Cornelle was gone in a flash of long legs. The look in her eyes, the tears, had not been grief, thought Clare. It had been fear. She watched the bathroom light go on and then snap off again. What was Cornelle afraid of? She put a call through to Riedwaan but his answering service kicked in before the first ring. She snapped her phone shut; Cornelle was hurtling out the door. Transformed in ten minutes by a tight black T-shirt and a skirt that could be mistaken for a belt.
‘
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Shop, I suppose.’ There was a long pause. ‘Maybe meet some friends later.’
Clare glanced over at Cornelle – imported designer skirt and sunglasses. An indiscreet double C on her handbag. ‘Where do you get the money?’ she asked, weaving in between the late afternoon traffic. ‘Where did Charnay get her money?’
‘Oh, we model,’ said Cornelle with the nonchalance of a practised almost-truth. ‘Sometimes we get gifts after a shoot. Got gifts,’ she corrected.
Charnay’s broken body flashed into Clare’s mind. A driver hooted and she swerved back into her lane. ‘Those are expensive clothes.’
Cornelle looked at her again. And again there was a shadow across her face.
‘I work hard,’ said Cornelle. ‘So did Charnay.’
Clare dropped the subject. They drove in silence as darkness gathered, the elevated highway offering them a view of the glimmering harbour. Clare turned off the highway towards the Waterfront. Dockworkers and shop girls thronged home, shoulders hunched against the cold under thin jackets.
‘Drop me here please,’ Cornelle said. ‘I’ll walk the rest of the way.’ Clare swung around the next third of the traffic circle and pulled over. She pulled the blue card she had found in Charnay’s room from her pocket. ‘Do you know this number?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Cornelle, pulling her cellphone out of her bag. ‘I’m so bad with numbers. Let me see if I’ve got it on my phone.’ She peered at the number and dialled it. A name flashed onto the small screen. Cornelle ended the call, a flush rising on her pale neck. ‘The Isis Club,’ she muttered, not meeting Clare’s eye.
‘The strip club?’ asked Clare.
‘
‘As strippers?’ asked Clare.
‘No,’ answered Cornelle, her voice very low. ‘They were making movies. We auditioned for a part.’
‘Did you get one?’ asked Clare.
‘I didn’t. It was too hard-core for me.’ Cornelle looked down at her hands. The cuticles had been bitten until they bled.
‘Did Charnay?’ asked Clare.
‘Not that I know of,’ said Cornelle, reaching for the handle.
Clare put her hand on Cornelle’s arm and handed her a card. ‘Phone me if you want to talk,’ she said.
‘I will,’ said Cornelle. ‘I mean, I won’t need to. I told you everything.’
The door slammed, muffling the thanks flung over her thin shoulder. Cornelle did not head towards the Clocktower with its evening jazz cafes. Instead she took the road wedged between the repair dock and an abandoned office block. Two men painting a Chinese ship watched her progress, turning back to their work when a directed wolf whistle failed to even register in her stride. And then she was swallowed by darkness.
12
Clare drove west, towards Sea Point. As she rounded the huge yacht basin at the Waterfront – eviscerated in preparation for new luxury apartments – she caught sight of Cornelle again and slowed, ignoring the impatient drivers behind her. The girl changed direction. She was walking away from the shops and cinemas – already starting to seethe with scantily dressed teenagers – towards the bunkered luxury of The Prince’s Hotel. She dipped out of sight, obscured by the masts of the yachts anchored in the marina. Impulsively, Clare turned and drove back in the direction she had just come from. She parked deep in the shadow of an empty building. She grabbed her bag and, pushing her arms into her coat, walked down the access road that led through the luxury apartments to the marina. She looked for Cornelle, but she seemed to have gone into The Blue Room. The bar overlooked the most expensive yachts in the basin. Clare did not slow her pace. Instead, she walked around the hotel and entered the lobby. Her well-cut clothes earned her a welcoming nod from the concierge. She slipped past the receptionist busy on a call and took the narrow service passage that led to the bar. Then she slid behind a waiter and sat down at a table that was not visible from the mirrored bar.
The Blue Room was empty except for three men drinking at a table near the entrance. Cornelle was sitting at the far end of the bar. She had exchanged her tackies for needle-heeled boots and adjusted the neckline of her T- shirt, displaying a generous cleavage as she leaned over to take a practised sip of her cocktail. As the barman turned to serve a new customer, the suited man who had bought her the drink tucked a bloated finger between her breasts, pushing her top down further. Cornelle pressed her arms against her body and smiled, spilling more of herself towards the man. Clare stared at the exposed tattoo on her breast. The same elegant verticals bisected with an X. The same design as Charnay’s. The man edged closer to the girl, slack mouth wet with anticipation. Cornelle avoided looking at him by checking her hair in the mirror behind the bar. She caught sight of Clare and shame blazed briefly in her eyes, which then glazed over. She turned her smiling mouth to the man whose left hand was moving up her naked thigh towards her crotch. His wedding band flashed in the light and then disappeared under Cornelle’s skirt. Clare saw him squeeze hard at some imagined resistance. Cornelle’s thighs parted at once. She smiled when he twisted her nipple into pertness as the barman came to take Clare’s order.
‘A whiskey and water, please. No ice.’ The young man went back to his station, busying himself with bottles and glasses. The man put a hundred-rand note on the counter and handed Cornelle her bag. She followed him obediently into the night. Clare sipped her drink, hoping that the alcohol would stop the churn in her stomach.
Clare went to pay for her drink. She passed a picture of Charnay over to the barman with the money.
‘Do you know her, Tyrone?’ she asked. He looked startled, then touched the silver name tag on his shirt. ‘I’m Dr Clare Hart.’ He shook her outstretched hand.
He picked up her picture. ‘Shame, it’s that girl they found in Sea Point, isn’t it? This is a better photo than the one they put in the paper.’
Clare nodded. ‘Charnay. Charnay Swanepoel. Did she ever come in here?’
Tyrone glanced towards the three men drinking steadily at their table, then he nodded.
‘She did come in here once or twice.’ He looked back at the picture. ‘She was pretty. My type. She looks like a fairy princess with all that hair.’
‘When was she here last?’
‘Last Friday,’ he said reluctantly.
‘Who was she here with?’
The barman did not look Clare in the eye. ‘Nobody. She left early. By herself.’
‘Why did you not tell anybody?’
‘I didn’t know that I had to,’ he replied.
Clare’s hands curled into fists. She put them into her pockets. ‘A girl is dead. Surely that worried you?’ He shifted from one foot to the other, but he didn’t reply. Clare turned away from him and walked down to the yachts rocking in the wind-chopped water. The engine of a gleaming blue and mahogany yacht purred to life. Clare had managed to control her rage – and then the barman appeared at her side.
‘She went in this direction,’ he said. ‘The same way you walked when you left – this way down to the marina.’ Clare looked down – there was a broad deck that stretched out into the water, providing access to the vessels moored there.
‘Do you know what she was doing?’ Clare asked.
‘Same as you, I suppose. Looking at the lights. It’s beautiful.’ It was. The lights gleamed like pearls in the inky
