Rita Mkhize and Riedwaan interviewed everyone who had recently seen Amore Hendricks, but three days’ work produced nothing. Chief-Superintendent Phiri decided to keep it from the press, which Riedwaan opposed bitterly, trying to convince Phiri that someone might have seen the girl, that they might come forward. Phiri had not wanted any more accusations of police incompetence and had refused to budge. Riedwaan passed everything on to Clare, but there was little to go on. Because there was nothing else for her to do, Clare immersed herself in her film research.
It was late in the afternoon when she eventually switched off her computer, so she had to rush to get ready for the party. The dress code for the Osiris Group Launch was formal; no allowance made for the ‘traditional’ that covered a multitude of sartorial sins. Clare dressed carefully in pared-down black, and pinned her hair up. She poured herself a whiskey, glad that Jakes was a few minutes late. It gave her time to collect her thoughts. She took a closer look at the promotional material that had come with the invitation. A piece of parchment fell into her lap. Intrigued, Clare smoothed it out. It was the story of the Egyptian god Osiris, betrayed by his brother then dismembered and thrown into the sea. His sister Isis eventually rescued him, restoring both body and crown to him.
On the next fold was a short CV of Otis Tohar and the Osiris Group – the two entities indistinguishable. Clare skimmed it, drawn by the grainy family photographs. Otis Tohar was the only son of a South African mother and a Lebanese father – an ambiguous identity. His father had been a doctor. The family had moved from Cape Town to Johannesburg, then to Kimberley, to Lebanon and to Sierra Leone. Tohar’s father had died, leaving his fortune to his only son. Otis Tohar had consolidated his fortune by building – so the blurb on the invitation claimed – on ‘the great humanitarian legacy of his father’. Clare was sceptical. Sierra Leone was notorious for blood diamonds and child soldiers, not humanitarian effort.
No mention was made of the shadowy girl; a sister, Clare guessed, judging by the matched black brows and luxurious hair in the photograph. She was a few years older than the awkward little boy her arm encircled. Tohar’s mother had named her son after Otis Redding. His song ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay’ had reminded her of her youth in Sea Point and her walks along the promenade. It was this, gushed the brochure, that had prompted Otis Tohar to return to the place his mother had been forced to leave in her youth.
Tohar had been very busy since selling up in Lebanon and abandoning whatever was left of his business in Sierra Leone, mused Clare. He seemed to have limitless cash. Block after beautiful art deco block had been sold to him. These were being razed, though, and in their place steel and glass titans were rearing up from the subdued land. Clare turned the parchment over in her hands as she stared ahead of her. Tohar’s latest acquisition blinked its blind neon eyes across Three Anchor Bay. It would need a very quick return on such a huge investment for him to make a profit. But the Cape Town city council, notorious for its geriatric slowness, was passing plans and quashing objections at an indecent rate.
The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Fritz’s eyes slitted in disgust as Clare pushed her off her lap to gather her bag and cloak.
Jakes Kani had pulled up right by her door, but still her stockings and shoes got wet. ‘Cats and dogs,’ said Jakes, leaning over to kiss her cheek. He handed her a towel and she rubbed herself dry. ‘You look gorgeous, Clare,’ he said.
‘You don’t look too bad yourself,’ Clare shot back, ‘considering your age.’
He laughed, hands going to the balding spot on his crown. ‘Hey, Clare, you know I don’t fight dirty.’ He started the old Mercedes and bumped off the pavement.
‘What do you know about Otis Tohar?’ Clare asked.
‘Not much,’ said Jakes. ‘Nothing concrete, except that he has clambered up Cape Town’s social ladders. But who wouldn’t if they had enough money?’
‘Don’t be nasty, Jakes, tabloid photographers like you will always hit the snakes,’ said Clare. ‘Tell me whose ladders, and how. I’m curious to know why I was invited.’
‘He loves the media, being a celebrity. That explains you, I suppose,’ Jakes looked at her sideways. She was still damn good looking, that might explain it too, although he didn’t say anything to Clare. But she really was rather past it, for some of Tohar’s sidelines. ‘I know that the mayor had his birthday party on Tohar’s yacht, the
‘Does he berth it at the Waterfront marina?’
‘He does,’ said Jakes. ‘I’ve also heard that Tohar and Kelvin Landman are pretty close.’
‘A delightful couple.’
‘Landman moved faster up the ranks of a Cape Flats gang than anyone I’ve ever heard of,’ said Jakes.
‘How did he do it?’
‘He’s sharp, has a nose for business. He consolidated business and turf. If you didn’t agree, you were dead. If you did, you were rich. Everybody figured it out after a while.’
‘He’s moved beyond local stuff, though,’ said Clare. ‘The information I’ve got about human trafficking is that it is very organised. Nothing ad hoc about this at all.’
‘I know he was in Jo’burg for a while. Not sure what he did there, but he must have made an impression. He got into trouble with the police at some stage – and next thing you know, he was asking for asylum in Holland just before ’94. He was there for years, and that’s where he really got into the big league.’
‘I suppose everyone who’s anyone in international organised crime moves through Amsterdam at some stage.’
‘
Clare remembered Landman’s fingers hard on her elbow. ‘He did. Thanks. Do you know what his focus is these days?’
‘He’s moved into town now,’ continued Jakes. ‘He bought a mansion in Clifton and he’s going legit. He’s moving into property too. That’s where he and Tohar have connected. The bastard will be submitting a tax return soon. Apparently he’s opening branches of The Isis Club from Bellville to Benoni and making a fortune. Two Isis Safari Lodges have also just opened, one outside Pretoria and one here in Cape Town. Have a look, I’ve got a brochure in the cubbyhole. Very upmarket, very secluded, specialising in catering to their overnight clients’ “wildest jungle fevers”. That is what their ad says, anyway. You’ll love their slogan: “Your wish: Her command”.’
‘You know a lot about him,’ said Clare.
‘We met last month. The Isis has started making films and I was asked to do some stills for a film shoot. For a video cover, actually. I did it, but their speciality is not really my thing. There is an almost limitless profit – if you make the right kind of movies and have good distribution,’ said Jakes as he turned into the parking area for the party guests.
‘What kind of films?’ asked Clare.
‘Oh, they do a bit of fuzzy erotica, but mainly it is the very end of the legal hard-core spectrum. I prefer women with a bit of spirit. I can’t see the fun in tying them up and gagging them before you hang them from the ceiling,’ said Jakes.
Jakes handed his keys to the valet who was dressed in Egyptian blue and gold. Clare and Jakes made their way across the thick red carpet that led to the old Sea Point Tower Hotel. The party was in the revolving pinnacle of the building. Otis Tohar had acquired the whole place eighteen months before and had kept the three floors below the original revolving restaurant as his penthouse. The rest of the hotel had been sold off as luxury apartments. Clare glanced at the guest list as the bouncer searched for her name. There were several names that she recognised – politicians whose names had been associated with shady land deals and golf estates, two ex-beauty queens, and a few entrepreneurs whose businesses would have been difficult to explain to the taxman.
‘Hart. Doctor.’ The bouncer smiled at Clare, his large finger dwarfing her name. ‘And Partner. Go up.’
They stepped into the plush private lift. Before they had a chance to draw breath, the doors opened on the top floor. Clare gasped at the view. The city lights were stitched together by the threads of the evening traffic – white headlights, red taillights. The rain had stopped and the clouds parted to reveal the moon on the horizon. The restless waves were contained behind the sea wall. Then the gap closed again.
A girl silently materialised, her hair in an elaborate Egyptian wig. She gave them champagne and took their coats without meeting their eyes. As she turned from them to greet the next offering to emerge from the elevator,
