my new career prospects?’
‘No,’ said Clare. ‘I wanted to ask you about the deaths of three girls.’
Clare could hear his breathing. ‘You listen to me,’ he said. The charm was gone, his accent raw. ‘I explained to you clearly. I’m a fucking businessman. Willing buyer, willing seller. Why do you think I would know anything about those girls? From a business perspective it would be stupid to waste stock like that, even if it had been mine in the first place. You’ve been to my clubs, you’ve spoken to my girls. You know it’s a fair deal. They’re safer with me than they are on the streets. Why would I risk my investment by killing girls who will then attract a big investigation? Why would I kill them, anyway? Dead girls make me no money. Live ones do. Even you should understand that.’
‘Two of the girls who died had your blue calling card,’ said Clare.
‘Well, maybe they were auditioning. I run a corporation. I have managers, scouts, recruiters, like anybody else running a business.’ He paused and breathed in, calming himself. ‘They’re no use to me dead.’
‘It depends how they die, Mr Landman. It depends where they die. And why. I’ve heard that there is a nice little sideline in real live action.’
‘Don’t start that shit about snuff movies, Clare. They’re all staged. Nobody dies in them. Even if they did, why would anybody be so stupid as to distribute them?’
‘The first girl, Charnay, she’d been tattooed with your – what shall I call it? – trademark. The same one as your Isis girls have.’
‘Maybe she freelanced. So what? She was old enough. She needed the money. She had expensive tastes.’
‘So you knew her?’
‘She came to the bar. Christ, what does it matter?’
‘You saw her that evening, Mr Landman. She was at the same bar that you were at the night she disappeared. Why did she die?’
‘Who the fuck knows? Who the fuck cares? One cunt less, what difference does it make to anybody?’
Clare thought about Charnay’s mother rocking herself back and forth, arms clutched around a hollow womb. She didn’t answer.
‘I hear from Brian King that you two had dinner together the night India King’s body was found. With Otis Tohar and the City Manager. You were meant to have dinner at the restaurant near where her body was found. Just a coincidence that you didn’t arrive for that dinner?’
‘I think you should listen to me, Dr Hart: I’m warning you to stay right away. I have helped you with your film, explained things to you about my business. People like sex. They like pornography. If they are prepared to pay, let them have it. But you be very fucking careful about what you say and who you talk to.’
‘Are you threatening me, Mr Landman?’ Clare asked.
‘I hear you’ve got a pretty little niece, Dr Hart? Nice tits she’s got. I think I might even have seen where she goes to school.’
‘You stay away from her, Landman. I’m warning you.’
‘You stay away from my girls too, then. And Dr Hart…’
‘What?’
‘While I do my job, you do yours. Catch your killer. This whole business is fucking up my trade. Figure out who he is, and you’ve done us both a favour. Then I can get on with my business in peace. And that washed-up alky boyfriend of yours will look good too.’ He leered. ‘Maybe he’ll be able to keep it up long enough to make you happy.’
Clare killed the connection, unable to shake the conviction that he was telling at least half the truth. ‘Which half?’ she muttered to herself as she jerked her car into gear and onto the road that would take her back into the city.
‘Bastard,’ said Clare as a driver cut in front of her.
She made her second call while she was driving, keeping an eye open all the while for a highway patrol car.
‘Mouton.’
‘Hello, Piet. It’s Clare. Can I bring a sample over?’ she asked. She could sense his reluctance. A warm dinner would be waiting at home for him. So would Mrs Mouton. ‘I’ll be quick. I’ve got something I need you to match urgently.’
‘Okay,’ he said, his professional curiosity piqued. ‘Call me when you get here and I’ll let you in.’
‘Thanks, Piet.’ Clare drove quickly to the lab, grateful to have missed the afternoon gridlock. Piet let her in. He seemed surprised that she was alone.
‘So, what have you got?’
‘Fibres from a black cashmere coat. India King’s father’s.’ Clare handed him the envelope. Mouton shook the fibres carefully onto a slide and slipped it under a microscope.
‘You won’t be able to use this as evidence, you know that.’
‘I know,’ said Clare. ‘But can you check anyway?’
‘I’ll check for you. But I’ll have to let you know. It might take me a bit of time.’ He scrabbled at the pile of folders on his desk and pulled out the one containing India King’s autopsy. ‘I’ll check back on the other two as well.’
‘Thanks, Piet. I appreciate that.’
He walked her to the exit. ‘Don’t give Riedwaan too much of a hard time.’ He closed her door behind her. ‘He’s not so bad.’
Clare sighed. ‘I’m the problem, not him.’
Piet patted her hand. ‘You’re not so bad either, Clare.’
‘See you, Piet.’
As Clare headed westwards along the freeway, her thoughts returned to Brian King. She could not place where she had seen him before. The memory was there, on the outer periphery of her thoughts, but each time she directed her mind at it, the detail vanished. She gave up, and relaxed into the curving sweep of De Waal Drive where it hugged Devil’s Peak. Where, where, where? The swish of the wheels on the wet road mocked her. She turned down Loop Street and drove past Jakes’s studio. Then she braked sharply. The party. Of course. Tohar’s party that she’d gone to with Jakes. She parked, hazard lights flashing, and pushed Jakes’s buzzer.
‘Who’s missing me?’ came his voice.
‘Don’t be a moron, Jakes. It’s me.’ The door opened immediately and she took the lift up to his floor. Jakes was waiting for her. He kissed her cheek.
‘Hello, darling. This is a surprise.’
‘Hi, Jakes.’ She followed him into the flat. There was a white sofa, a shaggy carpet near the fire, and a bottle of red wine with two glasses – only one used so far – on the low table. ‘Am I interrupting you?’
‘Not yet, not yet. And you wouldn’t care if you were, would you?’ He took her coat. ‘Can I give you a glass of wine?’
‘Thanks,’ she said, craving a drink. ‘I stopped on the off-chance that you’d have the photos from that Osiris launch party we went to. Do you?’
‘Yes. I do have them. I’ve just developed the last lot. They’re here.’
Clare picked up her glass and followed him to the studio. The old picture of her was still there at the end of the passage: he had caught her off-guard, her face turned towards him at the moment he had called, her mouth just open, eyes unguarded, her naked body twisted beneath the long curtain of her hair. He had taken the photo soon after they had become lovers – the year Clare had gone to university. The year Constance had immured herself on Serenity Farm. Jakes had taken it to show Clare that she was beautiful, that her body was whole, unblemished, that he loved it. It had made his reputation when he exhibited it as ‘The Victim’s Sister’.
The darkroom was an ordered muddle, and Jakes ferreted around among a pile of pictures. He pulled out the contact sheets Clare wanted and handed them to her. They were pungent with chemicals. Clare flicked through them. With his practised, cynical eye, Jakes had captured the party’s slide into decadence.
‘Thanks, Jakes,’ said Clare. ‘I’ll bring them back in a day or so.’
‘Oh, keep them,’ said Jakes. ‘I have the negatives and I’ve already chosen the ones I want to enlarge.’ He pointed to a picture of Kelvin Landman standing next to Otis Tohar. Landman’s arm was around Tohar’s shoulders, his veined hand resting on Tohar’s chest, casually malignant. Tohar was a big man, but in this photograph he was
