her short shift parted to reveal a tattoo. Clare stared, startled by its familiarity. The girl, sensing that she was being looked at, turned around. Her hostess’s smile evaporated, leaving her face blank, her eyes expressionless. Then she turned back again to smile and wiggle for the man who had stepped out of the lift. He tested the firmness of her bottom as one would test a peach before eating it. Clare turned and followed Jakes into a room that had been converted into an opulent Pharaoh’s court for the night.
‘Money certainly doesn’t buy you taste,’ said Jakes under his breath while waving at someone across the room. Clare circulated with Jakes, admiring his social dexterity. He already had several fading models around him, competing for lens space.
‘Chick magnet,’ Clare muttered. She went in search of a drink.
An obese politician, whose incompetence seemed directly proportional to the number of companies desperate to have him on their boards, cornered her at the bar. Clare extricated herself as the man piled his plate high with canapes offered to him by a succulent waitress.
Going over to the window, she noticed with surprise that she could see her flat from up there. She had bought it with the first royalty cheque she had received for the book she had written about the gang rape of her beloved twin. Blood money was what Julie called it. Clare had divided the income. Half for her, half for Constance.
She scanned the promenade where Charnay Swanepoel’s body had been dumped. If the girl’s family had made a shrine, the rain had washed it clear. The investigation team was no closer to solving Charnay’s murder, even though the police lab had analysed the DNA traces on the body and it looked like they might be searching for two men. The blood group of the skin under the dead girl’s nails was one group, the semen traces indicated another. Riedwaan thought there could be two or more people involved. Clare thought not. The posthumous mutilations spoke to her of one man. Nothing had turned up. No cellphone records, no witness. Nothing on the CCTV. The police had checked – only to find that the camera along that stretch of the promenade was fake. Clare felt a surge of guilt that the days since Charnay’s murder had stretched first into one week and then another. That silence was ominous. And now another girl had vanished. Clare suddenly wished she was home.
She turned back to the vast room, which was swathed in blue velvet. It was filling up rapidly. She greeted a senior policeman who had an expensive-looking woman on his arm. Clare had once interviewed him about proposed anti-trafficking legislation. He shifted uncomfortably when he recognised Clare, apparently unable to remember her name.
Otis Tohar had not yet arrived, but Kelvin Landman was there. He was sprawled on the largest of the couches, surrounded by his entourage. Clare walked closer, but stopped as a waitress brought them a bottle of single malt. One of the men pulled the waitress towards him, grinding her into his lap, one hand mauling her small breasts. Landman watched, amused.
Just then, a soft flurry of sound blew from the entrance through the scattered conversations. Otis Tohar, tall and striking, paused just long enough to be sure that all eyes were on him. Trailing in his wake was a woman who wore her exotic beauty like a mask. Clare jumped at the sudden hand on her arm. One of Kelvin Landman’s companions was at her elbow.
‘Excuse me, Dr Hart. Mr Landman says you must join us.’ Clare looked across at Landman. He inclined his head towards her in greeting. The waitress, Clare noted with relief, had escaped.
‘Hello again, Dr Hart,’ said Kelvin Landman, standing as Clare reached the table. ‘Please join us.’ A glance dislodged two of the men seated close to him. Clare sat down. ‘Can I offer you a whiskey?’ He handed her a glass, not waiting for her to reply. Clare took it but did not drink.
‘A fine couple, Otis Tohar and Tatiana,’ said Landman, looking speculatively at the woman.
Clare looked over at Tohar. ‘Tatiana? That sounds Russian.’
‘Could be. Cape Town is an international city these days.’
Clare added some water to her drink.
‘I’m glad to see you, Dr Hart. I hope your research is going well?’ He paused, the question hanging between them.
Clare smiled at him, holding his gaze. ‘I have spoken to some of the women. I look forward to hearing what you have to say.’
‘I create work,’ said Landman, leaning forward. ‘With forty per cent unemployment in the country, that can only be a good thing. Where I come from, people are proud of me. They eat. Their kids go to school.’
Clare swirled the whiskey, the crystal refracting the golden liquid, and waited for him to continue.
‘I provide a service. Where there is a demand, I find a supply. Look at these girls.’ He gestured towards the half-naked waitresses, several of whom looked far too young to be up this late. ‘If it wasn’t for me these girls wouldn’t be working, their families wouldn’t be eating.’ Landman smiled, top lip curling back, revealing his teeth.
‘Why don’t you come to one of my clubs, Dr Hart? Come to the Isis. You’ll be my guest. You can meet some of my girls.’ He handed her a card. On it was a familiar city address. ‘Eleven o’clock, Saturday?’
‘Thank you,’ said Clare. ‘Shall we record the interview there?’
‘Why not?’ he replied. He leaned towards her, placing one manicured hand on her exposed knee. Clare shivered involuntarily. ‘But no cameraman. No sound man. Only you.’ Clare swallowed. His physical presence was unnerving. She looked down at the card.
‘Fine,’ she agreed. She slipped the card into her bag and got up to leave. ‘I’ll see you there at eleven.’ Her knee felt hot when he removed his hand.
Otis Tohar’s guests were drinking steadily. He circulated, slapping fawning politicians on the back, complimenting the overweight wives of eager businessmen. Clare watched Tatiana as she drifted unnoticed out of his orbit. She had bruises blooming like bracts of irises up her arms. She turned to see where Tohar was, then drew aside a heavy blue curtain and stepped behind it.
Clare followed her into the concealed passage. Ahead was a staircase spiralling down to the floor below and into Tohar’s private quarters. Clare heard whimpering. There was a sliver of light from a door at the end of the passage. Clare pushed it open to reveal an editing suite and, behind it, a home cinema. The woman was folded into the director’s chair, her back to a phalanx of video cases packed into glass-fronted shelves. Her slender arms were clenched with knuckle-whitening force around her knees. Her head was bent, the black hair a parted curtain. On her exposed neck was the tattoo: two verticals scored through with an X. Clare repressed the urge to reach out and touch it.
‘Excuse me, Tatiana,’ said Clare. ‘Is something wrong?’
Tatiana’s head snapped up, a video cassette in her hand. Her eyes were blank for a moment and then they blazed with fury. She stood up and pushed past Clare.
Clare looked at the cover left behind on the desk. It was blank. There were banks of tapes, but the shelf above the edit suite was locked. Each of the videos had the Isis logo stuck to it. The lock was flimsy. Clare tried to twist it open, but before she could do so, she heard voices. She slipped back into the passage, her heart pounding. She was halfway up the stairs when whoever it was turned into the passage and closed the door that Clare had left wide open.
Clare pushed the curtain aside and walked straight into Otis Tohar. She was so close she could smell the sharpness of him beneath his expensive cologne.
‘Dr Clare Hart. Were you lost? In search of entertainment?’ he said, pulling her away from the curtain as he shook her proffered hand. The arm that slipped around her waist brooked no resistance. She allowed herself to be propelled across the floor towards the bar.
‘I was looking for you. My friend, Kelvin Landman, tells me that you are going to be interviewing him for your latest film. Tell me, I have a special interest in film.’
‘I’m researching a documentary on the business of trafficking women and children,’ said Clare.
‘How worthy,’ said Tohar. ‘You know, I suppose, that we have refurbished all the Isis clubs?’
‘We?’ said Clare.
‘Oh, yes, I acquired several of the buildings where the Isis Clubs were established. And the land for the new Isis Safari Lodges – secluded, exclusive. Everything a busy man could want. You might be interested in doing a story. Not at all what you’d expect to find. Willing girls. Happy customers.’ His eyes trailed over her body. Tohar put his arm around Landman who had materialised next to him.
‘It’s a growth industry, isn’t it, Kelvin?’
Landman nodded. ‘Unlimited. Just have to hold onto our wilder dreams while we keep an eye on the cash flow.’
