Like Clockwork (13 page)

‘Joe,’ she called. He came over to her, rubber gloves stretched tight across his plump hands.

‘Hi, Clare.’ Clare had known Joe Zulu all the years she had worked with the police. ‘I hear it was you who found this one.’

‘
Ja
, it was horrible. Someone I know told me the body was here.’ Clare handed him the flowers and pointed to the beach below. ‘By the way, I found these over there – they seem so out of place here. Also, Harry Rabinowitz mentioned that there were flowers with the first girl. I didn’t see anything in the report, though. I’ll check Riaan’s photos again. Harry Rabinowitz told me there were flowers with the first girl too.’

Joe placed the flowers in an evidence bag. ‘They’re almost the same colour as the ribbon her hand was tied with,’ observed Joe. ‘Who knows what will help solve this?’ and he
turned in the direction where Amore’s body had lain. The tide had made sure that any visible trace of her had been erased. But you never knew until later about invisible traces of evidence left behind.

‘Let me know what you find, Joe,’ said Clare. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’ Joe waved and went back to work.

Clare checked her cellphone for messages as she climbed the rough steps that led from the beach back to street level.

‘Hello, Dr Hart. I see you are a morning person too.’ Otis Tohar’s voice raised every single one of the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. ‘Are you a runner?’ he asked.

‘As you can see,’ said Clare, irritated that he had so unnerved her. Tohar was dressed in an expensive tracksuit, but he did not look as if he had been running. He had several newspapers under his arm. Clare made out a headline that clearly relished the sales spike the murder of a beautiful girl would result in. Her heart sank. Chief-Superintendent Phiri was going to throw a fit: it wouldn’t be too long before the history of the case officer came out. Ever since Riedwaan Faizal had punched a journalist who’d questioned his relationship with some of the local gangsters, he’d not been that popular with the more liberal papers.

‘You did not strike me as a vulture, Dr Hart.’ Tohar leaned in close to her. The acrid smell was there again. Clare’s nostrils flared in distaste. This seemed to amuse him. He moved closer, trapping her between his body and the sea wall. ‘Curiosity seems to be a habit with you.’

Clare contained her claustrophobia and stepped away. ‘It is my profession.’

‘It has brought you luck so far?’

‘Not luck,’ Clare replied. ‘Knowledge. Why are you here so early?’

‘I have so much invested here.’ He gestured behind him.
The cranes loomed above the road. ‘I need to be sure of what is going on around here. But also to see if I can help.’

He was not the only one. A crowd was gathering around the police cordon.

‘I’m going to fetch Tatiana from gym. I think you met her last night?’

Clare wondered if Tohar knew about their brief meeting in his video library.

‘No,’ she risked. ‘We weren’t introduced.’ He turned to go.

‘Mr Tohar, I hear that Kelvin Landman has put quite a bit of finance into some of your more recent projects.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘You know what Cape Town is like with rumours, especially about other people’s money.’

Tohar hesitated. ‘We work very well together. Mutual interests. We should really do lunch some time. Call me, Clare.’ He wiped a sudden sheen of sweat off his forehead and made his way back to his car. The clouds parted temporarily and the sky gleamed a deep blue. The engine of his car started at once with a rumble, a bass note to the whine of the accumulating morning traffic.

Clare went back to checking her messages. There was one from Riedwaan to say that he had dropped a copy of the preliminary autopsy report off for her. She went home, picking up the envelope he had put in her letterbox. Clare phoned Riaan, asking him to let her have a set of his pictures from the murder scene, and then she had a shower. She was forcing herself to eat a slice of toast with her coffee when the doorbell rang.

‘Who is it?’ asked Clare, pressing the intercom.

‘Delivery. Small package, madam.’ She buzzed the man in and signed for it.

She ripped it open, knowing already who had sent it. She
shook open the slim envelope. The face of the Devil, fifteenth card of the Tarot leered up at her, the carnal card, the grinning symbol of desire and entrapment in bodily lust. Clare picked it up. The second card of any Tarot reading revealed past influences. But whether these were her own, or the killer’s, Clare was uncertain. She tucked the repugnant card into her handbag, leaving her breakfast unfinished. She sat at her desk, determined to face her day with composure.

Riaan dropped off the copies of his photographs of Amore Hendricks. Clare ignored his request for coffee and opened the envelope as soon as she had got rid of him. She set the photographs alongside those of Charnay Swanepoel, checking them carefully, looking for similarities, for differences. The killer had twinned the bodies with uncanny exactitude.

She looked closely at all the pictures of Charnay Swanepoel. There it was – a small heap in the gutter that could be flowers. She called Riedwaan to tell him.

‘Won’t you ask Rita to check which florists use gold ribbon? Joe will have the sample of it,’ said Clare.

‘I’ll do that – could work. But most florists will be closed now, so it’ll have to be tomorrow. What do you think they mean, the flowers?’

‘Maybe some kind of apology. Or maybe it’s part of some wedding fantasy, an ultimate union. White irises are sometimes used for wedding bouquets.’

‘The ones you found were purple.’

‘I know. I’m just thinking aloud.’

‘Give me a call after you’ve talked to the boy,’ said Riedwaan.

Clare then drove to Observatory. She found the café the boy had suggested as a meeting place. She looked at her watch again. Five-thirty. She hoped that the boy hadn’t changed his
mind about coming. But he arrived just as the waitress sloshed Clare’s cappuccino onto the table.

‘Dr Hart?’ He was very nervous, but his handshake was firm. His blazer hung elegantly on his athletic frame. Yet his beautiful face was strained, and there were dark circles under his wide-set brown eyes.

‘Hello, Clinton,’ said Clare. She was relieved to see him. ‘Would you like something?’ The boy looked through the menu, ordered a Coke and a toasted cheese.

‘I’m glad you came,’ said Clare. ‘I was beginning to think you wouldn’t.’

‘I’m sorry about being late. I had band practice at school and it went on a bit. I’m a trumpeter.’ The waitress placed his Coke and cutlery on the table. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and the young woman beamed at him.

Clare leaned towards him. She placed her small tape recorder in front of them. ‘It’ll be useful to everyone if I tape this,’ she explained. ‘Tell me about last night.’

Clinton shifted, as if his seat had hardened.

‘Tell me how you found her. Why were you there?’ Clare’s voice was gentle but Clinton recognised the steel in it. He picked at the small tear of skin on his left thumb.

‘I was at Graaff’s Pool. I saw her lying between the rocks. I read in the paper that you were involved in the investigation, so I thought you’d be the best person to tell.’ He stopped, sucking at the bead of blood welling on the edge of his nail. ‘She looked so peaceful there in the moonlight. So perfect.’

‘What time was that, Clinton?’ He hesitated. ‘Try to remember. It is very important.’

‘It must have been about eight-thirty. The rain had stopped then. I went there. I saw her. Then I sent you the SMS.’

‘I got the message after eleven. Why did it take you so long to tell someone?’

‘I was busy. There were things I had to do,’ he muttered.

‘Who was with you?’ Clare’s eyes were unwavering on the boy’s face. He looked away.

‘I was alone. Just me.’

‘At Graaff’s Pool?’

‘I went there to look at the view. To think.’

‘No boy is alone there for long. So what were you thinking there, Clinton?’

He turned to look her straight in the eye for the first time. ‘I was thinking how lucky that girl is.’ Clinton reached for his Coke, but his hands shook so much that he put it down without taking a sip.

‘You knew her?’ asked Clare in surprise.

‘I didn’t recognise her that night. But when we saw it in the paper my mother remembered her.’ He stopped, as if regretting that he had told her this.

‘How did your mother know her?’ prompted Clare.

‘We were at the same junior school,’ he explained. ‘My mom knew her mom. Then they moved to Panorama and built a house there. Then my dad died and when my mom got remarried we moved to Observatory. Later I got the music scholarship to the larnie school I’m at now.’ He stopped speaking, his breathing hurried.

‘But when you saw her last night you did not know who she was?’

Clinton shook his head and picked up his Coke again. His hands were steadier now. He looked pleased, as if he had negotiated a rough stretch of water. Clare softened her voice and put her hand on his. ‘Tell me who you were with, Clinton. It will come out, you know.’

‘With Rick.’ His hands flew up, as if to catch the name, take it back. ‘That is what he said his name was.’

‘Who is Rick?’ asked Clare, her voice gentle but relentless.

‘Rick the Prick.’ His childish giggle was laced with revulsion. Then the bravado evaporated and the boy’s shoulders slumped forward. He had capitulated. Clare re-angled her tape recorder.

‘Who is he?’ asked Clare.

‘I met him that night at Lulu’s.’ Clare knew the bar he was talking about. It was at the heart of Sea Point’s red light district, catering to men who liked young boys. The seventeen-year-old in front of her could pass for fourteen in the right light.

‘Come on, Clinton, why are you trying to protect him?’

‘All right.’ Anger flashed across his face. It vanished as quickly, leaving tears in its wake. ‘He was a regular. He called himself Rick, but I saw his ID when I went to a party at his house. It said Luis Da Cunha.’

‘Whose idea was it to go to Graaff’s Pool?’ asked Clare.

‘Usually I just do him in his car quickly. But this time he insisted that we go there.’ Clinton’s voice was almost inaudible. ‘I don’t like it there, it’s so creepy. I hadn’t been since those guys were attacked there last year.’

‘Why did you go this time?’

‘He offered me double. I needed the money. I needed to get home.’ Clare touched the smooth skin on the back of his wrist. He turned his hand over and gripped hers. His shoulders quivered as he repressed a sob. Clinton leaned forward and pulled up a khaki trouser leg. ‘Look here.’

Clare saw the puncture marks like ritual tattoos following the vein that traced the contour of his calf muscle and disappeared into the back of his knee. ‘This is why I need the money. This is why I take the risks. Rick said that is where we must go. It seemed to turn him on like anything.’ Clinton stopped.

‘Go on,’ said Clare.

‘He wanted a blow job,’ said Clinton. He shuddered. ‘I just look somewhere else and pretend it’s not me doing it. That’s
when I saw her lying there. She looked like a mermaid on the edge of the water. That was when I wished I was there where she was. With everything just over.’ He paused and managed a shaky sip of his cooldrink. ‘Rick was finished. He threw money at me, more than we’d agreed, and then he was gone.’

‘Did he see the girl?’ asked Clare.

‘He had his back to her, so I don’t think so. He didn’t say anything. He just threw the money at me and went home to his wife.’

‘I thought you didn’t know anything about him.’

‘I don’t, but I can recognise a wedding ring when I see one. Most of my regulars are straight men. Married. They seem to like me. Maybe it’s because I look like a girl so they can carry on pretending about themselves even while you suck them off.’

‘Did you go over to her?’

‘I got dressed again first. I was freezing. And then I went over to her. Amore. Her name didn’t help her, did it?’

‘How long were you with her?’

‘I don’t know. A few minutes,’ he said. ‘Should I have stayed longer?’

Clare shook her head. ‘Did you touch her at all? Pick anything up?’

Clinton looked trapped. ‘I tried to cover her. She looked so cold lying like that.’

‘Like what?’ asked Clare.

‘With her top pulled down like that. I tried to cover her up but her shirt was stuck underneath her. I heard it tear. When I pulled, her head moved and I could see where her throat had been cut. That gave me such a fright. Then I left her. I had to be home. Otherwise . . .’

‘Otherwise what?’ Again the deadness in his eyes.

‘My stepfather
donners
me if I’m late. And then he
donners
my mom. For giving birth to a worthless thing like me.’ He put his face in his hands, fingers opening, closing on his short dreadlocks.

‘What will happen to me?’ he asked Clare.

‘The police will need to interview you. And they will need to find Rick and talk to him too.’

‘Ha!’ said Clinton. ‘He’ll deny that he has ever even laid eyes on me. And who will believe me? Rent boy versus businessman – great odds.’

‘You have to take that chance. The people at Lulu’s will recognise him too,’ said Clare with more confidence than she felt. ‘But right now you need to do something about your other problem. The one that got you into this situation.’ She passed him a name and number she had written onto one of her cards. ‘Call him. He knows where you’ve been: he’s been in the same place himself.’ Clinton looked at it with a sneer. But he put it into his pocket before he stood up to go.

‘There is one other thing,’ he said, as he gathered his bags. ‘There was a drag mark on the sand near where she was lying. I don’t know if it means anything, but I thought it was funny because it had rained so hard earlier. So it must have happened after the rain stopped. That gave me the
grils
– it really got me that someone had put her there just before we got there. That he might have been around there somewhere. Watching.’ He looked nauseated.

‘What time did you meet Rick?’

‘Oh, it was just before. He came into Lulu’s at about eight-fifteen, and he came straight over to me. As if he had checked it out before. Planned it, planned me. He bought two drinks and brought them over, but we didn’t finish them. He wanted to get going straight away. He was very excited.’