black water. The mournful bellow of a seal was all that punctuated the quiet. The blue yacht manoeuvred – graceful as a dancer – around the quay and towards the channel that led through the harbour to the sea.
‘What a beauty,’ said the barman.
Clare admired the sleek lines of the yacht as it sliced its way down the channel. The pedestrian bridge across it reared skywards, and the tall vessel sailed out towards the open sea.
‘Who else was here last Friday when Charnay was here?’
‘No one. Only those guys you saw this evening – they are always here. It seems like we are their new hangout. They pay, though,’ he added. ‘And they tip well. Which is more than some of these yachting
‘No one else?’
‘No, nobody that I remember. But I was a little bit late coming in that evening. The trains were all over the place. As usual.’ He grimaced. ‘What do you need to do to get a boat like that?’ he asked, staring at the gracious yacht sailing away.
Clare smiled. ‘Get lucky, I suppose.’ She handed him a card. ‘You call me if you think of anything else. Anything about Charnay. Doesn’t matter if it seems trivial.’
He put the card into his pocket. ‘Thanks. Take care now.’
Clare headed towards the Waterfront. Two glasses of wine and a nigiri platter took the edge off the day. It was later than she thought when she headed back to her car, and the evening crowds had thinned. The bar at The Prince’s Hotel was busy, but the evening was chilly and the outside tables had been stacked away. She held her bag closer and quickened her stride, her key braced in her hand. She scanned the darkened street. Nothing. She let go of the tension in her shoulders and unlocked the door.
‘Hello, Dr Hart.’ The voice in her ear was chilling, the fingers gripping her elbow ice tentacles. Clare forced herself to turn and look at the man trapping her between his hard body and the car.
‘I hear you’ve been looking for me. Here I am. I thought you’d recognise me.’ He sounded disappointed.
Clare forced her mind to function. He was so close she could feel the heat of his body, but the man made no further move towards her or her car. She looked at the face, lit by a distant street lamp. It was familiar. Then he moved and the white scars etched down his cheek were visible. ‘Kelvin Landman,’ she whispered.
‘The same.’ He smiled, mouth turning up, wrinkling his scar, his eyes untouched. ‘I hear you are looking for a star.’
Clare’s mind had been so far from her film that it took her a few seconds to remember that she had put the word about that she wanted to talk to Kelvin Landman, to interview him for her film. She swallowed. ‘I wanted to interview you, yes,’ she said. ‘Get your side of the story. See how the business works.’
Kelvin Landman shrugged. ‘I am a simple man. Bit of import, bit of export. Bit of pleasure. It’s a service that I provide. There’s a demand – so why not?’ He smiled, the muscles in his neck taut.
‘Did you know Charnay Swanepoel, the girl whose body was found in Sea Point?’ Clare was irritated that her voice quavered.
‘Why? Should I?’
‘It’s meant to be your territory now,’ said Clare. She tried to free her arm from his grip. Landman held her for a single menacing second, his physical power needing no other demonstration. Then he held the door open for her.
‘Let’s do lunch. It sounds like we might have some interests in common.’
Before she could respond, he took her hand. The silver pen flashed like a knife in the moonlight. He wrote a phone number on her exposed palm. ‘Call me,’ he said, folding her hand closed, closing the door. He waited until she’d started her car and driven back towards the exit. When she glanced into her rear-view mirror he was nothing but a shadow between the trees. She kept her eyes on him as she waited for a gap in the late-night traffic. As she slipped into her lane the shadow moved in the direction of the marina.
Clare started to shake, but she managed to keep the steering-wheel steady. Rear-view mirror. Brake. Breathe. Indicate. Turn. Park. She rested her forehead on the steering-wheel. The panic was gone. She was home.
13
Dinner with Julie and Marcus was at eight. Clare reversed her car out of the garage and set off across town for her older sister’s house, a bottle of cold wine on the seat next to her. She stopped to buy sunflowers before turning up the steep road that led to the house. The grey mountain, its flanks lit for the tourists, loomed like a ghostly elephant above her.
The security gate slid open before Clare could ring the bell. Beatrice, who could now just reach the button if she stood on tiptoe, had been looking out for her. She bulleted down the stairs, and into Clare’s arms. Imogen was just behind her to rescue the wine and flowers and to be kissed on the cheek. Beatrice patted Clare’s body expertly until she came to the pocket with the chocolate bar in it. This she wolfed down before her mother was out of the front door to greet Clare.
‘Hello, Julie.’ Clare kissed her sister and accepted the affectionate hug from her brother-in-law. ‘Hi, Marcus.’
She carried Beatrice inside and plonked her on her bed. Beatrice ferreted around in the drift of soft toys. A plump and triumphant arm brandished the book she’d been looking for.
‘Read me a story, Clare. Please read me a story.’ Beatrice was already flicking through the old fairy-tale book.
Clare settled down next to her. There was no point in resisting Beatrice. One story would settle her, and then the adults could eat in peace. Clare drew her small niece inside the crook of her arm, delighting in her grubby warmth. ‘Okay, Bea, what shall we read? Cinderella? The Lemon Princess?’
‘Bluebeard,’ said Beatrice, bouncing with anticipation. ‘Bluebeard. He’s so bad!’
Clare prickled with horror at the lurid picture of Bluebeard’s wives hanging in their secret chamber. The youngest wife stood stricken, key in hand, watching the indelible bloodstain spread.
‘It’s her favourite.’ Imogen spoke from the door. She must have been watching for a while. Only a few years before, it had been Imogen demanding a bedtime story from Clare. ‘It’s gross, but she loves that story. Especially the bit when the brothers come to kill Bluebeard at the end.’
Curled against her aunt’s body, Beatrice stuck her tongue out at her big sister. She stabbed a plump finger at the old book. ‘Read, Clare, read.’ Clare read.
‘
Ladies, you should never pry,
You’ll repent it by and by!
Tis the silliest of sins;
Trouble in a trice begins. There are,
surely – more’s the woe
Lots of things you need not know.
Come, forswear it now and here -
Joy so brief that costs so dear!’
‘No morals,’ interrupted Beatrice. ‘Just the story.’ Clare could feel the small body softening towards sleep. She held Bea closer, shielding herself from thoughts of the dead girl on the promenade. Clare did not want to bring her here into her sister’s house. The story ended and Bluebeard’s resourceful wife was rescued by her brothers. Clare kissed Beatrice and tucked her in, leaving the little girl to dream of sword-fighting and vengeance.
Julie had a glass of chilled wine ready for Clare when she came through to join the rest of the family by the fire. Clare sipped it, drifting on the conversational flow of a family catching up with itself at the end of a busy day. The evening might not have been as comfortable if Riedwaan had been there. Julie carried in a gleaming copper pot and they ate at the fire – big bowls of soup and chunks of bread.
‘What happened to your hand?’ Julie touched the plaster.
‘A dog. Can you believe it?’ Clare replied.
‘Nothing to do with your investigation into human trafficking?’ Julie looked suspicious.
