pope, on the eastern wall. That was the direction that Charnay Swanepoel’s head had pointed when they’d found her. She placed Charnay’s smiling school photo next to the Tarot card. Clare arranged the photographs and Piet Mouton’s reports in a halo around the picture.

On the western wall, she placed the photo of Amore Hendricks next to the grinning orange devil. Clare gave pride of place to the expensive DNA tests paid for by Amore’s bereft father. The card of self-imposed shackles, the bonds around this girl’s body, were not of her choosing.

South was India King, her laughing, sunlit photograph next to the most catastrophic of cards – the Tower, showing a man and woman hurtling towards the ground. This card indicated the sudden bolt of understanding. Clare stuck what she had around the photo of India King. Her stepfather should be able to help with more information, thought Clare. She looked back at Charnay’s chart – King could have met her through Landman. Or through the Isis Club. She could see no link with Amore Hendricks, but that did not mean there wasn’t one.

Clare turned north. On this side of the room there was nothing but glass. She picked up the last card, the Hanged Man, and taped it to the glass. She looked past the taunting smile of the inverted figure. The sea was calm, with the first light beginning to dance on the breaking waves. Clare turned her back to the dawn and looked at the chilling images of death stuck to her walls. The answer was just beyond her – like a movement glimpsed in the corner of the eye, vanishing the moment she looked at it head on. Tears of impotent rage welled up hot and slid down her cheeks. ‘What am I not seeing?’ Clare fretted. ‘What can’t I see that these girls were blinded for seeing?’

Patience was what she needed. And time. The two things she did not have.

The thunk of the morning newspaper being delivered broke Clare’s reverie. The paper was splashed with pictures of the missing girl and a re-run of all the ghoulish details of the dead ones.

Clare felt a strong urge to go for a run. She pulled on her tracksuit, glad that she could leave off her rain jacket today. The air was crisp as she stretched against the sea wall. It lifted her spirits. She ran fast in the direction of the Waterfront. The morning sea was flat, the massive swell that had battered the shore for days exhausted. She turned back after three kilometres, enjoying the trickle of sweat between her breasts and down her back. The sun had swung up above the mountains, pearling the water. A single fishing boat broke the surface, leaving a trail of shattered colour in its wake. Clare absorbed the stillness of the moment. She would need it in the tumult of the day ahead of her.

Her heart contracted as she rounded Three Anchor Bay. A small group of people clustered around the railings. ‘Please not.’ Her words hung with the mist of her breath on the cold morning air. Clare slowed down as she neared the group.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Somebody thought they saw a whale,’ an old woman explained.

‘I don’t think it was a whale,’ said her wiry companion. ‘I’m sure it was that elephant seal. Remember, he was here last year.’ The huge animal had wintered here the year before, wallowing on the beach and bellowing mournfully for his lost females. After three lonely weeks he had slipped back into the water and headed back to Marion Island, thousands of miles south-east of Cape Town.

‘It would be something if he came back again,’ said Clare. The elephant seal had become quite an attraction, and nature conservation had posted a guard to protect him. Clare looked at the smooth surface of the sea, but saw nothing. Just some rubbish bobbing in the little breakers around the rocks.

She went home and downloaded her email. There was a deluge of increasingly frantic messages from her London producer. Clare opened the last one. ‘Where is my next batch of footage?’ it berated her. ‘When will it be here? I have two slots with international broadcasters so where the fuck is it, darling?’

Clare clicked ‘reply’. ‘It’s coming, don’t panic, don’t panic. Am pursuing a home-grown pornography link, so hang in there. C.’ She packed up her interview tapes – with Natalie, with the barmaid from the Isis, as well as two spontaneous ones she’d done later with some of the dancers. And the formal interview with Kelvin Landman. She looked at the tape of her interview with Whitney’s mother, Florrie Ruiters, explaining the metastasising hold of the gangs; how easily they picked up young women and worked them. She hesitated for a second and then threw that in too. Not quite as straightforward as Natalie’s story, but more common in its murkiness because Whitney and her family were helpless in the face of the expanding predations of the gangs.

Clare was rummaging through her cupboard, deciding what to wear, when the doorbell rang.

‘Hello.’ Clare pressed the intercom, expecting Riedwaan’s voice to reply.

‘Hi. It’s Tyrone.’

‘Who?’

‘The barman. From The Blue Room at the Waterfront.’ Hope flickered as Clare pressed the intercom.

‘Come up.’ She phoned Riedwaan. ‘The barman from the Waterfront is here. Come over.’ She snapped her phone shut as he knocked on her front door. Clare held the door open for him. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

Tyrone followed her into the kitchen. ‘Some coffee would be nice.’ He was holding a pink rucksack. He put it down on the table, pulling his hand away as if it was dangerous. ‘I found this,’ he said. He looked down at his hands. The nails were bitten, the nail beds raw, bleeding in places.

‘When?’ Clare asked.

When I was going home. It’s her bag. Theresa’s.’

Clare was holding the kettle, about to pour water over the coffee. She repressed an overwhelming urge to hurl the boiling water into his face.

‘So you lied to me – you were on duty that Friday night, Tyrone. And why are you only bringing it in now? This is crucial evidence that you’ve had since Friday night. The night she disappeared. It’s now Sunday morning.’ Clare stepped very close to him. The smell of too many cigarettes was rank on his breath. ‘Do you know how long that has been for Theresa? Can you imagine what has been happening to her? While you worried about whether to hand it over or not, you useless little fuck!’

‘I’m sorry. I was afraid. But I’ve brought it now. Maybe it can help her still?’

Clare turned away, ashamed of her outburst. She poured him coffee, handed him sugar and milk. ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Tell me how you found it.’

‘It wasn’t that busy that night,’ he said. ‘I closed earlier than usual, about eleven-thirty, when the last customers left. I went up to have a smoke and wait for my lift. I was sitting up on that bench near the drawbridge. There were no cars around. It was so quiet, I could think a little bit.’

‘So what happened, Tyrone? While you were thinking?’ He sipped the coffee, wishing there was something stronger in it. ‘I got up and walked around the parking lot. It’s more sheltered there – it was really cold that night. I bumped my foot into this. It was in the shadow next to an empty parking bay.’ He made himself touch the bag, pushed it over to Clare. The ‘Hello Kitty’ cartoon gave its silly, mocking wave.

‘I remembered it from when she was in earlier.’ There were tears in his eyes when he looked at her. ‘She was so friendly. So pretty.’

Clare did not touch the bag. There was still the smallest chance that forensics would find something.

‘Did you find anything else?’ Clare was sure that he had looked.

Tyrone shook his head. ‘He was there again. I saw him.’

‘Who, Tyrone?’ asked Clare. Tyrone put a finger into his mouth. He tore at a strip of skin next to the nail. Blood oozed.

‘Landman. Kelvin Landman.’ His voice was a whisper. ‘He came in just as Theresa was leaving.’ He shuddered. ‘I saw him look at her. You don’t want him to look at you like that if you are a girl.’

‘Explain, Tyrone.’ Clare’s voice was urgent. She wished that Riedwaan would come. Tyrone drew a deep breath, squared his slender shoulders. ‘You remember Charnay? And her friend Cornelle? You know they worked for him? Or better to say it like this: he worked them for himself. To death.’ His voice was bitter. ‘All this trouble with the police now, with the murders. They’re everywhere. Some of the local customers are nervous, I think. All the South Africans are careful, even the Jo’burg guys. It has been affecting his business, I think.’

‘Hang on. That will be Riedwaan,’ she said, responding to the doorbell. Clare let him in and handed him a cup of coffee. Riedwaan shook hands with an anxious-looking Tyrone, then sat down.

‘Carry on, Tyrone,’ said Clare. ‘You’ll have to make a statement to the police anyway, so you may as well do it now with Inspector Faizal here.’

Tyrone was trapped, a rabbit in the headlights. ‘Theresa came in first, like I told you.’

‘Had you seen her before?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘No. She had never been in before, not while I have worked there. I asked her what her name was when I brought her order. It wasn’t busy, so I chatted. She said she was meeting her mom. Just as she was leaving, Kelvin Landman came in with those guys who are always with him.’ Tyrone swallowed with difficulty, his throat suddenly dry.

‘Did they speak to Theresa?’ asked Clare.

‘No, like I told you, they just checked her out. I don’t think she liked it because she pulled her coat tight around her when she saw them. They are not people you mess with.’

‘Then what?’ asked Clare.

‘Theresa left and I went outside to check if there was anyone else. There wasn’t, but I did see Theresa at the end of the jetty where all the yachts are moored. I waved to her, but I don’t think she saw me. When I came in, Landman was vloeking into his phone. They left quite soon after that. I was glad. I don’t think the other customers like them much.’

‘Who was Landman with?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘The only one I knew was Kenny McKenzie,’ said Tyrone. ‘He grew up near me. I stayed right out of his way.’

‘I don’t blame you,’ said Clare.

‘Did you see Theresa again?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘I didn’t. I found her bag much later. At about half past eleven, like I told you.’ He put out his hand as if to stroke the bag, but then thought better of it and his hand dropped back into his lap.

‘Why did you only come forward now?’ asked Riedwaan. ‘Why didn’t you call the police immediately, when you knew she was missing?’

Tyrone looked sullenly at Riedwaan. ‘I know those gangsters, Inspector.’ There was disdain in his voice. ‘Like you know them. You know what happens if you split.’

‘So why are you telling us at all?’

Tyrone twisted his fingers. He looked very young. ‘She was a nice girl. But I think I must go now. Thanks for the coffee.’ Tyrone stood up.

‘Wait,’ said Riedwaan, ‘I want you to take me to exactly where you found the bag.’ Riedwaan called Piet Mouton. He wanted the bag combed for hair and fibres. The pathologist cleared his schedule.

Tyrone watched Clare put on her coat and pick up her bag. Then he said, ‘Landman’s connection came back.’ His voice was thin, exhausted, now that he had unburdened himself of his secret.

‘Kenny McKenzie?’ asked Clare.

‘Not McKenzie, I don’t know his name, but he came back at about half past nine. Maybe ten. I didn’t serve him. The other barman did because I was busy. He had a scratch on his hand and he asked me for a lappie.’

Clare felt her blood chill in her veins. ‘Did you give him one?’

‘Ja, I had a clean cloth in my hand so I gave him that.’

‘What did it look like? The scratch?’

‘I don’t know. Like he’d caught his hand on a bush. Or a cat had scratched him,’ said Tyrone. ‘He didn’t stay long – just had his whiskey and then he was gone again. It was like he was looking for someone. Or something, maybe. I saw him drive away some time later when I was bringing in the outside tables. I don’t know where he was in between.’

‘What did he look like?’ asked Clare.

‘Dark hair. Tall,’ said Tyrone. ‘He looked rich.’

Riedwaan came out of the bathroom, drying his hands.

‘Have you done any checks on Otis Tohar?’ she asked.

‘No. I know the organised crime boys are keeping an eye on him. Nothing, so far.’

‘You go ahead. There’s something I want to check. Go and meet Piet. I’ll catch you later,’ said Clare.

She closed the front door behind Riedwaan before he could say anything and turned on her computer, typing in her search question, her body taut with excitement. ‘Come, come, come,’ she whispered. The French news site she was waiting for flickered to life. She checked on Lebanon first. Not even a blip, apart from a litany of unpunished honour killings. Clare felt her shoulders slump. She had been so sure. Then she tried Sierra Leone, without any real hope. But there was – an endless list of mutilations and amputations. She scrolled through them swiftly.

There it was, what she had been looking for: ‘Another young woman murdered’, she translated aloud. A French journalist posted to Sierra Leone to witness the evacuation of families of French troops had written the story. The girl’s death was bizarre even in the midst of the routine slaughter of a civil war. She was beautiful, despite the grainy distortion of the digital image. Clare was transfixed by the detail of her death. There was a picture of the girl’s broken body, the hands bound, the eyes mutilated, the legs grotesquely splayed. Clare manipulated the image, enlarging it as much as possible. Clutched between the girl’s hands was a rectangular box. Clare stared at it. A video cassette and a small, silver key.

The shrill summons of her cellphone brought Clare to her feet. ‘Hello?’ she said sharply.

‘Clare, its Rita here.’

‘Hi, did you get hold of Cathy King? Will you arrange an interview with her as soon as possible? Get hold of Riedwaan, he’s just left. We’ll have to see her later.’

‘I am with her now, sisi, but no one is going to be talking to her again.’

The strength drained out of Clare’s legs. ‘What do you mean?’ she whispered.

‘Portia Qaba, her housekeeper, called here. I tried to get Riedwaan, but his phone was off. So me and Joe Zulu came out here. Cathy King is dead. It looks like she took an overdose. Joe thinks it’s suicide. So does the pathologist – he is busy with her now.’

‘Poor woman,’ said Clare. ‘Where did you find her?’

‘In India’s room, on her bed. She must have been watching a video.’

Clare’s blood ran cold. ‘What was she watching?’ asked Clare, sure that she knew the answer.

‘It’s horrible, Clare. It was a film with her in it. Her with Landman and her husband. Very brutal, very abusive. But there’s something very strange.’ Rita hesitated, uncertain about her intuition.

‘What?’

‘The tape was paused in mid-frame. It looked like she had paused it – you see, the remote was right by her hand. And then I looked again. More closely, at the image…’

‘What did you see?’ asked Clare, itching with impatience.

‘There’s another man there. He must be holding the camera. But you can see him reflected in the window, right at the end. I think I’ve seen him before, but I don’t know his name. Can I bring you the tape now? I just got this feeling that maybe you should talk to him too. About India. It’s so terrible, what they did to her eyes.’

‘I’ve seen that tape,’ breathed Clare. ‘Thank you, Rita, thank you.’

Clare was already in the lounge, scrabbling through the videos on top of her television. She quickly found the one she had taken from India King’s house. She pushed the cassette in, fast forwarding through the agonising humiliation of Cathy King. Yes, there it was, right at the end. The man with the camera was mirrored briefly in the plate-glass windows, his mouth slack as he watched, and filmed – mesmerised as the woman was efficiently bound. The camera moved inexorably in until the screen was filled with her face, then only her eyes. Her pupils were dilated with terror. And then, visible for the merest second, and only if you really looked, was a special effect done in post-production: a red flash, then a trickle of fluid as the blue irises were sliced through.

Clare called Riedwaan but he did not pick up. She had to move if anyone was to see Theresa Angelo alive again. Warrants and procedures would create nothing but a lethal delay, so she didn’t call the station. Clare grabbed keys and a warm jacket. She manoeuvred her car around the growing knot of people who had come to look at the elephant seal, then made her way down to Beach Road. She looked up hopefully at the penthouse suite of the old Sea Point Tower: Tohar had to be in his apartment – and Theresa had to be alive.