Water Music

by Margie Orford

  From the other side of the reed bed came the sound of car doors slamming. The voices of the uniformed officers floated above the reeds.

  Jirre, vok. You uniforms could fuck up a crime scene in your sleep. Why your mothers didnt drown you at birth is a mystery. Ina Britz had arrived, the hapless uniformed police straggling in her wake. Secure the place; dont act like a herd of hippos on Viagra, for fucks sake.

  A constable looped crime-scene tape around the trees in a wide arc. There was a photographer, someone from forensics. The 28s fanning out, searching. A crime scene, not made to order, as on TV, but a good enough approximation.

  Ina was stomping over to where Clare stood.

  You managed to get rid of Cwele? Clare asked.

  How many chances you think snowballs get in hell? Ina said. Well have a press conference. This is going to be big news. Maybe itll shut Cwele up long enough for you to finish what you started. What does she look like?

  Look through those. Clare handed her camera to Ina.

  Ive seen a lot of sick stuff, said Ina, scrolling through Clares photographs. But what the fuck is this? Who is she? Where does she come from?

  Its as if we found a ghost. Clare spread her map out on a nearby rock, but it writhed in her hands, agitated by the wind. Mandla Njobe and Ina held the map steady. From the river, there was a radial fan of bridle paths and dirt tracks. Across from it there was a pine forest. Beyond was the expanse of nature reserve that stretched from Judas Peak across to Hells Gate, the narrow entrance to the series of dams along the spine of Table Mountain. The waterfall was visible from where they stood. In this weather, with this amount of rain, the area would be almost impassable.

  Did your Mountain Men report anything, Mandla? asked Clare.

  They had two patrols out on the contour path. The storm was bad last night, even the gangsters stayed inside.

  The security logs, said Clare, there might be something there.

  Not many cameras this side of town, said Mandla Njobe.

  Call them in, said Clare. Everything. CCTV from the whole area. Alarm signals. There are number-plate recognition cameras in quite a few areas now. Get those too anything that might come up this way. Someone must have seen something. Also a house-to-house search for this whole area.

  Wont take that long, said Ina Britz. These plots are so big you could fit a whole township on each of them.

  Gypsy cocked her head and whined, looking in the direction of the trees. The roar of the river on the other side.

  Somebody carried her here, said Mandla Njobe. Ill see where Gypsy takes me.

  Ina lit a Lucky Strike as she and Clare watched Mandla Njobe disappear into the trees, Gypsy at his heels. Man and dog moving as one.

  Kak place to leave a laaitie to die.

  If thats what the intention was. Clare held out the length of leather. She was tied to the tree. She couldnt have got away, even if shed wanted to.

  What the fuck? said Ina.

  Thats what I want to know, said Clare. Like youd tie up a puppy so it wont wander. To keep it safe, maybe.

  Or a lamb if youre going to slaughter it. Ina looked up at the expanse of mountain. Weve got to search this whole fucking area now, and its just trees and shit.

  Its nature, Ina, said Clare. Its beautiful.

  I grew up on the mines on the East Rand, said Ina, turning her back on the mountain. I fucking hate nature.

  A mud-splattered truck appeared, bumping down the track. A man driving, next to him a woman bundled up in a blanket. The driver pulled over and got out. A weather-worn face. Ina Britz blocked him at the edge of the clearing, the crime-scene tape snapping between them.

  Im sorry, sir. No further.

  I have to get through, the man said. We live up the valley. The Mountain Men come our way sometimes. What happened here? Was there an accident?

  A horse rider found a little girl here this morning.

  Dead? he asked.

  Not yet. Ina turned to a warrant officer. Let them through.

  The bakkie went on towards the scatter of permaculture farms and retreats that had survived the suburban sprawl of Hout Bay. A couple of beehives, a childs red scooter on the back, the womans face in the window, turned towards them until they vanished in the trees.

  A Land Rover rounded the corner. Inside, a couple. A woman with a tumble of hair, black as Cassies, opened the door and ran across the clearing. The girl fell into her mothers arms, able to cry at last. The woman helped her child into the vehicle, as the girls father led the horse away.

  A straggle of onlookers: riders, dog walkers, drifters. The tabloid that miraculously materialised at every accident and crime scene, the writer and photographer like some nicotine-stained yin and yang.

  You and you, Ina was bellowing at the uniformed officers closest to her. Get rid of these people. Block the access road. Tell the journalists theres a Community Forum later thatll double as a press conference, but for now they can fuck off.

  Clares phone vibrated, Mandla Njobes name flashing on the screen.

  Mandla, said Clare. Found something?

  The uniforms had blocked the gathering crowd and were moving forward, herding them back down the path.

  Looks like someone maybe a couple of people were up on the contour path last night.

  Can you see which way they went? asked Clare, walking away from the noisy onlookers.

  No tracks, Doc, said Mandla. Not after all that rain.

  Give me the exact position, said Clare. Im coming up.

  Whats Njobe found? asked Ina as Clare tucked her phone into her jacket pocket.

  Looks like someone, maybe a couple of people, were up on the contour path last night, said Clare. Says he saw a place where they seem to have hung around a while. The rest of the tracks were washed away by the rain.

  Njobe can track anything, said Ina. Says the Bush War taught him.

  Ja, though he never says which side he fought on.

  Dont think it matters any more, said Ina.

  Clare walked swiftly between the trees. She took a footpath that vanished up Judas Peak, where Mandla and Gypsy were waiting. An unfurling of crows caught Clares eye, and she glimpsed turrets protruding from the pine forest. The replica of a Black Forest castle, a rich mans folly that had recently changed hands, according to the Peoples Post.

  The surrounding terrain was a nature reserve, with a ravine that led up the back of Table Mountain. Further down, an exclusive estate, each house positioned for privacy as well as security. Razor wire twirled atop perimeter fencing that backed onto the forest and the river. Clare paused to catch her breath. Had the little girl perhaps wandered away from the estate?

  She filed the thought for later, pushing on through the trees, soon reaching the firebreak that cut into the face of Judas Peak. Clare checked her orientation and took a short cut towards the contour path, a neglected track where encroaching undergrowth scratched at her. A gate with a gleaming new padlock blocked her path. She ran her hand along the chain, its links icy to the touch. The electric fence spat like an angry cat. The fence was also new, as impenetrable as a game fence. There was live current running through it, the voltage lethal, said the warning signs.

  You looking for something? The mans eyes were as cold and grudging as the sky. His right hand rested on his holstered gun with the familiarity of a husbands hand on his wifes thigh. The Jeep parked on the other side of the fence was camouflaged, though Clare should have seen it.

  Yes, I am, in fact. A child that was found down the valley this morning. Clare fished out her ID and handed it to him. Clare Hart. This road is public access.

  Im sorry. Joburg accent. But Mr Savic has security issues.

  Did you see anyone last night?

  No, said the guard, not too quick, not too slow. Just the helicopter this morning. The cars. The dogs and you, Miss Hope, he said, handing back her ID.

  Hart, said Clare.

  Miss Hart, he said. Can I open for you? Drive you through?

&nbs
p; Thanks. Thatll save me time.

  And effort. The terrain is rough here. The guard unlocked the gate. There was a spiders web of scars at the back of his neck, the skin puckered and pink in places. He turned his collar up. After you.

  The track looped up towards the back of the castle. Two women were walking through the trees. With the forbidding turrets against the heavy sky, they looked medieval. Perhaps it was the long coats, the capes pulled up against the rain.

  A gate appeared, opening at the touch of a button. They drove along a road that had been freshly graded, alongside the electric fence.

  Theres your colleague, said the guard.

  Thanks, said Clare.

  Clare scrambled down the hill to where Mandla Njobe and Gypsy were waiting. She could feel the mans eyes on her, between her shoulder blades. It was a relief to hear the Jeeps engine start up.

  There was somebody here. Njobe squatted down. A chocolate wrapper glinted in a nearby bush. You got some gloves?

  Clare handed him a pair, her size, but he got them on. He picked up the cigarette butts and examined them Someone who sat here for a while. Two people, maybe. And not too long ago.

  Could be anyone, said Clare. Hikers, walkers.

  The view down to the bridle path was clear. They could see Ina Britz and the others moving purposefully round the crime scene. Mandla Njobe stood up and flicked mud from his trousers.

  Hikers dont smoke ten Stuyvesants, Doc.

  6

  The beggar weaving in front of Clare at the red light was wearing a cap. He held his handmade sign aloft No work. No Fingers. Plees help his stumps pointing to a rough drawing of a fishing net shearing off all eight fingers.

  Next time, said Clare, holding up her palms to show that she had no change. Sharp eyes in a ravaged face. Memorising her features, her meagre promise. Ill be watching for you, lady.

  Her phone beeped. Riedwaan. Her stomach knotted around her indecision and unexpected delight at the thought of cells splitting, folding themselves into life.

  She opened the message. Sorry 4 silence. Delayed. Will explain. My mother is bad. Back tonight. Will find U. xx R

  What would she say? Once shed told Riedwaan, the decision about this baby or not-baby would no longer be hers alone.

  The lights turned green. The taxi behind her hooted and she lurched across the intersection.

  She turned into the parking lot outside the 28s offices, three converted shipping containers. In front of her, three expensive government cars. The bureaucrats wanting her report profiling crimes against children, against the women who cared for them. Wanting her to make her data tell a different story. One of success, rather than social failure. To her left, a couple of old cars: the few remaining journalists jalopies. The Community Consultation Forum. She should gather her wits, gather the sparse facts she had, and be there already.

  Yet Clare didnt move. Instead, she sat in the car and stared unseeing at the clouds writhing above Chapmans Peak, her phone in her hand.

  She had to talk to him. She had to tell him. She had to set the future in motion, but she was unable to do so.

  She knew what Riedwaan would want; shed seen him cradling Yasmin, his only daughter, in his arms. Seen, too, the acrimony between him and his ex-wife. She didnt know if thats what she wanted to be part of that.

  Mother, father, child. It messed with her head; she couldnt think straight. And she had to, she had to. She had to decide. She had to tell him what shed decided. That was the courtesy a woman owed her lover. It was the least she could do, but fuck it. She couldnt. Not now, not with the job ahead of her, and the child abandoned on the icy mountainside.

  She put her phone away and grabbed her bag, got out of the car, and strode across the muddy parking lot to her office.

  Ina Britz had a sea of paper in front of her, her glasses slipping down a nose that was dished like that of a prizefighter.

  Those are the missing persons files? asked Clare.

  Ive pulled up all the missing little girls I can find.

  Ina Britz laid out the photographs of the lost girls, their eyes fixed for ever in the grimace of a pre-school portrait or happily snapped birthday party. Cake, crown, a proud mothers lap.

  Its none of them, said Clare, flicking through them. She knew each face intimately. They lived in her now, folded into the other faces that populated her dreams. What about the international cases?

  Heres what Ive got from FindKidz and Interpol. The same eyes, the same poses, the same routine of childhood interrupted.

  Wheres the mother? asked Clare. Thats what I want to know.

  Ive got nothing that shows a woman and a child missing together, said Ina. Were looking up some that could match, but so far nothing.

  Clares gaze moved from one womans face to the next. Looking for something that might trigger recognition. Pale skin, dark hair, widows peak. She picked up one or two photographs, but there was nothing. She put them down again.

  Ive never dealt with a child that was never reported missing, Clare said.

  Look at these. The Mountain Men incident reports. Ina Brtiz handed Clare a list of incidents that the security company had dealt with. Barking dogs, vagrants, break-ins, smashed car windows, a domestic, alarms activated. Lists of phone numbers of the houses that had called in. No sightings of untoward movement in the valley.

  Whoever put the child here knew the mountain well, said Clare, studying the report. Theres nothing here.

  Clare closed her office door behind her. She threw the rest of the coffee out of the window, swallowed the wave of nausea and opened her laptop, found the database of missing children. Abandoned babies, wiry kids, teenagers. On the cusp of adulthood, their photographs had the posed stiffness of the school portrait or the graininess of a cheap cellphone shot. Most of them were South African.

  With the sparse details she had, she sent out the standard alert.

  She dialled Dr Anwar Jacobs, closing her eyes against the headache building in the base of her skull. The momentary darkness was a relief but not an escape. When he answered she could hear the electronic beeps, the clink of metal, the muted voices of nurses, other doctors. The comforting orderliness of the Intensive Care Unit.

  Hows she doing? asked Clare.

  The staff have named her Engeltjie. The little angels alive, shes fighting, said Anwar. But I need the mother to come forward. I need to know what her history is, so that I can work out how to treat her.

  Ive got a press conference right now, said Clare. I need some detail.

  I have so little, he said. Clare could hear exhaustion in his voice, he sounded close to defeat.

  Give me what you have, said Clare. Theyd worked on many cases together. Clare admired his thoroughness, his astuteness, and his compassion for his helpless little patients.

  Shes alive, but shes not going to be conscious any time soon. Ive induced a coma because her vital signs are so fragile. She has hypothermia and long-term malnutrition.

  How old is she? asked Clare.

  By weight, two or three, but if I look at her teeth, bad as they are, then I think shes five, even six. Her growth is stunted in a way Ive never seen before. And the pallor, its as if shes never been in the sun.

  Sexual assault? asked Clare.

  Nothing visible.

  The rain running down the windows blurred the world outside.

  Have you got any idea yet who she might be? the doctor asked.

  Nothing, said Clare. Youve got to give me something else, Anwar.

  But Ive never seen anything like this, he said. Im thinking maybe shes been poisoned. Ive sent off for every test you can imagine.

  I need those results as soon as you get them, said Clare.

  I should have them this afternoon, said Anwar Jacobs.

  The door opened. Ina Britz was standing there. She had taken her beanie off in deference to the formality of the occasion.

  You ready, Clare? she asked. To be thrown like a Christian to the lions?

  You sho
uldnt speak of my former colleagues like that.

  Clare closed her laptop, put on red lipstick, brushed her hair, and changed into a dress and a pair of heels.

  Standing on tiptoes helps you concentrate? asked Ina.

  Cant think otherwise, said Clare.

  The press pack is sniffing the bones of a story that could run for weeks, said Ina Britz. Everythings upside down missing child, no reports, half-dead kid, no weeping mother or suspect stepfather. They think were hiding something.

  I wish we were, said Clare. Theres so little to go on and I dont like the feel of what there is. A wave of nausea washed over her again, nausea and a fatigue so deep, so in her bone marrow, that she wanted to lie down and sleep right where she was.

  You go on, Ina, she said, heading for the bathroom. Ill be there in a minute.

  Ina Britz raised an eyebrow, and left. Clare ducked into the bathroom and retched, but there was nothing. She had to eat, but the very thought of it made her want to be sick again. She drank some more water instead. When she looked out of the window a battered blue bakkie was turning in. A man at the wheel a dog beside him gesticulating to the security guard at the gate.

  7

  Jakes Cwele was out of his 4x4. He blocked her path, a lifes worth of anger in his tensed shoulders.

  Clare had to stop herself from stepping backwards. He was too close, right inside her space.

  What can I do for you?

  Im here to help you. He smiled. Its a big thing, this press conference.

  We dont need your help, said Clare.

  Cape Town is my command now. A blaze of anger in Cweles eyes. But it would be much better if you would cooperate with me while we get this province to focus on the things that matter if you want law and order. Its tough for you. Youre a civilian. Youre a woman. Youre out of your depth. You just tell me when you need advice. About being a cop. I hear that Faizal gives you advice about how to be a woman.

  Rumour mill, the police, said Clare. Some of us prefer facts and evidence, now get out of my way. I have a job to do.

  Dr Hart, Cwele put his hand lightly on her arm. By Monday your captains going to be gone. Then theres no one watching out for you. This is not a place for a lady, and youre not a cop.