Clare went to the railing and looked down. There were three boathouses below, the doors bolted against the weather. In the gloom on the other side of the beach was a slipway that dipped under the promenade and came out at the high-water mark on the beach. Here, there was another bolted door in the granite sea wall that curved around to the lighthouse about three hundred metres away. The great animal lay inert on the beach, its large eyes blinking whenever the lights of a car disturbed it. The slipway had been blocked off since the arrival of the seal
She turned to the guard. ‘Do you have binoculars?’ she asked, her heart beating faster.
He ducked into his booth and handed her his glasses. Clare looked down at the seal. She could make out the bristles around his stubby nose. She lifted the glasses up to the door. It was tightly locked, but there were tracks on the sand. Slowly, she swung the glasses around the sea wall. The granite was pitted and scarred by the sea. There was a glimmer of light about fifty metres away where the sea wall dipped into the next inlet. She focused carefully. It seemed to emanate from the stone itself, then vanished. She handed the glasses back to the guard.
‘Thank you,’ she said, light-headed with hope. She snapped open her phone. Two rings, and he answered.
‘Riedwaan,’ she whispered. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in Bellville. With Dr. Death.’
‘Riedwaan, I think I’ve found her. How soon can you get here?’
‘Give me half an hour. I’ll be with you. Where are you?’
‘I’m above the Three Anchor Bay boathouses. She’s here, I’m sure of it.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ he asked.
‘I went to see Otis Tohar.’
‘Tohar?’ asked Riedwaan. ‘How is he connected?’
‘I’m not sure, Riedwaan. But I’m going to find out.’
‘What are you going to do now?’
‘I’m going after her, Riedwaan.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll get Joe and Rita to organise back-up for you.’
‘Be quick.’
‘Don’t ever tell Phiri that we had this conversation. He’ll have my balls for breakfast.’
‘What good would that do me?’
Clare closed her phone and went back to her flat for a torch. She could not wait for Riedwaan, there was no time. She unlocked the drawer beside her bed. The cold stillness of the gun was comforting. She picked it up, checked it was loaded and slipped it into the inside pocket of her trousers. It was like holding an old lover, the familiar shape snug against her thigh.
She looked through the untidy heap of paper on her desk. The map was not there. It wasn’t in the kitchen either. Clare looked next to her bed. Nothing. She was sure she had kept the map of the underground tunnels. She looked next to her bed again. It had slipped behind the headboard. She coaxed it out, trying not to tear the thin paper.
Clare spread the map of the old drainage system in front of her. On it, she marked the places where the bodies had been found. It was the one near Sushi-Zen that interested her most. The storm-water drain opened right onto the patch of lawn where Xavier had found India’s body.
She traced the route of the tunnel. It ran under the lighthouse and then snaked back towards the promenade wall. Here it branched, and a second, narrower, tunnel seemed to lead to the slipway at Three Anchor Bay. There must surely be an entrance nearby, leading to the boathouse. If these girls had been held there, then that would be the way in. Or, for the killer, a way of getting them out. There was plenty of space to hide someone there and, with a genuine boathouse in front, to deflect suspicion.
Clare sprinted to the storm-water drain near Sushi-Zen. The entrance stank of human excrement. She held her breath and stepped over the filth. The darkness closed in on her. She switched on her torch. A rat, its eyes gleaming red, scuttled past her. She forced herself to keep going, bearing right all the while, towards the boathouses. And praying her instinct was right.
51
Theresa’s head ached. She remembered helping the man and then the excruciating pain of the blow. The wound oozed if she moved, and warm blood matted her hair. She breathed in deeply, trying to order her jumbled thoughts. If she had even a chance of survival she would have to make sense of this. Of him. He had bound her hands and feet tightly. Blood had trickled into her eyes, but she forced them open, pushing away the agony in her head. Theresa had no idea how long she had been unconscious. The man had parked his car. She had heard his footsteps as he came round to open the boot. The air was fetid. Her skin had crawled at the exploratory touch of his hands, smooth and clammy – it was like being touched by something dead. The man hoisted Theresa over his shoulder, but she kept her body limp. He grunted. She was heavier than he had bargained for.
Theresa was not the sort of girl to blow over in the wind, her father always teased her. The thought of her father made her weak with hopelessness. How would he find her? Theresa opened her eyes. The car was parked underneath a stone shelter. The man pulled a heavy wooden door open and carried her into a darkness so dense it almost seemed solid. He dumped Theresa onto something lumpy and hard. Pain shot through her shoulders that had been twisted backwards. She heard him breathing deeply, satisfied. Theresa did not move.
Then he was gone, slamming the door shut. The key grated in the lock. He shot two bolts across. They were obviously stiff, but the door was too thick to hear if he swore or not. Like runnels, tears ran through the blood on Theresa’s face and into her hair. She shifted her weight off her arms, relieving the pain in her shoulders and neck. She was barely able to move – he had tied her expertly.
It was not only dark but also cold where she lay. She spread her fingers out wide, trying to feel what it was she was lying on. The fibres were tight, hard, pressing into her hips and her shoulders. Rope, thought Theresa, a great coiled-up rope. She listened to the muffled thudding.
‘The sea. Where?’ Her voice in the darkness startled her. It sounded cracked, as if it belonged to someone else, someone old. She thought about the girls she’d read about who had been found dead on the promenade. Their killer had not yet been caught. Panic rippled through her. Theresa breathed in and out carefully, forcing herself to keep calm. She turned away from the wave of horror bearing down on her.
‘Work it out. Work it out.’ The darkness was filling with tiny sounds. She focused on them, distracting herself by trying to work out what they were.
She thought of the promenade, where she and her mother sometimes went for walks. They parked at the swimming pool and walked from there, enjoying the whoosh of air that the skaters dragged behind them, the nannies with their over-dressed charges on the swings. She retraced the grey ribbon of stone from memory, counting benches, deciding whether they were yellow or blue, placing orange dustbins, cracked paving, snatches of overheard conversation. Theresa reached the turning point of her imaginary walk just as she saw the boathouses at Three Anchor Bay. The man would have driven his car down the slipway and unloaded her there. No one would hear her here. There would have been no one to see her, either. No one would remark on an expensive car parked on the slipway. If anyone saw a man get out of the car with a girl they would look away. At night it was only street prostitutes who brought their clients here – rich men, sailors with shore leave, whoever was paying. A woman’s scream would attract no attention – even if it was heard.
Theresa turned her face to the wall. Dread overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes and let herself slip back into oblivion. She did not hear the skritch, skritch in the recesses of her cell. The rats – fattened of late, and replete – waited for their moment.
Theresa surfaced despite herself, awoken by the resistance of the rusted bolts, her throat burning with thirst. She listened to his approaching footsteps. She couldn’t bear to die this thirsty. She kept her eyes shut. She would fight to stay alive. She couldn’t bear the thought of dying at all.
The man was close now. She had to buy herself some time, recover from the blow to her head, force herse
lf to think. His smell, pungent with adrenaline, assaulted her nostrils. His breath brushed her cheek, moved over her lips. She did not flinch. The man’s warm breath moved down her throat and neck, followed by a hand that traced the outline of her body without quite touching it. A low moan escaped him, thick with desire and relief. Theresa’s skin burnt when he held his hand over her breast. She flinched, unable to contain the revulsion. He must have looked at her face again, because she felt his breath on her throat once more and then it was gone. She felt his hands at her ankles. He was untying the ropes there. The blood rushed painfully back into her feet. He pushed her over and released her hands.
Every fibre of her being recoiled, but she willed herself to stay limp, silencing the scream burning in her throat. His hands moved over her body. Purposeful, this time. He removed her shoes with practised dexterity. Her jeans went next. Her top was more difficult, but he slipped first one arm then the other out, like a mother undressing an infant. Then he jerked it over her head. The cord of the hood scraped her face. She felt the cold blade on her skin as he sliced off her bra and panties. The trickle of blood where the scalpel nicked her was hot. He traced the hips bracketing her hollowed stomach. His fingers passed over the mound of dark hair and lingered on the small mole on her thigh. Theresa wondered if being a virgin made her feel worse.
The man bent close, burying his nose in the hollow of her throat. Slowly he moved up towards her ear, breathing her in, sniffing for the essence of her. His wet lips left a trail of slime on her skin. Nausea pressed at the base of her tongue. He knew she was ready for him. He put his lips close to her ear and stroked her eyelids with infinite softness.
‘Wake up, beautiful. We’re going to have some fun together.’ The ordinariness of his voice pressed the air from her lungs. She had to look this nightmare in the face. She opened her eyes.
He smiled at her. His face was familiar, nice-looking, the man who had waved at her from the yacht. Friendly lines crinkled the corners of his eyes. He was so close, she could see his thick eyelashes. They were very long – like a girl’s.
‘How is your head?’
He was so solicitous that, before she could help it, she replied, ‘It hurts.’
‘Here, sit up. Have something to drink.’ He helped her up and gave her some water.
‘Who are you?’ she asked him. ‘Why have you brought me here?’
‘Do you like movies?’ he asked, as if she had not spoken at all.
‘Yes,’ Theresa said. She would try something else. ‘I’m cold,’ she said. ‘Do you think I could have my clothes back?’
He looked at her naked body. But Theresa’s question had shifted something. Very briefly, he lost the power to direct the interaction. Theresa felt the movement deep within the chrysalis of hope she was holding fast.
‘My clothes are there,’ she said, pointing as well as she could to the pile of garments hurled into the corner.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I have something much better for you. Something for a girl of mine.’
He reached behind a chair and pulled out two shopping bags. Theresa recognised the exclusive labels.
‘Put these on.’
He pulled out a very short skirt and a transparent top. The underwear was sleazy and uncomfortable to wear. She put it on, biting back her repugnance as she slipped the blue garter onto her thigh. The boots were blue suede. They came halfway up her thighs. The boots and the clothes were tight. The man must have had someone smaller in mind when he’d bought them. When she was dressed she stood up straight, turning slowly for him.
‘How do I look?’ she asked, marvelling at her ability to summon a coquette out of her terror. She might survive if she kept her wits about her. If she kept talking. It seemed to throw the man off track. If she lost it, then her clothes would stay in the pile in the corner. Her skin crawled. Her clothes would be covered by somebody else’s in a month or two, just as her jeans and hoodie were covering someone else’s now.
‘Is this where you brought the other girls?’ she asked. Her voice was so light it bounced off the heavy stone walls.
‘It is. Cosy, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Theresa. ‘Did you watch TV together?’
He patted the large set. A video machine was balanced precariously on top of it. ‘We did. We watched TV and we made a bit of TV too. Just a little home movie. That’s what we are going to do, too.’
‘That’s what the costume is for?’ He nodded. ‘You must have known I was an actress, then.’
‘All women are actresses,’ he said. ‘Born to it.’ He stood up. The focus was back in his eyes. Theresa felt very afraid. The fragment of power that she had imagined she had held was gone. ‘Stand up,’ he ordered. ‘We have a lot to do.’
Theresa stood up. ‘My name is Theresa,’ she said. ‘Theresa Angelo. I want to go home. Let me go now and no one needs to know anything.’
She did not see his hand pull back before it caught her across the jaw. The blow knocked her against the wall with dizzying force. She slid down, wedged behind the bed of ropes.
‘You dirty little bitch. You don’t speak again unless I tell you.’ He leaned over and yanked her back to her feet. He held her fast while he rearranged her clothes and hair to his liking. Then he took her left hand. Her bones crackled as he folded her fingers tightly around a small silver key. He took a length of blue rope from his pocket and wound it with great speed around the hand, trapping the key inside. It cut into her palm. Blood trickled between her fingers, but she did not moan or pull back. Then he kissed her on the cheek.
‘Don’t worry. It’ll be fun. I’m sure you’ll put your talent to excellent use in just a minute.’ He pulled a metal stool forward. ‘Sit here. We’re going to watch a movie together.’
There was no way she was able to sit on the stool, so Theresa perched. The skirt he had made her wear rode up her bottom. The heels of the boots were too high, and her toes were pinched. Her flesh was purpling with cold.
‘Who’s in it?’ she asked.
He stopped and looked at her, working out what would be the best light angle. ‘I’m not sure you’d know them. Some girls I entertained here. You’ll see. They were fast learners.’ He leaned over and tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘Smile now,’ he ordered.
She made herself smile into the camera that he had set up on the tripod. It was a professional camera. Small, light, digital. Used for making the best quality documentaries. She concentrated on the camera’s make, on what else was in the room, on the man’s actions. He inserted a tape. That gave her some hope. She still had two hours.
He was setting up lights, plugging things in, when his cellphone rang. The sound ricocheted through the space. The man scrabbled in his pockets, swearing to himself. He looked at the screen – it was clearly a call he couldn’t ignore.
‘Hello.’ Theresa’s heart contracted. Why was an ordinary person, a person who other people phoned, doing this to her?
‘What do you want?’ he said into the phone. There was a clear note of fear in his voice. ‘No, I’ve told you. I’m working on it. These deals take time.’ The man started to pace, a caged animal in the small space. He was quiet, listening to whoever had called him. ‘You know that you will get all your money and more. I just can’t give it to you now. There is no risk for you. Or your partners.’ Theresa’s legs started to cramp where the tops of the boots cut into her calves. She stood up awkwardly, trying to get the blood to flow again.
‘Okay, I’ll come. I’ll see you in …’ He looked at his watch. ‘In half an hour.’ He was standing right next to Theresa, apparently oblivious of her presence, when she screamed out for help.
Enraged, he snapped his phone shut and kicked her. She scrambled as she fell onto the ropes. ‘No one is going to come. Nobody. It’s just us here.’ Then, taking a length of rope, he hobbled her. He giggled as she stumbled and sent a stone skidding under the stool, almost knocking it over. Blood welled from under Theresa’s torn toenail, staining the blue
boot. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying out.
‘Like a little filly,’ he sneered, ‘a filthy little filly. Have fun. There are lots of movies here for you to watch. That’s the key to them.’ He pointed to the key in her hand. You take that and open that cabinet over there – everything you’ve ever wanted to watch is inside it.’
He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek before he left. His footfalls receded. She heard the slam of the heavy doors, the bolts crashing into place. Theresa breathed in steadily, then out again. She would not give in to the sobs filling her chest to bursting point. She would find a way out. She stood up. The hobble made it difficult to walk, and her leg hurt where he had kicked her. She tested it, and was relieved when it took her weight as she limped over to the television and put the key on top of it. Her face also ached where he had hit her, and there was blood and a piece of broken tooth in her mouth. She spat it out on the floor. She looked around her prison cell and prayed that it would not be her grave.
52
Though cold and afraid, Theresa eventually fell asleep, and when she woke up she could hear the sweep of the sea. The ocean heaved mutinously against the retreating tide. Slowly, she stood up, trying not to fall as she felt the slender strips of blue rope pull tightly at her ankles.
She shuffled around her prison, the rope cutting into her tender flesh. She discovered another small room adjacent to the room she had been dumped in. There was only one door. It was made of very heavy wood covered with a protective sheet of steel. She stood next to it, resting her head against the cold stone. No sound at all penetrated from the outside.
‘Help me,’ she called. ‘Help me.’ Her voice, harsh with yearning for her mother, would not be heard on the other side. Theresa took her hoodie from the pile of clothes on the floor and pulled it over her head. She knew that the man would be back, and every cell in her body contracted in horror at the thought of his return. But if he didn’t come back, she would die here of starvation. His return, she realised, was her only hope. Feeling sick at the meagreness of that hope, she put her palms together in a reflex of prayer.
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