wandered away in the supermarket when she was only four. Theresa felt that same panic now, only infinitely worse.
The car started, jerking into reverse, and then moving smoothly forward. She heard a muffled conversation and a laugh. The guard at the boom? The car moved forward again. Then Theresa lost the battle against pain and fear, and slipped into the darkness.
43
Theresa Angelo lay on her back, legs splayed, arms flung out like a sleeping child. Her long hair was matted around her head, tumbling onto the stone floor. There were rat droppings between the coiled ropes that supported the naked mattress she lay on. Her coat had slipped to the floor. Her exposed skin was mottled, puckered with gooseflesh. Her wrists were bruised. There was bloody skin under the nails of her right hand. The contusion under her thick black hair had seeped blood all night. It was very cold, even though the sun had hoisted itself as high as it could, so deep into the winter.
Her shallow breath misted the air above her bruised mouth just regularly enough to show she was alive. Then the noise that had penetrated her unconscious mind started up again. The mournful bellow of the foghorn vibrated deep into the recesses of her mind. It sought out and found crevices of consciousness beyond the drug that had held her inert for hours. It penetrated the most hidden places of her mind and activated again the basic impulse to stay alive. Slowly, the insistent rhythm of the foghorn summoned her to consciousness, cell by cell. A pulse jumped at the base of her throat, she shivered as her body fought to keep itself warm. The fog momentarily released a ray of sun. It shot through the small barred window, striking her face.
She would not have seen it, even if she had opened her eyes, but on the shelf above her head was a twist of blue rope and a key. There was no knife – but that anyone might have at hand.
44
Clare awoke, anxiety gnawing, early on Saturday morning. She went for a run, buying milk on her way home. Fritz meowed in delight at the sound of her key in the lock, wrapping herself around Clare’s legs as she opened the door. Clare noticed the envelope wedged behind the hall table when she bent down to pick up the cat.
Constance again. Clare’s hands were suddenly clammy. She slit it open. A single Tarot card, grinning, enigmatic, fell out onto the floor.
The Hanged Man.
There was a slip of paper in the envelope. On one side – brushed in black ink – were two sure, familiar verticals, cut through the half X. On the other, Constance had written a reading. For rebirth: a sacrifice. From death: sometimes change. Clare’s blood ran cold. She jumped when her phone rang, putting the Hanged Man with the other three cards Constance had sent her.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘Clare, another girl has gone missing.’
‘When?’ she asked. ‘Where?’
‘Last night. Her mother reported it immediately to Caledon Square. Somebody there thought it would be best if they handled it. They didn’t see the link apparently between this girl going missing and the three dead girls.’
Clare heard the incredulous rage in Riedwaan’s voice.
‘It only came through to me now. And already there had been one
Riedwaan had had hours of investigation time stolen from him. Clare knew as well as he did that it was those few hours after an abduction that were the most likely to return the person – if not unscathed, then at least still alive. ‘Who is she?’ asked Clare. ‘What happened?
‘Her name is Theresa Angelo. Lives in Gardens with her mother. Sixteen years old. Earns some extra money doing voice-overs. Apparently she had finished one at Film Fusion at the Waterfront, then left to meet her mother. She spoke to her mother at five-thirty. The mother was still at work and they arranged to meet for the eight o’clock movie. Her mother was there on time, but Theresa didn’t arrive. She called her. The phone rang, but there was no answer. Mrs Angelo then phoned Film Fusion. The sound guy was still there, tweaking things. He said that Theresa had left straight after their session.’
‘Have you been down there?’
‘Of course. But those Caledon fuckers didn’t go last night. They took it into their thick heads that she must have met a boyfriend and decided to go with him. So twelve precious hours and one beautiful girl gone.’
‘Have you interviewed the sound man yet?’
‘Sam Napoli? Not yet. Do you want to come with me?’
‘I’ll come,’ said Clare. ‘Will you pick me up? Half an hour?’
‘See you now.’
Clare slumped down at her desk. The profile she had drawn up of the killer was there in front of her. What was she missing? She put her hands into her hair and pulled until her eyes watered from the pain. The pieces of the puzzle were there. But no matter how she shuffled them, no clear picture emerged. Clare went to the bathroom, retching again and again. Then she prepared herself for the day, and waited for Riedwaan.
45
Riedwaan picked Clare up twenty minutes later. He drove to the Film Fusion studios, his anger filling the car. ‘What did she look like?’ asked Clare. Riedwaan threw a picture of the missing girl onto Clare’s lap. It was a posed school photo. Theresa Angelo looked demure in her blue dress with its silly white Peter Pan collar. The face was broad, a sweep of cheekbones promising beauty in adulthood. Her dark eyes were intelligent, challenging; her body sturdy, strong. Certainly not like the ethereal girls this killer had taken before. Had he made a mistake? Had something panicked him? Could they move fast enough to find him? To find Theresa alive? Clare felt a glimmer of hope.
‘I’ve got to do a fucking press conference this afternoon. What am I going to say? Those sharks are going to be on a feeding frenzy. Why haven’t you got this killer? What’s wrong with the police? When I know and you know that the longer he’s on the loose the more papers they sell. Bastards.’ Riedwaan’s rage boiled over.
‘What do you have, Riedwaan?’ Clare asked, wincing as he cut in front of a car, the driver hooting furiously. ‘Does she fit the pattern?’
‘I don’t know. She’s an only child. Father is a doctor on an oil rig. He’s being flown in this morning. Goes to a private school in town. Gifted child, talented actress, well-behaved mommy’s girl.’ He hooted viciously as an old lady swerved across the lane.
‘What happened last night?’
‘Apparently they do voice-overs at Film Fusion if there’s any spare time in the studio. Theresa makes some pocket money if they have a gap and she’s free. She caught a taxi to the Waterfront because her mother was working. Got to Film Fusion just before four and went to work. Her mother could only meet her at eight so she was going to do some shopping and then meet her.’
‘Why so much later?’
‘Mrs Angelo has a catering business. She was doing a birthday tea so would only be free at seven-thirty. She came straight down and waited for Theresa – who never arrived. Phiri is baying for my sauteed balls on a plate. And the MEC for security is rabbiting on about community trust in the police force. Load of shit, they are going to crucify me, Muslim or not.’ Riedwaan turned into Film Fusion’s studio and parked.
