‘Did you go out together last weekend?’ Clare persisted.
‘No.’
‘I thought you did everything together?’
‘Ag, we used to. But not so much lately,’ said Cornelle. ‘We didn’t always jol together on the weekends. We had different friends sometimes.’
‘Where do you live? I’ll drive you there’ said Clare. Cornelle directed her – left, right, second left, number 32. Then she was silent. The house she pointed out was shut up, blank. Cornelle scrabbled in her bag for her keys.
‘Are you going out this evening?’ asked Clare.
‘I don’t know. To the Waterfront, I suppose.’
‘Shall I give you a lift? I’m going that way.’
Cornelle shrugged. ‘Ag, why not? Let me go change.’ She didn’t ask Clare if she wanted to wait inside. Clare looked at the depressing face-brick, blinds hanging askew in the upstairs windows, and was glad not to have been invited in. ‘I’ll be quick.’
Cornelle was gone in a flash of long legs. The look in her eyes, the tears, had not been grief, thought Clare. It had been fear. She watched the bathroom light go on and then snap off again. What was Cornelle afraid of? She put a call through to Riedwaan but his answering service kicked in before the first ring. She snapped her phone shut; Cornelle was hurtling out the door. Transformed in ten minutes by a tight black T-shirt and a skirt that could be mistaken for a belt.
‘Poes pelmets is what my ma calls them,’ giggled Cornelle, allowing Clare a glimpse of the child that she had so recently been. Cornelle turned back to the mirror to lacquer on her after-school face and the illusion was gone.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Shop, I suppose.’ There was a long pause. ‘Maybe meet some friends later.’
Clare glanced over at Cornelle – imported designer skirt and sunglasses. An indiscreet double C on her handbag. ‘Where do you get the money?’ she asked, weaving in between the late afternoon traffic. ‘Where did Charnay get her money?’
‘Oh, we model,’ said Cornelle with the nonchalance of a practised almost-truth. ‘Sometimes we get gifts after a shoot. Got gifts,’ she corrected.
Charnay’s broken body flashed into Clare’s mind. A driver hooted and she swerved back into her lane. ‘Those are expensive clothes.’
Cornelle looked at her again. And again there was a shadow across her face.
‘I work hard,’ said Cornelle. ‘So did Charnay.’
Clare dropped the subject. They drove in silence as darkness gathered, the elevated highway offering them a view of the glimmering harbour. Clare turned off the highway towards the Waterfront. Dockworkers and shop girls thronged home, shoulders hunched against the cold under thin jackets.
‘Drop me here please,’ Cornelle said. ‘I’ll walk the rest of the way.’ Clare swung around the next third of the traffic circle and pulled over. She pulled the blue card she had found in Charnay’s room from her pocket. ‘Do you know this number?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Cornelle, pulling her cellphone out of her bag. ‘I’m so bad with numbers. Let me see if I’ve got it on my phone.’ She peered at the number and dialled it. A name flashed onto the small screen. Cornelle ended the call, a flush rising on her pale neck. ‘The Isis Club,’ she muttered, not meeting Clare’s eye.
‘The strip club?’ asked Clare.
‘Ja,’ said Cornelle. ‘We auditioned there. Me and Charnay.’
‘As strippers?’ asked Clare.
‘No,’ answered Cornelle, her voice very low. ‘They were making movies. We auditioned for a part.’
‘Did you get one?’ asked Clare.
‘I didn’t. It was too hard-core for me.’ Cornelle looked down at her hands. The cuticles had been bitten until they bled.
‘Did Charnay?’ asked Clare.
‘Not that I know of,’ said Cornelle, reaching for the handle.
Clare put her hand on Cornelle’s arm and handed her a card. ‘Phone me if you want to talk,’ she said.
‘I will,’ said Cornelle. ‘I mean, I won’t need to. I told you everything.’
The door slammed, muffling the thanks flung over her thin shoulder. Cornelle did not head towards the Clocktower with its evening jazz cafés. Instead she took the road wedged between the repair dock and an abandoned office block. Two men painting a Chinese ship watched her progress, turning back to their work when a directed wolf whistle failed to even register in her stride. And then she was swallowed by darkness.
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.
13
Dinner with Julie and Marcus was at eight. Clare reversed her car out of the garage and set off across town for her older sister’s house, a bottle of cold wine on the seat next to her. She stopped to buy sunflowers before turning up the steep road that led to the house. The grey mountain, its flanks lit for the tourists, loomed like a ghostly elephant above her.
The security gate slid open before Clare could ring the bell. Beatrice, who could now just reach the button if she stood on tiptoe, had been looking out for her. She bulleted down the stairs, and into Clare’s arms. Imogen was just behind her to rescue the wine and flowers and to be kissed on the cheek. Beatrice patted Clare’s body expertly until she came to the pocket with the chocolate bar in it. This she wolfed down before her mother was out of the front door to greet Clare.
‘Hello, Julie.’ Clare kissed her sister and accepted the affectionate hug from her brother-in-law. ‘Hi, Marcus.’
She carried Beatrice inside and plonked her on her bed. Beatrice ferreted around in the drift of soft toys. A plump and triumphant arm brandished the book she’d been looking for.
‘Read me a story, Clare. Please read me a story.’ Beatrice was already flicking through the old fairy-tale book.
Clare settled down next to her. There was no point in resisting Beatrice. One story would settle her, and then the adults could eat in peace. Clare drew her small niece inside the crook of her arm, delighting in her grubby warmth. ‘Okay, Bea, what shall we read? Cinderella? The Lemon Princess?’
‘Bluebeard,’ said Beatrice, bouncing with anticipation. ‘Bluebeard. He’s so bad!’
Clare prickled with horror at the lurid picture of Bluebeard’s wives hanging in their secret chamber. The youngest wife stood stricken, key in hand, watching the indelible bloodstain spread.
‘It’s her favourite.’ Imogen spoke from the door. She must have been watching for a while. Only a few years before, it had been Imogen demanding a bedtime story from Clare. ‘It’s gross, but she loves that story. Especially the bit when the brothers come to kill Bluebeard at the end.’
Curled against her aunt’s body, Beatrice stuck her tongue out at her big sister. She stabbed a plump finger at the old book. ‘Read, Clare, read.’ Clare read.
‘Blue Beard: the Moral
Ladies, you should never pry,
You’ll repent it by and by!
Tis the silliest of sins;
Trouble in a trice begins. There are,
surely – more’s the woe
Lots of things you need not know.
Come, forswear it now and here –
Joy so brief that costs so dear!’
‘No morals,’ interrupted Beatrice. ‘Just the story.’ Clare could feel the small body softening towards sleep. She held Bea closer, shielding herself from tho
ughts of the dead girl on the promenade. Clare did not want to bring her here into her sister’s house. The story ended and Bluebeard’s resourceful wife was rescued by her brothers. Clare kissed Beatrice and tucked her in, leaving the little girl to dream of sword-fighting and vengeance.
Julie had a glass of chilled wine ready for Clare when she came through to join the rest of the family by the fire. Clare sipped it, drifting on the conversational flow of a family catching up with itself at the end of a busy day. The evening might not have been as comfortable if Riedwaan had been there. Julie carried in a gleaming copper pot and they ate at the fire – big bowls of soup and chunks of bread.
‘What happened to your hand?’ Julie touched the plaster.
‘A dog. Can you believe it?’ Clare replied.
‘Nothing to do with your investigation into human trafficking?’ Julie looked suspicious.
‘No, no,’ said Clare. ‘There’s a new security guard on that empty building site near me, and his dog was off the leash. He appeared from nowhere, they both did.’ Clare rubbed her hand – it must be healing because it was starting to itch. ‘I’ll be fine, Julie. Didn’t need stitches and I had a tetanus shot.’
Julie looked sceptical but Clare couldn’t see any point in telling her how odd the incident had been. ‘Sorry, Dr Hart,’ the guard had leered, leashing his dog. ‘Perhaps this is not such a safe place for you here.’ That he knew her name had given her more of a chill than the dog’s unprovoked attack.
‘The Osiris Group bought that land,’ said Marcus.
‘Did they? When? I thought it belonged to the city council,’ said Julie.
‘It did, but Osiris has acquired a whole lot of land. Their plans are flying through council. I heard that the mayor was trying to get the planning division sorted out, but this is something else.’
‘I had a letter the other day asking if I wanted to sell,’ said Clare. ‘They have been quite persistent. Who are they?’
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