kept?’
‘If they were shot out in the desert?’ asked Mouton.
‘That’s what I’m assuming,’ Clare said.
‘Then I’d say these boys were kept inside, somewhere where the temperature was even. I checked on the weather,’ said Mouton. ‘There were some pretty hot inland temperatures around when these boys were missing. Some isolated showers too.’
‘That’d explain the termites,’ interrupted Clare. ‘Sorry, Piet, go on, I was just thinking aloud.’
‘You think away, Dr Hart,’ continued Mouton. ‘Now, if they’d been outside, and someone had been there to keep the predators off them, they would’ve burnt in that sun.’
‘So where should I look?’ said Clare.
‘A well-insulated house – definitely not one of those tin pondoks. Possibly a deep cave. Somewhere where the temperature would’ve been constant.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I hope it helps.’
Clare put down the receiver and walked to the kitchen in a daze. She made tea and took it into the lounge. She put on a CD. She had missed Moby while she was away. ‘Where were they?’ Clare asked Fritz.
But the cat just purred and curled up like a comma against her back. Clare spread out the photographs of the four bodies and shattered skulls on the coffee table. She stood up, spilling the cat to the floor, and fetched her phone. ‘I need to discuss the case with Riedwaan,’ she told her baleful cat as she dialled, believing herself.
‘Faizal.’
Her heart gave a leap when she heard his voice. ‘It’s Clare.’
‘I know it’s you.’ Riedwaan was guarded.
‘I needed to talk to you… about the case,’ said Clare, watching the sea tumble against the rocks beyond the boulevard.
Riedwaan waited. In the distance, the foghorn wailed into the night. ‘Are those the terms? For us to have a conversation?’ he asked.
‘Mouton called,’ said Clare. ‘There’s a lot to discuss.’
‘You’re telling me? I’ll be there when I can,’ he said. ‘On your terms.’
thirty-two
Clare loosened her hair and leant back on the sofa, drifting with the haunting music that filled the room. The sea, moving with repetitive restlessness beyond the grey rocks, lulled her and she gave up trying to archive the fragmented information she had gleaned. Instead, she gave herself over to the pleasure of being at home, cocooned in the textures and views she had chosen. She picked up a celebrity gossip magazine that Rita must have left behind. Five pages of the antics of footballers’ wives and she was asleep, her hair tumbling over one outstretched arm.
The hand under Clare’s shirt caressed her bare skin. She arched towards it instinctively, fitting her breast into the familiar palm, a tiny involuntary gasp parting her lips as forefinger and thumb teased her sleepy nipple to a rosy peak. She breathed in the familiar smell: the tang of cigarette smoke, cold night air, biker’s leather. The low laugh pulled her awake and she brought her knee up hard, the groan telling her she was satisfyingly on target. Clare opened her eyes to see Riedwaan leaning over her. She pushed herself upright, straightening her clothes and pinning up her hair. Riedwaan sat down beside her, keeping a wary eye on Fritz, who had leapt to a belated but impressive defence of her mistress.
‘That was a nice welcome,’ he grinned. ‘The first bit.’
‘How did you get in?’ Clare was wide awake now. She sat on the edge of the couch and decided to ignore the self-satisfied smile playing in the corners of Riedwaan’s eyes.
‘Spare key.’ Riedwaan dropped it on the table.
‘You copied one?’ Clare’s skin was fiery where Riedwaan’s hand had been. ‘You broke in.’
‘You could look at it like that, I suppose.’
‘What do you mean, you could look at it like that?’ she snapped. But she was pleased to see him and he knew it.
‘I’ve brought you a peace offering.’
‘What?’
‘Coffee and a message from Shorty de Lange,’ said Riedwaan. ‘He says he’s got some news for you.’
‘I accept,’ she said, holding out her hand for the steaming espresso.
‘On one condition.’ Riedwaan held the coffee just out of her reach.
‘This is like the Gaza Strip,’ said Clare. ‘First an invasion, then unilateral conditions.’
‘It’s felt a bit like Gaza to me recently.’ Riedwaan ran his fingers along the inside of her arm. ‘But the strip sounds good.’
‘What’s the condition?’ asked Clare, folding her arms.
‘You stop being so angry with me,’ said Riedwaan.
Clare considered, her head on one side. ‘Okay,’ she capitulated. ‘It’s late and I’m tired. Give me the coffee and I’ll consider an armed truce.’
Riedwaan put the coffee down and pulled her towards him. ‘No haggling?’
‘I thought you said ballistics had something for me,’ said Clare, disentangling herself. ‘That was part of the deal.’
‘Shorty wants to meet,’ said Riedwaan, letting go reluctantly.
‘What? Now?’ Clare looked at her watch. It was close to eleven.
‘Yup. He’s waiting.’
The flag above the khaki-green shipping container that served as Cape Town’s Ballistic Unit testing range was at half-mast, indicating that the unit was in use. From inside came the muffled thud of bullets. It had to be De Lange. At eleven o’clock, his was the only car left in the parking lot. Riedwaan lit a cigarette and waited. When there was an interval, he banged on the door.
‘You still trying to kill yourself, Faizal?’ At six foot six, Shorty de Lange looked like a Viking. He pushed open the door, releasing the smell of cordite into the cold night air.
‘Sounded like Baghdad in there,’ said Riedwaan, grinding his cigarette under his heel.
‘Taxis,’ said De Lange, ‘are worse when they get going. I tell you, they’re cooking now. Three shootouts today. Two commuters dead, a little kid shot walking to school. Two drivers. It’s a fucking war.’ He tucked the AK-47 he had been testing under his arm so that he could lock up.
Clare got out of the car as Riedwaan and De Lange walked over to the low buildings that housed De Lange’s office.
‘Hi, Shorty,’ she said, joining them.
‘Clare,’ he said, a delighted smile on his face. ‘A sight for sore eyes, as always. What a pleasure to see you. You need an Irish coffee?’
‘I’d love one.’
De Lange ducked into his office, then took them through to the bar. One wall was covered with pictures of his rugby-playing days. He looked around. ‘No kettle,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to settle for whisky.’
‘Suits me,’ said Riedwaan.
‘You pour then, Faizal. One for me too. Here you go, Clare.’ De Lange tossed a folder onto the bar counter. He looked pleased with himself.
Clare flicked open the report, excitement flooding through her. She smoothed out the crisp pages. Nobody would accuse De Lange of being talkative, but his pictures were. There were two images of the striations on a bullet. They would match if you overlaid the one with the other in the same way as a fingerprint would. The concentric patterns were the unique print of the gun from which they had been fired.
‘Where did you get this?’ she asked.
‘There’s more.’ De Lange unrolled a long sheet of white paper. The image spread out on the table was an
