Like Clockwork (7 page)

His hatred was palpable. It was all Clare could do to stop herself from stepping back from it. It would give him pleasure, she was sure, if he sensed that he had unnerved her. ‘Did she go to meet someone last Friday?’ asked Clare.

‘How must I know?’ he spat. ‘She never bothered to speak to me.’

‘Where did she go when she went out?’ asked Clare.

‘To the Waterfront,’ he said. ‘That’s where they always went.’

‘They?’ queried Clare. The boy shifted his weight, regretting his slip.

‘Cornelle,’ he said. ‘They did everything together.’

‘Did you tell Captain Faizal this?’ asked Clare.

‘Nobody asked me,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, she always told my ma that she was going to sleep at Cornelle’s. And Cornelle said she was coming to sleep here. They were friends for so long that everyone stopped checking.’

‘Except you,’ said Clare. The boy looked awkward. He pointed to a framed photograph on the bookshelf. ‘There’s Charnay. And that’s Cornelle.’ The two girls were dressed in porn-star chic – like all girls their age. Cornelle was blonde and very slim, squeezed into clothes a size too small. She contrasted with the darker beauty of Charnay. Clare wondered how they had paid for these clothes. It cost a lot of money to look that cheap. Clare held the picture closer. It was difficult to work out where it had been taken. The blurred background did not look like someone’s house.

‘They worked well together,’ said J.P. He was at the door, holding it open for her. Her time was up. She put the picture down.

‘Where is Cornelle now?’

‘At school,’ he answered. ‘She was in the same class as Charnay.’

Clare followed J.P. Swanepoel to the front door. ‘J.P.,’ she said, ‘what were you doing on Friday night?’ He was motionless except for the tic-tic-tic of a vein in his neck.

‘Why?’

‘I would like to know,’ said Clare. ‘Where were you?’

‘On rugby tour.’ His voice cracked a little. ‘We went to the Boland on Friday morning. You can ask my coach.’

‘I will,’ said Clare, ‘and you let me know if you think of anything else about Charnay.’

The dead girl’s brother looked sullen. ‘Like what?’

‘Any new friends she might have made,’ said Clare.

He laughed. ‘She made a new friend every hour.’ He closed the door behind her. He was still watching through the thick, ridged glass when she opened her car door. She waved at him, but he did not wave back. She drove around the block before calling Riedwaan.

‘How did it go?’ he asked.

‘Interesting,’ said Clare. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you. There was just one thing I wanted to check now.’

‘
Ja
,’ said Riedwaan. ‘What?’

‘J.P. Her brother,’ said Clare. ‘Did you talk to him?’

‘Rita Mkhize did,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Why?’

‘I just wanted to check on his alibi. Can I speak to Rita?’

‘Sure,’ said Riedwaan. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Rita,’ she heard him call. ‘Clare wants to speak to you.’ He took his hand away. ‘I’ll see you later?’

‘I’ll call you,’ she said. Riedwaan handed the phone to Rita.

‘Hi, Clare,’ Rita said. ‘What did you want to know?’

‘About J.P. Swanepoel. What did you think?’

‘Not my type,’ laughed Rita. ‘And I most certainly was not his type either. A little blast from the old South Africa past.’

‘What did he tell you about his weekend?’

‘He said he’d been on rugby tour,’ said Rita.

‘And?’

‘I checked it out. His coach told me they left early Friday and were only back on Sunday evening. And that J.P. was there all the time.’

‘Okay,’ said Clare.

‘There was one other thing,’ Rita added. ‘I’m not sure if it’s important.’

‘What?’ asked Clare. Her pulse quickened.

‘He was sent off twice. Once for punching an opponent, and once for kicking someone in the scrum.’

‘Charming,’ said Clare. ‘Thanks.’

‘Any time,’ said Rita. ‘Have a good weekend if I don’t see you.’

Clare looked at her watch. It was close to the end of the school day. A chat to Cornelle would be worth the wait. Clare found Welgemoed High easily. There was only one exit – the rule now at government schools after a spate of assaults. She parked opposite a cluster of mothers chatting next to their Jeeps and BMWs.

Cornelle walked out of the school gates alone. She jerked at the book bag slung over her shoulder, reaching for the cigarettes in her blazer pocket as soon as she had rounded the corner. She swivelled, hip bones jutting above her grey skirt, towards Clare’s greeting.

‘Hi, Cornelle. I was hoping we could talk about Charnay.’ Clare leaned over and opened the passenger door. ‘Get in,’ said Clare. ‘I’ll drive you home.’ The girl narrowed her eyes, but the day was raw, and her cold hand was already reaching for the door. She folded herself into the passenger seat, shaking her blonde hair loose from its regulation ponytail.

‘How do you know my name?’ she asked. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Clare Hart. I’m part of the team investigating Charnay’s murder.’

‘Oh,’ said Cornelle, interested now. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I was at Charnay’s house earlier. J.P. showed me the photograph of you two. I just wanted to talk to you about her.’

Cornelle turned her head away, her hair curtaining her expression. She dragged again on the cigarette and then lit a fresh one from the glowing stump. Clare ignored the smoke.

‘What was she like?’

‘She was my friend,’ said Cornelle. ‘We used to do everything together. Before.’

‘So what happened last week?’ asked Clare. ‘Where did you go? Where did she go?’ Cornelle kept her face averted. She shrugged.

‘I don’t know. We didn’t always spend our weekends together.’

‘Charnay’s mother thought you did. What about yours?’

‘Mine doesn’t give a fuck,’ said Cornelle. She ground her half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray. ‘She wouldn’t even have noticed if I had disappeared.’ Cornelle dashed the back of her hand against her cheek. Clare could not see if there were tears.

‘Did you go out together last weekend?’ Clare persisted.

‘No.’

‘I thought you did everything together?’

‘
Ag
, we used to. But not so much lately,’ said Cornelle. ‘We didn’t always
jol
together on the weekends. We had different friends sometimes.’

‘Where do you live? I’ll drive you there’ said Clare. Cornelle directed her – left, right, second left, number 32. Then she was silent. The house she pointed out was shut up, blank. Cornelle scrabbled in her bag for her keys.

‘Are you going out this evening?’ asked Clare.

‘I don’t know. To the Waterfront, I suppose.’

‘Shall I give you a lift? I’m going that way.’

Cornelle shrugged. ‘
Ag
, why not? Let me go change.’ She didn’t ask Clare if she wanted to wait inside. Clare looked at the depressing face-brick, blinds hanging askew in the upstairs windows, and was glad not to have been invited in. ‘I’ll be quick.’

Cornelle was gone in a flash of long legs. The look in her eyes, the tears, had not been grief, thought Clare. It had been fear. She watched the bathroom light go on and then snap off again. What was Cornelle afraid of? She put a call through to Riedwaan but his answering service kicked in before the
first ring. She snapped her phone shut; Cornelle was hurtling out the door. Transformed in ten minutes by a tight black T-shirt and a skirt that could be mistaken for a belt.

‘
Poes
pelmets is what my ma calls them,’ giggled Cornelle, allowing Clare a glimpse of the child that she had so recently been. Cornelle turned back to the mirror to lacquer on her after-school face and the illusion was gone.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Shop, I suppose.’ There was a long pause. ‘Maybe meet some friends later.’

Clare glanced over at Cornelle – imported designer skirt and sunglasses. An indiscreet double C on her handbag. ‘Where do you get the money?’ she asked, weaving in between the late afternoon traffic. ‘Where did Charnay get her money?’

‘Oh, we model,’ said Cornelle with the nonchalance of a practised almost-truth. ‘Sometimes we get gifts after a shoot. Got gifts,’ she corrected.

Charnay’s broken body flashed into Clare’s mind. A driver hooted and she swerved back into her lane. ‘Those are expensive clothes.’

Cornelle looked at her again. And again there was a shadow across her face.

‘I work hard,’ said Cornelle. ‘So did Charnay.’

Clare dropped the subject. They drove in silence as darkness gathered, the elevated highway offering them a view of the glimmering harbour. Clare turned off the highway towards the Waterfront. Dockworkers and shop girls thronged home, shoulders hunched against the cold under thin jackets.

‘Drop me here please,’ Cornelle said. ‘I’ll walk the rest of the way.’ Clare swung around the next third of the traffic circle and pulled over. She pulled the blue card she had found in Charnay’s room from her pocket. ‘Do you know this number?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Cornelle, pulling her cellphone out of her bag. ‘I’m so bad with numbers. Let me see if I’ve got it on my phone.’ She peered at the number and dialled it. A name flashed onto the small screen. Cornelle ended the call, a flush rising on her pale neck. ‘The Isis Club,’ she muttered, not meeting Clare’s eye.

‘The strip club?’ asked Clare.

‘
Ja
,’ said Cornelle. ‘We auditioned there. Me and Charnay.’

‘As strippers?’ asked Clare.

‘No,’ answered Cornelle, her voice very low. ‘They were making movies. We auditioned for a part.’

‘Did you get one?’ asked Clare.

‘I didn’t. It was too hard-core for me.’ Cornelle looked down at her hands. The cuticles had been bitten until they bled.

‘Did Charnay?’ asked Clare.

‘Not that I know of,’ said Cornelle, reaching for the handle.

Clare put her hand on Cornelle’s arm and handed her a card. ‘Phone me if you want to talk,’ she said.

‘I will,’ said Cornelle. ‘I mean, I won’t need to. I told you everything.’

The door slammed, muffling the thanks flung over her thin shoulder. Cornelle did not head towards the Clocktower with its evening jazz cafés. Instead she took the road wedged between the repair dock and an abandoned office block. Two men painting a Chinese ship watched her progress, turning back to their work when a directed wolf whistle failed to even register in her stride. And then she was swallowed by darkness.

Clare drove west, towards Sea Point. As she rounded the huge yacht basin at the Waterfront – eviscerated in preparation for new luxury apartments – she caught sight of Cornelle again and slowed, ignoring the impatient drivers behind her. The girl changed direction. She was walking away from the shops and cinemas – already starting to seethe with scantily dressed teenagers – towards the bunkered luxury of The Prince’s Hotel. She dipped out of sight, obscured by the masts of the yachts anchored in the marina. Impulsively, Clare turned and drove back in the direction she had just come from. She parked deep in the shadow of an empty building. She grabbed her bag and, pushing her arms into her coat, walked down the access road that led through the luxury apartments to the marina. She looked for Cornelle, but she seemed to have gone into The Blue Room. The bar overlooked the most expensive yachts in the basin. Clare did not slow her pace. Instead, she walked around the hotel and entered the lobby. Her well-cut clothes earned her a welcoming nod from the concierge. She slipped past the receptionist busy on a call and took the narrow service passage that led to the bar. Then she slid behind a waiter and sat down at a table that was not visible from the mirrored bar.

The Blue Room was empty except for three men drinking
at a table near the entrance. Cornelle was sitting at the far end of the bar. She had exchanged her tackies for needle-heeled boots and adjusted the neckline of her T-shirt, displaying a generous cleavage as she leaned over to take a practised sip of her cocktail. As the barman turned to serve a new customer, the suited man who had bought her the drink tucked a bloated finger between her breasts, pushing her top down further. Cornelle pressed her arms against her body and smiled, spilling more of herself towards the man. Clare stared at the exposed tattoo on her breast. The same elegant verticals bisected with an X. The same design as Charnay’s. The man edged closer to the girl, slack mouth wet with anticipation. Cornelle avoided looking at him by checking her hair in the mirror behind the bar. She caught sight of Clare and shame blazed briefly in her eyes, which then glazed over. She turned her smiling mouth to the man whose left hand was moving up her naked thigh towards her crotch. His wedding band flashed in the light and then disappeared under Cornelle’s skirt. Clare saw him squeeze hard at some imagined resistance. Cornelle’s thighs parted at once. She smiled when he twisted her nipple into pertness as the barman came to take Clare’s order.

‘A whiskey and water, please. No ice.’ The young man went back to his station, busying himself with bottles and glasses. The man put a hundred-rand note on the counter and handed Cornelle her bag. She followed him obediently into the night. Clare sipped her drink, hoping that the alcohol would stop the churn in her stomach.

Clare went to pay for her drink. She passed a picture of Charnay over to the barman with the money.

‘Do you know her, Tyrone?’ she asked. He looked startled, then touched the silver name tag on his shirt. ‘I’m Dr Clare Hart.’ He shook her outstretched hand.

He picked up her picture. ‘Shame, it’s that girl they found in Sea Point, isn’t it? This is a better photo than the one they put in the paper.’

Clare nodded. ‘Charnay. Charnay Swanepoel. Did she ever come in here?’

Tyrone glanced towards the three men drinking steadily at their table, then he nodded.

‘She did come in here once or twice.’ He looked back at the picture. ‘She was pretty. My type. She looks like a fairy princess with all that hair.’

‘When was she here last?’

‘Last Friday,’ he said reluctantly.

‘Who was she here with?’

The barman did not look Clare in the eye. ‘Nobody. She left early. By herself.’