‘Working with Landman, do you think?’ asked Clare.
‘Hard to tell. Kelvin Landman seems to have gone so squeaky clean you’d swear he was going to run in the next election.’ Riedwaan paused. ‘You on your way home now?’
‘I was. Shall I come over?’ Clare’s voice was tentative.
Riedwaan knew what it cost her to ask him this, but still he answered, ‘I think I need to sleep now, Clare.’ He heard the sharp inhalation of breath, and felt perversely happy that he had hurt her. ‘Bastard,’ he muttered to himself. He picked up his whiskey glass. He would feel like shit tomorrow. But what was new?
Clare blinked quickly a couple of times, even though there were no tears, and drove home. Too exhausted to change her clothes, she just kicked off her shoes and collapsed into bed. The duvet was comforting but sleep took a long time to come. When she did finally fall asleep, her dreams were haunted by the battered girl.
26
The phone buzzed malignantly. Clare picked it up. ‘Hello.’ She peered at her alarm clock – not yet six.
‘Dr Hart,’ said a clipped voice. ‘This is the City Park Hospital.’
‘Yes,’ said Clare, sitting up wide awake. ‘What is it?’
‘The young lady you brought here is discharging herself. We cannot take responsibility for that as it is against the doctor’s wishes. She is being disruptive.’ There was a disapproving pause. ‘And there is the matter of the bill.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes. Make her wait.’ There was a muffled exchange. Then the woman was back on the line, her voice compressed with thin-lipped disapproval.
‘She’ll wait. This is not the right procedure at all.’ Clare put down the phone, cutting her off. She showered and dressed, putting clean clothes for Whitney into a basket. The city was still half-asleep as she hurried across town, terrified that Whitney would vanish again.
The girl sat hunched on a hard plastic seat that was the furthest from the admissions desk. She looked up when Clare opened the door, and handed her a parcel of clothes.
‘It’s freezing outside, Whitney,’ said Clare. ‘Go and put these on and I’ll take you home.’ Whitney stood up with difficulty and limped to the bathroom. Clare went over to the woman on duty. She glared at Clare – the light harsh on the skin swagged beneath her eyes – and shoved an account at her.
‘Settle this now, please.’
Clare looked at the figure and wrote a cheque. The woman snatched it with a red-tipped claw, her eyes assessing it with practised scepticism. She clipped the invoice and the cheque together and pulled over her receipt book.
‘Sluts,’ she muttered as Whitney came out of the bathroom wearing the borrowed tracksuit. ‘What do they expect?’ She tore out the receipt and gave it to Clare. Clare took Whitney’s arm as the colour drained from the girl’s face.
‘Come,’ she said, ‘I’ll take you home.’ The girl followed, exhausted by this final display of will, collapsing into Clare’s car.
‘Where do you live?’ asked Clare. There was no answer. Clare glanced at Whitney, her face pale in the morning light. ‘I’ll take you home with me. When you’ve rested we can decide what to do.’
Clare drove through streets rapidly filling with scurrying office workers and school children. Newspaper vendors had materialised at the traffic lights, selling yesterday’s deaths to commuters. Whitney stared at her lap. Clare parked and helped Whitney out. She took the plastic bag holding her clothes and helped the girl inside. Clare was relieved that there was no one around to see them.
Whitney stopped just inside the front door, swaying on her feet. Clare took her hand as soon as she had slipped the dead bolt back into place.
‘You need a bed.’ Clare guided Whitney into the spare room and folded back the covers. Whitney sat down gingerly and then collapsed back onto the pillow. Clare covered her, tucking the duvet in against the back of her neck as she had always done for Constance. Whitney closed her eyes. ‘Thanks,’ she whispered as she eventually slipped into sleep.
Clare drew the curtains across the orange morning and stepped out, pulling the door silently closed behind her. She leaned her forehead against the passage wall. It was cool and reassuringly solid. She breathed in deeply, stilling her panic at having another person so close, so dependent. Clare then willed herself away from the wall. She walked to her desk, reached for her Rolodex and found the number for Rape Crisis, then made the necessary arrangements. There were others who were trained to cope with these things. When Whitney woke up, she’d tell her where her mother lived and Clare could take her back home. Perhaps her family would get her to press charges.
Clare switched on her laptop, trying to focus her scattered thoughts on her film. The picture of the web of organised crime, freelancers and corrupt officials that eased the flow of people from one place to another was coming into focus. The pieces of her puzzle were falling into place, but there were several things she needed to know: how local distribution worked and what happened to the money. There were rumours of laundering in the usual places – beauty parlours, restaurants, construction, property – but it was difficult to prove. Clare skimmed through her notes, frustrated at what she was still missing.
First prize would be an interview with Whitney, who could well be the key Clare needed. Whitney’s family might talk, even if she refused.
Clare checked on Whitney at ten. The juice next to her bed had been drunk, but Dr September’s potent sleeping pills had suspended Whitney once again in a dreamless sleep.
Clare went back to her careful mapping of routes and detours on the trafficked women’s journeys to Cape Town. She pulled out a jaunty tourist map of the city, trying to guess Whitney’s route to San Marina Mansions. The name was familiar. Clare reached for the file that held her interviews, excitement mounting. She ran her finger down the index she had started. There it was: San Marina Mansions. The place where Natalie Mwanga had been put to work was in the same building they’d found Whitney – who was clearly from one of the poorer suburbs of Cape Town. Clare reached for her phone. ‘Hi, Marcus,’ she greeted her brother-in-law. ‘You’re not by any chance going to the deeds registry today, are you?’
‘I am. What are you ferreting out now?’
‘Can you check who owns a block in Sea Point? San Marina Mansions. The address is 148 Main Road. Thanks.’ She blew him a kiss over the phone. ‘Bye.’
A tiny click made her turn. Whitney was standing in the doorway.
Clare smiled at her. ‘Do you want something to eat?’ The girl nodded. Clare led her to the kitchen where she toasted white bread, sliced some cheese, and made a mug of sweet tea. Whitney ate, making herself chew then swallow, chew then swallow, determined to stay alive. Clare sat opposite her, hands cradling her own hot mug. Fritz leapt up onto Whitney’s lap, purring. The girl stroked the cat gently, her small hand childlike against the grey fur.
‘Where do you live, Whitney?’ Fritz’s purr stopped. Clare’s voice was loud in the kitchen quiet. ‘I have to take you back. Your mother will be frantic.’ Whitney shifted her eyes over onto Clare’s face, but she was silent. Clare reached for the notepad and pencil next to the phone. ‘Write it down for me.’ Whitney hesitated and then picked up the pen and wrote, pushing the paper back to Clare.
‘Twenty-three Regent Street, Retreat? Shall I take you home?’ Clare asked. Whitney nodded, struggling to swallow the last piece of toast. She got up and fetched her coat, moving carefully. She had the small bag of clothes – torn top, short skirt – in her hand. This she shoved into Clare’s dustbin and headed for the door. She hesitated on the threshold for a few seconds and then stepped outside. Clare followed, locking the house, opening the car. Whitney stared blindly at the traffic as Clare rounded the circle and headed towards the highway that would take them to the urban sprawl that stretched between the slopes of the mountain and False Bay.
Half an hour later Clare turned off, driving into the warren of dilapidated cottages huddled on either side of the streets.
Homeward-bound workers and housewives shopping were gradually replaced by knots of young men on the street corners, and the women here were older, scurrying home, hands clamped tight around the fists of small children. Windows were curtained, doors were shut tight – and graffiti proclaimed which gang owned this or that street. Hard, speculating eyes followed Clare’s car as she nosed her way into Regent Street and looked for number twenty-three.
The front door opened as Clare parked, and a woman flew down the path. She grabbed hold of Whitney, pulling her out of the car. The girl eventually relaxed the iron grip she had on her body, melting back into the enveloping flesh of her mother’s arms.
‘My baby,’ she breathed into her daughter’s hair. ‘Come inside.’ She turned her child away from the gathering curiosity in the street. ‘Come inside, please,’ she said to Clare, who followed mother and daughter inside.
The house was immaculate. The woman must have polished and scrubbed her way through the days of her daughter’s disappearance. In the lounge, Clare sat on the covered armchair with its crotcheted cloths.
‘I am Florrie Ruiters.’ She held her hand out to Clare. The woman’s tears pooled, then overflowed. Clare watched as she took her child into the bedroom and covered her, switching on the electric blanket in an effort to warm her shaking body.
‘I’m Dr Clare Hart,’ she introduced herself when the woman returned. ‘I found Whitney last night and took her to the hospital. She refused to stay but it was only today that she told me where she lived. I brought her to you as soon as she told me.’ She did not know what else to say.
‘Thank you for bringing her back.’ Mrs Ruiters twisted her pink housecoat. ‘I thought I would never see her again.’
‘Where did you report her missing?’ Clare asked. She had not seen anything in the papers.
‘My husband looked for her. And her brothers.’ Mrs Ruiters looked at Clare then dropped her eyes, as if in shame. ‘They looked in all the places we usually find the girls when they are finished.’ She set the pills from the hospital out neatly on a small tray on the coffee table. ‘But we could not find her.’
‘And the police?’ persisted Clare.
‘No police, Dr Hart. No police.’ She stopped twisting her dress, her face resolute. ‘We will take care of her.’
‘Who abducted her?’
Mrs Ruiters’s face closed down again. ‘I can’t tell you, Dr Hart. But thank you for bringing Whitney back to me.’ Then she stood up.
Clare took a photograph out of her bag and handed it to Florrie Ruiters. The colour drained from her face. ‘Why are you showing me this?’
‘That is the tattoo that Kelvin Landman marks his girls with. It was on a girl who was murdered,’ Clare explained as the photograph slipped from the woman’s trembling hands. ‘Her body was dumped in Sea Point. Your daughter has the same tattoo now. On her back.’
Mrs Ruiters shook her head, determined. ‘You must go now, Dr Hart. There is nothing I can do. There is nothing that Whitney can do. Her life is not worth it. We don’t know this Kelvin Landman.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. She gripped Clare, her bony fingers hard on Clare’s arm. Her sleeve slipped back, revealing the same distinctive tattoo on the tender skin inside her elbow. Clare traced it with her free hand. Florrie pulled back, as if Clare’s touch had seared her skin.
‘Can you find your way out, Dr Hart?’
‘Take this, please,’ Clare wrote down the number of a rape counsellor. ‘Phone her. It might help you both. My number is there too if you change your mind about the police.’ Clare hesitated. ‘Or if you need anything.’
Mrs Ruiters pushed the scrap of paper into her pocket. She looked up at Clare, her face a faded shadow of her daughter’s beauty, layered with years of hardship and fear.
‘How can talking make her right?’ she spat.
‘It is a miracle she survived,’ said Clare. ‘Maybe it can help her heal.’
‘The body survives.’ Mrs Ruiters picked up the photograph of Charnay’s dead, tattooed body. ‘But the spirit?’ The question hung in the air between them as she handed the photograph to Clare. Mrs Ruiters only moved when summoned by her daughter’s plea: ‘Mammie, come.’
In the hallway there was a picture of Whitney radiant at a school dance – she was with a boy wearing a suit. Clare let herself out. She got into her car, ignoring the three men pimp-rolling slowly down the pavement away from number twenty-three, and made her way back home. Dropping her things on the hall table, she went to tidy the spare room. Clare turned back the duvet. The shell-curl of Whitney’s body was still there in the slight impression on the sheet. On the white pillow was the indentation her head had left, and also one long black hair. Clare straightened the bed and pushed back the curtains. She glanced around the room, the used glass in her hand.
The only thing out of place was the top row of the bookshelf. Her books were so tightly packed that she could see at once that a book was missing. It was the one she had written about Constance. She sat down on the bed; her head slumped onto her knees. She hoped that her sister’s story would help Whitney, although she doubted it. Constance was still trying to read, to get others to read, what had been scripted with such violence onto her naked body twenty years before. Clare thought of Mrs Ruiters’s question about her daughter’s spirit. Hot tears, shocking because so rare, slid down Clare’s arms, running between her fingers. She had been too late, she had failed to help. The guilt she usually assuaged with her crusading journalism dragged a moan from her hidden self. She did not know how long she had sat there, rocking herself, but she was stiff when she got up to answer the shrill phone. She did not recognise the number that flashed on her caller ID, so she waited to see if there would be a message.
‘Hello, Dr Hart, I was waiting for you to get home.’ The sibilant voice was familiar. ‘Just to remind you that we have a date. See you at eleven. Give your name to the doorman. He’s expecting you, and he’ll bring you up to me.’ Clare felt sick. Kelvin Landman and his Isis Club. ‘I hope you enjoyed your little drive.’
Clare had forgotten about him, could not bear the thought of being anywhere near him. She was about to call back and cancel, when she noticed the flash on the machine telling her there was another message waiting for her. She pressed ‘play’. It was from her producer in London.
‘Hello, Clare. I need rough footage to prove that you’ve reeled in your pet gangster. We’re not going to swing it without that. I’ll have it some time on Monday, won’t I, darling? Lovely weekend – weather’s lovely here. Bye.’
‘That’s it, then,’ said Clare to herself. She showered, feeling soiled by the phone message. Landman’s timing was uncanny.
For once, she found it difficult to decide what to wear. In the end she settled for plain black. No jewellery. She called Riedwaan at home.
‘I’m going to interview Landman,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘For my documentary,’ said Clare. ‘I am meant to have another life, remember?’
‘It’s no coincidence that he’s talking to you just after you take that girl home. Be very careful,’ said Riedwaan.
‘I will. I’ll be in public with him.’
‘Watch your back.’
‘I’m always careful,’ said Clare. ‘Will you be at home later?’
‘Maybe. Why?’
‘Just wondering,’ she replied.
27
Its gold door handle distinguished the Isis Club from the halfhearted businesses that operated on the shabby eastern fringe of the city. Blackened windows prevented people from looking in. The doorman appeared when cars arrived. Some he directed to an empty parking lot. For others, a snap of his fingers summoned a valet. Clare decided that she would take the risk and park in the street. She was surprised at how self-conscious she felt going to a strip club alone, and was glad for the weight of her camera bag. It grounded her, announced her occupation to anyone who might stare at her. The doorman opened the door before she reached the handle, l
eaving her hand raised uselessly. She let it drop back to her side, disconcerted.
‘Clare Hart?’ he asked. The muscles around his neck bulged against the stiff-collared dress shirt.
‘That’s me,’ she answered, relieved that she did not need to explain. ‘I’ve come to see Kelvin Landman.’
The bouncer nodded, picked up his cellphone. ‘She’s here. Will someone come down?’ An eager press of men was gathering behind Clare. Her back prickled uncomfortably.
‘Miss Hart, do you mind stepping into the bar and having a drink? Mr Landman will be with you shortly.’ The bar counter was a majestic sweep of gleaming russet wood. Clare took the leather stool she was offered and ordered a whiskey from a girl tagged: ‘Melissa. I know I can help you’. The weight of the name tag made her transparent top sag strategically, to expose a rouged nipple.
Clare looked around the room as she waited for her drink. Opulence was blended with restraint. On the dark walls hung a range of erotic prints, coy French maids beckoning, black and white Japanese illustrations with strategically placed slashes of crimson, leering English squires bending rosy-cheeked milkmaids over rustic fences – it was a connoisseur’s collection. Deep leather armchairs in gentleman’s-club green and red huddled around low tables, were occupied by groups of paunchy, slack-mouthed men. A few had awkward wives with them. More animated than these were the guests with unabashed young women draped over them.
‘Hostess service,’ said Melissa, bringing Clare an excellent single malt. ‘Three hundred an hour for one. Five hundred for two. Meant to be no touching.’
‘That must be difficult,’ said Clare. She was watching a short-skirted blonde work her breasts up a man’s bare arm as she moved her pouting lips against his ear. Whatever she was saying made his tongue – wet and pink – protrude.
‘Ja, those guys wreck your clothes. There’s meant to be no touching now – just getting them ready for the show or the private rooms. Afterwards is open to negotiation, of course.’
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