Blood Rose (3 page)

The violent secrets encrypted on their bodies turned Tamar’s mind to Dr Clare Hart.

Riedwaan Faizal pushed back the covers and went to the window, wrapping a towel around his waist. After a couple of minutes, Clare appeared in the distance, taking the curve of the Sea Point Boulevard in her stride. At this distance, in the thin September sunlight, she was a stranger to him, despite his intimate knowledge of her, gleaned in secret and hoarded. He watched her until she had disappeared, then he pushed his hands back through his hair. It had caused him a lot of trouble at high school, the way it grew straight up. He was always being sent to the headmaster to prove that he hadn’t gelled it. That was long ago now. Two decades, give or take a year or so. Now it showed careless streaks of grey in places.

Riedwaan wandered through Clare’s flat, picking up her things, putting them down, running a finger along the alphabetically arranged spines of her books. Mainly hardbacks. Above the television were a couple of shelves of Clare’s documentaries, VHS copies of her broadcast investigative pieces, and an award for a film she’d done on human trafficking in the Congo. Putting the world to rights, that’s what her investigative work was about, her beliefs giving her the courage to go where there were no nets to catch her if she fell. It fitted with her profiling work, her conviction that she could find the source of evil and eliminate it. Riedwaan was less sure about that.

He rifled through the heap of classical and acoustic CDs. ‘How much Moby can one person listen to?’ he asked Fritz. The cat flattened her ears and hissed in reply.

In Clare’s bathroom, he opened one of the small pots of cream and held it to his nose. The jar carried the scent of her: tender, secret. Riedwaan put it down. He had done this so often in the homes of strangers. It had become second nature to look through the everyday artefacts of a woman’s life after her broken body had been found, searching for reasons why that woman stepped out for that minute and never returned to finish half-used jars of expensive cream or to serve the meal cooking in the oven.

Clare was tired – he knew it – wrung out by the last case they had worked on together, profiling a killer whose refinements of cruelty had turned the stomachs of men who considered themselves inured to depravity. She needed to visit her reclusive twin, Constance. She needed to be alone, away. But Riedwaan didn’t want her to leave him. He liked to live with the woman he slept with. The patterns of a long marriage like his, even if it was broken, ran deep.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He could get away without shaving. He showered and dressed, repressing the anxiety riffing down his spine. He fed Fritz. Clare would be back in half an hour. He went to watch for her. The sitting room was sparse, the way she liked it. The wooden floor a pale expanse that merged with the waves hurling themselves against the boulevard. He sat down on her sofa and picked up the pile of books she had been busy with before he had arrived the previous evening. There was a book on desert plants, the pollen of a forgotten cutting staining the index. A history of the Richtersveld, the harsh area around the Orange River. A novel about an early and murderous journey into that desert: Coetzee’s
Dusklands
. She had made notes in her guide to southern African seabirds. He snapped it shut, amused at the thought of Clare with binoculars around her neck, bird list in her hand.

In the kitchen, Fritz glared as Riedwaan waited for the kettle to boil. He took his coffee through to the spare room. Clare’s suitcase was open on the bed, half-packed. Clothes lay in methodical order, waiting to be placed in the suitcase. He picked up a dress, ran the silky black material through his hands and held it to his face. She must have worn it recently, because his touch released the feral tang of her sweat that lay just beneath the perfume she always wore. Jealousy surged through him. Who had she gone out with in that dress? Who had made her sweat?

He put it down and picked up a bra and a matching pair of panties – expensive, silky, low on the hip. Who were these for? Riedwaan could hear her mocking voice: for me is what she’d say. She was right, but her self-containment made him feel adolescent. He folded the dress again. He folded the bra and put it back. Her panties he slipped into his pocket. A memento for while she was away.

In the kitchen, Riedwaan put tomatoes on to grill and eggs to boil. He watched the last city lights go off. Cape Town in the light of the morning looked to him like a stripper past her prime. The lines were good, the breasts firm, but it was silicone and make-up that gave the nights their charge.

The front door opened. Riedwaan’s hand curled around the filleting knife on the sink. ‘Clare,’ he called.

‘You missed the best part of the day.’

Riedwaan looked at the knife in his hand in surprise. He passed a drying cloth over it and reached for a ripe melon.

Clare came in dripping, cheeks scarlet.

‘I’m not going to kiss you.’ She evaded him. ‘I’m sweaty and disgusting.’

‘Just how I like you.’ Riedwaan sliced the spanspek. He didn’t think much of fruit, but Clare loved it.

She picked up a slice and bit into it. ‘Perfect.’ She opened the window and put the skin on the sill for the birds waiting there. ‘Come and talk to me in the shower.’ She stripped, dropping her sweaty clothes into the washing machine.

‘In a minute,’ said Riedwaan, watching her disappear naked down the passage.

Clare stood under the shower. She loved the jet of water hot on her face, washing the sweat away. It took with it, though, the imprint of Riedwaan’s warm skin on hers. She was going to miss him, being away for a month. She massaged shampoo into her blonde hair, working it down to the ends that hung below her waist. Damn. She had meant to have it trimmed before she left.

‘You distract me with your clothes off.’ Clare had not heard Riedwaan come into the bathroom. ‘Especially when you look guilty like that. You thinking dirty thoughts?’

‘I’m not telling.’ Clare reached for the soap and scrubbed her shoulders.

‘I can do that for you.’ Riedwaan watched her deft hands lathering her body.

‘You’ve seen all this before.’

‘I’m not going to see it for weeks,’ he pleaded.

Clare rinsed her hair. It coiled over her shoulder like a snake, the water making it almost as dark as Riedwaan’s. She switched off the tap and stepped out of the shower.

‘I didn’t know you were interested in birds.’ Riedwaan did not take his eyes off her. Dripping wet, she was as easy with herself naked as she was clothed.

‘Well, I am. My father taught us. He would slam on the brakes in the middle of the highway, do a U-turn and hurtle back to identify some tiny ball of brown feathers. I decided that if I was going to die, at least I should know what I was dying for.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Riedwaan asked.

Clare caught the look on his face and laughed. ‘You never asked.’ She put on cream, smoothing out her arched brows. She reached for her red kimono and tied the cord tight, emphasising the curve of her hips.

‘I’ll come find you in Namaqualand. You can show a city boy what there is to like about all those flowers and birds.’

The thought of him at her sister’s farm bobbed bright as a lure, hiding the hook that lay beneath.

‘I’d love that.’ The need in her voice caught them both by surprise.

Riedwaan opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air. He reached for the words to tell her that things were more complicated than this morning routine. That Shazia was coming back. His wife. Instead, he pulled Clare towards him.

‘Not now,’ she said. ‘It’s freezing with the door open and I want my breakfast.’ She kissed him on the mouth and slipped out of his arms. ‘I’m going to get dressed.’

On the desolate southwest coast of Africa, Mara Thomson turned between the houses to take the short cut to school. A year ago, she had arrived as a volunteer teacher in Namibia with hope and two suitcases. The summer heat had buckled her knees as she stepped off the plane in the capital, Windhoek. The light had seared her eyes, but her heart had soared and she had walked across the blazing tarmac as if she was coming home. She had expected acacia trees etched against an orange sky. Instead, she was assigned to Walvis Bay. She cried herself to sleep for a week; then she’d decided to make a life for herself amongst the grime and the fog. A life that she was going to miss, now that she was leaving.

Mara jumped off her bike and wheeled it up the narrow alley, wondering why the dogs were barking. Elias Karamata was standing guard at a breech in the fence that was looped with chevronned tape. Black and yellow, nature’s danger signal.

‘Morning, Mara,’ Elias Karamata greeted the girl. Skinny and brown, in her hoodie and jeans, she looked like one of the boys she coached rather than a volunteer teacher.

‘What’s wrong, then?’ asked Mara, the clipped vowels marking her as foreign. English.

‘Kaiser Apollis,’ said Karamata, a gentle hand covering her arm. ‘He was found dead in the playground.’ He felt Mara tremble. At nineteen, she was still a wide-eyed child herself. ‘Go around the other way.’

Mara walked around to the main entrance of the school, glad that she had her bike to lean on. Her legs were shaking.

‘Where are you going, Miss Thomson?’

Mara had not seen Sergeant van Wyk until he had peeled himself off the wall and blocked her path.

‘I volunteer here,’ she said.

‘I’m sure you do. ID.’

Mara handed it to him, even though he knew full well who she was.

Van Wyk looked her passport over. ‘Only two weeks left on your visa.’

‘Since when did you do immigration?’ she shot back.

‘The dead boy.’ Van Wyk’s eyes were cold. ‘He’s wearing one of your soccer shirts.’ Mara paled. ‘Interesting coincidence.’

‘I know what you did to him. To Kaiser,’ said Mara. ‘I reported you.’

‘Oh, I know you did.’ Van Wyk was dismissive. ‘Didn’t get you or your little friend very far either, did it?’

Mara made for the entrance. That’s when Van Wyk moved, trapping her body against the frame of the door. His breath was hot with intimate menace. ‘I hear that you’ve been picking boys up in the clubs.’ His fist, hard and hidden from view, came to rest on the soft mound between her legs. ‘A step up from a rubbish dump, but sailors are a dangerous game, don’t you think?’

‘Why won’t you leave me alone?’ whispered Mara.

Van Wyk’s thin lips twisted into a smile. ‘It was you who started—’

‘Sergeant,’ Karamata interrupted. He was standing at the wall, his arms crossed. ‘The staff are waiting to be interviewed.’

Van Wyk dropped his hand, and Mara pushed past him, tears in her eyes.

‘I was just checking on Miss Thomson’s movements,’ Van Wyk said to Karamata as they walked back to the playground.

Tamar was sealing the last evidence bag, noting the time and date on each one. Karamata handed her the list of people who had been at school before they had arrived. ‘Who’ve you got here, Elias?’ she asked.

‘Calvin Goagab, of course, and his sons,’ said Karamata.

‘Really made my day, seeing him so early in the morning.’ Tamar grimaced. ‘Who else?’

‘Erasmus, the headmaster. Herman Shipanga you met, the caretaker who found the body. Darlene Ruyters, the Grade 1 teacher. She was in at six-thirty, but says she saw nothing. The only other person here was George Meyer. He drops his stepson Oscar early. Darlene Ruyters is his teacher and she keeps an eye on him until school starts.’

‘Oscar’s mother?’ asked Tamar. ‘Wasn’t she killed in that car accident six months ago?’

‘That’s her,’ said Karamata. He held the door open for Tamar. The school staff fell silent as she stepped into the stuffy staff-room. The preliminaries were soon over: statements, times for interviews, arrangements to close the school, the staff dismissed for the day.

Tamar drove back to the station, glad that she could lock her office door behind her. She let her head drop into her hands, allowing the first tears to splash onto the desk. It didn’t help to dam them all. When she decided it was enough, she made tea while she waited for her photographs to download. She wrapped her hands around the hot mug and stared at the images of the dead child on her screen. Again, she thought of Clare Hart.

She found Riedwaan Faizal’s number and dialled. ‘Captain Faizal? Tamar Damases here, Walvis Bay police.’

‘Tamar, it’s been a while,’ said Riedwaan. ‘You’ve got a body if you’re calling me.’

‘A dead boy in a school playground. Looks like the third in a series,’ said Tamar. ‘I’m going to need your profiler friend Dr Hart.’

‘We’ll need to pass it via the official channels,’ said Riedwaan. ‘But if you can get it past Supe Phiri I’ll persuade Clare.’

‘You’re on first-name terms now?’

‘You could put it like that,’ said Riedwaan, with a smile.

Clare closed her suitcase and went into the kitchen. Jeans and a white T-shirt. No make-up yet, her damp hair in a twist on top of her head. Riedwaan was leaning against the counter, the paper spread out in front of him. Her stomach grumbled as she kissed him.

‘I’m hungry,’ she said.

‘You look nice.’ Riedwaan drew her against him.

Clare dampened down the lick of desire that flared between his hands. She would lose the rhythm of her day if she let her body distract her.

‘We’ll be late,’ she said, prising herself loose. She sat down and helped herself to breakfast. ‘Who were you talking to?’

‘Phiri.’

‘So where’s the body?’

Riedwaan felt in his pocket for cigarettes.

‘Don’t smoke. It’s too early,’ said Clare.

Riedwaan shrugged and started stacking the dishwasher. She watched the muscles on his back flex under his shirt as she finished eating.

‘Very domestic,’ she said. ‘Maybe I should just stay here with you. Play housey-housey.’ She handed him her empty plate and slipped her arms around him.

Riedwaan laughed. ‘Ja, right.’

‘The other call?’ She had him, trapped between her and the dishwasher. ‘When I was in the shower?’

‘Captain Tamar Damases. From Namibia,’ said Riedwaan. Clare didn’t miss a thing. Why did he always forget that about her? ‘She came to your lectures last year on serial killers.’