Like Clockwork

‘When?’ Clare asked.

When I was going home. It’s her bag. Theresa’s.’

Clare was holding the kettle, about to pour water over the coffee. She repressed an overwhelming urge to hurl the boiling water into his face.

‘So you lied to me – you were on duty that Friday night, Tyrone. And why are you only bringing it in now? This is crucial evidence that you’ve had since Friday night. The night she disappeared. It’s now Sunday morning.’ Clare stepped very close to him. The smell of too many cigarettes was rank on his breath. ‘Do you know how long that has been for Theresa? Can you imagine what has been happening to her? While you worried about whether to hand it over or not, you useless little fuck!’

‘I’m sorry. I was afraid. But I’ve brought it now. Maybe it can help her still?’

Clare turned away, ashamed of her outburst. She poured him coffee, handed him sugar and milk. ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Tell me how you found it.’

‘It wasn’t that busy that night,’ he said. ‘I closed earlier than usual, about eleven-thirty, when the last customers left. I went up to have a smoke and wait for my lift. I was sitting up on that bench near the drawbridge. There were no cars around. It was so quiet, I could think a little bit.’

‘So what happened, Tyrone? While you were thinking?’ He sipped the coffee, wishing there was something stronger in it. ‘I got up and walked around the parking lot. It’s more sheltered there – it was really cold that night. I bumped my foot into this. It was in the shadow next to an empty parking bay.’ He made himself touch the bag, pushed it over to Clare. The ‘Hello Kitty’ cartoon gave its silly, mocking wave.

‘I remembered it from when she was in earlier.’ There were tears in his eyes when he looked at her. ‘She was so friendly. So pretty.’

Clare did not touch the bag. There was still the smallest chance that forensics would find something.

‘Did you find anything else?’ Clare was sure that he had looked.

Tyrone shook his head. ‘He was there again. I saw him.’

‘Who, Tyrone?’ asked Clare. Tyrone put a finger into his mouth. He tore at a strip of skin next to the nail. Blood oozed.

‘Landman. Kelvin Landman.’ His voice was a whisper. ‘He came in just as Theresa was leaving.’ He shuddered. ‘I saw him look at her. You don’t want him to look at you like that if you are a girl.’

‘Explain, Tyrone.’ Clare’s voice was urgent. She wished that Riedwaan would come. Tyrone drew a deep breath, squared his slender shoulders. ‘You remember Charnay? And her friend Cornelle? You know they worked for him? Or better to say it like this: he worked them for himself. To death.’ His voice was bitter. ‘All this trouble with the police now, with the murders. They’re everywhere. Some of the local customers are nervous, I think. All the South Africans are careful, even the Jo’burg guys. It has been affecting his business, I think.’

‘Hang on. That will be Riedwaan,’ she said, responding to the doorbell. Clare let him in and handed him a cup of coffee. Riedwaan shook hands with an anxious-looking Tyrone, then sat down.

‘Carry on, Tyrone,’ said Clare. ‘You’ll have to make a statement to the police anyway, so you may as well do it now with Inspector Faizal here.’

Tyrone was trapped, a rabbit in the headlights. ‘Theresa came in first, like I told you.’

‘Had you seen her before?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘No. She had never been in before, not while I have worked there. I asked her what her name was when I brought her order. It wasn’t busy, so I chatted. She said she was meeting her mom. Just as she was leaving, Kelvin Landman came in with those guys who are always with him.’ Tyrone swallowed with difficulty, his throat suddenly dry.

‘Did they speak to Theresa?’ asked Clare.

‘No, like I told you, they just checked her out. I don’t think she liked it because she pulled her coat tight around her when she saw them. They are not people you mess with.’

‘Then what?’ asked Clare.

‘Theresa left and I went outside to check if there was anyone else. There wasn’t, but I did see Theresa at the end of the jetty where all the yachts are moored. I waved to her, but I don’t think she saw me. When I came in, Landman was vloeking into his phone. They left quite soon after that. I was glad. I don’t think the other customers like them much.’

‘Who was Landman with?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘The only one I knew was Kenny McKenzie,’ said Tyrone. ‘He grew up near me. I stayed right out of his way.’

‘I don’t blame you,’ said Clare.

‘Did you see Theresa again?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘I didn’t. I found her bag much later. At about half past eleven, like I told you.’ He put out his hand as if to stroke the bag, but then thought better of it and his hand dropped back into his lap.

‘Why did you only come forward now?’ asked Riedwaan. ‘Why didn’t you call the police immediately, when you knew she was missing?’

Tyrone looked sullenly at Riedwaan. ‘I know those gangsters, Inspector.’ There was disdain in his voice. ‘Like you know them. You know what happens if you split.’

‘So why are you telling us at all?’

Tyrone twisted his fingers. He looked very young. ‘She was a nice girl. But I think I must go now. Thanks for the coffee.’ Tyrone stood up.

‘Wait,’ said Riedwaan, ‘I want you to take me to exactly where you found the bag.’ Riedwaan called Piet Mouton. He wanted the bag combed for hair and fibres. The pathologist cleared his schedule.

Tyrone watched Clare put on her coat and pick up her bag. Then he said, ‘Landman’s connection came back.’ His voice was thin, exhausted, now that he had unburdened himself of his secret.

‘Kenny McKenzie?’ asked Clare.

‘Not McKenzie, I don’t know his name, but he came back at about half past nine. Maybe ten. I didn’t serve him. The other barman did because I was busy. He had a scratch on his hand and he asked me for a lappie.’

Clare felt her blood chill in her veins. ‘Did you give him one?’

‘Ja, I had a clean cloth in my hand so I gave him that.’

‘What did it look like? The scratch?’

‘I don’t know. Like he’d caught his hand on a bush. Or a cat had scratched him,’ said Tyrone. ‘He didn’t stay long – just had his whiskey and then he was gone again. It was like he was looking for someone. Or something, maybe. I saw him drive away some time later when I was bringing in the outside tables. I don’t know where he was in between.’

‘What did he look like?’ asked Clare.

‘Dark hair. Tall,’ said Tyrone. ‘He looked rich.’

Riedwaan came out of the bathroom, drying his hands.

‘Have you done any checks on Otis Tohar?’ she asked.

‘No. I know the organised crime boys are keeping an eye on him. Nothing, so far.’

‘You go ahead. There’s something I want to check. Go and meet Piet. I’ll catch you later,’ said Clare.

She closed the front door behind Riedwaan before he could say anything and turned on her computer, typing in her search question, her body taut with excitement. ‘Come, come, come,’ she whispered. The French news site she was waiting for flickered to life. She checked on Lebanon first. Not even a blip, apart from a litany of unpunished honour killings. Clare felt her shoulders slump. She had been so sure. Then she tried Sierra Leone, without any real hope. But there was – an endless list of mutilations and amputations. She scrolled through them swiftly.

There it was, what she had been looking for: ‘Another young woman murdered’, she translated aloud. A French journalist posted to Sierra Leone to witness the evacuation of families of French troops had written the story. The girl’s death was bizarre even in the midst of the routine slaughter of a civil war. She was beautiful, despite the grainy distortion of the digital image. Clare was transfixed by the detail of her death. There was a picture of the girl’s broken body, the hands bound, the eyes mutilated, the legs grotesquely splayed. Clare manipulated the image, enlarging it as much as possible. Clutched between the girl’s hands was a rectangular box. Clare stared at it. A video cassette and a small, silver key.

The shrill summons of her cellphone brought Clare to her feet. ‘Hello?’ she said sharply.