Inside, the air was thick with smoke. Around the pool table, girls were leaning along their cues to the advantage of their cleavages. A few couples were dancing, and waiting women nursed Coca-Colas at the bar. A group of drunken Russians working their way through a bottle of vodka at the bar looked Clare over then returned to their drink. Only two tables were occupied.
‘That’s him.’ Ragnar pointed to one table where a man sat alone. ‘The guy who pulled Gretchen out of the water.’ The man’s shirt was moulded over his lean belly, long legs stretched out, the steel caps glinting at the end of his dusty suede boots. A cigarette dangled from one tanned hand. He had tilted his chair back and his face was hidden in the shadows.
‘Is he trying to play Clint Eastwood?’ asked Clare.
‘I don’t suggest you ask him,’ said Ragnar. ‘He’s not much of a joker.’
Clare recognised some of the occupants at the other table, groaning with champagne bottles, near the stage. D’Almeida had his secretary, the beautiful Anna, on his arm. He raised a glass to Clare. Opposite him sat Goagab, in conspicuous Armani. Two heavy-set men in their forties were with them. One of the men held a delicate girl on his knee, a smile plastered over her discomfiture. The other one ran lazy eyes over Clare, his tongue flicking across his moist, parted lips.
‘Politicians?’ asked Clare.
‘Businessmen. Politicians. One and the same in this part of the world. My new bosses,’ said Ragnar. ‘They own the
‘You want to join them?’
‘Not now that I have you to myself.’ His hand brushed hers. It was disconcerting, the intimate roughness of his skin.
‘What will you have?’ he smiled.
‘A brandy, please.’
The bar was filling up as men drifted in singly and in compact, eager groups. Chinese, Spanish, Senegalese, South African, freshly showered, hair slicked, eyes darting towards the women unpeeling themselves from bar stools, the pool table.
‘When’s the show?’ Ragnar asked the barman pouring their drinks.
‘Ten minutes, maybe fifteen.’ The barman pushed across a brochure that showed a young woman – maybe twenty-five – coiled around a pole.
Five minutes later, the lights flickered, then stayed off. A prerecorded drum roll drowned out Clare’s objections. The velvet curtains opened, and a nubile blonde stepped into the spectral light, her body voluptuous beneath the transparent layers of blue chiffon, the scar beneath her left eye a slender crescent bleached white by the spotlight. Her eyes, shadowed by dark, arched brows, revealed nothing.
‘Der Blaue Engel?’ asked Clare.
‘That’s her. Gretchen von Trotha. Not yet in all her glory. Then she’s quite something,’ said Ragnar. ‘Another?’
‘One more,’ said Clare. ‘Then home?’ Her interest was piqued.
‘Nicolai,’ called Ragnar. The barman filled Clare’s glass, his eyes on her face. ‘Enjoying the show?’ he asked.
‘It works for the audience,’ she said.
Gretchen moved effortlessly, disdain infusing her movements with an erotic menace. The rowdy groups of men sat transfixed. She peeled off first one garment then another, until she stood naked except for her tattooed wings, a tinsel halo and the wisp of silk between her thighs.
A movement to Clare’s right drew her attention to D’Almeida’s table. A fat politician was snapping his fingers at the barman. Nicolai bent low for the man’s order. He looked up at Gretchen and nodded. A whispered word from Nicolai and she left the safety of the stage. The fat man leant back in his seat and beckoned her into the space between his splayed knees. She stepped closer, nipples glinting in the dim light as he tucked money into the thigh- high boot gripping her soft flesh. Her skin was milky; her limbs were smooth and firm. The shaved pubis lasciviously childlike as she twirled out of his grip and made her way to the lean man sitting alone at the table in the corner.
The man took a note and slipped it into her halo before standing up and sauntering out. Gretchen removed the rolled-up note and looked at it as she walked back to the stage, ignoring the beseeching, empty hands that reached after her.
‘I think I’ve had enough lap dancing for tonight,’ said Clare. ‘Let’s go.’
It was cold out. Clare pulled her collar up and her beanie down as they walked towards the unlit cottages.
‘If I didn’t know better, you could pass for a boy,’ said Ragnar.
‘Maybe I should be careful then,’ she said, unlocking the door. ‘Walvis Bay is not the safest town to be a boy in.’
‘You should be careful anyway, Clare.’
‘You’re the second person to tell me that.’ She turned to face him, remembering Lazarus’s clumsy attempt. ‘Is that a warning or a threat?’
‘A warning.’ Ragnar’s hand was cold on her cheek. He slid a finger down her neck, finding the warm skin under her collar. ‘From a friend.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind.’
Clare stepped away from his caress and into the cottage, ignoring his wry look as she said a swift goodnight and locked the front door. But as Ragnar’s footsteps died away and the stifling silence draped the night again, she did wonder if she’d made the right call.
nineteen
Clare woke the next morning, her limbs leaden and her head aching, but she pushed back the covers and pulled on her running clothes. She washed down two aspirin with a glass of water. The wind had come up in the night, and the unfamiliar sounds meant that her sleep had been fitful.
The bracing air and the morning light cleared her mind and she found her stride, running faster until the paved boulevard petered out into sand. There had been a high tide; straggles of seaweed lay across the path. A flock of startled flamingos took off ahead of her. Clare scanned the path to see what had disturbed them. It was Goagab in a black velvet tracksuit, complete with gold chain, approaching her.
‘Dr Hart,’ he called. Clare came to a reluctant halt. ‘You’re up early. I trust Johansson let you get to sleep at a reasonable hour.’
‘He did.’ To her annoyance, Clare found herself blushing at his innuendo.
‘I’ve got a PR nightmare on my hands with this case.’ Goagab turned around and walked alongside her. ‘I trust you’re making progress.’
‘Some,’ said Clare. ‘The groundwork: talking to people who knew Kaiser Apollis and the other two boys. The autopsy’s done, but we’ll need to wait for the forensic reports from Cape Town.’
‘Any suspects yet?’ asked Goagab, stopping beside his silver Mercedes sports car. ‘We need an arrest soon to justify the expense of foreign expertise.’
‘It’s only been a couple of days,’ said Clare. ‘And the first two victims were buried without proper autopsies, on your orders. That makes for sparse evidence.’
‘I understand,’ said Goagab, without missing a beat. ‘But there’s pressure, I’m sure you can see that. I’d appreciate it if you let me know as soon as possible what shape our killer is taking.’ He opened the car door, reached into the cubbyhole and gave her a card. ‘If you need anything, here’s my private number.’
‘What do you imagine I’d need?’ Clare turned the white square over in her hand.
‘It helps to have as many friends as possible in a strange town,’ said Goagab, sliding into his car. He pressed a button, and the window closed. For a second, Clare stared at her own pale reflection, then she slipped the card into her jacket pocket and ran back, but the unexpected meeting had put her off her stride.
By seven-thirty Clare was showered, dressed and breakfasted, her scattered thoughts in order again. She had time to see Mara Thomson before she met Tamar at the police station. She locked up, taking her small bag of
