Blood Rose (17 page)

‘This sounds ridiculous,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Have you told Clare?’

‘It’s not ridiculous, Faizal. It’s politics. But so far, I’ve told no one.’ Phiri controlled his irritation but with visible effort. ‘When are you going up?’

‘Clare’s coming to Cape Town this weekend with the physical evidence. I was thinking of leaving on Sunday and going up by bike.’

‘Good. Better than flying, under the circumstances.’ Phiri
walked to the door, but he did not open it. ‘You might want to keep out of the station for the next couple of days. Not that you’d break the record for regular attendance, Faizal.’

‘Why might I want to do that, sir?’ Riedwaan asked with exaggerated politeness.

‘If you’re not here, Faizal, I can’t cancel your trip.’ Phiri’s eyes gave nothing away. ‘If it comes to that, of course.’

‘Clare?’ Riedwaan started, not sure how to articulate the unease he was feeling.

‘She’ll be fine. She knows how to look after herself, I’m sure,’ said Phiri.

Riedwaan stopped at the door. ‘This military angle … What is it? Something new?’

‘No, no,’ said Phiri. ‘It’s just that this is a volatile region, awash with new money and old grudges.’

Helena Kotze dropped off her preliminary report with Clare when she was back at the station. Clare scanned through it, most of Helena’s findings confirming things she already knew. There was nothing revealing from the geologist boyfriend either, though some of the sand on the boy’s shoes was from surprisingly far inland. There were still a couple of things that Clare could confirm once ballistics and forensics in Cape Town had had a look. She flipped through to the histology report, hoping that it would give her something new. The carpaccio-thin slices of lung lining that Helena had stared at through her microscope had shown a residue of deep-fried batter and cayenne pepper. Fast food, spicy chicken, so probably Portuguese. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start. It made sense of the till slip Tamar had found in Kaiser’s pocket. Clare turned the receipt over, wondering if the boy had known it was going to be his last meal. Twenty-four Namibian dollars was expensive for a destitute child.

Clare spread out a tourist map of Walvis Bay. The list of food outlets was unimpressive. She eliminated the restaurants, as she did the township’s fish-and-chip shops and shebeens. They never gave receipts. That left five establishments, two of which were Portuguese takeaways.

The closest one was the Madeira, right at the entrance to the docks. It caught the trade from the harbour and from the factories that spewed out their workers at lunch times. A few men in blue overalls sat outside eating fish and vinegary chips with their
fingers as Clare pulled up. Inside, a young woman with braided hair was texting with one hand, cigarette dangling from the other. Clare ordered a Coke from the pasty girl serving. The girl dragged herself off her stool and brought Clare her drink.

‘Three-fifty.’

‘Could I have a slip?’ Clare asked.

The girl rolled her eyes. ‘The people who eat here don’t have expense accounts,’ she said, pocketing the money Clare had given her for the drink.

In the centre of town, the streets had emptied of adults, filling instead with groups of raucous children heading home, white shirts grimy after a day of school. The Lisboa Inn was quiet. An old man was reading the takeaway menu. Clare approached the counter and asked for chicken peri-peri.

‘Sorry, Miss. Just fish or Russians.’ The pink sausages glistened in a greasy tray. Behind him, a score of splayed carcasses basted in the rotisserie oven. ‘Electricity went this morning. Chicken’s ready in half an hour.’

‘No fried chicken?’

‘No.’ The cashier folded his hands across his belly, ending the conversation. His eyes moved to the man who had stepped up next to Clare. ‘Yes?’ he asked.

‘Two Russians.’ The Spanish cadences of the customer’s accent lilted his English. He clicked his rosary beads as he recited the rest of his order. ‘Onion rings, chips, two Cokes.’ The man turned to face Clare. ‘Try Lover’s Hill.’ His features were sculpted, his skin fine beneath the sunburn. ‘They do the best chicken there. Spicy. Hot.’

‘I’ll try it then,’ said Clare, trying to place the man’s face.

‘At the end of the Lagoon, you find it there. Sit and watch the flamingos while you eat.’ He flashed her a smile and turned to collect his order.

‘Thanks.’ Clare left the gloom of the café, blinded by the sun that had fought off the sea mist outside.

‘Hello, Dr Hart.’ Mara’s hand on Clare’s arm was strong for such a skinny girl.

‘Hello, Mara,’ said Clare. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Juan Carlos got some shore leave. We’re just getting something to eat.’

‘Your handsome boyfriend?’ Clare asked. ‘I think I just spoke to him inside.’

The young Spaniard strolled over to them. ‘You two know each other?’

‘Yes,’ said Mara. ‘This is Dr Hart. This is Juan Carlos. Dr Hart is here to investigate the murders. Kaiser and the other boys. You’ll let me know when you find who it is?’ Mara’s eyes glistened at the mention of Kaiser’s name.

‘I’m sure it’ll be all over the news when we do,’ said Clare.

‘You better be quick,’ said Juan Carlos. He circled his fingers around Mara’s slender throat and dropped a kiss onto her mouth. ‘She’s leaving me soon. If she wasn’t so beautiful I might have to do something about it.’ Mara blushed to the roots of her hair.

‘When are you leaving?’ Clare asked.

‘Next week.’ Mara looked down at her hands. ‘My visa runs out. Come to my farewell if you’re still around. On Saturday night.’

‘It’s better you don’t talk about her leaving in front of me.’ Juan Carlos wrapped his hand around Mara’s waist and pulled her close to him. He slipped an intimate hand under her shirt as they walked off. Clare walked along the lagoon towards the café on Lover’s Hill, aware of how acutely she missed Riedwaan. The takeaway was empty except for a woman at the till, and the cook leaning against the counter, reading the football results.

‘Can I help you?’ The woman did not take her eyes off the television screen.

‘Chicken peri-peri,’ said Clare.

‘Antonio! Chicken ’n’ chips,’ the woman bellowed. ‘Anything to drink?’

‘Nothing, thanks.’

The woman took Clare’s money and gave her a slip. ‘Give that to Antonio.’ The cashier turned back, riveted by her soap opera.

Clare handed her slip to the cook. He checked it and gave it back to her.

‘Our best, the chicken peri-peri,’ he said, picking up a piece of chicken and coating it with crumbs and spice. It sizzled when he threw it into the vat of bubbling oil. The thick potato wedges crisped golden. Clare could imagine a hungry boy’s stomach contracting at the smell.

The sound of a car engine drew her attention, a Land Rover hurtling past.

‘The desert road,’ said Antonio. ‘They drive so fast. So many accidents, especially if they drink.’

‘It happens often?’

‘These Namibians. They drink to drive; they kill each other every day like this.’

‘You’re not from here?’

‘Not me, I’m from Angola,’ said Antonio. ‘I come here for work. In my country, there’s nothing. Used to be war; now there is just nothing.’ He wrapped Clare’s order in paper and put it into a bag, tucking napkins and tomato sauce into the side. ‘
Bon apetito
.’

‘Thanks.’ Clare pulled a series of photographs out of her bag. ‘I was wondering,’ she asked, ‘did any of these boys ever come here?’

Antonio looked at one of the photographs. ‘Funny face, he’s got,’ he said. ‘Like a frog.’

‘You know him?’

‘He was a soccer fan. What’s his name?’

‘Fritz Woestyn,’ said Clare.

‘He supported Brazil.’ Antonio grinned, opening his white chef’s jacket to reveal a yellow and green T-shirt. ‘Like me.’

‘How did you know him?’ asked Clare.

‘He slept there sometimes.’ Antonio pointed to a padlocked glass door behind him. It was so covered with salt and grime that Clare hadn’t noticed it. The kitchen vent was above the doorway. It would have been a warm refuge for a cold child at night. ‘I gave him food sometimes.’

‘When last did you see him?’

‘One month ago, maybe. The owner put spikes there to keep them away. He didn’t come to sleep here after that. Maybe you find him at the shelter at the dump.’

‘And these boys?’ Clare put the pictures of the other two boys on the counter.

‘I never see them,’ said Antonio. ‘Who are they?’

‘This was Nicanor Jones,’ said Clare. ‘This was Kaiser Apollis.’

‘Why you ask me?’ asked Antonio, anxiety in his eyes.

‘Maybe one of them was here,’ said Clare. ‘With someone.’

Antonio shook his head. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Think about it.’ Clare wrote down her name and cell number on a serviette. ‘Call me if you do. This one loved Portuguese chicken.’ She pointed to the picture of Kaiser. ‘It was the last thing he ate,’ she said as she walked towards the door.

Antonio picked up the napkin and folded it, watching Clare step out of the way of an accelerating 4x4 as she crossed the road. Antonio put down the forgotten serviette. Another car had flicked its lights, the roar of its engine disappearing into a quiet, star-spangled night with the child’s familiar face in the window.

He wiped his hands on his apron and pushed open the swing doors. ‘Wait!’ he shouted to Clare. ‘Let me look again. I think maybe I see one of them.’

Clare spun around and crossed the road again. ‘Which one?’ she asked when she reached the door. She took the photographs out of her bag again and held them out for him.

Antonio looked through the photographs again. ‘This one,’ he said.

‘Kaiser Apollis?’

Antonio nodded.

‘When? When did you see him?’ Clare asked.

Antonio was weighing up whether he could trust her or not. ‘I think it was Friday night. One week ago,’ he said. ‘He came in last. Was only me here, and I’m already closing up. He had money, new money, in his hand, a rich person’s money. He asks me for chicken and chips. I make it for him, give him a Coke and then he went.’

‘Where?’ asked Clare.

‘He walked back to town; I saw him. I see him walking, yes. Then I lock up and I also walk home.’

Clare let out her breath. She hadn’t realised that she had been holding it. Back to town, that made no sense. The straw she had been grasping at was slipping away from her.

‘Then I see the car. It’s waiting for him.’

‘What car? Where?’

‘A car pull to one side of the road.’

‘Did you know it? See any number plates?’

‘It looks like all the cars here. White double cab.’

‘Did you see the driver at all?’

Antonio shook his head. ‘That is all I see. This boy.’ He tapped the photograph of Kaiser. ‘He talked to the driver, then he got in the back and they drive away, into the desert.’

‘Thanks.’ Clare was smiling at him. ‘If you remember anything else, anything at all, you give me a call.’

He went back inside and watched Clare walk down towards the lagoon. She sat down on a bench and took out a notepad, her parcel of food unopened beside her. The boy had ordered the same meal, but the sound of the café door opening interrupted Antonio’s thoughts.

‘Gretchen.’ The cashier greeted the blonde stripper without moving her eyes from the television. ‘What you want?’

‘Give me what she had,’ said Gretchen, pointing outside to Clare.

‘Antonio!’ the cashier boomed. ‘Another chicken ’n’ chips.’

It was three o’clock by the time Clare went to meet Tamar outside the bakery. From beneath the shade of a palm tree, a knot of boys untangled themselves, offering to guard Clare’s car, wash her window, sell her an old newspaper.

‘Where’s Lazarus?’ Clare asked one of them, exchanging fifty cents for yesterday’s news.

‘He went to the docks,’ said the child.

‘Tell him I want to talk to him,’ said Clare. The boy looked around furtively. ‘It’s nothing bad,’ she added. She slipped ten Namibian dollars into his hand. ‘Tell him to find Dr Hart.’ The boy nodded, sidling away before a bigger boy could twist the money out of his fingers. Clare went inside to buy the last cake, a sticky chocolate confection.

It was hot on the desert side of town, the morning’s mist a ragged memory suspended above the ocean. Clare drank some water and watched the street children hustle. Tourists looked furtive, then handed over handfuls of coins. Locals walked on, oblivious. Clare pulled her notebook from her bag and read her notes. The desert revealed its secrets, everyone kept telling her, but when it was ready and in its own way. Someone has been very determined that the three bodies were found. That part was easy. Why they were so determined was less easy. The seduction, the trust quickly established, quickly broken. The bullet, the knife flashing across a chest. The severing of the fingertips. That small, nail-tipped joint from the ring finger lying, oozing, in the
palm of a killer’s hand. Everything about it said mission killer to her, cleansing the streets of rubbish, mending what had been broken by illegitimacy, poverty and delinquency, but the detail refused to crystallise into a coherent whole. The ghost, the killer, glided away from her when she reached for him.

‘Come with us.’ Tamar’s voice at her window made Clare jump. ‘It’s half an hour, the drive. We don’t need two cars.’

Clare got out and locked the car, balancing the cake box on the bonnet. ‘Dessert,’ she explained. ‘I think your niece will like it.’

Tamar stopped the vehicle near a copse of acacias huddled against the cliffs. The children exploded from the car, dashing across the hot sand to the shadow of the trees, shrieking as if they had driven five hundred kilometres instead of fifty. Only a dark line marked the flow of underground water. Clare turned her back on the sprawled plain with its encrypted alphabet. Everything left a trace on this vast Rosetta stone of a desert.

She and Tamar set down their laden basket on the cement picnic table. It was cool, shaded, where they were. Water welled to the surface at the crook of this elbow of river. The children shouted, splashing in delight because there was enough water to swim in. Another day, perhaps two, and it would be gone, as the river retreated underground, leaving nothing but cracked earth and insect and rodent corpses trapped in the mud. Clare flicked some eggshells and a curl of orange peel off the table, shook out the tablecloth and settled it over the rough round surface.