Like Clockwork (28 page)

‘Have you been down there?’

‘Of course. But those Caledon fuckers didn’t go last night. They took it into their thick heads that she must have met a boyfriend and decided to go with him. So twelve precious hours and one beautiful girl gone.’

‘Have you interviewed the sound man yet?’

‘Sam Napoli? Not yet. Do you want to come with me?’

‘I’ll come,’ said Clare. ‘Will you pick me up? Half an hour?’

‘See you now.’

Clare slumped down at her desk. The profile she had drawn up of the killer was there in front of her. What was she
missing? She put her hands into her hair and pulled until her eyes watered from the pain. The pieces of the puzzle were there. But no matter how she shuffled them, no clear picture emerged. Clare went to the bathroom, retching again and again. Then she prepared herself for the day, and waited for Riedwaan.

Riedwaan picked Clare up twenty minutes later. He drove to the Film Fusion studios, his anger filling the car. ‘What did she look like?’ asked Clare. Riedwaan threw a picture of the missing girl onto Clare’s lap. It was a posed school photo. Theresa Angelo looked demure in her blue dress with its silly white Peter Pan collar. The face was broad, a sweep of cheekbones promising beauty in adulthood. Her dark eyes were intelligent, challenging; her body sturdy, strong. Certainly not like the ethereal girls this killer had taken before. Had he made a mistake? Had something panicked him? Could they move fast enough to find him? To find Theresa alive? Clare felt a glimmer of hope.

‘I’ve got to do a fucking press conference this afternoon. What am I going to say? Those sharks are going to be on a feeding frenzy. Why haven’t you got this killer? What’s wrong with the police? When I know and you know that the longer he’s on the loose the more papers they sell. Bastards.’ Riedwaan’s rage boiled over.

‘What do you have, Riedwaan?’ Clare asked, wincing as he cut in front of a car, the driver hooting furiously. ‘Does she fit the pattern?’

‘I don’t know. She’s an only child. Father is a doctor on an oil rig. He’s being flown in this morning. Goes to a private
school in town. Gifted child, talented actress, well-behaved mommy’s girl.’ He hooted viciously as an old lady swerved across the lane.

‘What happened last night?’

‘Apparently they do voice-overs at Film Fusion if there’s any spare time in the studio. Theresa makes some pocket money if they have a gap and she’s free. She caught a taxi to the Waterfront because her mother was working. Got to Film Fusion just before four and went to work. Her mother could only meet her at eight so she was going to do some shopping and then meet her.’

‘Why so much later?’

‘Mrs Angelo has a catering business. She was doing a birthday tea so would only be free at seven-thirty. She came straight down and waited for Theresa – who never arrived. Phiri is baying for my sautéed balls on a plate. And the MEC for security is rabbiting on about community trust in the police force. Load of shit, they are going to crucify me, Muslim or not.’ Riedwaan turned into Film Fusion’s studio and parked.

‘We’ll get him.’

‘When, Clare? Fucking when? You’re meant to be the miracle worker. What have I got? A description of what he might wear? A list of psychological problems that this poor motherfucker might have had? My mother
donnered
the shit out of me when I was a kid. Do you see me killing anybody?’ Riedwaan turned away. Clare ignored the tremor in his voice.

‘We lose, Riedwaan, if we fight. You know that.’ Clare got out of the car. Riedwaan lit a cigarette, then dragged on it like a drowning man sucking in a pocket of air. She waited. Clare sensed Theresa’s presence, it was there like the scent of a woman who has just left a room. She reined in her thoughts, turning mind sharply to the facts. The killer kept the girls alive for some time before he killed them. If Theresa had been
abducted last night there was a good chance that she was still alive. Panic coiled tightly in Clare’s belly. He had kept the bodies of the first two for twenty-four hours before dumping them.

Riedwaan slammed the door of his car, startling her. He put his hand on the back of her neck and rubbed it. She took it as the peace offering it was and relaxed into his touch. Then they went inside and waited for the sound man. Clare checked the desk register. Theresa Angelo had printed her cellphone number in clear rounded letters at three fifty-five the previous afternoon. Clare jotted the number down in her notebook just as Sam Napoli arrived.

He shook hands with both of them. ‘Come upstairs, please.’ His tanned face was ashen. He took them into his studio and they sat down. Sam had tears in his eyes.

‘I’ve worked with Theresa since she was ten,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe this. That you guys are here looking for her.’

‘Take us through what happened yesterday. Everything. Smallest details,’ said Clare.

‘She came to do a voice-over for a car ad. She was so excited about the job – it was the first time she had got an adult role. She had a fantastic voice – husky and alive.’ He turned towards the console and twiddled a few of its vast array of knobs. ‘Here, listen.’

‘Hello, there.’ Theresa Angelo’s voice filled the room. Clare’s flesh crawled at the uncanniness of it. ‘I’m a Maserati girl myself. I deserve it. How about you?’

Sam switched the tape off again. ‘She was so happy when she left. We had been joking about this dumb Maserati ad. You know Rod Stewart’s immortal lines: “She was tall, thin and tarty and she drove a Maserati.” Theresa was saying if she could write so brilliantly, then she’d be a millionaire too. Anyway, we finished early and she left – singing “Sailing”. She has appalling taste in music.’

‘What time did she leave?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘It must have been about five-thirty.’ He turned back to his computer. ‘Let me just check. Every job is logged here.’ He called up the previous day’s entries. ‘
Ja
, here it is. Five thirty-two I logged off. So she must have left about five minutes later.’

‘Was there anything else you noticed?’

‘There was something. It was a small thing. But she was wearing blue nail polish. I remember thinking that it looked odd – it made her hands look unnatural. She laughed when I said that – she said it was just a fashion. Must be true. My wife and my daughter are both wearing it. It told them it looks weird, but they don’t care.’

‘Anything else?’ asked Riedwaan, ‘Was she nervous? Different in any way?’

‘No, just happy. She said goodbye and she was gone.’

Riedwaan closed his notebook. ‘Thanks, Mr Napoli. I’ll have this typed and then you can sign the statement. Can you come into the police station?’

‘Sure, sure,’ said Sam, getting up and walking with Riedwaan towards the door. ‘I saw her again, you know.’

Tension whipped through Riedwaan’s body. He opened his notebook. The paper crackled loudly in the sudden quiet.

‘Where?’ he asked.

‘It was a little later. I was meant to be cleaning up the sound but there was some glitch with the machine. I went out onto the balcony for a smoke and I saw her. She was walking towards the Waterfront but she hadn’t gone the usual way. She must have cut through those fancy apartments. I thought maybe she was going in there because I saw her wave. I didn’t see who she was waving at. And then she disappeared for a while. I thought she must have gone in. I was about to go in when I saw her again. She was really looking great. I thought, There is our little Theresa, all grown up.’

‘Was there anyone with her? Following her?’ asked Clare.

‘If there was, he must have stuck right close to the shadow because I didn’t see anyone. She turned the corner then, so I couldn’t see her any more.’

‘Can you point out where she went?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘Sure,’ said Sam. ‘Come this way.’ He led them through the coffee bar and onto the wooden deck. Each table had an ashtray filled to the brim with ash and stompies. ‘That is where she went.’ He pointed towards a narrow stretch of garden that snaked through the apartment buildings. It led down towards the Waterfront via the yachting marina. The delicate masts patterned the blue sky.

‘I wonder if she went to The Blue Room?’ said Clare. ‘I would imagine that it’s time for us to pay another visit. I’m sure you’ll need a whiskey after your press conference. Do you want to meet me there later?’

Riedwaan looked at his watch. ‘Shit, I’m going to be late. I’ll meet you there in an hour. Cheers.’

Clare turned to Sam. ‘Thanks, Sam.’

He was staring at the empty place where Theresa had been just half a day earlier. ‘I’ve got a daughter just her age,’ he said. ‘What does one do?’

Clare put her hand on his arm. ‘You wait. It’s all you can do.’

Clare retraced Theresa Angelo’s steps. She walked over to the security gate of the apartment complex. The guard was inside his hut, his radio blasting a soccer game at the road. He did not see her as she slipped under the boom. She looked back at the Film Fusion balcony. Sam had gone inside. Fifty metres down the road was a rank of municipal dustbins screened by some reeds. She looked up at the apartments. Not one window faced her way.

She walked towards the marina. At the other end of the service road there was a metal gate, with a hidden release mechanism Clare soon discovered on the inside. She pressed it, and the gate jumped open onto the small parking lot that served the yachting marina. Clare walked down the slipway, uneasy with the sense that Theresa had so recently walked this way. Then she made her way to The Blue Room. The barman was absorbed in the task of polishing a glass. It took him a few seconds to register Clare’s presence.

‘Can I help?’ His voice was clipped, neutral. ‘We aren’t open for another half an hour.’

‘Hello, Tyrone. I’m not here for a drink. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions.’

He paled, recognising her. ‘What about? I wasn’t on duty last night. I can’t help you.’

‘So you know I’m looking for someone?’

‘I heard it on the news. That another girl is missing.’ He put the glass down. ‘And then I saw you, so I thought you’d be looking for her.’

‘Why did you think I would look here, Tyrone?’

He turned to pack away the clean glasses. ‘I can’t help you. I was at home last night.’

‘Who was here, then?’

He looked down at the glass in his hand and polished it again.

‘One girl is missing, Tyrone. Three are dead. Information is the only thing that will help us catch him.’ She put one of her cards on the bar counter. ‘You call me.’ He said nothing, did not pick up the card.

‘We’ll be checking your alibi,’ she said, turning as she reached the door. Her card had gone, she noticed. Then she walked out briskly and settled herself on a nearby bench to wait for Riedwaan.

Sam Napoli had said that Theresa had been wearing blue nail polish. He had noticed it, commented on it because it was out of character and it had looked odd. Clare opened her phone and pressed Piet Mouton’s cell number.

‘Ja?’

‘Piet? Clare here. Can you check a detail for me?’

‘Those girls?’ aksed Piet. ‘I hear you’ve got another one.’

‘Not yet, Piet. You keep yourself busy in your lab so long.’

‘So what do you want me to check?’

‘Did you note down if those girls had nail polish on?’ She waited as Mouton shuffled through the organised chaos that was his desk.

‘Okay, here they are. Charnay, yes. Amore, yes. India, yes.’ Clare imagined him running his fat sausage of a finger down his pages of minutely detailed notes. ‘
Ja
, they all were. India
was wearing nail polish, but it was scratched. Like she had tried to get it off with something sharp. There were a few small cuts on the side of the nail bed. There were fragments under her nail, too. Why?’

‘Just checking, Piet. This Theresa Angelo who disappeared last night was wearing blue nail polish. The last person to see her commented on it because it didn’t fit with her.’

‘Theresa Angelo. A dead angel. Tabloid heaven.’

‘Thanks, Piet,’ she said wryly. Any of the other tests in yet?’

‘Not yet. I’ll let you know.’

‘Okay. bye, Piet.’ Clare watched the inky-black water lapping at the sheer stone sides of the marina. She remembered a bottle of blue nail polish in India’s immaculate bathroom that looked as if it had been used only once. She watched a seal waddle along a wooden jetty and dive in, gracefully transformed as soon as it hit the water. The phone’s shrill ring startled her out of her reverie. She was surprised to see the number.

‘Piet,’ said Clare.

‘I’ve just got one result in from the tests on the fibres we found on India. They were rope fibres. What is interesting is that there are traces of bird shit on it. I got my friend at the ornithology institute to run some tests. He said it’s from a seagull – one that scavenges on human waste. An urban seagull.’

‘Thanks, Piet.’

‘Another thing, Clare. You remember the marks we found on Charnay’s toes and fingers? Those were definitely gnaw marks. From rats. Your man keeps their bodies inside somewhere. We often find bodies that have been scavenged. But if those girls had been outside it would have been dogs, maybe cats. If it’s rats, then it must be inside somewhere, somewhere quiet.’

Clare was silent. She was trying not to see the malignant gleam of rat eyes in the dark, moving closer, closer. Then biting, gnawing.

‘You there?’ asked Piet.

‘
Ja
, I’m here.’

‘I thought maybe somewhere at the docks. Maybe a warehouse or something?’

‘Piet, are we looking for one man or two?’ asked Clare.

‘There were the two different blood groups on Charnay – one in the semen, one in the blood. But that’s not conclusive. Eighty per cent of people express their blood group in other body fluids. So you can have mucosa, semen that has a different DNA structure to the rest. It throws you. You can’t conclusively say you’re not looking for two men.’

‘But I’m so sure it is one man. It’s so obsessive. Those keys he puts in their hands. What are they for?’

‘A diversion?’ asked Piet.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Clare. She watched the raucous seagulls wheeling, diving, scavenging. Clare snapped her phone shut. Find her, find her, the gulls taunted. She watched one snatch food from the beak of another, smaller gull and then land on the mast of one of the yachts rocking in the tamed water.