‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You’re going next week?’ Phiri straightened things on his desk.
‘Sunday.’
‘Close the door, Faizal.’
Riedwaan did so, praying that there would be no coffee.
‘I signed that lot off yesterday.’ Phiri pointed to the file. ‘And it’s been logged by Miss La Grange.’
‘I’m surprised that Susannah processed me so fast.’
Susannah la Grange was Phiri’s gimlet-eyed secretary. She shared Phiri’s fanatical devotion to order; she was also devoted to the man himself. She was Riedwaan’s nemesis, returning his sloppy leave forms and expense accounting with metronymic regularity.
‘Your paperwork shows no sign of improvement, Faizal.’ Phiri looked him in the eye for the first time. ‘But I asked Miss La Grange to expedite it, not something I intend to make a habit.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Riedwaan said again, wondering where this was headed.
‘I had a call this morning,’ said Phiri, ‘asking me to let things… drift for a while.’
‘You mean someone asked you to kill the investigation?’ Riedwaan did not like the idea of Clare so far from home with her back-up pulled away from her. ‘Why?’
‘I’d be hard-pressed to say it was as definite as that. Perhaps drift was not quite the right word.’
‘Who called and what did they want?’
‘It was… indirect.’ Phiri steepled his fingers in his ecclesiastical manner. ‘A whisper in a diplomatic ear over cocktails, a private call to me.’
‘Clare is up there, already working on it.’
‘Faizal, Faizal. I know she is. Relax and stop thinking about hitting me. It’s not God’s answer to everything.’
Riedwaan uncurled his fists and put his hands behind his back. He tried the deep breathing that the last cop shrink had taught him. It worked. He stopped wanting to punch Phiri and tried listening to him instead. ‘What was the concern?’ he asked.
‘My little bird told me that it’d be better if the Namibian police handled this on their own.’
‘A serial killer?’ Riedwaan laughed. ‘Apart from Captain Damases, most of Nampol wouldn’t know one if he came at them with a meat cleaver.’
‘Faizal, that’s most uncomradely. That’s not what we need right now.’
‘What does Captain Damases say?’
‘I spoke to her this morning. She told me things were progressing as well as could be expected for such a complex case.’
‘So who’s complaining?’
‘Hard to say. It’s all been unofficial, circuitous,’ said Phiri. ‘There seems to be some military interest in the case.’
‘Military?’ said Riedwaan, surprised.
‘Rooibank, where one of the bodies was found, is on the border of an old military site that has a sensitive land claim on it. Some desert nomads, I understand. The Namibians are concerned that all this attention will stir up dormant issues like what happened in Botswana with the San.’
‘This sounds ridiculous,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Have you told Clare?’
‘It’s not ridiculous, Faizal. It’s politics. But so far, I’ve told no one.’ Phiri controlled his irritation but with visible effort. ‘When are you going up?’
‘Clare’s coming to Cape Town this weekend with the physical evidence. I was thinking of leaving on Sunday and going up by bike.’
‘Good. Better than flying, under the circumstances.’ Phiri walked to the door, but he did not open it. ‘You might want to keep out of the station for the next couple of days. Not that you’d break the record for regular attendance, Faizal.’
‘Why might I want to do that, sir?’ Riedwaan asked with exaggerated politeness.
‘If you’re not here, Faizal, I can’t cancel your trip.’ Phiri’s eyes gave nothing away. ‘If it comes to that, of course.’
‘Clare?’ Riedwaan started, not sure how to articulate the unease he was feeling.
‘She’ll be fine. She knows how to look after herself, I’m sure,’ said Phiri.
Riedwaan stopped at the door. ‘This military angle… What is it? Something new?’
‘No, no,’ said Phiri. ‘It’s just that this is a volatile region, awash with new money and old grudges.’
twenty-five
Helena Kotze dropped off her preliminary report with Clare when she was back at the station. Clare scanned through it, most of Helena’s findings confirming things she already knew. There was nothing revealing from the geologist boyfriend either, though some of the sand on the boy’s shoes was from surprisingly far inland. There were still a couple of things that Clare could confirm once ballistics and forensics in Cape Town had had a look. She flipped through to the histology report, hoping that it would give her something new. The carpaccio-thin slices of lung lining that Helena had stared at through her microscope had shown a residue of deep-fried batter and cayenne pepper. Fast food, spicy chicken, so probably Portuguese. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start. It made sense of the till slip Tamar had found in Kaiser’s pocket. Clare turned the receipt over, wondering if the boy had known it was going to be his last meal. Twenty-four Namibian dollars was expensive for a destitute child.
Clare spread out a tourist map of Walvis Bay. The list of food outlets was unimpressive. She eliminated the restaurants, as she did the township’s fish-and-chip shops and shebeens. They never gave receipts. That left five establishments, two of which were Portuguese takeaways.
The closest one was the Madeira, right at the entrance to the docks. It caught the trade from the harbour and from the factories that spewed out their workers at lunch times. A few men in blue overalls sat outside eating fish and vinegary chips with their fingers as Clare pulled up. Inside, a young woman with braided hair was texting with one hand, cigarette dangling from the other. Clare ordered a Coke from the pasty girl serving. The girl dragged herself off her stool and brought Clare her drink.
‘Three-fifty.’
‘Could I have a slip?’ Clare asked.
The girl rolled her eyes. ‘The people who eat here don’t have expense accounts,’ she said, pocketing the money Clare had given her for the drink.
In the centre of town, the streets had emptied of adults, filling instead with groups of raucous children heading home, white shirts grimy after a day of school. The Lisboa Inn was quiet. An old man was reading the takeaway menu. Clare approached the counter and asked for chicken peri-peri.
‘Sorry, Miss. Just fish or Russians.’ The pink sausages glistened in a greasy tray. Behind him, a score of splayed carcasses basted in the rotisserie oven. ‘Electricity went this morning. Chicken’s ready in half an hour.’
‘No fried chicken?’
‘No.’ The cashier folded his hands across his belly, ending the conversation. His eyes moved to the man who had stepped up next to Clare. ‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘Two Russians.’ The Spanish cadences of the customer’s accent lilted his English. He clicked his rosary beads as he recited the rest of his order. ‘Onion rings, chips, two Cokes.’ The man turned to face Clare. ‘Try Lover’s Hill.’ His features were sculpted, his skin fine beneath the sunburn. ‘They do the best chicken there. Spicy. Hot.’
‘I’ll try it then,’ said Clare, trying to place the man’s face.
‘At the end of the Lagoon, you find it there. Sit and watch the flamingos while you eat.’ He flashed her a smile and turned to collect his order.
‘Thanks.’ Clare left the gloom of the cafe, blinded by the sun that had fought off the sea mist outside.
‘Hello, Dr Hart.’ Mara’s hand on Clare’s arm was strong for such a skinny girl.
‘Hello, Mara,’ said Clare. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Juan Carlos got some shore leave. We’re just getting something to eat.’
