Clare.
‘How must I know?’ he spat. ‘She never bothered to speak to me.’
‘Where did she go when she went out?’ asked Clare.
‘To the Waterfront,’ he said. ‘That’s where they always went.’
‘They?’ queried Clare. The boy shifted his weight, regretting his slip.
‘Cornelle,’ he said. ‘They did everything together.’
‘Did you tell Captain Faizal this?’ asked Clare.
‘Nobody asked me,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, she always told my ma that she was going to sleep at Cornelle’s. And Cornelle said she was coming to sleep here. They were friends for so long that everyone stopped checking.’
‘Except you,’ said Clare. The boy looked awkward. He pointed to a framed photograph on the bookshelf. ‘There’s Charnay. And that’s Cornelle.’ The two girls were dressed in porn-star chic – like all girls their age. Cornelle was blonde and very slim, squeezed into clothes a size too small. She contrasted with the darker beauty of Charnay. Clare wondered how they had paid for these clothes. It cost a lot of money to look that cheap. Clare held the picture closer. It was difficult to work out where it had been taken. The blurred background did not look like someone’s house.
‘They worked well together,’ said J.P. He was at the door, holding it open for her. Her time was up. She put the picture down.
‘Where is Cornelle now?’
‘At school,’ he answered. ‘She was in the same class as Charnay.’
Clare followed J.P. Swanepoel to the front door. ‘J.P.,’ she said, ‘what were you doing on Friday night?’ He was motionless except for the tic-tic-tic of a vein in his neck.
‘Why?’
‘I would like to know,’ said Clare. ‘Where were you?’
‘On rugby tour.’ His voice cracked a little. ‘We went to the Boland on Friday morning. You can ask my coach.’
‘I will,’ said Clare, ‘and you let me know if you think of anything else about Charnay.’
The dead girl’s brother looked sullen. ‘Like what?’
‘Any new friends she might have made,’ said Clare.
He laughed. ‘She made a new friend every hour.’ He closed the door behind her. He was still watching through the thick, ridged glass when she opened her car door. She waved at him, but he did not wave back. She drove around the block before calling Riedwaan.
‘How did it go?’ he asked.
‘Interesting,’ said Clare. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you. There was just one thing I wanted to check now.’
‘
‘J.P. Her brother,’ said Clare. ‘Did you talk to him?’
‘Rita Mkhize did,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Why?’
‘I just wanted to check on his alibi. Can I speak to Rita?’
‘Sure,’ said Riedwaan. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Rita,’ she heard him call. ‘Clare wants to speak to you.’ He took his hand away. ‘I’ll see you later?’
‘I’ll call you,’ she said. Riedwaan handed the phone to Rita.
‘Hi, Clare,’ Rita said. ‘What did you want to know?’
‘About J.P. Swanepoel. What did you think?’
‘Not my type,’ laughed Rita. ‘And I most certainly was not his type either. A little blast from the old South Africa past.’
‘What did he tell you about his weekend?’
‘He said he’d been on rugby tour,’ said Rita.
‘And?’
‘I checked it out. His coach told me they left early Friday and were only back on Sunday evening. And that J.P. was there all the time.’
‘Okay,’ said Clare.
‘There was one other thing,’ Rita added. ‘I’m not sure if it’s important.’
‘What?’ asked Clare. Her pulse quickened.
‘He was sent off twice. Once for punching an opponent, and once for kicking someone in the scrum.’
‘Charming,’ said Clare. ‘Thanks.’
‘Any time,’ said Rita. ‘Have a good weekend if I don’t see you.’
Clare looked at her watch. It was close to the end of the school day. A chat to Cornelle would be worth the wait. Clare found Welgemoed High easily. There was only one exit – the rule now at government schools after a spate of assaults. She parked opposite a cluster of mothers chatting next to their Jeeps and BMWs.
11
Cornelle walked out of the school gates alone. She jerked at the book bag slung over her shoulder, reaching for the cigarettes in her blazer pocket as soon as she had rounded the corner. She swivelled, hip bones jutting above her grey skirt, towards Clare’s greeting.
‘Hi, Cornelle. I was hoping we could talk about Charnay.’ Clare leaned over and opened the passenger door. ‘Get in,’ said Clare. ‘I’ll drive you home.’ The girl narrowed her eyes, but the day was raw, and her cold hand was already reaching for the door. She folded herself into the passenger seat, shaking her blonde hair loose from its regulation ponytail.
‘How do you know my name?’ she asked. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Clare Hart. I’m part of the team investigating Charnay’s murder.’
‘Oh,’ said Cornelle, interested now. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I was at Charnay’s house earlier. J.P. showed me the photograph of you two. I just wanted to talk to you about her.’
Cornelle turned her head away, her hair curtaining her expression. She dragged again on the cigarette and then lit a fresh one from the glowing stump. Clare ignored the smoke.
‘What was she like?’
‘She was my friend,’ said Cornelle. ‘We used to do everything together. Before.’
‘So what happened last week?’ asked Clare. ‘Where did you go? Where did she go?’ Cornelle kept her face averted. She shrugged.
‘I don’t know. We didn’t always spend our weekends together.’
‘Charnay’s mother thought you did. What about yours?’
‘Mine doesn’t give a fuck,’ said Cornelle. She ground her half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray. ‘She wouldn’t even have noticed if I had disappeared.’ Cornelle dashed the back of her hand against her cheek. Clare could not see if there were tears.
‘Did you go out together last weekend?’ Clare persisted.
‘No.’
‘I thought you did everything together?’
‘
‘Where do you live? I’ll drive you there’ said Clare. Cornelle directed her – left, right, second left, number 32. Then she was silent. The house she pointed out was shut up, blank. Cornelle scrabbled in her bag for her keys.
‘Are you going out this evening?’ asked Clare.
‘I don’t know. To the Waterfront, I suppose.’
‘Shall I give you a lift? I’m going that way.’
Cornelle shrugged. ‘
