Like Clockwork

by Margie Orford

  There was a man on board. Theresa watched him stride up and down inside the cabin. He was tall, and the ceiling seemed too low for him. His phone was clamped to his ear and he was speaking in short bursts. The bright cabin lights were reflected in the sweaty sheen on his forehead. He turned and caught sight of Theresa watching. His gaze pinioned her, moving languidly down her curves, then back to her face. A slow smile of recognition spread across his face – handsome, like one of the old movie stars whose pictures hung in the Film Fusion studios. Theresa smiled back. She walked to the end of the jetty, but it was too cold to linger. It was time to meet her mother anyway, so she walked back. The man was no longer in the cabin, even though the lights were on. She burrowed her hands deeper into her pockets.

  On her way, she paused at The Blue Room. It was filling up, and the good-looking barman was busy, but he didn’t see her. A raucous group of men were coming down the stairway. Theresa didn’t feel like enduring the predictable moment of mock-threat before they let her pass, so she turned to walk between the ornamental trees lining the wheelchair access to the car park. It was much darker than she had thought it would be, and she walked nervously towards the gleaming cars. She relaxed when she saw movement, the comforting sound of someone chatting, loading their boot with suitcases.

  ‘Hello.’ The smooth, educated voice startled Theresa. But she relaxed when the man she had seen on the yacht stepped out from behind the open boot.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ she said.

  ‘I see you like yachts,’ he said. Theresa nodded. He stepped away from her, sensing that he had made her uncomfortable by trapping her in the narrow space between the cars. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. But I was wondering if you could help me. My wife is just fetching more luggage, can you believe it, and I can’t seem to get this bag into my boot.’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ said Theresa, embarrassed that she might have seemed rude. He stood back to let her pass. She put her bag down beside the wheel. Then she bent down, taking hold of the one side of his bag – it was not heavy, just large.

  ‘Okay, I’m ready.’ She looked up, wondering why the man wasn’t lifting his side. She saw the hammer in his hand reflected in the polished car, but he brought it down too fast for her to move out of the way. The blow caught her across the back of her head, its force carefully calculated to defer her death. The man lifted her and dumped her into the boot of the car. Her hip bruised against the hard rim of the spare tyre. He then bundled her into the bag that she had helped him to lift. She tried to fight but her limbs would not obey. He slammed the boot shut. Theresa put her hands to her head. Blood seeped between her fingers. She was furious. She had washed her hair with such care that afternoon. She fought to stay conscious, thinking of her mother parking right then, walking to meet her, bringing her a chocolate, or a fresh flower. Would her mother find her? She had long ago, the time Theresa had wandered away in the supermarket when she was only four. Theresa felt that same panic now, only infinitely worse.

  The car started, jerking into reverse, and then moving smoothly forward. She heard a muffled conversation and a laugh. The guard at the boom? The car moved forward again. Then Theresa lost the battle against pain and fear, and slipped into the darkness.

  43

  Theresa Angelo lay on her back, legs splayed, arms flung out like a sleeping child. Her long hair was matted around her head, tumbling onto the stone floor. There were rat droppings between the coiled ropes that supported the naked mattress she lay on. Her coat had slipped to the floor. Her exposed skin was mottled, puckered with gooseflesh. Her wrists were bruised. There was bloody skin under the nails of her right hand. The contusion under her thick black hair had seeped blood all night. It was very cold, even though the sun had hoisted itself as high as it could, so deep into the winter.

  Her shallow breath misted the air above her bruised mouth just regularly enough to show she was alive. Then the noise that had penetrated her unconscious mind started up again. The mournful bellow of the foghorn vibrated deep into the recesses of her mind. It sought out and found crevices of consciousness beyond the drug that had held her inert for hours. It penetrated the most hidden places of her mind and activated again the basic impulse to stay alive. Slowly, the insistent rhythm of the foghorn summoned her to consciousness, cell by cell. A pulse jumped at the base of her throat, she shivered as her body fought to keep itself warm. The fog momentarily released a ray of sun. It shot through the small barred window, striking her face.

  She would not have seen it, even if she had opened her eyes, but on the shelf above her head was a twist of blue rope and a key. There was no knife – but that anyone might have at hand.

  44

  Clare awoke, anxiety gnawing, early on Saturday morning. She went for a run, buying milk on her way home. Fritz meowed in delight at the sound of her key in the lock, wrapping herself around Clare’s legs as she opened the door. Clare noticed the envelope wedged behind the hall table when she bent down to pick up the cat.

  Constance again. Clare’s hands were suddenly clammy. She slit it open. A single Tarot card, grinning, enigmatic, fell out onto the floor.

  The Hanged Man.

  There was a slip of paper in the envelope. On one side – brushed in black ink – were two sure, familiar verticals, cut through the half X. On the other, Constance had written a reading. For rebirth: a sacrifice. From death: sometimes change. Clare’s blood ran cold. She jumped when her phone rang, putting the Hanged Man with the other three cards Constance had sent her.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘Clare, another girl has gone missing.’

  ‘When?’ she asked. ‘Where?’

  ‘Last night. Her mother reported it immediately to Caledon Square. Somebody there thought it would be best if they handled it. They didn’t see the link apparently between this girl going missing and the three dead girls.’

  Clare heard the incredulous rage in Riedwaan’s voice.

  ‘It only came through to me now. And already there had been one moer of a gedoente about who gets what and why their officer can’t investigate. We might have found her already if that fucking moron’s ego hadn’t tripped him up.’

  Riedwaan had had hours of investigation time stolen from him. Clare knew as well as he did that it was those few hours after an abduction that were the most likely to return the person – if not unscathed, then at least still alive. ‘Who is she?’ asked Clare. ‘What happened?

  ‘Her name is Theresa Angelo. Lives in Gardens with her mother. Sixteen years old. Earns some extra money doing voice-overs. Apparently she had finished one at Film Fusion at the Waterfront, then left to meet her mother. She spoke to her mother at five-thirty. The mother was still at work and they arranged to meet for the eight o’clock movie. Her mother was there on time, but Theresa didn’t arrive. She called her. The phone rang, but there was no answer. Mrs Angelo then phoned Film Fusion. The sound guy was still there, tweaking things. He said that Theresa had left straight after their session.’

  ‘Have you been down there?’

  ‘Of course. But those Caledon fuckers didn’t go last night. They took it into their thick heads that she must have met a boyfriend and decided to go with him. So twelve precious hours and one beautiful girl gone.’

  ‘Have you interviewed the sound man yet?’

  ‘Sam Napoli? Not yet. Do you want to come with me?’

  ‘I’ll come,’ said Clare. ‘Will you pick me up? Half an hour?’

  ‘See you now.’

  Clare slumped down at her desk. The profile she had drawn up of the killer was there in front of her. What was she missing? She put her hands into her hair and pulled until her eyes watered from the pain. The pieces of the puzzle were there. But no matter how she shuffled them, no clear picture emerged. Clare went to the bathroom, retching again and again. Then she prepared herself for the day, and waited for Riedwaan.

  45

  Riedwaan picked Clare up twenty minutes later. He drove to the F
ilm Fusion studios, his anger filling the car. ‘What did she look like?’ asked Clare. Riedwaan threw a picture of the missing girl onto Clare’s lap. It was a posed school photo. Theresa Angelo looked demure in her blue dress with its silly white Peter Pan collar. The face was broad, a sweep of cheekbones promising beauty in adulthood. Her dark eyes were intelligent, challenging; her body sturdy, strong. Certainly not like the ethereal girls this killer had taken before. Had he made a mistake? Had something panicked him? Could they move fast enough to find him? To find Theresa alive? Clare felt a glimmer of hope.

  ‘I’ve got to do a fucking press conference this afternoon. What am I going to say? Those sharks are going to be on a feeding frenzy. Why haven’t you got this killer? What’s wrong with the police? When I know and you know that the longer he’s on the loose the more papers they sell. Bastards.’ Riedwaan’s rage boiled over.

  ‘What do you have, Riedwaan?’ Clare asked, wincing as he cut in front of a car, the driver hooting furiously. ‘Does she fit the pattern?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s an only child. Father is a doctor on an oil rig. He’s being flown in this morning. Goes to a private school in town. Gifted child, talented actress, well-behaved mommy’s girl.’ He hooted viciously as an old lady swerved across the lane.

  ‘What happened last night?’

  ‘Apparently they do voice-overs at Film Fusion if there’s any spare time in the studio. Theresa makes some pocket money if they have a gap and she’s free. She caught a taxi to the Waterfront because her mother was working. Got to Film Fusion just before four and went to work. Her mother could only meet her at eight so she was going to do some shopping and then meet her.’

  ‘Why so much later?’

  ‘Mrs Angelo has a catering business. She was doing a birthday tea so would only be free at seven-thirty. She came straight down and waited for Theresa – who never arrived. Phiri is baying for my sautéed balls on a plate. And the MEC for security is rabbiting on about community trust in the police force. Load of shit, they are going to crucify me, Muslim or not.’ Riedwaan turned into Film Fusion’s studio and parked.

  ‘We’ll get him.’

  ‘When, Clare? Fucking when? You’re meant to be the miracle worker. What have I got? A description of what he might wear? A list of psychological problems that this poor motherfucker might have had? My mother donnered the shit out of me when I was a kid. Do you see me killing anybody?’ Riedwaan turned away. Clare ignored the tremor in his voice.

  ‘We lose, Riedwaan, if we fight. You know that.’ Clare got out of the car. Riedwaan lit a cigarette, then dragged on it like a drowning man sucking in a pocket of air. She waited. Clare sensed Theresa’s presence, it was there like the scent of a woman who has just left a room. She reined in her thoughts, turning mind sharply to the facts. The killer kept the girls alive for some time before he killed them. If Theresa had been abducted last night there was a good chance that she was still alive. Panic coiled tightly in Clare’s belly. He had kept the bodies of the first two for twenty-four hours before dumping them.

  Riedwaan slammed the door of his car, startling her. He put his hand on the back of her neck and rubbed it. She took it as the peace offering it was and relaxed into his touch. Then they went inside and waited for the sound man. Clare checked the desk register. Theresa Angelo had printed her cellphone number in clear rounded letters at three fifty-five the previous afternoon. Clare jotted the number down in her notebook just as Sam Napoli arrived.

  He shook hands with both of them. ‘Come upstairs, please.’ His tanned face was ashen. He took them into his studio and they sat down. Sam had tears in his eyes.

  ‘I’ve worked with Theresa since she was ten,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe this. That you guys are here looking for her.’

  ‘Take us through what happened yesterday. Everything. Smallest details,’ said Clare.

  ‘She came to do a voice-over for a car ad. She was so excited about the job – it was the first time she had got an adult role. She had a fantastic voice – husky and alive.’ He turned towards the console and twiddled a few of its vast array of knobs. ‘Here, listen.’

  ‘Hello, there.’ Theresa Angelo’s voice filled the room. Clare’s flesh crawled at the uncanniness of it. ‘I’m a Maserati girl myself. I deserve it. How about you?’

  Sam switched the tape off again. ‘She was so happy when she left. We had been joking about this dumb Maserati ad. You know Rod Stewart’s immortal lines: “She was tall, thin and tarty and she drove a Maserati.” Theresa was saying if she could write so brilliantly, then she’d be a millionaire too. Anyway, we finished early and she left – singing “Sailing”. She has appalling taste in music.’

  ‘What time did she leave?’ asked Riedwaan.

  ‘It must have been about five-thirty.’ He turned back to his computer. ‘Let me just check. Every job is logged here.’ He called up the previous day’s entries. ‘Ja, here it is. Five thirty-two I logged off. So she must have left about five minutes later.’

  ‘Was there anything else you noticed?’

  ‘There was something. It was a small thing. But she was wearing blue nail polish. I remember thinking that it looked odd – it made her hands look unnatural. She laughed when I said that – she said it was just a fashion. Must be true. My wife and my daughter are both wearing it. It told them it looks weird, but they don’t care.’

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Riedwaan, ‘Was she nervous? Different in any way?’

  ‘No, just happy. She said goodbye and she was gone.’

  Riedwaan closed his notebook. ‘Thanks, Mr Napoli. I’ll have this typed and then you can sign the statement. Can you come into the police station?’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ said Sam, getting up and walking with Riedwaan towards the door. ‘I saw her again, you know.’

  Tension whipped through Riedwaan’s body. He opened his notebook. The paper crackled loudly in the sudden quiet.

  ‘Where?’ he asked.

  ‘It was a little later. I was meant to be cleaning up the sound but there was some glitch with the machine. I went out onto the balcony for a smoke and I saw her. She was walking towards the Waterfront but she hadn’t gone the usual way. She must have cut through those fancy apartments. I thought maybe she was going in there because I saw her wave. I didn’t see who she was waving at. And then she disappeared for a while. I thought she must have gone in. I was about to go in when I saw her again. She was really looking great. I thought, There is our little Theresa, all grown up.’

  ‘Was there anyone with her? Following her?’ asked Clare.

  ‘If there was, he must have stuck right close to the shadow because I didn’t see anyone. She turned the corner then, so I couldn’t see her any more.’

  ‘Can you point out where she went?’ asked Riedwaan.

  ‘Sure,’ said Sam. ‘Come this way.’ He led them through the coffee bar and onto the wooden deck. Each table had an ashtray filled to the brim with ash and stompies. ‘That is where she went.’ He pointed towards a narrow stretch of garden that snaked through the apartment buildings. It led down towards the Waterfront via the yachting marina. The delicate masts patterned the blue sky.

  ‘I wonder if she went to The Blue Room?’ said Clare. ‘I would imagine that it’s time for us to pay another visit. I’m sure you’ll need a whiskey after your press conference. Do you want to meet me there later?’

  Riedwaan looked at his watch. ‘Shit, I’m going to be late. I’ll meet you there in an hour. Cheers.’

  Clare turned to Sam. ‘Thanks, Sam.’

  He was staring at the empty place where Theresa had been just half a day earlier. ‘I’ve got a daughter just her age,’ he said. ‘What does one do?’

  Clare put her hand on his arm. ‘You wait. It’s all you can do.’

  46

  Clare retraced Theresa Angelo’s steps. She walked over to the security gate of the apartment complex. The guard was inside his hut, his radio blasting a soccer game at the road. He did not see
her as she slipped under the boom. She looked back at the Film Fusion balcony. Sam had gone inside. Fifty metres down the road was a rank of municipal dustbins screened by some reeds. She looked up at the apartments. Not one window faced her way.

  She walked towards the marina. At the other end of the service road there was a metal gate, with a hidden release mechanism Clare soon discovered on the inside. She pressed it, and the gate jumped open onto the small parking lot that served the yachting marina. Clare walked down the slipway, uneasy with the sense that Theresa had so recently walked this way. Then she made her way to The Blue Room. The barman was absorbed in the task of polishing a glass. It took him a few seconds to register Clare’s presence.

  ‘Can I help?’ His voice was clipped, neutral. ‘We aren’t open for another half an hour.’

  ‘Hello, Tyrone. I’m not here for a drink. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions.’

  He paled, recognising her. ‘What about? I wasn’t on duty last night. I can’t help you.’

  ‘So you know I’m looking for someone?’

  ‘I heard it on the news. That another girl is missing.’ He put the glass down. ‘And then I saw you, so I thought you’d be looking for her.’

  ‘Why did you think I would look here, Tyrone?’

  He turned to pack away the clean glasses. ‘I can’t help you. I was at home last night.’

  ‘Who was here, then?’

  He looked down at the glass in his hand and polished it again.

  ‘One girl is missing, Tyrone. Three are dead. Information is the only thing that will help us catch him.’ She put one of her cards on the bar counter. ‘You call me.’ He said nothing, did not pick up the card.

  ‘We’ll be checking your alibi,’ she said, turning as she reached the door. Her card had gone, she noticed. Then she walked out briskly and settled herself on a nearby bench to wait for Riedwaan.

  Sam Napoli had said that Theresa had been wearing blue nail polish. He had noticed it, commented on it because it was out of character and it had looked odd. Clare opened her phone and pressed Piet Mouton’s cell number.