The blinds were closed and the room dark, apart from the faint green glow of machines emitting electronic chirps. The girls eyes were on Clare. The absence of expression spoke of a terror too deep for a childs simple body language of fear and reproach. She kept utterly still. Her knees were drawn up under her chin, her spine each vertebra a misshapen pearl showed under the scarred skin.
Clare approached the child as one might an injured bird, knowing that her size, her proximity, might again trigger panic. That the child might injure herself, rip out the drip that had taken so long to re-insert into a barely visible vein.
The child did not move; she followed Clare with her eyes until she sat down.
Despite the childs stillness, Clare felt her shrink further, as if she had retreated even deeper into some locked chamber at the core of herself.
Anwar Jacobs closed the door, pitching the room into darkness once again. Clares eyes adjusted to the dark. The little girls eyes were gleaming.
I wont hurt you, said Clare. Her voice was low, the voice of a mother speaking into darkness so that a child might anchor herself to the sound. After a long silence, Clare slowly got up to open the blind. She pulled the cord and barred light fell onto the floor. The child shut her eyes instantly, her fingertips pressed tightly to the lids. She whimpered. Pain and terror in equal measure.
The light hurts you, doesnt it? Clare closed the blinds. She sat beside her on the bed. The child seemed lost in the cold wastes of white sheets, pillows, blanket; alone, small, bereft.
She looked up at Clare with a mute appeal.
Clare put her hand on the childs cheek, her touch slow, soft. The girl did not flinch.
Tell me please, who are you?
Nothing. An impossible question, she knew. But she tried again in Afrikaans. Again, silence.
My names Clare, she tried.
No response.
The sound of the rain was louder, drumming da da da da da da da.
The little girl lay still. A tentative hand, reaching for Clares. She took it in her palm, sensing the childs yearning, her loneliness. Clare lay down on the bed beside her. Face to face. She rested a hand on the girls stiff little back. She moved closer, so that the child was curled against her chest. Thus contained, the child burrowed closer. This she was familiar with, Clare realised. A familiarity with bodily proximity. Clares body was a sanctuary, though she herself was a stranger.
She felt the childs warm exhalation on her skin.
Who are you, little one? Clare whispered.
The childs breath faint on her face.
She was trying to speak, Clare realised. She had tilted her head so that she might breathe words into Clares ear. Sounds so faint that Clare was not at first sure she had spoken. Then she placed a hand against Clares throat, and Clare covered it in hers.
The childs breath was soft as a moth-wing as she tried, and failed, to utter a word. Tears pooled in her dark eyes, spilling over. Her narrow chest shook with silent sobs.
Wheres your mother gone? Clare whispered, but there was no answer, just her hands moving under Clares top, finding comfort as they settled on Clares breasts. After some time the childs breath evened, her heartbeat regular at last.
Clare lay beside her until she sank into sleep. A real sleep, this time. She pulled the blanket over Esthers shoulder. Then she moved the nurses gift of a teddy bear into her arms. It would do for the moment.
You look like you could do with some breakfast, said Anwar as she closed the door behind her.
Love to, but not right now.
Behind the bonhomie, desolation in his eyes. Clare knew why Anwar Jacobs avoided going home. One reckless taxi driver, one red light, his son dead.
You still with Faizal? he asked. Between them the memory of the night when he had sought solace in Clare, who had given so willingly.
I am.
Hes a lucky man.
Im not sure hed agree with you this morning, said Clare.
She zipped up her jacket.
I need to know when shes recovered enough for me to question her.
Thats going to be a while, he said. But shell be OK.
Physically, said Clare.
Thats as good as it gets in Cape Town, said Anwar.
He walked with Clare to her car. Watched her drive off, the traffic lights bleeding green, orange, red in the rain. She drove through the empty Sunday morning streets towards the Salt River Mortuary.
38
The hospice was a bilious green on the outside, but inside it was comforting, calm. Cream walls, white curtains. Riedwaan walked down the corridor and put the yellow chrysanthemums on a bedside table in his mothers sparse little room. He sat down beside her and took her hand.
Wanie, my boy, she said with a wan though welcoming smile. Jyt gekom.
Ekt gekom, Ma.
She looked at him; a flare of memory gleamed on a sea of forgetting.
I dreamed you had a son, Wanie, said Mrs Faizal. The nurse said I must wait, but my time is up.
Not yet, Ma. Riedwaan held her hand tighter.
What would you know, my boy? she said, her old tartness sparking for a moment. You never knew nothing. I was thinking of a name for my grandson and I thought I must tell Wanie.
Not going to happen, Ma, he said, opening the Peppermint Crisp hed brought for her. She put out her tongue so that the chocolate could melt on it.
Ishmael. She fixed beady black eyes on her son. Saw the grey streaks in his black hair, the longing, quickly doused, in his eyes. That would be the name for him. If he was born.
Aysha Faizal, seamstress, gossip, keeper of memories hed long let go of. Custodian of traditions hed long since abandoned and forgotten.
He felt a twinge of longing: the comfort of prostration before an all-knowing paternal wisdom. Instead, he settled his mothers pillow so that she was more comfortable.
He hadnt visited her enough, his excuse being that because she was losing her memory she wouldnt remember if he had been there or not. That was true she didnt. What was also true, and he knew this, was that she lived for the most part in an endless present, a stretch of time alleviated only by small pleasures. A bar of chocolate, a sliced banana, his presence at her bedside.
When she awoke shed have no idea who he was or why he was there. He sat and listened to the rain. For him too, time had no meaning here. His phone rang, wrenching him from his stupor. He stepped into the corridor. Cabbage and urine, the smell of old age.
Faizal. It was Edgar Phiri. When can you get here?
It was a relief to walk out into the rain and to hear the swish of his wipers on the empty Sunday highway.
The security guard raised the boom and waved Riedwaan through. The building was deserted, except for him and Phiri. The colonel was pacing not a good sign passing back and forth in front of the slatted blinds.
Come in, he barked, when Riedwaan knocked. The Sunday paper lay open on Phiris conference table.
Colonel, said Riedwaan.
Dirty politics has just been replaced with filthy politics. Jakes Cweles just been promoted, said Phiri, jabbing at the Sunday Times. Head of Special Operations.
Riedwaan pulled the paper towards him. Cwele smiled up at him.
First thing hes doing is going for the specialist units, said Phiri. Anything that might be outside of the politicians control.
Thats why he got the job. Riedwaan scanned the report: the Gang Unit was outdated for policing modern-day South Africa. Expertise needs to be redeployed.
Redeployed. That means cutting its balls off, said Riedwaan.
Not quite how I would have put it, Faizal, said Phiri, with the ghost of smile. But yes, thats the effect. Hes got it in for Section 28s too, said Phiri. Page three, look there: Clare Hart. Hes singled her out. Says it creates security problems having civilians looking at crimes against children. Of course, whats needed is the preservation of law and order and the protection of national key points. He says the minister is unhappy with her approach focusing too
much on cases that make TV news. Says things must change.
The minister is the presidents poodle, said Riedwaan, closing the page. What do you know about this, apart from whats in the paper?
An old connection called me, said Phiri. Told me off the record that the Gang Units already been dissolved. Theyre just waiting for the right moment to take the political flack. Ill be offered a toothless job with a big salary at headquarters in Pretoria. And your transfer papers are on their way.
Transfer to where? asked Riedwaan.
Economic Stability Unit.
What the fuck is that? asked Riedwaan.
The new ministers name for the Riot Squad. Apparently he thinks thats all the country needs after those mineworkers were shot.
Youre making this up, said Riedwaan.
Phiri handed him an envelope.
It was littered with gleaming government seals and bold signatures. Riedwaan opened it, fought his way through the verbiage.
The Economic Stability Unit, some patriotic nonsense about serving the countrys best interest, an order to be on a military plane on Monday morning. Tomorrow morning. A single night away. Riedwaan thought of Clare and the conversation they hadnt finished. The conversation they had not even begun.
Fuck them, Im not doing it, he said.
You dont have a choice, said Phiri. All leave has been cancelled. The cabinet says subversive elements are involved in the strikes. All police force members who are called up are obliged to report. A state of emergency has been declared on the mines.
How is this suddenly an emergency? asked Riedwaan. Its the same shit thats been happening for months, years. Service delivery protests and now miners on strike, miners killing each other, strikers getting shot by cops who get three weeks training in public order. Whats changed?
The emergency is the fall in share prices. Phiris jaw was clenched. Thats a genuine emergency if youre a kept politician.
You tell them that?
I havent, said Phiri, Im not speaking in my personal capacity. Not yet, anyway. The line from above is that the stability of the country is under threat, and the Economic Stability Unit is going to sort it out. There are no exceptions, Faizal. If you want your salary, if you want to keep your pension, you get on that plane on time.
Riedwaan took out a cigarette.
Milan Savić, said Riedwaan. You know him?
Heard of him, said Phiri. He puts money into township soccer on the Flats.
He owns an estate up where that girl went missing. Got security like a private army up there.
What are you thinking, Faizal? asked Phiri.
Why does he have Stavros the Greek skipper a tourist yacht that goes out beyond territorial waters where every South American ship slips past, its hold full of coke? Im thinking why does Stavros hire a gangster whos there the night a beautiful girl goes missing. Thats what Im thinking.
I dont like it when you feel, Faizal, said Phiri. And I like it even less when you think.
Riedwaan looked at his boss; Phiri looked at the rain-lashed window.
You asked for a connection, said Riedwaan. Im getting it.
Just be on that plane tomorrow, Faizal, said Phiri. His body seemed to cave inside the carapace of his pressed uniform. Theres nothing more I can do.
Why not, sir? Riedwaan faced his boss in all the years theyd worked together, this was the first time he didnt feel his back was safe.
I cant say, said Phiri. All I can tell you is that I got this order and I was told to relay the message to you and a couple of others.
Riedwaan stood up and turned to the window. Cape Town lay below, spread like a dirty picnic blanket under the sodden sky.
You going to take it, Faizal? asked Phiri.
I had a wife, I have a daughter. Means Ive got maintenance to pay. Ive been a cop since 94. I dont know how to be anything else, said Riedwaan. So fuck knows.
Can I have one?
I never saw you smoke, Colonel, said Riedwaan.
I havent since Mandela came out of prison.
The end of an era, said Riedwaan. You keep the box; youre going to need it.
As Riedwaan closed the door, he heard coughing.
39
Piet Mouton was waiting at the door to the freezers.
Come see her. Wheres Faizal? said Mouton. I thought youd bring him. Save you the trouble of explaining things to him.
Very thoughtful of you, Piet, said Clare. He called while I was on my way here. Says Phiris told him hes been seconded to something called the Economic Stability Unit. Hes heading up to Joburg.
You wouldnt be the first person to have thought youd got rid of him and been wrong, said Piet.
Clare shrugged.
By the way, I had an email from Cwele this morning.
Hes up early, said Clare. Did he have a sudden attack of work ethic?
Oh, Cwele always does his work, said Mouton. Its just his aims are different to yours.
So, what did he want?
The email said that Section 28 was being terminated and that all outstanding casework was to go via Cwele and his uniformed cops. You be careful, now, said Mouton.
Theyve told me nothing yet, said Clare, stopping outside the womens change rooms. And until they do, this is my case.
Im not arguing with you, Clare. Im just warning you. Be careful.
Tell me what you know, said Clare.
Mouton waited as Clare put on a white coat, rubber boots, a mask.
This is what we know. Shes white, about thirty-five. She was badly nourished, that you already know. Vitamin D deficiencies, bruises old and new, and those sjambok scars on her back.
So what killed her? asked Clare.
Mouton held open the swing doors to the cutting room. Clare stepped into the sepulchral space. The roof vaulted, early-morning light filtering through tall windows. Rows of empty gurneys awaited Saturday nights bloody harvest.
Did she starve to death? Clares stomach turning, a sweet stench discernible beneath the whiff of bleach.
Its what I first thought, said Piet Mouton, but our lady here was asphyxiated.
The corpse lay on a table at the centre of the room, seeming to eavesdrop from under the white sheet.
The eyes, the tiny lesions inside her lips. My guess is someone held a pillow over her face until she stopped kicking. The state she was in, he said, pulling back the sheet, it wouldnt have taken very long.
Clare wasnt hearing him. She was looking at the woman lying on her back, her unseeing eyes fixed on the vaulted ceiling. Her hair had been swept back from her pale face in preparation for the autopsy.
Look at her face, said Clare. A vee of black hair on the high wide forehead. A widows peak.
Frames her face, said Mouton. Gave it beauty when she was alive.
No, no, said Clare. The little girl, she has the same thing. Clares heart raced. She had something now. She recognised it: that moment when anger distils into comprehension or the beginnings, at least.
A not uncommon feature, said Mouton.
Oh, come on, Piet, said Clare. The injuries are so similar. Sjambok scars. The emaciation, the paleness. I want a DNA analysis on her and a comparison with Esther. And I want it today, please.
Maybe youre seeing what you want to see, Clare.
Do the DNA, said Clare. Prove me wrong.
Its Sunday, Clare. The labs
Tell them to open, said Clare. Find a graduate student, I dont care. But I want those tests done right now. She opened her bag and took out the photographs of Esther. Look at this, Piet, the hair, the shape of the face, the pallor. Im dealing with something monstrous here. Tell them to get moving. Get them busy with their Petri dishes.
OK, Clare, calm down. Ill do it. Well run it through the databases. If shes in there, well find her. Ill let you know as soon as its done.
Im sorry, Piet, she said. Theres a lot happening.
I understand, Clare. You carry a lot on your shoulders.
Ive got a name, the childs name.
/>
Well, that changes everything. Why didnt you say?
A tattoo on the nape of the little girls neck, said Clare. It says Esther.
My wifes name, he smiled. The beautiful queen who used her influence to save the Israelites from persecution.
She seems to know all about persecution, said Clare, looking down at the dead womans face. This possibly explains why Esthers mother wasnt looking for her.
But it doesnt explain who she was with during the week her mother was dead. Find that person, youll have all your answers, said Mouton. Any matches to the little girls DNA?
Ive logged it with the Missing Persons Records, said Clare. Theres nothing so far on the South African database, which as you know doesnt mean much. So few records are kept.
Run her through the European and US databases too, if you can, said Mouton.
As I said, there was nothing on the little girl.
But if this is the mother, said Mouton, maybe youll get a hit. Anyway, youll be interested to know that she had some expensive dental work done. When she was an adolescent, Id say, the kind of filling you dont see much of around here. No recent dental work, just signs of an untreated abscess that must have been agony.
OK, but I need to know who she is before I can use dental records if it comes to that, of course, said Clare. Anything else you can tell me about her?
Not much till we open her up, said Mouton. But theres something else with her teeth that might help you.
He lifted the womans upper lip. The teeth gleamed against her gums. There was a slight gap between the two front teeth.
See this? Mouton pointed at the right-hand tooth, which had been worn away at an angle. Its from playing the flute. Not as a hobby. Id say she was a professional musician.
Sounds of people arriving; doors opening, exchanges about a wedding someone had attended, a snatch of a popular song.
The chill Clare felt had nothing to do with the refrigerated air of the autopsy room.
A girl called Rosa Wagner went missing three weeks ago. A cellist.
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