‘Don’t be so bad-tempered, Clare. I’m sure you’re not busy right now.’
‘Jakes, I’ve known you long enough to know that you weren’t sitting at home worrying about how lonely I might be. What do you want?’
‘Clare,’ he said affectionately. ‘Always straight for the jugular.’ He paused, waiting for her to defend herself. When she didn’t, he decided that he may as well get to the point before she put the phone down. ‘Clare, baby, are you by any chance invited to that Osiris Group party?’
‘Osiris, Osiris, Osiris. Everybody is talking about them and they are ruining my neighbourhood.’
‘Well, are you?’ insisted Jakes.
‘I am invited.’
‘Don’t you need a date?’
Clare said nothing.
‘Come on, don’t be such an ice-queen,’ he wheedled.
Clare sighed. This was how he got women into bed: there didn’t seem to be anything to do except give in. ‘Okay, Jakes. Just this once.’
‘Can I pick you up?’ he asked.
‘Okay,’ said Clare. ‘Pick me up at seven. And remember – you owe me.’
‘Of course,’ said Jakes. ‘I’ll see you then.’ She heard a girl’s sultry laugh behind his voice. Clare switched the phone off. She knew what that girl would look like – slim, supple, hair brushing honey-brown shoulders. No more than twenty, seventeen if Jakes had his wish. Clare got back into bed smiling. She reckoned Jakes had, at forty-five, about two more girlfriends to go before he’d have to pay by the hour for his dream girls. She turned out the light. Jakes Kani was a good photographer. Even though he sold his pictures to anybody who’d pay, he knew how to make a woman enjoy her body. He had loved her, in his way, and he could make her laugh.
The Osiris party would be more fun with him there. She turned over to sleep, wishing for a moment that the warm weight against her back was not a cat, but a man.
15
Apart from a long run on Saturday afternoon and a hastily eaten bowl of pasta at Giovanni’s, Clare worked on the documentary all Saturday. She was up and working again on Sunday morning, tiredness banished by coffee. She emailed Riedwaan, asking him to check the logs of the private yachts at the Waterfront marina. She wanted to know who owned them and who had skippered them during the time Charnay had been missing. Clare had arranged to see the old man who had found Charnay. He lived five blocks from her flat so she walked, the sun warm on her back. She scanned the name tags that accompanied the buzzers outside the San Souci apartment block. There he was, Harry Rabinowitz: 8 A. She pressed. A voice crackled. ‘Dr Hart?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’
The door buzzed and she pushed it open. The foyer had that deserted feeling holiday flats have out of season. Post was piled in lopsided heaps on top of full letterboxes. The yellowed indoor plant was forlorn in its dry pot, choked by a ruff of discarded cigarette ends. The lift was clean, though, and had recently been serviced – Clare checked this before pressing the button for the eighth floor. She tamped down the small flicker of panic that came with the uprush of the steel box.
The doors opened, Harry Rabinowitz was waiting for her. He was older than she had imagined. His wiry, athletic body belied the whiteness of his hair. He had been wearing a cap when she had seen him cover the dead girl.
‘Welcome, Dr Hart.’ His handshake was firm, his warm skin paper dry. He shepherded her towards his flat at the end of the dark corridor. He opened the door and sunlight splashed over them. The view was breathtaking, the expanse of ocean cradled by the crescent of land that curved north. The sturdy weight of Robben Island gave the view focus. It contrasted with the red and blue cargo ships heading towards the harbour. A tray was laid with delicate china, silver sugar tongs. The aroma of fresh coffee was strong.
‘Do sit down, Dr Hart.’ He pointed to a red leather chair and waited until she sat down. ‘Can I offer you some coffee? Some cake?’
Clare wanted neither, but accepted both. ‘It’s very kind of you to see me.’
‘Not at all. The pleasure is mine.’ Clare looked around the flat. It had been tidied in preparation for her visit. Loneliness had trans formed a stranger coming to ask questions into a rare social occasion. There were amateurish swipes in the dust on the dark tables that cluttered the space between the chairs. She set her cup down and got up to look at the framed photographs on the crowded bookshelf.
‘Your children?’ she asked, turning to him, holding the first picture that came to hand. It was of a man with his arm around a too-thin woman whose smile failed to mask her irritation. Seated in front of them were three children in the unattractive dress of a formal photograph. The boys were suety, sullen. The girl, about sixteen, was arresting: a sculpted face surrounded by a shock of curls. Winged brows framed her black eyes.
‘What a beautiful girl,’ said Clare.
‘My Rachel. My son’s daughter. They live in New York.’ He stared at the photograph, perhaps musing on the girl who was now moving into a complex American adolescence that he could not comprehend. A beloved stranger to him.
‘The other girl.’ He hesitated, unsure how to go on. ‘The one I found – would she be the same age?’ Clare nodded. She did not point out how similar the two looked. Perhaps that was something that Mr Rabinowitz would prefer not to see.
‘Would you take a walk with me?’ she asked. ‘Back along the promenade? Perhaps you could tell me what you saw.’ He looked anxious. ‘I know it will be painful, but maybe you will remember something else. Something more than you told the police.’
He weighed that up. ‘All right, my dear, all right.’ He walked back to the hallway and picked up his coat. A woman’s coat hung next to it, some ten years out of date. It had not been moved for a long time. The creases formed on the hook had faded. The fabric would eventually disintegrate. Clare still had her coat on, so she picked up her bag and stepped ahead of him through the front door. She held the lift while he locked and relocked the security doors that kept him safe. They were silent in the lift – both watching the winking light that indicated the progress of their journey back to street level.
They crossed Beach Road, taking a short cut through the park where a couple of children played, watched by their bored nannies. The vagrants had stirred to life and were drifting into the cold day. Mr Rabinowitz greeted some of the older ones. The younger men – less battered, more bitter – he did not seem to know.
A woman was selling flowers. ‘The flowers,’ Mr Rabinowitz said more to himself than to Clare. ‘At least there was something lovely with her.’ The old man stopped. ‘Which would be best for a young girl, Mavis?’ he asked.
‘Those irises. Just thirty rand a bunch. I’ll give you two for fifty,’ she said. Harry handed her the money and the flower seller wrapped the flowers.
‘She’s
‘I usually walk every day, my dear, but this is the first time I have been out since I found her.’ He fell into step with Clare on the curve of the promenade. The sea wall obscured the ocean, but every now and then the hidden waves tossed up arcs of spray that pirouetted then splashed at their feet. They were approaching Three Anchor Bay, where Charnay Swanepoel’s broken young body had been found.
‘I was out earlier than usual that morning. I had a meeting with my accountant and I didn’t want to be late.’ Clare already knew this, as she had read Riedwaan’s interview transcripts. Xavier Ndoro, the security guard, had not seen him leave. According to his interview, he had been making coffee, and usually no one left before six in the morning. So Mr Rabinowitz must have let himself out.
‘Tell me what happened,’ said Clare. ‘Everything. Each detail. As if you were replaying a movie. Tell me details that might seem unimportant, out of focus.’ Harry pointed to a bench and they sat down. The wind had shifted around and was coming hard off the sea. There was ice on its breath.
‘I came out of my building as usual. It was dark. No one about. The homeless were all huddled together around those ablution blocks there.’ Clare looked at them, five hundred metres from where they sat, from where the girl had been found. She was glad she was too far away to smell the foetid air they exuded. ‘It was misty. I remember
