Like Clockwork (23 page)

Clare said nothing, afraid that any word from her would dam the flow of Whitney’s thoughts.

‘He filmed it. He had a camera. I think two cameras. One I saw when they first brought me in. I saw myself reflected in its eye: it stood there on a tripod. Like another one of them. First they made me put on some boots – very high, I
couldn’t stand properly in them. And then it all started. But the other man, I saw him come out of the corner of the room where it was dark. He had another camera in his hands.’ She stopped speaking. It was very dark now that the mountains hid the carpet of city lights.

‘I thought he would help me.’ Whitney laughed bitterly.

‘Who was he?’ Clare asked.

‘He was a director. That’s what they called him. He was telling them what to do. To me. He came right close to my face when they . . .’ She put her hand to her mouth, took it away again. ‘When they hurt me. He liked to watch my face. Then he would make them do it again – what they were doing to me – so he could film that too.’

Cutaways, thought Clare. Always make sure that when you shoot you have enough cutaways. She gripped the wheel and kept her eyes on the broken white line marking the centre of the road. She counted the sections. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. That kept her calm enough. ‘Did you see him?’

‘I see him all the time. He’s the one I see all the time.’ Whitney’s fury erupted. Then she slumped back in her seat. ‘But I didn’t see his face. He was wearing a hood. A blue hood with holes for the eyes and his mouth.’ She was quiet for so long that Clare wondered if she had closed in on herself.

‘What was it for, Clare? Why did they do it? Why did they film it? That’s what makes me feel sick. That they did that to me and now it’s there for anyone to watch. It feels as if what happened is happening over and over and over. I can never stop it now because it’s there on their tape.’

For a long while, Clare could not think of anything to say. She turned onto the rutted farm road, slowing down so that she didn’t miss the turnoff. The twin lights from the front windows of the cottage glowed, warm and sudden, in the dark.

‘You’ll be safe here, Whitney. The woman who lives here
will take care of you. And she’ll leave you in peace. If you stay indoors until everyone has gone to the orchards, nobody will know you’re here.’ Whitney did not respond. The effort of delving into the horror she had endured had sapped her. She clutched her bag to her chest.

There, outlined under the cheap, pink fabric, was Clare’s book. She reached over, traced the spine. ‘Did you read it?’ she asked. Whitney nodded but offered nothing more. They arrived. Clare parked under the enormous oak that dwarfed the whitewashed labourer’s cottage. The door opened, releasing warm yellow light into the blackness.

Dinah de Wet stood broad in the doorway, her shoulders strong from years of picking and pruning and carrying other people’s children. Her body was soft as she hugged Clare. She turned to Whitney. The girl sank further into her seat.

‘
Kom binne, my kind
.’ Her guttural voice was gentle, its tone one she used for a nervous puppy or a fretful baby. She took Whitney’s hand. ‘Come. I’ll show you your room.’

Whitney was unable to extricate herself from the situation, so she capitulated and followed Dinah inside. Clare followed. Dinah’s single plate and cup were neatly stacked in the sink. The fire welcomed them. Dinah took Whitney into a small room that led off the living room.

‘You sleep in here, my girlie. I sleep in there.’ She pointed back to the lounge. ‘If you are cold you can come in with me.’

Whitney surveyed her room. The single bed was covered with a crocheted blue and pink coverlet. A teddy bear clutching a red satin heart was perched on the pillow. A candle stood next to the bed. Nails on the walls had empty hangers on them for clothes that Whitney had not brought. On the windowsill was a vase with a bunch of purple-flowered fynbos.

‘Whose room is this?’ asked Whitney.

‘It was my daughter’s,’ said Dinah. Her face was in shadow. ‘But you are welcome to it as long as you need it.’

Whitney set her bag on the bed and sat down next to it. She had no idea of how to continue.

‘I’ll get you some tea,’ said Dinah. ‘Come with me, Clare.’ They went through to the kitchen. Dinah set out cups, poured water.

Clare took some notes from her wallet. ‘This is for food, or whatever.’

Dinah took the money. ‘Whatever happened to the child?’ she asked, tucking the notes into her bra.

‘Maybe she’ll tell you if she trusts you. I promised her that nobody would know she was here.’ She picked up a cup of tea and took it to Whitney. She was in bed with all the blankets pulled close around her. She did not acknowledge the tea that Clare put on her bedside table. Her eyes were closed tight, arms around her knees. Her back was a tight, defensive curve.

‘Bye, Whitney. Stay here, you’ll be safe. Phone me if you need anything. Dinah has a cellphone.’ Clare was about to close the door when Whitney spoke.

‘Where is Constance now?’

‘She’s safe now.’

‘Where is she?’ Whitney sat up, her eyes feverish.

‘On a farm. Like you. She lives there now. She never leaves it.’

‘Tell me the name.’

‘Serenity Farm. It’s near Malmesbury.’

Whitney said nothing more, so Clare closed the door. She said goodbye to Dinah and drove back to Cape Town. Clare could not get the film Whitney had told her about to stop playing – the unseen images were like circling vultures in her head.

Clare needed her map to find the Kings’ house. It was positioned discreetly at the end of a three-kilometre cul-desac that traced the crest of a wooded ridge. The avenue was lined with stately oaks that obscured the palatial houses set far back from the road. Security guards, stupefied with boredom, sat at the gateways. The King mansion was a sparkling white jewel set in an acre of emerald lawn. Clare rang the doorbell. A well-trained maid asked who she was, what she wanted. The gate glided open at the mention of India’s name. Clare parked behind the garages and crunched across the gravel to the unwelcoming front door. The same maid, generously built, her broad face kind above the black and white uniform, let her in.

‘I’m Dr Clare Hart.’ Clare held out her hand. The woman looked surprised, but she shook it.

‘I’m Portia,’ she replied.

‘And your surname, Portia?’

‘Qaba,’ she volunteered, again with some surprise, and continued, ‘The master is not yet home. And Madam is in her room. She is not well.’

Clare had not made an appointment. Riedwaan had told her that he found the King home unsettling, so she had thought it best to visit unannounced.

‘I am part of the team investigating India’s murder,’ said Clare. ‘Perhaps I could have a look at India’s room while I wait for Mr King.’

‘This way, Dr Hart.’ Clare followed her up the curved staircase. India had had the whole eastern wing of the house to herself. Portia opened the heavy curtains. The bedroom windows faced north and east, giving her a view of the undulating Constantia valley. No expense had been spared on India’s room. It was tastefully feminine, all expensive French quilts and imported furniture, but it was soulless, like a room in a boutique hotel. Its intimacy could have wrapped itself around any anonymous occupant. Clare tested the bolt on the inside of the door. It was clear that an amateur handyman had installed it. Or an unpractised girl.

She moved round to the neat desk. There was a maths book open, and a half-completed algebra exercise next to it. Clare picked up the books, put them down again. They were as impersonal as the room. She opened the top drawer. India’s homework diary lay there. Clare flicked through it. Notices about hockey matches, tests, letters from the head of the exclusive school India had attended. These admonished against piercings, tattoos, highlights. Clare put it back, pushed the drawer closed. She felt it stick. So she felt along the back of it. A small pencil case had wedged there. Clare unzipped it. Inside was a half-finished package of contraceptive pills. India had taken the last one on Friday. The day before she had disappeared.

‘It’s for her skin,’ said Portia. ‘She doesn’t have a boyfriend.’

‘You sound very sure,’ said Clare. She replaced the contraceptives. India had obviously meant to be home that night.

‘I was her nanny since she was born,’ said Portia, her voice cracking. ‘She told me everything. Sometimes she would come and sleep with me, if she was afraid.’

‘Where was she going that evening?’ asked Clare.

‘She went to her rehearsal, for the theatre. Then she said she wanted to go to Long Street. Her friend was there. She told me she would come back with a taxi.’ Portia wiped her eyes with her apron. ‘She never came back. I waited for her. Her mum waited for her. She never came back.’

The crunch of a car on the gravel broke the quiet. ‘It is Master,’ said Portia. ‘Come with me. I will take you to his office.’

She hurried Clare out of India’s room and led her downstairs, ushering her into a large study. It looked precisely as the study of a wealthy man should. Clare walked over to the bookshelves. A decorator must have chosen the expensively bound books. The collection was incoherent, revealing neither taste nor education. Clare ran her hand along the virgin spines. Not a single book had been opened. She pressed her hand against the smooth back of
The Collected Works of Shakespeare
. To her surprise, the entire shelf swung away. Behind it were four shelves of neatly stacked videotapes. The alphabetically arranged titles revealed Mr King’s taste for the more extreme forms of discipline, the finer forms of bondage and fear. The tapes on the bottom shelf were pushed right back. Clare bent down to look at them. Each bore the deep-blue Isis logo, though they seemed to be copies. There was a single cassette lying across the top of them.

Clare heard voices at the bottom of the stairs, the man’s filled with irritation, Portia’s placating. On impulse, she picked up the loose tape and dropped it into her bag before quickly closing the concealed shelf again. She turned to find Brian King at the door. He greeted her urbanely enough. Clare recognised his face, but she couldn’t place where she had seen him before.

‘I’m Clare Hart.’

‘Yes, I know who you are, Dr Hart. I’m sorry I wasn’t at home when you arrived. But I didn’t know you were coming. How can I help? I thought we had been over everything with the police already.’ He shrugged off his overcoat and hung it on a coat rack.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr King, and I’m so sorry for what has happened.’ Clare sat down and he took the chair opposite hers. ‘I am developing a profile of the man who killed India. I was hoping to discuss India with you. Who her friends were, what she did, what her interests were. I know this is painful, but the more we know about her, the more likely it is that we can find whoever killed her.’

‘I can’t tell you much more about her than is in my statement. That is her mother’s domain. This is most upsetting, most unnecessary. I warned Cathy so often that the girl was not disciplined enough. That she gave her too much leeway.’ Clare kept quiet, waited for the anger just below the surface to bubble over. ‘India was cheeky, dressed like a tart. They all do, don’t they?’ Clare’s incredulity must have shown, because he caught himself. He avoided Clare’s gaze, running his fingers through his hair. His wedding band glinted in the subdued light.

‘Did she bring her friends home? Did you know them?’ Clare stood. She walked to the bookshelf and looked at the single photograph displayed there. It showed Brian King with his arms draped over his wife and daughter.

‘No, none of them. I work long hours, you know. And she was not very sociable. Recently, I think she went out more. But other than that, I can’t tell you much else.’

‘India was interested in acting. She went to a drama school in town, didn’t she? Did you ever see any of her shows?’ asked Clare.

‘No. No, I didn’t.’ He stood up. ‘I am upset, as you can see.
I’m not myself. And with all the funeral arrangements . . .’ He walked over to the desk and picked up a sheet of paper. ‘Her school wants a memorial service. Some march against violence against women. Most unfortunate.’ He paused again. ‘It’s so difficult for me to deal with. My wife, of course, is hopeless. Has completely collapsed. Not that I blame her, of course.’

‘Can I see Mrs King?’

‘Not now. She is devastated, and our doctor has had to sedate her. Now, if you wouldn’t mind . . .’ taking her cue, Clare stood up, too ‘. . . I have several things to attend to.’ He held the study door open for her. ‘Mr King,’ said Clare, ‘do you have any idea why India installed a bolt on the inside of her bedroom door?’

‘I have no idea. I never went to her room. What were you doing there? Do you have a search warrant?’

‘Oh, I didn’t search. I just wanted to get a sense of her.’ Clare stepped past him. She saw Portia slip away. ‘I’ll find my way out, thanks.’ Clare held her hand out to him. He shook it, his grip unnecessarily hard, hurting her.

‘I hope you find him. The police are not known for their competence, are they?’

Clare did not rise to this. ‘Please contact me if you think of anything. Or anyone that India met recently.’

‘I will. Goodbye, Dr Hart.’ She turned to leave. ‘Oh, by the way, I enjoyed your documentary on the DRC immensely. The one about the women. Excellent.’ His tone sent a shiver down Clare’s spine.

‘Thank you,’ she said politely, and turned round again. ‘There’s one more thing I’d like to ask you.’

‘Yes?’ he said, looking at his watch.

‘Where were you on the night India disappeared?’

‘Why?’

‘We need to check everything,’ said Clare.

‘I’ve already spoken to your colleague. Rizza – or something like that.’

Riedwaan Faizal?’ asked Clare.

‘Something like that. Rather a chip on his shoulder, I thought.’ Clare did not respond. ‘I told him I was having a celebratory dinner with some business associates.’

‘All night?’ said Clare.

‘Well, you know what business is like – we had overseas clients, from the East, and that’s how they do things.’