‘Not luck,’ Clare replied. ‘Knowledge. Why are you here so early?’
‘I have so much invested here.’ He gestured behind him. The cranes loomed above the road. ‘I need to be sure of what is going on around here. But also to see if I can help.’
He was not the only one. A crowd was gathering around the police cordon.
‘I’m going to fetch Tatiana from gym. I think you met her last night?’
Clare wondered if Tohar knew about their brief meeting in his video library.
‘No,’ she risked. ‘We weren’t introduced.’ He turned to go.
‘Mr Tohar, I hear that Kelvin Landman has put quite a bit of finance into some of your more recent projects.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘You know what Cape Town is like with rumours, especially about other people’s money.’
Tohar hesitated. ‘We work very well together. Mutual interests. We should really do lunch some time. Call me, Clare.’ He wiped a sudden sheen of sweat off his forehead and made his way back to his car. The clouds parted temporarily and the sky gleamed a deep blue. The engine of his car started at once with a rumble, a bass note to the whine of the accumulating morning traffic.
Clare went back to checking her messages. There was one from Riedwaan to say that he had dropped a copy of the preliminary autopsy report off for her. She went home, picking up the envelope he had put in her letterbox. Clare phoned Riaan, asking him to let her have a set of his pictures from the murder scene, and then she had a shower. She was forcing herself to eat a slice of toast with her coffee when the doorbell rang.
‘Who is it?’ asked Clare, pressing the intercom.
‘Delivery. Small package, madam.’ She buzzed the man in and signed for it.
She ripped it open, knowing already who had sent it. She shook open the slim envelope. The face of the Devil, fifteenth card of the Tarot leered up at her, the carnal card, the grinning symbol of desire and entrapment in bodily lust. Clare picked it up. The second card of any Tarot reading revealed past influences. But whether these were her own, or the killer’s, Clare was uncertain. She tucked the repugnant card into her handbag, leaving her breakfast unfinished. She sat at her desk, determined to face her day with composure.
22
Riaan dropped off the copies of his photographs of Amore Hendricks. Clare ignored his request for coffee and opened the envelope as soon as she had got rid of him. She set the photographs alongside those of Charnay Swanepoel, checking them carefully, looking for similarities, for differences. The killer had twinned the bodies with uncanny exactitude.
She looked closely at all the pictures of Charnay Swanepoel. There it was – a small heap in the gutter that could be flowers. She called Riedwaan to tell him.
‘Won’t you ask Rita to check which florists use gold ribbon? Joe will have the sample of it,’ said Clare.
‘I’ll do that – could work. But most florists will be closed now, so it’ll have to be tomorrow. What do you think they mean, the flowers?’
‘Maybe some kind of apology. Or maybe it’s part of some wedding fantasy, an ultimate union. White irises are sometimes used for wedding bouquets.’
‘The ones you found were purple.’
‘I know. I’m just thinking aloud.’
‘Give me a call after you’ve talked to the boy,’ said Riedwaan.
Clare then drove to Observatory. She found the cafe the boy had suggested as a meeting place. She looked at her watch again. Five-thirty. She hoped that the boy hadn’t changed his mind about coming. But he arrived just as the waitress sloshed Clare’s cappuccino onto the table.
‘Dr Hart?’ He was very nervous, but his handshake was firm. His blazer hung elegantly on his athletic frame. Yet his beautiful face was strained, and there were dark circles under his wide-set brown eyes.
‘Hello, Clinton,’ said Clare. She was relieved to see him. ‘Would you like something?’ The boy looked through the menu, ordered a Coke and a toasted cheese.
‘I’m glad you came,’ said Clare. ‘I was beginning to think you wouldn’t.’
‘I’m sorry about being late. I had band practice at school and it went on a bit. I’m a trumpeter.’ The waitress placed his Coke and cutlery on the table. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and the young woman beamed at him.
Clare leaned towards him. She placed her small tape recorder in front of them. ‘It’ll be useful to everyone if I tape this,’ she explained. ‘Tell me about last night.’
Clinton shifted, as if his seat had hardened.
‘Tell me how you found her. Why were you there?’ Clare’s voice was gentle but Clinton recognised the steel in it. He picked at the small tear of skin on his left thumb.
‘I was at Graaff’s Pool. I saw her lying between the rocks. I read in the paper that you were involved in the investigation, so I thought you’d be the best person to tell.’ He stopped, sucking at the bead of blood welling on the edge of his nail. ‘She looked so peaceful there in the moonlight. So perfect.’
‘What time was that, Clinton?’ He hesitated. ‘Try to remember. It is very important.’
‘It must have been about eight-thirty. The rain had stopped then. I went there. I saw her. Then I sent you the SMS.’
‘I got the message after eleven. Why did it take you so long to tell someone?’
‘I was busy. There were things I had to do,’ he muttered.
‘Who was with you?’ Clare’s eyes were unwavering on the boy’s face. He looked away.
‘I was alone. Just me.’
‘At Graaff’s Pool?’
‘I went there to look at the view. To think.’
‘No boy is alone there for long. So what were you thinking there, Clinton?’
He turned to look her straight in the eye for the first time. ‘I was thinking how lucky that girl is.’ Clinton reached for his Coke, but his hands shook so much that he put it down without taking a sip.
‘You knew her?’ asked Clare in surprise.
‘I didn’t recognise her that night. But when we saw it in the paper my mother remembered her.’ He stopped, as if regretting that he had told her this.
‘How did your mother know her?’ prompted Clare.
‘We were at the same junior school,’ he explained. ‘My mom knew her mom. Then they moved to Panorama and built a house there. Then my dad died and when my mom got remarried we moved to Observatory. Later I got the music scholarship to the larnie school I’m at now.’ He stopped speaking, his breathing hurried.
‘But when you saw her last night you did not know who she was?’
Clinton shook his head and picked up his Coke again. His hands were steadier now. He looked pleased, as if he had negotiated a rough stretch of water. Clare softened her voice and put her hand on his. ‘Tell me who you were with, Clinton. It will come out, you know.’
‘With Rick.’ His hands flew up, as if to catch the name, take it back. ‘That is what he said his name was.’
‘Who is Rick?’ asked Clare, her voice gentle but relentless.
‘Rick the Prick.’ His childish giggle was laced with revulsion. Then the bravado evaporated and the boy’s shoulders slumped forward. He had capitulated. Clare re-angled her tape recorder.
‘Who is he?’ asked Clare.
‘I met him that night at Lulu’s.’ Clare knew the bar he was talking about. It was at the heart of Sea Point’s red light district, catering to men who liked young boys. The seventeen-year-old in front of her could pass for fourteen in the right light.
‘Come on, Clinton, why are you trying to protect him?’
‘All right.’ Anger flashed across his face. It vanished as quickly, leaving tears in its wake. ‘He was a regular. He called himself Rick, but I saw his ID when I went to a party at his house. It said Luis Da Cunha.’
‘Whose idea was it to go to Graaff’s Pool?’ asked Clare.
‘Usually I just do him in his car quickly. But this time he insisted that we go there.’ Clinton’s voice was almost
