was gone.
Walvis Bay still wasn’t much to look at. The town huddled around the harbour, ready to suck what it could from passing ships. The Walvis Bay police station faced a black coal-heap that waited to be loaded onto increasingly intermittent trains from the uranium mines deep in the desert. The gaunt cranes were sinister against the leaden sky. A seagull startled when Clare slammed her car door, its cry harsh on the raw air.
‘Not as nice a view as you have in Cape Town, Dr Hart,’ said Van Wyk, his gaze a lazy trawl across her body as she walked ahead of him. The fine hairs on Clare’s neck rose.
The station was a low, featureless building with grenade mesh on all the windows. Someone must have thought that swimming-pool blue would make it more cheerful, but the coal dust had settled on every available surface. Two outlandishly pink pots marked the entrance, but all that flowered in them were cigarette butts. A few lipstick-stained, most not.
A stocky man was putting out a cigarette as they walked up the steps.
‘Sergeant Elias Karamata, this is Dr Hart,’ said Tamar. ‘Elias is also working with us on the case.’
‘Welcome to Namibia, Doctor.’
‘Please call me Clare,’ she said. Karamata looked like a prize-fighter – bull neck, broad shoulders – but his handshake was gentle, his smile warm. ‘It’s good to be back.’
‘You’ve been here before?’ asked Karamata, pleased.
‘A couple of years ago,’ said Clare, filling in a visitor’s form. ‘I made a documentary about the fishing industry.’
‘All that corruption business is cleared up now.’
‘Elias would be better off working for the Walvis Bay Tourism Board,’ Tamar interjected. ‘He spends his spare time trying to persuade me that it’s heaven on earth.’
‘People cry twice in Walvis Bay, Captain,’ said Karamata, shaking his head. ‘Once when they get here, once when they leave. You’ll grow to love it too.’
Clare followed Tamar down the dim passage. Right at the end, a tattered sign saying ‘Sexual Violence & Murder’ was sticky-taped to the door.
‘Welcome to S ’n’ M.’ Tamar gave the door a practised kick and it swung open, revealing a surprisingly spacious office. There were four new desks, each with a plastic-covered computer.
‘This is where Van Wyk and Elias work,’ Tamar said. ‘You can use that computer by the window.’
‘It looks brand new,’ said Clare.
‘It is,’ said Tamar. ‘I got Elias after the marine-poaching unit was closed down, because there’s nothing left to poach. Van Wyk was transferred from the vice squad.’
‘Why was he moved?’
‘Gender-based violence is the government’s flavour of the month, so in theory it was a promotion.’
‘Someone should let him know,’ said Clare.
Tamar led the way to her own office. It was private and painted a sunny yellow. One corner of the room was covered with children’s pictures. There were toys and two red beanbags next to the blue sofa, and a low table was covered with paper and crayons.
‘The kiddies’ safe corner,’ she explained. Her soft mouth hard as she picked up a drawing and handed it to Clare. It was of a child’s idealised house – red door, cat on the window sill, yellow sun smiling in the corner, smoke curling from the chimney. The family stood on green grass. A little girl, her head haloed with ribbons, with panda eyes. A mummy with bruises to match. A suited daddy with bunched fists, his groin scored out with black crayon. Someone had written ‘Joy’ at the bottom of the page.
‘Her name,’ said Tamar. ‘I went to her funeral last week. Her stepfather beat her to death. Said she was cheeky.’
‘How old was she?’ asked Clare.
‘Six.’ Tamar’s voice wavered.
On the wall were framed photographs of a laughing boy of eleven and a dimpled little girl dressed in Barbie pink.
‘She’s pretty,’ said Clare. ‘Your kids?’
‘My sister’s. She passed away, so they live with me now.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Clare.
‘They’re sweet kids.’ Tamar patted her belly. ‘This one’ll be born into an instant family. You’ve got no children?’
‘Not for me,’ said Clare. ‘I’m an aunt though. My older sister has two girls.’
Tamar put on the kettle. ‘Some tea?’
‘Please. Rooibos?’ asked Clare.
‘The only thing for lady detectives,’ Tamar said with a grin, handing her a cup. ‘Here’s a schedule.’ She pulled out a sheet of paper with a list of names and dates. ‘The city manager wants to meet you.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Clare, ‘but why does he want to see me?’
‘You’re a novelty and this murder has been a shock. Usually the only murders we get are the odd prostitute floating in the harbour or a drunken sailor stabbed in a shebeen.’
‘Or little girls like Joy,’ murmured Clare.
‘Or little girls like Joy, yes.’ Tamar’s cup clattered in its saucer. ‘My decision to bring in outside help hasn’t been unanimously welcomed,’ she said. ‘Serial killers don’t quite fit in with Walvis Bay’s new vision of itself as a tourist Mecca.’
‘Is this a bit of a political minefield for you?’
‘That,’ said Tamar,’ is an understatement. Important people have been jumpy since the fishing collapsed. They’ve pinned all their hopes on tourism, and dead boys don’t attract many tourists.’
‘I’m going to need a bit of specialised sightseeing.’ Clare turned her attention back to the schedule.
‘Elias will be taking you tomorrow,’ said Tamar. ‘He was born and bred here, one of the few, so he knows this place like the back of his hand. He even speaks the language the Topnaars speak.’
‘Topnaars?’ Clare frowned. ‘Are they those desert people?’ She vaguely remembered them from her previous stay.
‘That’s right. They live in the Kuiseb River and know the desert really well. You probably saw their huts when you came in to land this morning.’
‘I did,’ said Clare. ‘White goats all over the dunes. Looked like snow for a second.’
‘That’s them,’ said Tamar. She put her teacup aside. ‘I need to eat something before our meeting with the big boys; otherwise I’ll unravel.’
nine
‘The Venus Bakery. This is the best place to eat,’ said Tamar, parking under a palm tree on the other side of town. A group of boys uncurled themselves from its base.
‘I’ll watch your car,’ said the tallest boy.
The bakery was on a corner, the walls painted a festive blue. Succulent cakes and pies were on display behind the glass counters of the self-service area, behind which were several tables, most full with a satisfied-looking lunch crowd.
‘Why aren’t you at school, Lazarus?’
‘Sorry, Miss.’ The boy looked down at his shoes, his shoulders bowed in well-practised contrition until Tamar walked past him. Then he moved his hustle over to the next car, pushing a smaller boy out of the way when he saw that they were tourists. He was wearing a grubby white shirt with a silver fish emblazoned on it.
‘Pesca-Marina Fishing’s still going?’ Clare recalled the fishing company from her documentary.
‘It is. One of the few. The company sponsors anything and everything. They’re trying to clear their name of fishing this coast to death. Calvin Goagab, the city manager, who you’ll meet later, has shares in it. They only do specialised fishing now, export added-value products.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Clare, following Tamar to a table in the corner.
