Just then, Janet Green came up behind Clare and closed the door.
‘Come this way. Please.’ She opened the next door. There was the edit suite that Clare had seen before. The cinema was on the other side of the perspex window.
‘What sort of movies do you make here, Janet?’
‘What do you think?’ She picked up a tape and gave it to Clare. ‘What does it matter if people like it and they pay? There’s nothing illegal in that.’
Clare looked at the tape. On the cover was a woman in a black mask, thigh-high boots and a corset. She was standing holding a whip over some girls dressed as glamorous galley slaves in what looked like a stone boathouse. ‘Who does the filming?’
‘Mr Tohar is good. He does some. Otherwise we hire a cameraman,’ said Janet.
‘And who acts?’
‘Some of the Isis girls. This is easy money for them.’
‘What is your role, Janet?’
‘Admin, finding locations, production management.’
Clare put her hand out, touched the bruises that twined up Janet’s slim, white arms. ‘Is this part of the deal?’
Janet pulled her arm away. ‘That’s nothing. I had an accident.’
There was a noise – the front door opening. ‘Come. He’s back.’ She hurried Clare out of the suite and down the passage.
Otis Tohar was in the sitting room. ‘Bring us fresh coffee,’ he demanded.
Janet disappeared into the kitchen. ‘So, Clare. I was surprised to hear you were coming. I can’t see how I can help you with your investigation. Do you like what we’ve done here?’
‘Your renovations are stunning. But I had a couple of things I wanted to ask you.’
‘Yes, Janet told me. Did she show you around?’
‘She did, thank you.’
Janet returned with the coffee. She put it on the table next to Tohar. ‘Why don’t you go and get your things ready, Janet?’ said Tohar. ‘We have that lunchtime meeting at La Traviata.’ But he pulled her towards him, his fingers closing very precisely over the bruises on her arm. ‘She’s been looking after you?’
‘She has, thank you,’ said Clare.
‘So, how can I help you?’ asked Tohar. He let Janet go.
‘I was curious about your relationship with Brian King,’ she asked.
‘Purely business,’ said Tohar, voice smooth, hands steady. He took a delicate sip of coffee. ‘We looked at a development together. It wasn’t feasible, unfortunately. So tragic about his daughter.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Clare. ‘Did you know her?’
‘No. Never met her.’
‘You didn’t know the other two girls, did you?’
‘No. Why would I?’ He placed his cup on the tray. ‘What a peculiar question.’
‘One of the girls auditioned at the Isis Club.’
‘We have very high standards. I presume she wasn’t up to them.’ Tohar stood up abruptly and handed Clare her jacket. The interview was over. Clare went to the door.
‘Just one more thing I wanted to ask you,’ she said. He took his hand from the door handle.
‘What was that?’ he asked.
‘How is your company dealing with all the financial pressure? There’s such a squeeze on developers at the moment, especially high-end apartments.’
A muscle pulsed in Tohar’s throat. ‘My investors are wealthy men. We can weather a bumpy ride. It’s a matter of managing your cash flow and keeping costs strictly under control.’
‘I imagine it’s a strain, especially if you have cash investors who want quick returns.’
‘It could be, but information flows help. Keeping people informed.’
Clare held out her hand. Tohar took it, his palm slippery with sweat. ‘Your sideline, if it’s not just a hobby, must be lucrative,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Tohar.
Clare took a wild chance, ‘Your films – how shall I put it? – starring these girls… there’s clearly more to it all than meets the eye.’
Tohar withdrew his hand. ‘Janet. See Dr Hart out. I have things to attend to.’
Clare walked to her car, parked out of sight in a side street. She tried to phone Mrs King but there was no answer on either her cellphone or the home phone. She was about to call Riedwaan when a basement garage door opened. Otis Tohar’s Jaguar accelerated down the narrow street. On impulse Clare turned her car to follow him. He made his way down to Beach Road and then turned left into the parking lot above Three Anchor Bay. Clare followed, keeping her distance and pulling over on the other side of the road. Tohar climbed out of his car and walked rapidly to the slipway that led to the boathouses and the beach. Then he turned back, seemingly at a loss, patting his pockets. The conversation, when he found his phone in his breast pocket, was brief and punctuated with agitated hand movements. He was facing Clare. His face was congested with fury. He snapped the phone closed and wrenched the car door open. The car lurched forward and he turned back in the direction he had just come from, just missing a woman crossing the road with a pram.
Clare got out of her car and went across to the steps that led down to the grimy bay. The tide had come up high and the stench of rotting seaweed was nauseating. There were people down on the beach, cleaning their kayaks. Ropes and buckets had been stacked in the sun and two women were industriously sweeping the boathouses. Clare went down and had a look into the closest one. It was carved like a crypt out of the rock, and only the roof sections were bricked.
‘Spooky, hey,’ said one of the women who was sweeping. ‘You should see all the tunnels around here. It’s like a whole underground city.’
‘I’d love to. I live just over there,’ Clare pointed, ‘and I’ve often wondered how this promenade works.’
‘I’ll show you. We’ve got a map inside.’ Clare followed her into the boathouse. The air was dank. The woman showed her a map of the promenade, and the tunnels below it and Main Road.
‘This is all reclaimed land, isn’t it?’ said Clare.
‘It is. The council issued these when there was a flood a couple of years ago. They had to go and find all the old Victorian maps to get to the problem. I love old maps, so I bought a couple.’
Clare leaned closer, tracing the tunnels. ‘They look like spidery veins. It’s fascinating.’
‘I’m sure there’s another map somewhere.’ The girl ferreted through a pile of paper. ‘Here it is.’ She held it up in triumph. ‘Would you like it?’
‘I would! Thank you,’ said Clare. She followed the woman out, glad to be in the sun again.
‘How often do you clean up?’ asked Clare.
‘Oh, only once a year. We always do it on the same day. We all just pitch in together and get it done.’
‘We did it last year,’ said a man, carefully folding old sails, ‘and the next day there was that huge storm – do you remember it?’ Clare nodded. ‘That storm broke the doors down the day after our spring-clean, can you believe it. So we’re keeping our fingers crossed that it won’t happen again.’
Clare looked out to the west. The sky was clear, the sea sparkled. ‘Doesn’t look like it. Who owns these boathouses?’
‘The council does,’ said the same man. ‘Our families have rented them for years and years. It’s kind of hereditary.’
‘They’re thinking of charging us more, though – I know that. As if we don’t pay enough rates in Sea Point.’
Clare walked to the end of the small beach. She could still hear the group arguing about whether their rates were too high or not. The sea wall bulged broadly before it flattened towards the lighthouse. There were several large openings on the edge of the curve. They studded the sea wall like blind eyes. Clare pulled her coat around herself. It was very exposed where she was standing, and the wind was biting cold.
42
