Like Clockwork (26 page)

Clare’s book had told her things – things that Clare had not known she was disclosing about Constance. It had told Whitney things that she thought only she knew. Whitney knew where to find Constance. She had to find her. She walked down the path, the sound of her footsteps loud in the quiet of the dawn, towards the sequestered cottage. She knocked quietly. The door opened as if someone had been expecting her. Constance stared at Whitney, startled but not afraid. Whitney took the older woman’s thin shoulders and turned her around. She pulled down Constance’s white shift, exposing the lumpy mass of scar tissue across the width of her back. Whitney wet her finger on her tongue and traced the marks like an artist tracing a pattern she knew by heart.

‘You can read it?’ asked Constance. Whitney nodded. Constance’s breath was warm on her neck as she leaned forward to kiss the scars. She took her hand and drew the girl inside, locking the door behind them.

The sun was high in the sky when Clare eventually awoke. She pulled on her dressing gown and fetched the
Cape Times
from outside her door. She wondered where Riedwaan was.

‘Woke and couldn’t fall asleep again. Speak to you in the morning. Riedwaan.’ She found the note propped on the counter when she went to make coffee. Clare crumpled it in her hand and waited for the kettle to boil. The phone rang as she was going back to her bedroom.

‘Yes?’ She balanced her cup as she climbed back into bed. ‘If this is a game, then we’re quits now.’

‘Clare? It’s Piet,’ was the bemused reply. ‘I’ve got those results for you.’

Clare was glad he couldn’t see her blush. ‘Sorry, Piet, I thought you were someone else.’

‘Apparently. So, do you want them?’

‘Yes, of course I want them. What did you find? Did they match the fibres you found on India?’

‘That’s what’s odd,’ said Piet. ‘They didn’t match. But I ran a second check and I found that some of the fibres did match what I found on India’s shirt. There are a few that are identical.’

‘How can you tell?’ asked Clare, noticing the business section of the newspaper, which had slipped to the floor. There was
a banner headline announcing the end of the property boom.

‘The fibres are very similar, both cashmere. But the dyes are different. One is a synthetic dye, the other is a much more expensive natural dye.’

‘Which ones matched the fibres I brought you?’ asked Clare. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, oblivious to the cold.

‘The synthetic ones. There were only a few of them. The ones I’d found were under the naturally dyed ones.’

‘Where did you find the synthetic ones? Where on her body, I mean,’ asked Clare.

‘They were around the shoulders, a sprinkling on the nape of her neck. Where you would expect, if someone put an arm around your neck to hug you,’ said Piet.

‘But definitely traces of two people?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Thanks, Piet.’ She disconnected and dialled Riedwaan’s number immediately.

‘Clare, I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘It doesn’t matter, Riedwaan. Piet Mouton just called me about those fibres I dropped off with him. They match some of those on India. They’re the ones I took from King’s coat when I was there.’

‘And the others?’

‘Don’t know,’ said Clare. ‘Different dye, according to Piet.’

‘It could just mean that he gave his daughter a hug before she went out.’

‘A girl with a bolt on the inside of her bedroom door is going to hug her stepfather before she goes out?’

‘You’ve got a point there,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Maybe I’ll pay him another courtesy call and check when he saw her for the last time.’

‘Let me know how it goes,’ said Clare.

‘You want to come with me?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘Thanks, but I think I’ll pay our friend Otis Tohar a visit instead.’ She folded the newspaper up thoughtfully. ‘I think he might be a little stressed.’ She slipped it into her bag.

‘Oh?’

‘Just a feeling. Landman and him are all over each other like a rash. And I saw some pictures of Brian King at that launch party. Their shared interest in films might be worth exploring a little more.’

‘Where did you see the pictures?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘Jakes took them.’

‘I didn’t know you’d been seeing him,’ said Riedwaan.

‘I’m not. Don’t be paranoid,’ said Clare. ‘I stopped by there because something niggled and he showed me the pictures he took at Tohar’s party.’

‘Was this before I saw you?’

‘Yes. Riedwaan, why are you interrogating me? Are you jealous?’

‘No. I’m just asking.’

‘Well, don’t. It’s not your business anyway.’

‘I’ll speak to you later.’ Riedwaan cut the connection. Irritated, Clare pulled on her running gear,. She had to get out. It was a bright morning, with the sun reflecting in the pooled rain. She lost herself temporarily to the steady pounding of her feet on the paving, and got home with her head much clearer. It was already nine o’clock when she phoned Tohar to arrange a meeting. She showered and dressed quickly and was there by ten. She pressed the intercom and waited. Eventually a voice asked what she wanted. ‘It’s Clare Hart. I’ve come about the interview.’

The door clicked open and she was inside. The mirrored elevator was waiting for her. Within seconds it had delivered her safely to the penthouse apartment. Looking svelte in a tailored suit, Tohar’s PA was waiting for Clare.

‘Hello. I’m Janet Green,’ she said.

Clare put out her hand. ‘Hi, I’m Clare Hart.’

‘Mr Tohar said he’d be in shortly.’

‘Do you mind showing me around while we wait for Mr Tohar to arrive?’

‘Absolutely. Come this way.’

Clare followed her from the hall into the sitting room. It was immense and luxuriously furnished. The art was original, expensive: vast abstract canvasses that picked up the colours of the sofas. It was a perfect room, but cold, with not a single photograph or book in sight.

‘Can I bring coffee?’

‘Thanks,’ said Clare. She sat on a large blue sofa by the window, the sweep of the bay in front of her. She pulled the newspaper out of her bag. In the margin of an inside page was a tiny story warning that the big developers who had bought too much and not sold on fast enough were facing a big crunch. The article singled out the Osiris Group as having over-extended itself and run into problems. Its bankers were reluctant to increase their lending and were considering calling in their debts as the group’s cost spiralled and prices levelled out. Osiris had apparently found one or two anonymous investors, but with the sudden dip in prices and a strong local currency, even this investment was looking dicey. There were also allegations of black economic empowerment fronting. Already, the liquidators were circling on the periphery.

Clare put down the paper and looked out at the graceful curve of the bay. Otis Tohar was in a very vulnerable position, though he must have accessed cash from somewhere to have kept going. Clare thought about Landman’s proprietary air. She grimaced. She’d certainly not like to be owing Landman money, and be unable to pay him back when he demanded.

Janet Green came back with the coffee and poured it. It was very strong. ‘How long have you worked for Mr Tohar?’ asked Clare.

‘I started with him about six months ago. I was working for one of the hotels before. This seemed like an interesting opportunity.’

‘And has it been?’

‘It is challenging,’ said Janet.

‘What do you do, exactly?’

‘I manage Mr Tohar’s publicity. I also manage his social diary, and I’ve been involved in re-branding the Isis Clubs.’ Janet stood up before Clare could ask her any more questions. ‘Shall I show you around now?’

‘Thanks,’ said Clare, putting down her coffee and following the PA. The apartment had been converted from the original old hotel rooms. Enormous sums of money had been spent on it. Janet gave her detailed descriptions of the furnishings and artworks in each room.

‘Would you like to see anything else?’ asked Janet.

‘Yes, I would like to see the home cinema. I hear that it’s state of the art.’ said Clare. Janet paused to answer her phone and Clare walked ahead down the passage. She opened the first door on the left. Instead of seeing the edit suite she had expected, she stepped into what looked like a dungeon. There was an array of whips and manacles and other props on the walls. There were cables and plugs on the floor and lighting tracks on the roof. 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.