hearing the foghorn as I stepped onto the promenade.’
‘When did you notice her?’ asked Clare.
‘It was as I rounded this corner where we’re sitting now. See those tamarisks?’ He pointed to the wind-crippled trees. ‘They’re small, but they obscure your view of this little bay here. As I came round here, I saw her near those steps.’ He dabbed at his watery eyes. ‘I thought it was a dead dog. Or a heap of rubbish. I was nearly on top of her before I realised it was a girl.’ Harry Rabinowitz leaned forward and rubbed his foot. ‘She was very beautiful.’
‘Have you hurt yourself?’ asked Clare, looking down as he rubbed.
‘I stubbed my foot against something that morning. Maybe one of those manhole covers. The council is so hopeless with maintenance these days that people are always hurting themselves.’
They got up to walk to the place where Charnay had lain. The flowers people had left for her had been whipped away by the wind or scavenged by vagrants and sold for a few rand. Enough to buy cheap wine or a bottle of methylated spirits.
The old man took off his hat and closed his eyes. Clare looked up from where the body had lain, towards the sea. There was a flight of stairs fifty metres away, which led down to the jagged rocks that were exposed only at low tide. High tide had been at five forty-five the morning the body was found. It had been full moon, so the water would have been deep. At spring tide the rocks were submerged, so a small craft could have reached the bottom of the steps.
She turned her back to the sea. The car park was close enough for her to make out what takeaways people were eating. Whoever had dumped Charnay could as easily have parked there. It would have taken ten seconds to carry the girl – she had only weighed fifty kilograms – and place her here for Harry to find, posed as carefully as a model for a shoot.
Clare pulled her coat closed and walked back. The large manhole cover was set into its frame. Either this was not the one that had injured Harry’s foot or the council had fixed it. Harry, she noticed, had replaced his hat. She sat down next to him.
‘It was so quiet that morning,’ he said. ‘You know how the fog sometimes absorbs sound back into itself?’ Clare nodded. ‘There was no traffic either, but I thought that just after I found her I heard a car engine. I looked up because I was hoping for help. But there were no lights, no movement. Just the sound, but as if it was coming from below. The fog distorts things, disorientates you. And then someone came. That group of lady walkers. Some time afterwards, the police. They were quick. The station is right there behind the garage.’ Harry did not know that Clare had also been there, that she had seen him looking at the dead girl, his face suffused with yearning and anger.
‘Anything else you remember, Mr Rabinowitz?’ Clare asked into the long silence
‘You know, Dr Hart, I did hear that car again after I found her. It sounded as if it idled for a bit. Maybe waiting for the lights to change.’ Clare checked the road. There were no traffic lights. ‘Do you know what kind of car it was?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I did look up, but the driver must have just accelerated because all I registered was a flash of something low, dark.’
‘Was it black?’ Clare asked.
Harry sifted through the fragmented memories of that morning. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I think it was blue. A dark blue. Powerful engine, too.’
He turned from her and took the irises out from the shelter of his coat. He separated the most perfect one from the bunch and put it where the girl’s body had lain on the gum-pocked pavement. The rest he took to the water’s edge. He flung the violet blooms into the air and the wind lifted them, carrying them for a few seconds before discarding them to the churning waves below. Harry put his hands back in his pockets and headed back home. Clare watched the flowers, glad that the old man did not see them being dashed against the rocks till they blended with the snared rubbish.
She caught up with him and they walked in silence till they reached her car. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘I’ll head for home from here.’
‘Well, good luck, my dear.’ He was disappointed she wasn’t coming up for a second coffee. Harry watched her until her car turned the corner, then he went upstairs to his flat. Once inside, he heated a cup of coffee in the microwave and went to sit at his computer. No one would phone him today so it didn’t matter how long he spent on the Internet. He wrote a long email to his son in America. He knew he wouldn’t get more than a two-line reply. Mr Rabinowitz wondered if his boy even read them. Later he would email Rachel, glad she was far away from here. She, at least, would answer.
16
Clare picked up the Sunday papers and a takeaway on her way home, remembering to get cat food too. Fritz had been incensed that morning when she hadn’t been fed. The phone rang as she was fumbling with the key of her security gate. She got in just in time to answer it.
‘Clare?’ It was Rita Mkhize.
‘Hi, Rita. What’s happening?’ asked Clare, anxiety tightening her throat.
‘It’s bad news,
‘When? Who?’
‘Today. Right now. I took the call but I can’t get hold of Captain Faizal. He’s not picking up his phone. I thought maybe he was with you.’
‘He’s not,’ said Clare curtly.
‘Sorry, Clare… I didn’t mean anything, but we need him.’
‘I’ll go past Riedwaan’s house and see if he’s there.’
‘Thanks, Clare. There is chaos down here.’
Clare quickly poured some food into Fritz’s bowl and went to find Riedwaan. Parking on Signal Street, she crossed the cobbled road. There was no sign of life, but she could hear music. She knocked. Nothing.
‘Riedwaan?’ she called, knocking louder.
‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s Clare. Let me in.’ The door opened.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘It’s Sunday.’
‘Your phone was off. Rita called me.’
Riedwaan stiffened. ‘Now what?’
‘Another girl is missing. Here, speak to her.’ Clare dialled Rita Mkhize’s number and handed the phone to Riedwaan. She followed him inside. It looked as if Riedwaan had been doing housework. There was a pile of laundry on the kitchen floor. The sink was filled with a week’s worth of dishes.
‘Mkhize? Riedwaan Faizal here.’ He picked up a pen and jotted down notes. He handed Clare’s phone back to her, his face grim.
‘Who?’ asked Clare. ‘Where?’
‘Amore Hendricks: the only daughter of elderly parents, a dancer, current Miss Panorama High. Slim, seventeen, long black hair. Last seen on Saturday when a family friend dropped her off at Canal Walk shopping mall to meet a friend. Reported missing by her father. I’d better get down to the station. Rita’s waiting for me – and so is Phiri. He’s on the warpath, as you can imagine, worrying whether the press has already got wind of it. We’ll get the interviews started.’
Riedwaan had his keys in his hand. Clare handed him his jacket. ‘I’ll call you when I’ve got some news.’ He touched Clare’s cheek.
‘No news won’t be good news,’ said Clare, closing Riedwaan’s door behind them.
‘I hope you’re wrong.’
Clare grimaced, then drove home into the cold fog settling along the promenade.
17
