Like Clockwork (14 page)

‘Did you drive?’

‘No. It’s close. We walked down Joubert Road to the pool.’

‘And when he left? Where did he go?’

‘He crossed the road to his car. I had the feeling that it was in the direction of Three Anchor Bay. And then I caught a taxi. Can I ask you something, Dr Hart?’ Clare nodded. ‘Will my mother find out?’

‘She will. You’ll have to give a detailed statement to Inspector Faizal at the Sea Point station. You should tell her yourself. Maybe she will go with you. Also, when the police catch this man, you’ll be a witness.’

‘Will people know what I was doing?’

‘Yes,’ said Clare.

‘He will kill me. He’ll kill me and that will kill her.’ He walked out into a blast of winter air. Clare watched him until he disappeared around the corner. She put down her cappuccino. It was ice cold.

She was waiting for the bill when her phone beeped. There was a text message on it from Clinton. ‘Rick,’ it said. ‘Apt 2, 473 Victoria Road, Clifton.’

It would be an interesting interview. She didn’t think that Riedwaan would want to miss it. She called him. ‘Turns out Clinton was paid for his time. I’ve got the client’s address,’ said Clare. ‘What do you say we drop in for some late supper?’

‘I was just thinking how hungry I am,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Why don’t you pick me up? I persuaded Phiri that I needed a special ops room and he gave me that old caravan at the back of the building. Generous bastard. Thank God it’s not summer, otherwise we’d all die of heat out here. Much more pleasant to freeze.’

‘I’ll see you in half an hour,’ said Clare. She couldn’t help feeling a surge of hope that they might have something at last. Mr Da Cunha was certainly well off and mobile. He wouldn’t be the first killer to pay a visit to a corpse. If it was him, of course, Clare cautioned herself – if it was him.

Clare found Riedwaan swearing into his cellphone. He banged it onto the desk when she walked in. ‘I can’t get a land line and I can’t get a computer. Can you believe this: Admin says it will be stolen. I told the woman that we are the police and she said that our station has no security guards, so our computers “just walk”. I have to get permission from the provincial government if I want a computer in my caravan. How the fuck am I meant to catch a serial killer without any support?’

‘Maybe Joe will have more luck,’ said Clare. ‘He knows how to chat up those ladies with the forms. Will you give it a try, Joe?’

Joe nodded, smiling. ‘Riedwaan, you go with Clare and interview that rent boy’s client. Leave me to get the equipment. What else would you like?’

‘Try a coffee machine,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Maybe pigs will fly.’

‘Well, you’d better fly away.’ Joe held up an espresso machine. ‘I’ve got one already.’

Riedwaan laughed. ‘What truck did that fall off, then?’

He turned to Clare. ‘Shall we go?’ She nodded. He held the sagging caravan door open for her. ‘We’ll see you, Joe. You can ward off crank confessions while you freeze your balls off in here.’

‘I’ve got a heater, Faizal. But thanks for caring,’ said Joe.

‘I don’t know how you do it.’ Riedwaan slammed the door shut.

‘Have you had some cranks already?’ asked Clare as she unlocked her car. Riedwaan got into the passenger seat.

‘Two already. But I think it’s the same guy,’ said Riedwaan.

‘What did he say?’

‘He said he fucked them and then he shot them.’

‘Delightful,’ said Clare. ‘Have you traced him yet?’

‘We did,’ said Riedwaan. ‘It’s someone in Pollsmoor Prison. Either a warder or a prisoner on cleaning duty who has been using the phone.’

They were in Clifton now. Luxurious blocks of flats loomed on either side of the narrow winding road. ‘It’s number 473,’ said Clare.

‘There it is. Park here, this will be fine.’ Riedwaan got out and crossed the road. ‘What number is the flat?’

‘Apartment 2B,’ said Clare.

‘The lights are on, so somebody’s at home,’ said Riedwaan, pressing the doorbell. ‘Shall we go and see who it is?’

‘Yes?’ came a disembodied female voice.

‘This is Inspector Faizal. I was hoping to come up with my colleague and talk to Mr Da Cunha. Is he in?’

There was a muffled conversation before the door clicked open. Riedwaan and Clare entered the lobby where an enormous vase of lilies and orange blossom was perched on a table with delicate legs. They took the steps and headed up for the second floor. There were only two apartments on that level, and the door of number 2B was ajar. Riedwaan pushed open the door and went inside. The opulence was overwhelming.

‘Good evening.’ A woman with a faint moustache bore down on them. ‘Do come and sit down. My husband will be home any minute. Can I get you anything?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Riedwaan. ‘We’re fine. We’ll just wait until he gets in. I hope we aren’t disturbing you?’

‘Not at all,’ said Mrs Da Cunha. ‘We always eat late. It’s a Mediterranean habit that is hard to break. This is my daughter, Ana-Rosa.’ She introduced the pretty, plump teenager who came in with two cups of coffee on a tray, the girl blushing scarlet at the mention of her name. Clare was glad of the hot drink.

‘My husband is usually home by nine,’ said Mrs Da Cunha. She looked at her watch. ‘He should be here any minute now. Tell me, why do you want to see him?’

‘We just want to ask him a few questions. Does he usually work this late?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘He does work late. He has fishing boats, so they come in at different times. He also goes to the Portuguese Club on some evenings, doesn’t he, Ana-Rosa?’ The girl nodded, then blushed again and twisted her skirt in her hands. There was a sound at the door. ‘That must be him. I’ll bring him in here. Come, Ana.’ She swept from the room, the girl in her wake.

Mr Da Cunha came in, closing the door behind him. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, proffering a hand to Riedwaan and nodding to Clare.

‘Good evening, Mr Da Cunha. Or can I call you Rick?’ Riedwaan asked.

Da Cunha sat down abruptly. ‘Why do you call me that?’

‘We know a friend of yours,’ replied Riedwaan. ‘A very pretty boy called Clinton. He tells us you were with him on Wednesday night.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Da Cunha. ‘I was at home on Wednesday evening.’

‘I’m sure you were,’ said Clare. ‘But your wife tells us that you usually eat late. So where were you before dinner?’

‘I was at work. Then I went to the club and had some drinks. Then I came home.’

‘Funny, that. The barman at Lulu’s told me that you were ordering double whiskeys from him at seven forty-five. You ordered two. One for you and one for your little friend.’

‘Okay, I was there. So what? What harm does it do? He’s not underage, is he?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Riedwaan, contempt in his voice. He leaned close to Da Cunha. ‘But perhaps you would care to tell me exactly what you did on Wednesday. And what you were doing last weekend. And don’t leave anything out. We will be checking everything.’

‘Are you from the tax office?’

‘No,’ said Riedwaan. ‘I am a serious and violent crimes officer and we are investigating a murder.’

Da Cunha’s eyes widened. ‘Who died?’ he asked.

‘A young girl. About your daughter’s age,’ said Clare. ‘Clinton found her body just after he had finished servicing yours.’

‘We found it curious that you were so insistent that you went to Graaff’s Pool. Perhaps you could fill us in,’ Riedwaan prompted.

‘I like it outside,’ Da Cunha said. ‘It’s wrong, I know, but I like it with that boy. And outside it feels free. I grew up on the sea. That is all there is to it.’ He raised his eyes and looked at them. ‘You can check. I was at work all day. I left at five-thirty and went from work to play cards at the Portuguese Club in Green Point. I went to Lulu’s on the way home and I had dinner here at nine.’

‘And last weekend?’

‘I went with my family to our house in Betty’s Bay. We had some of my wife’s friends there. You can check with them.’

‘We will,’ said Riedwaan. He towered over the seated man. ‘We most certainly will.’ He handed Da Cunha a notepad. ‘Put their names and phone numbers down there, if you don’t mind.’

Da Cunha took the pad and wrote down several numbers.
This took him some time – he was shaking, which made it difficult for him to get the numbers from his cellphone. Riedwaan glanced at the piece of paper.

‘Thanks.’

‘Did you notice anything unusual when you went down to Graaff’s Pool?’ asked Clare, her voice deceptively gentle.

‘No, nothing really,’ said Da Cunha, averting his eyes from Riedwaan with relief. ‘I did notice that they seem to have finished the work on the tunnel, though.’

‘Which tunnel is that?’ asked Riedwaan, interested.

‘That old tunnel. The Graaff family used it to get from their house to the beach. It was them who had the wall put up because they liked to swim naked. The tunnel wasn’t used after they donated the pool to the city. But I heard that it had been repaired.’

‘Thanks,’ said Clare. ‘I’m sure we’ll be meeting again.’

Da Cunha saw them out. Clare and Riedwaan heard his wife, her voice shrill and loud, launch into a tirade as Da Cunha closed the door. They heard the daughter’s pleas, too, as they made their way down the stairs.

‘What do you think?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘Check him out,’ said Clare. ‘I don’t like what he does, but I don’t think it was him.’

The car doors slammed. ‘Interesting about that tunnel,’ said Riedwaan. ‘I didn’t know it was open.’

‘There’s a boulder that screens the opening. You wouldn’t see it if you didn’t know it was there. It leads under Main Road. Nowhere else, as far as I know,’ said Clare. ‘Will you check if there was any CCTV footage there? I think it would be worth searching that, too.’

Riedwaan flipped open his phone. ‘I’m going to ask Joe to get it sealed off. Then we can search it tomorrow when it’s light.’ Riedwaan rattled out a series of instructions to Joe.

‘Let’s get something to eat before we go back to the station,’ suggested Clare.

‘Okay.’ They stopped and ordered Thai curries to take away. Clare headed back to the station to drop Riedwaan.

‘You coming in?’

‘Yes,’ said Clare. ‘I want to get working on this now. I’m never going to sleep tonight.’

They passed Joe Zulu as they entered the caravan. ‘I’ll see you later,’ Joe said. I’m going to get that tunnel cordoned off. How did you know about it?’ he asked them.

‘A fluke,’ said Clare. ‘We were questioning the man who was with Clinton at Graaff’s Pool, and he mentioned it had been repaired.’

Clare opened the polystyrene containers. The food was delicious. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was.

Clare stretched her arms up in the air. It was very late, and the roar of Beach Road had dropped to a hum, indistinguishable from the distant crash of the sea along the promenade. She and Riedwaan had spent the evening in the special ops caravan, shuffling the information they had, trying to make sense of the girls, of their killer. Riedwaan had gone home earlier, leaving Clare to transcribe her interview with Clinton Donnelly.

She should really go home, she thought, and log her interview with Natalie Mwanga. Her documentary deadline was bearing down on her. She had been following up on what Natalie had told her. But she needed corroboration from a border official. One of the long-haul taxi drivers would be ideal. Clare thought about getting a cup of coffee, but she’d already settled into her bones. She did not move.

Giscard walked towards the police station, obscured by the late-night shadows that hung from the buildings. He had long ago learnt to be invisible. It was this that had enabled him to survive in Cape Town. Tonight, though, his stride was hesitant – something that a refugee soon learnt to hide if he wanted to avoid being noticed by the police. He hesitated at the door, looking in through the meshed glass. There was just the woman there, the one he’d been told was trying to find out
about the sale of women. She looked so slight. He watched as she slipped her headphones onto her shoulders.

Giscard opened the door but she did not hear him.

‘Good evening, Madame.’ The accented voice startled her.

‘Can I help you?’ She guessed he was an illegal.

‘Madame, I saw something. You must go there now, please, Madame.’

‘What is your name?’ Clare asked.

‘You can call me Giscard. That is enough.’

‘Tell me what you saw,’ said Clare. She reached over for her notebook, clicked the pen against the palm of her hand.

Giscard reached into his pocket, producing a scrap of thumbed newspaper. The phone number had been written with the careful deliberateness of one who has taught himself to read and write. Clare took the paper, jotted down the number, and gave it back to Giscard.

‘What, Giscard, what did you see? Start at the beginning.’

‘I called that number.’ He spoke in a rush in case his fear silenced him. ‘It is a man who answered. I tell him my name. That someone give me the number and tell me that he needs a security. The man say to me: are you strong? I say yes.’

Clare noticed the taut muscles across his shoulders, the broad hands, the gentle eyes. A kind father’s eyes, she thought. His words flowed now.

‘Madame, I say yes and he say I must come to see him. And I go.’ Clare knew how much it must have cost him to come in here: no papers, desperate to avoid all contact with an officialdom that would send him back to the violent mayhem he had fled.

‘Madame, I go there. It is an apartment with many locks. Bars on the window. It is there in Main Road. A man lets me in. He says I must wait – that the man I talked to is coming. I do that. I wait while he goes to call someone. He comes back with
another man. They ask me: can I be good security? Can I keep quiet? Do I have papers? I say yes. I say yes. I say not yet. They say I must work at night until nine a.m. I ask them what is the job and they laugh. They say that my job is to forget what I see every night. To forget who I see. They say they know men from my country. How we make our money from our women. I say nothing. We talk about the money. But there is a noise outside. The men go out. I hear them talking, shouting. I think that they are talking on their phones. They go out the front door – I hear the lock sliding – I think that someone is coming. I wait. It is very quiet. I am waiting there then I hear a very small noise. I listen. It sounds like a child that is crying, a girl crying. The men are gone, so I get up. I cannot leave the crying. I think of my own children in Congo. I go through the curtain where the second man came from. There I see more doors. One is open a little bit and it is there that I hear the crying. I go in. Madame.’ Giscard’s voice is soft, urgent. ‘Madame, there is a child. I am afraid for her. She is too much in pain. You must go there now. It is a very young girl that is crying there. She looks very, very bad. I see her hand is bleeding. Her face, it is hit many times.’