The sun was high in the sky when Clare eventually awoke. She pulled on her dressing gown and fetched the
‘Woke and couldn’t fall asleep again. Speak to you in the morning. Riedwaan.’ She found the note propped on the counter when she went to make coffee. Clare crumpled it in her hand and waited for the kettle to boil. The phone rang as she was going back to her bedroom.
‘Yes?’ She balanced her cup as she climbed back into bed. ‘If this is a game, then we’re quits now.’
‘Clare? It’s Piet,’ was the bemused reply. ‘I’ve got those results for you.’
Clare was glad he couldn’t see her blush. ‘Sorry, Piet, I thought you were someone else.’
‘Apparently. So, do you want them?’
‘Yes, of course I want them. What did you find? Did they match the fibres you found on India?’
‘That’s what’s odd,’ said Piet. ‘They didn’t match. But I ran a second check and I found that some of the fibres did match what I found on India’s shirt. There are a few that are identical.’
‘How can you tell?’ asked Clare, noticing the business section of the newspaper, which had slipped to the floor. There was a banner headline announcing the end of the property boom.
‘The fibres are very similar, both cashmere. But the dyes are different. One is a synthetic dye, the other is a much more expensive natural dye.’
‘Which ones matched the fibres I brought you?’ asked Clare. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, oblivious to the cold.
‘The synthetic ones. There were only a few of them. The ones I’d found were under the naturally dyed ones.’
‘Where did you find the synthetic ones? Where on her body, I mean,’ asked Clare.
‘They were around the shoulders, a sprinkling on the nape of her neck. Where you would expect, if someone put an arm around your neck to hug you,’ said Piet.
‘But definitely traces of two people?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Thanks, Piet.’ She disconnected and dialled Riedwaan’s number immediately.
‘Clare, I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘It doesn’t matter, Riedwaan. Piet Mouton just called me about those fibres I dropped off with him. They match some of those on India. They’re the ones I took from King’s coat when I was there.’
‘And the others?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Clare. ‘Different dye, according to Piet.’
‘It could just mean that he gave his daughter a hug before she went out.’
‘A girl with a bolt on the inside of her bedroom door is going to hug her stepfather before she goes out?’
‘You’ve got a point there,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Maybe I’ll pay him another courtesy call and check when he saw her for the last time.’
‘Let me know how it goes,’ said Clare.
‘You want to come with me?’ asked Riedwaan.
‘Thanks, but I think I’ll pay our friend Otis Tohar a visit instead.’ She folded the newspaper up thoughtfully. ‘I think he might be a little stressed.’ She slipped it into her bag.
‘Oh?’
‘Just a feeling. Landman and him are all over each other like a rash. And I saw some pictures of Brian King at that launch party. Their shared interest in films might be worth exploring a little more.’
‘Where did you see the pictures?’ asked Riedwaan.
‘Jakes took them.’
‘I didn’t know you’d been seeing him,’ said Riedwaan.
‘I’m not. Don’t be paranoid,’ said Clare. ‘I stopped by there because something niggled and he showed me the pictures he took at Tohar’s party.’
‘Was this before I saw you?’
‘Yes. Riedwaan, why are you interrogating me? Are you jealous?’
‘No. I’m just asking.’
‘Well, don’t. It’s not your business anyway.’
‘I’ll speak to you later.’ Riedwaan cut the connection. Irritated, Clare pulled on her running gear,. She had to get out. It was a bright morning, with the sun reflecting in the pooled rain. She lost herself temporarily to the steady pounding of her feet on the paving, and got home with her head much clearer. It was already nine o’clock when she phoned Tohar to arrange a meeting. She showered and dressed quickly and was there by ten. She pressed the intercom and waited. Eventually a voice asked what she wanted. ‘It’s Clare Hart. I’ve come about the interview.’
The door clicked open and she was inside. The mirrored elevator was waiting for her. Within seconds it had delivered her safely to the penthouse apartment. Looking svelte in a tailored suit, Tohar’s PA was waiting for Clare.
‘Hello. I’m Janet Green,’ she said.
Clare put out her hand. ‘Hi, I’m Clare Hart.’
‘Mr Tohar said he’d be in shortly.’
‘Do you mind showing me around while we wait for Mr Tohar to arrive?’
‘Absolutely. Come this way.’
Clare followed her from the hall into the sitting room. It was immense and luxuriously furnished. The art was original, expensive: vast abstract canvasses that picked up the colours of the sofas. It was a perfect room, but cold, with not a single photograph or book in sight.
‘Can I bring coffee?’
‘Thanks,’ said Clare. She sat on a large blue sofa by the window, the sweep of the bay in front of her. She pulled the newspaper out of her bag. In the margin of an inside page was a tiny story warning that the big developers who had bought too much and not sold on fast enough were facing a big crunch. The article singled out the Osiris Group as having over-extended itself and run into problems. Its bankers were reluctant to increase their lending and were considering calling in their debts as the group’s cost spiralled and prices levelled out. Osiris had apparently found one or two anonymous investors, but with the sudden dip in prices and a strong local currency, even this investment was looking dicey. There were also allegations of black economic empowerment fronting. Already, the liquidators were circling on the periphery.
Clare put down the paper and looked out at the graceful curve of the bay. Otis Tohar was in a very vulnerable position, though he must have accessed cash from somewhere to have kept going. Clare thought about Landman’s proprietary air. She grimaced. She’d certainly not like to be owing Landman money, and be unable to pay him back when he demanded.
Janet Green came back with the coffee and poured it. It was very strong. ‘How long have you worked for Mr Tohar?’ asked Clare.
‘I started with him about six months ago. I was working for one of the hotels before. This seemed like an interesting opportunity.’
‘And has it been?’
‘It is challenging,’ said Janet.
‘What do you do, exactly?’
‘I manage Mr Tohar’s publicity. I also manage his social diary, and I’ve been involved in re-branding the Isis Clubs.’ Janet stood up before Clare could ask her any more questions. ‘Shall I show you around now?’
‘Thanks,’ said Clare, putting down her coffee and following the PA. The apartment had been converted from the original old hotel rooms. Enormous sums of money had been spent on it. Janet gave her detailed descriptions of the furnishings and artworks in each room.
‘Would you like to see anything else?’ asked Janet.
‘Yes, I would like to see the home cinema. I hear that it’s state of the art.’ said Clare. Janet paused to answer her phone and Clare walked ahead down the passage. She opened the first door on the left. Instead of seeing the edit suite she had expected, she stepped into what looked like a dungeon. There was an array of whips and manacles and other props on the walls. There were cables and plugs on the floor and lighting tracks on the roof.
