Oscar was growing agitated, tugging at Clare’s arm. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
He pointed at the pictures again.
‘Are you upset that she left the drawing you gave her?’
Oscar inclined his head. His expression was unreadable.
‘Was she in a hurry to-?’
Oscar was shaking his head before she was halfway through her sentence.
‘You don’t think she would’ve left a present behind?’
Oscar nodded, this time certain. He turned to face the window that overlooked the concrete yard of the house and lifted his index finger, seeming to point to the sky. Clare frowned, struggling to see through the grime and dew misting up the glass. Oscar touched the pane. He wasn’t pointing; he was drawing, tracing a familiar shape in the condensation on the window: the scored-through heart on Clare’s bedroom window which had so startled her.
‘That was you,’ she said, ‘watching me.’
Oscar’s nod was almost imperceptible.
‘You were checking on me. Did you watch Mara, too?’
The child nodded, tears welling in his eyes. Clare’s heart went out to the fragile boy. The little Clare knew of Mara convinced her that she would not have rejected the child’s shy gesture of love.
‘And Mara wouldn’t leave a present behind, because she loved you,’ she guessed.
Oscar nodded again.
‘What happened to her, Oscar?’
He shook his head violently and then stopped, his eyes fixed behind Clare’s shoulder. She turned to see Gretchen leaning against the door frame. Clare wondered how long she’d been there.
‘Silly boy,’ Gretchen laughed, low in her throat. ‘Why would she keep your stupid pictures?’
‘When did you see her last?’ Clare asked Gretchen.
‘Sunday night,’ said Gretchen, giving it some thought. ‘She was at the bar of Der Blaue Engel. I was working.’
‘Who was she with?’
‘Juan Carlos.’ Gretchen was quick to answer. ‘Her boyfriend. She loved him, Oscar, not you.’
‘Do you know what time she left?’ asked Clare. She felt Oscar shake.
‘I did my show,’ said Gretchen. ‘I left straight after. Maybe two?
When I got home, everything was dark. I watched TV for a while, then I went to bed. She would’ve left while I was still asleep. Her flight was nine-thirty. So check-in time seven-thirty for international.’
‘You didn’t hear a taxi come? A car?’ Clare put her hand on Oscar’s shoulder.
‘No,’ Gretchen said blandly. ‘I sleep deeply. Is there anything else we can help you with, Dr Hart?’
‘No,’ said Clare. ‘Not now.’
Gretchen lingered in the doorway until Clare stood up to leave, then she turned and ascended the stairs, her blue gown sweeping over the steps. Oscar tucked the envelope into Clare’s jacket pocket as they walked back to the kitchen. He fiddled with his fishing bag, humming to himself to fill the space around him, and then he took his rod from behind the kitchen door, averting his eyes from Mara’s empty room. The sound of running water came from the bathroom upstairs.
‘You’ll excuse us, Dr Hart?’ said Meyer. ‘I have to get to work.’
George Meyer picked up his keys and walked Clare to the front gate. ‘Be a good boy, Oscar,’ he said, as the boy wheeled his bike around to the front.
‘Call me if you hear anything about Mara.’ Clare said it to George, but her hand was resting on Oscar’s cheek. She felt him nod.
forty-two
Clare cut back alongside the rubbish-snagged razor wire that sequestered the harbour from the town. She called Tamar, but her phone went straight to voicemail, so she left a message with the news about Mara. She turned in at the police station. At seven in the morning, the parking lot was empty except for Van Wyk’s white 4x4.
She pushed open the office door, her running shoe protesting against the linoleum floor. Van Wyk was engrossed in whatever was on his computer screen, his hand on the mouse. One click and the image shut down. So did his expression.
‘I’m surprised to see you here, Dr Hart.’ The hurried crackle told Clare that he had hit sleep mode. ‘After yesterday. But if you’re looking for Captain Damases, you’re a bit early.’
‘I’m always early,’ said Clare, wondering what had piqued Van Wyk’s interest in office work. ‘But this morning I also had a call. So I thought I’d come and see you about it.’
‘The media?’ Van Wyk said ‘For another interview with our… expert from South Africa? I’d say your case is dead in the water. It’s just a matter of time before we find that old desert beggar.’ He leant back in his chair, arms behind his head, legs splayed, the denim tight across his thighs. The door clicked shut behind Clare, making her jump.
‘It was Mara’s mother,’ she said. ‘Mrs Thomson.’
A pause, a heartbeat long. ‘What must I say to the mother? That her daughter got an itch for a sailor?’
‘Has it crossed your mind that something might have happened to her?’ said Clare.
Van Wyk spread out his hands and examined his fingernails. ‘If she’s dead, her body’ll pitch up sometime, and we’ll send her home in a box. If she’s alive, she’ll run out of money and go home anyway. All the same in the end.’
‘To you maybe. Not to the desperate woman I had on the phone.’
Van Wyk uncoiled himself from his chair, his pupils pin-pricks. ‘Mara was nothing but trouble. She lodged a complaint against me after we picked up one of those street kids of hers stealing in the harbour. She got me shunted into this pointless fucking unit. And now it’s my job to look after a stupid little foreign slut who can’t keep her knees together?’
‘She’s missing, Sergeant,’ said Clare.
Van Wyk was close to her now. Clare kept her eyes on his.
‘You don’t belong here, Dr Hart.’ His fingers closed around her wrists. The bones shifted when he twisted. ‘Just like Mara didn’t, so you stay away from things that don’t belong to you.’
‘Don’t you ever threaten me,’ said Clare, bringing her right knee up, fast and accurate.
Van Wyk let her go, his eyes glazing with pain as the office door flung open.
‘Morning, Clare.’ It was Karamata, cheerful and crisply dressed for the new day. ‘Morning, Van Wyk. You’re here-’ He looked from Clare to Van Wyk. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ Van Wyk managed to say. ‘I was working most of the night. Dr Hart and I were just talking about solving cases, weren’t we?’ He didn’t give Clare a chance to reply and walked down the passage, his tall, thin body cutting through a sudden flood of early-morning arrivals.
Clare flexed her wrists. She made herself breathe deeply, slowing her heart rate and ordering her jumbled thoughts. ‘He’s like a hand grenade without a pin,’ she said.
‘Oh, you mustn’t worry about him too much,’ said Karamata. ‘He’s always touchy first thing in the morning.’
‘I won’t,’ said Clare, with feeling. ‘I was worrying about Mara Thomson. Her mother called to say she never arrived home.’
Karamata stirred sugar into his tea and shook his head. ‘If we followed up every report like this, we’d never do anything else. She’ll call her mother when her money runs out.’ His cellphone rang. He nodded at Clare and went into the corridor, firing a rapid volley of Herero into the receiver.
Clare sat down at Van Wyk’s desk to get Mara’s number from the case dockets on the shared server. She found it quickly and dialled. Mara wasn’t answering. Unease, long since upgraded to anxiety, turned into fear.
Clare massaged her wrists, working out what to do, watching the screensaver on Van Wyk’s computer. Her curiosity was piqued at his unprecedented diligence. She didn’t imagine he’d been working on an expense report on
