Like Clockwork (27 page)

‘This is all reclaimed land, isn’t it?’ said Clare.

‘It is. The council issued these when there was a flood a couple of years ago. They had to go and find all the old Victorian maps to get to the problem. I love old maps, so I bought a couple.’

Clare leaned closer, tracing the tunnels. ‘They look like spidery veins. It’s fascinating.’

‘I’m sure there’s another map somewhere.’ The girl ferreted through a pile of paper. ‘Here it is.’ She held it up in triumph. ‘Would you like it?’

‘I would! Thank you,’ said Clare. She followed the woman out, glad to be in the sun again.

‘How often do you clean up?’ asked Clare.

‘Oh, only once a year. We always do it on the same day. We all just pitch in together and get it done.’

‘We did it last year,’ said a man, carefully folding old sails, ‘and the next day there was that huge storm – do you remember it?’ Clare nodded. ‘That storm broke the doors down the day after our spring-clean, can you believe it. So we’re keeping our fingers crossed that it won’t happen again.’

Clare looked out to the west. The sky was clear, the sea sparkled. ‘Doesn’t look like it. Who owns these boathouses?’

‘The council does,’ said the same man. ‘Our families have rented them for years and years. It’s kind of hereditary.’

‘They’re thinking of charging us more, though – I know that. As if we don’t pay enough rates in Sea Point.’

Clare walked to the end of the small beach. She could still hear the group arguing about whether their rates were too high or not. The sea wall bulged broadly before it flattened towards the lighthouse. There were several large openings on the edge of the curve. They studded the sea wall like blind eyes. Clare pulled her coat around herself. It was very exposed where she was standing, and the wind was biting cold.

The clock said five-thirty when Theresa Angelo finished her voice-over.

‘I need a break,’ said Sam Napoli. ‘You want to get a cappuccino?’

‘No, thanks, Sam.’ Theresa blushed. Coffee made her jittery and it felt strange having coffee with someone who was nearly as old as her dad. Not that Sam flirted with her. He didn’t at all. But he was rather sexy – even though his shoulders were getting that stiff look peculiar to men over forty, no matter how often they went to gym.

‘Come on,’ said Sam. ‘You’ve worked hard. And you were brilliant, as always.’

‘I’ve got to meet my mom,’ said Theresa. ‘We’re going to see a movie. We always do on a Friday.’

‘I’m going to have a word with your mother,’ said Sam, looking her up and down. ‘You’re turning into quite a knockout. She’s going to have to keep you locked up at home to keep you safe!’

Theresa giggled. ‘It’s just my new haircut.’

‘And a brand-new figure, too.’

‘I’ll see you next week?’ asked Theresa.

‘See you then. We need a couple more hours. And be good!’ Sam called after her.

‘I will. See you then.’ Theresa picked up her bag from the security guard.

‘You need an escort,
sisi
?’ he asked. ‘It’s a bit dark now.’

‘No, thanks. I’ll be fine. I’m meeting my mom at the Waterfront. I’ll see you Tuesday.’

‘Okay,
sisi
, nice weekend.’

Theresa crossed the road and ducked under the boom at the exit to the Waterfront Marina apartments. Theresa was glad of the voice-over work. She was planning to take her mother away to a spa in the mountains. She had the brochure in her bag. Maybe that would make her happy again. Maybe a break would help her mother face the fact that Theresa’s father had left her – finally and for good. For the better, was what Theresa thought. He had etched lines of sadness into her mother’s soft face and slowly turned the corners of her smiling mouth downwards.

The wind off the sea was cold and damp. Theresa walked faster, to escape her thoughts and to warm herself up. She had two hours, still, before meeting her mother for a movie and a pizza. She walked along the marina and looked at the yachts, avoiding the people thronging across the drawbridge towards the Waterfront.

Floodlights glimmered on the black water where the boats rocked to and fro. Theresa was cold, her jeans useless against the wind which was starting to pick up. Beyond the slipway, light spilled from the small windows of The Blue Room. She went into the bar feeling very grown up. It was quiet, empty except for the barman polishing glasses. She made her way to a table away from the draughty doorway and sat down, dropping her bag at her feet. The barman came over to her.

‘Cute bag,’ he said. ‘Can I get you something?’ He was very good looking – dark hair, eyes shiny black.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a decaf café latte please. With
a glass of water.’ Theresa calculated how much money she had in her purse. Should be enough. Theresa did not drink, but she was pleased that he hadn’t asked her for ID.

‘Okay. Ice and lemon?’ He gave the table a superfluous wipe.

‘Just plain tap water.’

‘You waiting for someone?’

‘Not here. I’m going to the movies later. I’m a bit early, that’s all.’

He went behind the bar and rattled the coffee machine, steaming her milk into perfect frothiness.

‘Here you are.’ With a flourish, he put down the latte, and next to it a glass of iced water. There was a tiny biscuit with the coffee. Theresa was disappointed to see that a bit of the liquid had spilled and made it soggy.

She smiled up at him. ‘Thank you. It’s very quiet here this evening.’

He looked at his watch. ‘It’ll start getting busy soon. It usually fills up at about seven, seven-thirty. All the yachties come in then.’

‘I love those yachts,’ said Theresa. She watched the masts through the window, streaks of silver, magical against the night sky.

‘You should have a look at them. There are some real beauties in at the moment.’

‘I will when I’m a bit warmer,’ said Theresa.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Theresa. And yours?’

‘Tyrone.’

She took a sip of her coffee. ‘This is delicious.’

He flashed a smile. ‘Like you, Theresa.’

Theresa blushed to the roots of her hair, but he did not notice. The barman had turned to welcome new customers. The three men moved in an unsmiling pack towards a table
by the window. Theresa was glad that they sat far away from her. She had not liked the way that one of them had looked at her and passed his tongue slowly across his lips. She zipped up her hoodie, finished her coffee and went over to the bar.

‘Something else?’ asked the barman.

‘No, thanks,’ said Theresa. ‘Just the bill.’ He handed her the slip of paper. She had just enough money.

‘You take care, now,’ he told her. She smiled at him and then she went out into the night. It was now completely dark. She could just make out a couple of people walking with their heads down towards The Blue Room. She had an hour to kill, so she wandered down the jetty to look at the yachts. It seemed unfair to have tethered them here. They were like restless horses, streamlined curves designed for movement, for freedom. The last yacht was the most beautiful, a gleaming dark blue with stainless-steel trim. She admired it as she leaned against the small barrier at the end of the jetty. The wind slapped the tightly furled sails against the mast.

There was a man on board. Theresa watched him stride up and down inside the cabin. He was tall, and the ceiling seemed too low for him. His phone was clamped to his ear and he was speaking in short bursts. The bright cabin lights were reflected in the sweaty sheen on his forehead. He turned and caught sight of Theresa watching. His gaze pinioned her, moving languidly down her curves, then back to her face. A slow smile of recognition spread across his face – handsome, like one of the old movie stars whose pictures hung in the Film Fusion studios. Theresa smiled back. She walked to the end of the jetty, but it was too cold to linger. It was time to meet her mother anyway, so she walked back. The man was no longer in the cabin, even though the lights were on. She burrowed her hands deeper into her pockets.

On her way, she paused at The Blue Room. It was filling
up, and the good-looking barman was busy, but he didn’t see her. A raucous group of men were coming down the stairway. Theresa didn’t feel like enduring the predictable moment of mock-threat before they let her pass, so she turned to walk between the ornamental trees lining the wheelchair access to the car park. It was much darker than she had thought it would be, and she walked nervously towards the gleaming cars. She relaxed when she saw movement, the comforting sound of someone chatting, loading their boot with suitcases.

‘Hello.’ The smooth, educated voice startled Theresa. But she relaxed when the man she had seen on the yacht stepped out from behind the open boot.

‘Oh, hi,’ she said.

‘I see you like yachts,’ he said. Theresa nodded. He stepped away from her, sensing that he had made her uncomfortable by trapping her in the narrow space between the cars. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. But I was wondering if you could help me. My wife is just fetching more luggage, can you believe it, and I can’t seem to get this bag into my boot.’

‘Oh, sure,’ said Theresa, embarrassed that she might have seemed rude. He stood back to let her pass. She put her bag down beside the wheel. Then she bent down, taking hold of the one side of his bag – it was not heavy, just large.

‘Okay, I’m ready.’ She looked up, wondering why the man wasn’t lifting his side. She saw the hammer in his hand reflected in the polished car, but he brought it down too fast for her to move out of the way. The blow caught her across the back of her head, its force carefully calculated to defer her death. The man lifted her and dumped her into the boot of the car. Her hip bruised against the hard rim of the spare tyre. He then bundled her into the bag that she had helped him to lift. She tried to fight but her limbs would not obey.
He slammed the boot shut. Theresa put her hands to her head. Blood seeped between her fingers. She was furious. She had washed her hair with such care that afternoon. She fought to stay conscious, thinking of her mother parking right then, walking to meet her, bringing her a chocolate, or a fresh flower. Would her mother find her? She had long ago, the time Theresa had wandered away in the supermarket when she was only four. Theresa felt that same panic now, only infinitely worse.

The car started, jerking into reverse, and then moving smoothly forward. She heard a muffled conversation and a laugh. The guard at the boom? The car moved forward again. Then Theresa lost the battle against pain and fear, and slipped into the darkness.

Theresa Angelo lay on her back, legs splayed, arms flung out like a sleeping child. Her long hair was matted around her head, tumbling onto the stone floor. There were rat droppings between the coiled ropes that supported the naked mattress she lay on. Her coat had slipped to the floor. Her exposed skin was mottled, puckered with gooseflesh. Her wrists were bruised. There was bloody skin under the nails of her right hand. The contusion under her thick black hair had seeped blood all night. It was very cold, even though the sun had hoisted itself as high as it could, so deep into the winter.

Her shallow breath misted the air above her bruised mouth just regularly enough to show she was alive. Then the noise that had penetrated her unconscious mind started up again. The mournful bellow of the foghorn vibrated deep into the recesses of her mind. It sought out and found crevices of consciousness beyond the drug that had held her inert for hours. It penetrated the most hidden places of her mind and activated again the basic impulse to stay alive. Slowly, the insistent rhythm of the foghorn summoned her to consciousness, cell by cell. A pulse jumped at the base of her throat, she shivered as her body fought to keep itself warm. The fog momentarily released a ray of sun. It shot through the small barred window, striking her face.

She would not have seen it, even if she had opened her eyes, but on the shelf above her head was a twist of blue rope and a key. There was no knife – but that anyone might have at hand.

Clare awoke, anxiety gnawing, early on Saturday morning. She went for a run, buying milk on her way home. Fritz meowed in delight at the sound of her key in the lock, wrapping herself around Clare’s legs as she opened the door. Clare noticed the envelope wedged behind the hall table when she bent down to pick up the cat.

Constance again. Clare’s hands were suddenly clammy. She slit it open. A single Tarot card, grinning, enigmatic, fell out onto the floor.

The Hanged Man.

There was a slip of paper in the envelope. On one side – brushed in black ink – were two sure, familiar verticals, cut through the half X. On the other, Constance had written a reading. For rebirth: a sacrifice. From death: sometimes change. Clare’s blood ran cold. She jumped when her phone rang, putting the Hanged Man with the other three cards Constance had sent her.

‘Yes?’ she said.

‘Clare, another girl has gone missing.’

‘When?’ she asked. ‘Where?’

‘Last night. Her mother reported it immediately to Caledon Square. Somebody there thought it would be best if they
handled it. They didn’t see the link apparently between this girl going missing and the three dead girls.’

Clare heard the incredulous rage in Riedwaan’s voice.

‘It only came through to me now. And already there had been one
moer
of a
gedoente
about who gets what and why their officer can’t investigate. We might have found her already if that fucking moron’s ego hadn’t tripped him up.’

Riedwaan had had hours of investigation time stolen from him. Clare knew as well as he did that it was those few hours after an abduction that were the most likely to return the person – if not unscathed, then at least still alive. ‘Who is she?’ asked Clare. ‘What happened?

‘Her name is Theresa Angelo. Lives in Gardens with her mother. Sixteen years old. Earns some extra money doing voice-overs. Apparently she had finished one at Film Fusion at the Waterfront, then left to meet her mother. She spoke to her mother at five-thirty. The mother was still at work and they arranged to meet for the eight o’clock movie. Her mother was there on time, but Theresa didn’t arrive. She called her. The phone rang, but there was no answer. Mrs Angelo then phoned Film Fusion. The sound guy was still there, tweaking things. He said that Theresa had left straight after their session.’