‘Can I see Mrs King?’
‘Not now. She is devastated, and our doctor has had to sedate her. Now, if you wouldn’t mind…’ taking her cue, Clare stood up, too ‘… I have several things to attend to.’ He held the study door open for her. ‘Mr King,’ said Clare, ‘do you have any idea why India installed a bolt on the inside of her bedroom door?’
‘I have no idea. I never went to her room. What were you doing there? Do you have a search warrant?’
‘Oh, I didn’t search. I just wanted to get a sense of her.’ Clare stepped past him. She saw Portia slip away. ‘I’ll find my way out, thanks.’ Clare held her hand out to him. He shook it, his grip unnecessarily hard, hurting her.
‘I hope you find him. The police are not known for their competence, are they?’
Clare did not rise to this. ‘Please contact me if you think of anything. Or anyone that India met recently.’
‘I will. Goodbye, Dr Hart.’ She turned to leave. ‘Oh, by the way, I enjoyed your documentary on the DRC immensely. The one about the women. Excellent.’ His tone sent a shiver down Clare’s spine.
‘Thank you,’ she said politely, and turned round again. ‘There’s one more thing I’d like to ask you.’
‘Yes?’ he said, looking at his watch.
‘Where were you on the night India disappeared?’
‘Why?’
‘We need to check everything,’ said Clare.
‘I’ve already spoken to your colleague. Rizza – or something like that.’
Riedwaan Faizal?’ asked Clare.
‘Something like that. Rather a chip on his shoulder, I thought.’ Clare did not respond. ‘I told him I was having a celebratory dinner with some business associates.’
‘All night?’ said Clare.
‘Well, you know what business is like – we had overseas clients, from the East, and that’s how they do things.’
‘How do they do things, Mr King?’
‘They expect to be entertained.’
‘So I hear,’ said Clare. ‘I presume that they will corroborate?’
‘If it’s absolutely necessary, I’m sure it can be arranged.’ His face had purpled with rage. ‘Your colleague asked me the same question. I supplied him with the name of the business manager. I hope he’ll be discreet.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll be as discreet as he needs to be. You will remember, I’m sure, that we are investigating a murder case. You had a booking at Sushi-Zen that night. The restaurant where India’s body was found. Any reason why you didn’t make it?’
A vein pulsed in King’s temple. ‘Dr Hart, I am her father. Surely you can’t be so crass as to interrogate me when I have just endured the most tragic loss.’
‘Where were you, Mr King?’
‘We changed our minds and went to the Isis Club instead. Nothing sinister. Just a change of mind.’
‘Oh,’ said Clare. ‘And what was the reason for this celebratory dinner?’
‘Just a potential property deal. Really, Dr Hart, I do find this most intrusive.’
‘Who were your companions?’ persisted Clare.
‘Our Asian investors. Two fellow directors. The City Manager, Hermanus Fipaza, and two local investors.’
Clare looked up from her notebook. ‘And who are these investors?’ she asked.
‘Otis Tohar and Kelvin Landman.’
‘Surely the Isis is a bit noisy to discuss business. A bit distracting?’ asked Clare. She brushed against King’s luxurious coat hanging near the door.
‘You are naive, Dr Hart,’ said King.
‘What time did you say your dinner was?’ asked Clare, ignoring his derision. She closed her left hand over the smooth black fibres she had pulled from the sleeve of King’s coat.
‘I didn’t,’ said King. ‘But we ate at ten, ten-thirty. Landman and Tohar were a bit late.’
‘Did they say why?’ Clare asked, facing him.
‘We have mutual interests, that is all. I did not consider it appropriate to pry.’
‘You will be asked to come and make a formal statement.’
‘Is that necessary?’ asked King.
‘Mr King, this is a triple murder investigation. One of those is your own daughter.’
‘One cannot forget, can one?’ King hurriedly ushered Clare through the door, closing it before she could say anything more. She walked rapidly to her car, relieved when the side of the house hid her from his view. Then she slammed her door shut and rested her head on the steering-wheel. With trembling hands, she pulled an envelope from her bag and dropped the threads of black cashmere into it. Clare jumped at the quiet knock on her window. It was Portia.
‘Hello, Portia,’ she said, opening the window and wiping away tears she had been unaware of shedding.
‘He is not her father, Dr Hart,’ said Portia. Her gentle face was twisted by fear and fierce anger. ‘He hates her. Hated her.’
‘What do you mean, Portia?’
‘The reason her mother couldn’t speak to you is he beat her.’ She spat. ‘He beat her because her baby was murdered. He married Cathy. Yes. When she already had India. He just married her to punish her. You find who killed that baby girl.’
‘Where did she go that night, Portia? Who did she go with?’
‘She went to town. Her mummy dropped her to meet her friend. But she never came back. Cathy waited all night but she never came back. Mr King never came either. In the morning Cathy was more afraid for her baby than she was afraid of her husband. That is when she went to the police. To the inspector who came here.’
‘Where was King?’
‘I don’t know. He is never here on weekends. I think he has other women somewhere. It gives Cathy some peace at least.’
‘There wasn’t anyone India was seeing?’ Portia shook her head, and Clare continued, ‘Her friend said they had no plans to meet on Saturday. That she was at home working for exams.’
‘I don’t know, but I hope she had a boyfriend who loved her. She was a very unhappy girl, her heart was breaking,’ said Portia.
‘Will you tell Mrs King that she should phone me? I would like to talk to her too. Tell her I’ll meet her somewhere else. And please give me your phone number, Portia – I may need to get hold of you.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ said Portia. ‘You remember you asked about that lock?’
‘Yes,’ said Clare.
‘I put it there for her. So she can be safe.’
Clare looked up at the house. Security beams were discreetly positioned everywhere. Portia shook her head.
‘The danger in this house – it is right inside.’ She stepped back into the shadow of the garage as Clare started her car.
There were only two lights on in the enormous house. One was in King’s study. It had a blue television flicker. The other was in a bedroom upstairs. The curtains parted slightly as Clare drove back up the lane. Behind them, Cathy King pressed her swollen cheek against the wall as she watched Clare’s headlights flicker past the trees. The coolness relieved the pain of her bruised face. She watched the lights until they were gone. Then she counted the pills that lay in a neat row in front of her. Soon there would be enough.
37
Clare had two calls to make. She pulled over once she was out of the driveway. The first call was to a number she had saved to her phone but never used. She scrolled through until she found it, then dialled.
‘Landman.’ The voice was harsh.
‘Mr Landman, this is Clare Hart.’ There was silence. ‘I wanted to ask you a few more questions.’
‘Clare.’ He sounded flattered. ‘You did have me for longer than most women get. Do you want to know about
