Like Clockwork

by Margie Orford

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I did look up, but the driver must have just accelerated because all I registered was a flash of something low, dark.’

  ‘Was it black?’ Clare asked.

  Harry sifted through the fragmented memories of that morning. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I think it was blue. A dark blue. Powerful engine, too.’

  He turned from her and took the irises out from the shelter of his coat. He separated the most perfect one from the bunch and put it where the girl’s body had lain on the gum-pocked pavement. The rest he took to the water’s edge. He flung the violet blooms into the air and the wind lifted them, carrying them for a few seconds before discarding them to the churning waves below. Harry put his hands back in his pockets and headed back home. Clare watched the flowers, glad that the old man did not see them being dashed against the rocks till they blended with the snared rubbish.

  She caught up with him and they walked in silence till they reached her car. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘I’ll head for home from here.’

  ‘Well, good luck, my dear.’ He was disappointed she wasn’t coming up for a second coffee. Harry watched her until her car turned the corner, then he went upstairs to his flat. Once inside, he heated a cup of coffee in the microwave and went to sit at his computer. No one would phone him today so it didn’t matter how long he spent on the Internet. He wrote a long email to his son in America. He knew he wouldn’t get more than a two-line reply. Mr Rabinowitz wondered if his boy even read them. Later he would email Rachel, glad she was far away from here. She, at least, would answer.

  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.

  17

  Rita Mkhize and Riedwaan interviewed everyone who had recently seen Amore Hendricks, but three days’ work produced nothing. Chief-Superintendent Phiri decided to keep it from the press, which Riedwaan opposed bitterly, trying to convince Phiri that someone might have seen the girl, that they might come forward. Phiri had not wanted any more accusations of police incompetence and had refused to budge. Riedwaan passed everything on to Clare, but there was little to go on. Because there was nothing else for her to do, Clare immersed herself in her film research.

  It was late in the afternoon when she eventually switched off her computer, so she had to rush to get ready for the party. The dress code for the Osiris Group Launch was formal; no allowance made for the ‘traditional’ that covered a multitude of sartorial sins. Clare dressed carefully in pared-down black, and pinned her hair up. She poured herself a whiskey, glad that Jakes was a few minutes late. It gave her time to collect her thoughts. She took a closer look at the promotional material that had come with the invitation. A piece of parchment fell into her lap. Intrigued, Clare smoothed it out. It was the story of the Egyptian god Osiris, betrayed by his brother then dismembered and thrown into the sea. His sister Isis eventually rescued him, restoring both body and crown to him.

  On the next fold was a short CV of Otis Tohar and the Osiris Group – the two entities indistinguishable. Clare skimmed it, drawn by the grainy family photographs. Otis Tohar was the only son of a South African mother and a Lebanese father – an ambiguous identity. His father had been a doctor. The family had moved from Cape Town to Johannesburg, then to Kimberley, to Lebanon and to Sierra Leone. Tohar’s father had died, leaving his fortune to his only son. Otis Tohar had consolidated his fortune by building – so the blurb on the invitation claimed – on ‘the great humanitarian legacy of his father’. Clare was sceptical. Sierra Leone was notorious for blood diamonds and child soldiers, not humanitarian effort.

  No mention was made of the shadowy girl; a sister, Clare guessed, judging by the matched black brows and luxurious hair in the photograph. She was a few years older than the awkward little boy her arm encircled. Tohar’s mother had named her son after Otis Redding. His song ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay’ had reminded her of her youth in Sea Point and her walks along the promenade. It was this, gushed the brochure, that had prompted Otis Tohar to return to the place his mother had been forced to leave in her youth.

  Tohar had been very busy since selling up in Lebanon and abandoning whatever was left of his business in Sierra Leone, mused Clare. He seemed to have limitless cash. Block after beautiful art deco block had been sold to him. These were being razed, though, and in their place steel and glass titans were rearing up from the subdued land. Clare turned the parchment over in her hands as she stared ahead of her. Tohar’s latest acquisition blinked its blind neon eyes across Three Anchor Bay. It would need a very quick return on such a huge investment for him to make a profit. But the Cape Town city council, notorious for its geriatric slowness, was passing plans and quashing objections at an indecent rate.

  The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Fritz’s eyes slitted in disgust as Clare pushed her off her lap to gather her bag and cloak.

  Jakes Kani had pulled up right by her door, but still her stockings and shoes got wet. ‘Cats and dogs,’ said Jakes, leaning over to kiss her cheek. He handed her a towel and she rubbed herself dry. ‘You look gorgeous, Clare,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t look too bad yourself,’ Clare shot back, ‘considering your age.’

  He laughed, hands going to the balding spot on his crown. ‘Hey, Clare, you know I don’t fight dirty.’ He started the old Mercedes and bumped off
the pavement.

  ‘What do you know about Otis Tohar?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Not much,’ said Jakes. ‘Nothing concrete, except that he has clambered up Cape Town’s social ladders. But who wouldn’t if they had enough money?’

  ‘Don’t be nasty, Jakes, tabloid photographers like you will always hit the snakes,’ said Clare. ‘Tell me whose ladders, and how. I’m curious to know why I was invited.’

  ‘He loves the media, being a celebrity. That explains you, I suppose,’ Jakes looked at her sideways. She was still damn good looking, that might explain it too, although he didn’t say anything to Clare. But she really was rather past it, for some of Tohar’s sidelines. ‘I know that the mayor had his birthday party on Tohar’s yacht, the Isis.’

  ‘Does he berth it at the Waterfront marina?’

  ‘He does,’ said Jakes. ‘I’ve also heard that Tohar and Kelvin Landman are pretty close.’

  ‘A delightful couple.’

  ‘Landman moved faster up the ranks of a Cape Flats gang than anyone I’ve ever heard of,’ said Jakes.

  ‘How did he do it?’

  ‘He’s sharp, has a nose for business. He consolidated business and turf. If you didn’t agree, you were dead. If you did, you were rich. Everybody figured it out after a while.’

  ‘He’s moved beyond local stuff, though,’ said Clare. ‘The information I’ve got about human trafficking is that it is very organised. Nothing ad hoc about this at all.’

  ‘I know he was in Jo’burg for a while. Not sure what he did there, but he must have made an impression. He got into trouble with the police at some stage – and next thing you know, he was asking for asylum in Holland just before ’94. He was there for years, and that’s where he really got into the big league.’

  ‘I suppose everyone who’s anyone in international organised crime moves through Amsterdam at some stage.’

  ‘Ja,’ said Jakes. ‘He developed some very cosy bilateral ties with the South Americans. I put out the word that you wanted to interview him about the import/export side of his business,’ said Jakes. ‘Has he contacted you?’

  Clare remembered Landman’s fingers hard on her elbow. ‘He did. Thanks. Do you know what his focus is these days?’

  ‘He’s moved into town now,’ continued Jakes. ‘He bought a mansion in Clifton and he’s going legit. He’s moving into property too. That’s where he and Tohar have connected. The bastard will be submitting a tax return soon. Apparently he’s opening branches of The Isis Club from Bellville to Benoni and making a fortune. Two Isis Safari Lodges have also just opened, one outside Pretoria and one here in Cape Town. Have a look, I’ve got a brochure in the cubbyhole. Very upmarket, very secluded, specialising in catering to their overnight clients’ “wildest jungle fevers”. That is what their ad says, anyway. You’ll love their slogan: “Your wish: Her command”.’

  ‘You know a lot about him,’ said Clare.

  ‘We met last month. The Isis has started making films and I was asked to do some stills for a film shoot. For a video cover, actually. I did it, but their speciality is not really my thing. There is an almost limitless profit – if you make the right kind of movies and have good distribution,’ said Jakes as he turned into the parking area for the party guests.

  ‘What kind of films?’ asked Clare.

  ‘Oh, they do a bit of fuzzy erotica, but mainly it is the very end of the legal hard-core spectrum. I prefer women with a bit of spirit. I can’t see the fun in tying them up and gagging them before you hang them from the ceiling,’ said Jakes.

  Jakes handed his keys to the valet who was dressed in Egyptian blue and gold. Clare and Jakes made their way across the thick red carpet that led to the old Sea Point Tower Hotel. The party was in the revolving pinnacle of the building. Otis Tohar had acquired the whole place eighteen months before and had kept the three floors below the original revolving restaurant as his penthouse. The rest of the hotel had been sold off as luxury apartments. Clare glanced at the guest list as the bouncer searched for her name. There were several names that she recognised – politicians whose names had been associated with shady land deals and golf estates, two ex-beauty queens, and a few entrepreneurs whose businesses would have been difficult to explain to the taxman.

  ‘Hart. Doctor.’ The bouncer smiled at Clare, his large finger dwarfing her name. ‘And Partner. Go up.’

  They stepped into the plush private lift. Before they had a chance to draw breath, the doors opened on the top floor. Clare gasped at the view. The city lights were stitched together by the threads of the evening traffic – white headlights, red taillights. The rain had stopped and the clouds parted to reveal the moon on the horizon. The restless waves were contained behind the sea wall. Then the gap closed again.

  A girl silently materialised, her hair in an elaborate Egyptian wig. She gave them champagne and took their coats without meeting their eyes. As she turned from them to greet the next offering to emerge from the elevator, her short shift parted to reveal a tattoo. Clare stared, startled by its familiarity. The girl, sensing that she was being looked at, turned around. Her hostess’s smile evaporated, leaving her face blank, her eyes expressionless. Then she turned back again to smile and wiggle for the man who had stepped out of the lift. He tested the firmness of her bottom as one would test a peach before eating it. Clare turned and followed Jakes into a room that had been converted into an opulent Pharaoh’s court for the night.

  ‘Money certainly doesn’t buy you taste,’ said Jakes under his breath while waving at someone across the room. Clare circulated with Jakes, admiring his social dexterity. He already had several fading models around him, competing for lens space.

  ‘Chick magnet,’ Clare muttered. She went in search of a drink.

  An obese politician, whose incompetence seemed directly proportional to the number of companies desperate to have him on their boards, cornered her at the bar. Clare extricated herself as the man piled his plate high with canapés offered to him by a succulent waitress.

  Going over to the window, she noticed with surprise that she could see her flat from up there. She had bought it with the first royalty cheque she had received for the book she had written about the gang rape of her beloved twin. Blood money was what Julie called it. Clare had divided the income. Half for her, half for Constance.

  She scanned the promenade where Charnay Swanepoel’s body had been dumped. If the girl’s family had made a shrine, the rain had washed it clear. The investigation team was no closer to solving Charnay’s murder, even though the police lab had analysed the DNA traces on the body and it looked like they might be searching for two men. The blood group of the skin under the dead girl’s nails was one group, the semen traces indicated another. Riedwaan thought there could be two or more people involved. Clare thought not. The posthumous mutilations spoke to her of one man. Nothing had turned up. No cellphone records, no witness. Nothing on the CCTV. The police had checked – only to find that the camera along that stretch of the promenade was fake. Clare felt a surge of guilt that the days since Charnay’s murder had stretched first into one week and then another. That silence was ominous. And now another girl had vanished. Clare suddenly wished she was home.

  She turned back to the vast room, which was swathed in blue velvet. It was filling up rapidly. She greeted a senior policeman who had an expensive-looking woman on his arm. Clare had once interviewed him about proposed anti-trafficking legislation. He shifted uncomfortably when he recognised Clare, apparently unable to remember her name.

  Otis Tohar had not yet arrived, but Kelvin Landman was there. He was sprawled on the largest of the couches, surrounded by his entourage. Clare walked closer, but stopped as a waitress brought them a bottle of single malt. One of the men pulled the waitress towards him, grinding her into his lap, one hand mauling her small breasts. Landman watched, amused.

  Just then, a soft flurry of sound blew from the entrance through the scattered conversations. Otis Tohar, tall and striking, paused j
ust long enough to be sure that all eyes were on him. Trailing in his wake was a woman who wore her exotic beauty like a mask. Clare jumped at the sudden hand on her arm. One of Kelvin Landman’s companions was at her elbow.

  ‘Excuse me, Dr Hart. Mr Landman says you must join us.’ Clare looked across at Landman. He inclined his head towards her in greeting. The waitress, Clare noted with relief, had escaped.

  ‘Hello again, Dr Hart,’ said Kelvin Landman, standing as Clare reached the table. ‘Please join us.’ A glance dislodged two of the men seated close to him. Clare sat down. ‘Can I offer you a whiskey?’ He handed her a glass, not waiting for her to reply. Clare took it but did not drink.

  ‘A fine couple, Otis Tohar and Tatiana,’ said Landman, looking speculatively at the woman.

  Clare looked over at Tohar. ‘Tatiana? That sounds Russian.’

  ‘Could be. Cape Town is an international city these days.’

  Clare added some water to her drink.

  ‘I’m glad to see you, Dr Hart. I hope your research is going well?’ He paused, the question hanging between them.

  Clare smiled at him, holding his gaze. ‘I have spoken to some of the women. I look forward to hearing what you have to say.’

  ‘I create work,’ said Landman, leaning forward. ‘With forty per cent unemployment in the country, that can only be a good thing. Where I come from, people are proud of me. They eat. Their kids go to school.’

  Clare swirled the whiskey, the crystal refracting the golden liquid, and waited for him to continue.

  ‘I provide a service. Where there is a demand, I find a supply. Look at these girls.’ He gestured towards the half-naked waitresses, several of whom looked far too young to be up this late. ‘If it wasn’t for me these girls wouldn’t be working, their families wouldn’t be eating.’ Landman smiled, top lip curling back, revealing his teeth.

  ‘Why don’t you come to one of my clubs, Dr Hart? Come to the Isis. You’ll be my guest. You can meet some of my girls.’ He handed her a card. On it was a familiar city address. ‘Eleven o’clock, Saturday?’