the case with this one. I think he knows exactly what he’s doing, that he feels justified in doing it and that he wants to continue.’
‘He wouldn’t have been seen if he’d parked there and then dumped her. Watch this.’ A police car appeared where Riedwaan was pointing below – just a moment before, the car had been completely obscured by a clump of bushes beyond the bus shelter. Riedwaan lit another cigarette. ‘If he’d parked there, no one would have seen him. I’ll get Rita to check it out.’ He called her and they watched Rita and Joe move behind the bushes to check for evidence.
They made their way downstairs. Riedwaan had the booking list under his arm. ‘What did the chef say about Xavier?’ asked Clare.
‘Nothing much. He started here five months ago. He’s from the DRC, claimed to have cooked for Laurent Kabila while he was still alive. Did his work well, was good at it, always alone, always on time. No girlfriends. No drugs. No trouble. Especially good with knives, excellent at carving vegetable sculptures. Had papers, but they never looked too deeply into any of them. Said goodbye as usual and left just before twelve.’
‘When will you talk to him?’ asked Clare.
‘I’m going to talk to your friend Giscard now,’ said Riedwaan. ‘I hope I can persuade him to tell me where to find Xavier. I had an SMS from Rita to say that they couldn’t find him. I’d be very interested in having a little chat with him about what he’s been doing since he got here.’
‘I’ll be surprised if it’s him. How is an illegal chef who shares a flat with five other illegal immigrants going to find somewhere to keep a girl captive? Also, the restaurant was very busy. How was he going to move her body while carving roses out of carrots for ten sushi platters an hour?
‘Those are questions I look forward to asking,’ said Riedwaan. ‘If Giscard’s dates are correct, these killings started just after Xavier arrived in Cape Town.’
Riedwaan walked Clare to her car. ‘I’ll bring you the preliminary autopsy report as soon as I have it.’
‘No chance of me coming to the autopsy?’
‘You know Piet and his rules,’ said Riedwaan. ‘He’s not going to make an exception.’
‘Okay. Call me the minute you get it?’ asked Clare. ‘I get the feeling that this killer is either overconfident or unravelling. That means that the killings will accelerate. It also means that he will make a mistake. That’s when we catch him.’
‘
She started the car and indicated to do the U-turn that would take her home again. ‘Hey!’ It was the police photographer. ‘Don’t you want these, gorgeous?’ He was holding a bunch of irises in his hands.
Clare wound down her window. ‘Where did you find those?’ she asked.
‘Lying there.’ He pointed towards the lighthouse. ‘I went up there to have a smoke and there they were, lying on one of the benches. It seemed like such a waste. And then I saw you looking fab as always. And Riedwaan not paying you the attention he should. I thought maybe I could get a look in.’
‘Fuck off, Riaan,’ she said. ‘Don’t you ever give up? Bag them and give them to Rita.’ The irises were tied with the same twist of gold ribbon as the flowers found near Amore Hendricks’s body at Graaff’s Pool.
Clare closed her window and drove home. She fell into bed and immediately fell asleep. When she woke up, her skin filmed with the icy sweat of a nightmare, she went through to the kitchen and put on the kettle for tea. It would soon be dawn so there was no point in trying to go to sleep again. There was not much she could do until she had the pathologist’s report. Clare knew that Mouton and Riedwaan would be busy there now. She paced for a while and then picked up her phone. Two rings and it was answered.
‘Mouton here.’ His voice was muffled as if he was holding the phone between his shoulder and his ear. Clare did not like to imagine what he was doing with his hands.
‘Dr Mouton, this is Clare Hart.’
‘
‘The autopsy, what’s it telling you?’
‘We’ll be busy for a while still. But it’s safe to say the pattern is the same. We have some body fluid samples, so we can see if it’s a copycat killing or not.’
‘What’s different?’ asked Clare.
‘This girl’s eyes were also cut. But this time I’d say it was after death. There’s almost no bleeding.’
‘Odd,’ said Clare. ‘Maybe he was disturbed.’
‘India King put up one hell of a fight,’ said Dr Mouton. ‘I think we’ll be able to get the knife identified. The way she’s been cut, has to be someone who knows about knives.’
‘A chef?’ asked Clare.
‘Maybe,’ said Mouton. ‘Or someone medical.’
‘A doctor?’
‘Not necessarily, but someone who knows a bit about anatomy.’
‘You sure it’s the same weapon each time?’ asked Clare.
‘I’m sure. I can’t prove it, but I think that this time he was rattled – cut too deep, so there’s a good blade mark on the vertebra. That’ll make those ballistics okes very happy. Go get some more sleep in the meantime. Riedwaan’s not going to be up for much today – or tonight, for that matter.’
‘Thanks for that, Piet. We’ll speak later.’ Clare didn’t go back to bed. She watched the sun rise slowly over the mountains. The light did not bring her any clarity, but a visit or two later on to some of the more upmarket florists would do the trick. She emailed Rita, asking her to get onto it as soon as she got into the office.
34
Clare went in to the station early. Rita Mkhize was already there, phoning florists.
‘Hi, Clare. Thanks.’ She took the take-away cappuccino gratefully. ‘Guess who was meant to be at Sushi-Zen last night?’
‘Who?’ asked Clare.
‘Brian King. India’s stepfather. He had a booking for nine. But he didn’t pitch.’
‘I wonder what changed his mind?’ Clare stirred her coffee. ‘Did you get anywhere with the florists yet?’
‘Nowhere. None of them open before nine-thirty. And we didn’t find anything on the road. If there were tracks, they were lost because of the police van that parked there.’
Riedwaan arrived with Piet Mouton’s autopsy report.
‘This attack was certainly frenzied,’ said Riedwaan. He flicked past Mouton’s meticulous illustrations of the corpse. ‘Look here. India had a contusion on the back of her head and, unlike the other two, there are signs of sexual assault.’
‘Any body fluids?’ asked Clare.
‘No semen. Mouton thinks that she was assaulted with a blunt wooden object. There were splinters in the vagina. Those are being tested now.’
‘Any blood?’ asked Rita, perching on Riedwaan’s desk.
‘Some under her nails. The inside of her mouth is torn. The face bruised. It looks as if she died of asphyxiation. She put up a fight before she died, though.’
‘Time of death?’ asked Clare.
‘An hour max before she was found. Piet thinks she was killed somewhere else and that that her throat was cut after she died. But the killer must have moved very quickly, because there was blood where the body was found.’
‘He kept her somewhere close to where he dumped her,’ said Rita.
‘That is what we have to figure out before another girl dies,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Mkhize, you come with me. I want to have another chat to Luis Da Cunha. Might be worth finding out where he was last night.’
‘You’re clutching at straws, Riedwaan,’ said Clare.
‘Any other suggestions? Or shall I just sit here and watch you think?’
Clare shook her head, pulling the autopsy report to her. She compared the three murders, putting everything
