Water Music (9 page)

They took the lift to the second floor. I was expecting you earlier,
said Anwar.

So was I, said Clare. Another case came in this morning.

Another child? asked Anwar.

Missing teenager, said Clare. A cellist. Rosa Wagner. Vanished three weeks ago.

And youre only looking now?

Seems like nobody missed her either.

The doctor pushed open the doors to Intensive Care. The little girl was in a room of her own.

A muted electronic orchestra played along the managed
borderline between life and death. Beeps for heart rate, blips for temperature, the accordion wheeze of the oxygen mask. The little girl was curled up on a sheepskin to protect her fragile skin. She was so thin that she seemed hardly human. Though attached to a rehydration drip and oxygen tubes, she seemed less spectral than the previous day.

Jesus Christ, said Clare. The things people do to
children.

Dont think about it, said Anwar. Think about what we do instead. Just react. Dont analyse. Youll go mad otherwise.

You said you got the test results back.

The preliminary ones, said Anwar. Infections and chronic diseases eliminated.

The IV beeped. Anwar Jacobs replaced the hydration fluids, got it going again. Clare knelt beside the little girl, her tiny translucent face inches from
hers.

Hows she doing, Anwar? She cradled the childs hand in hers.

The girls tenuous breath fluttered in her chest, and Clare thought she felt a faint pressure from her fingers.

Shes alive, said the doctor. What a little fighter she is. All the odds against her. Shes struggled to breathe and her heartbeat was erratic but thats better now, much better.

Anwar Jacobs bent over the child. Clare
watched his deft hands move gently over the little girls body, re-counting the injuries on her back.

Shes got more than twenty-six marks on her back. There are some nasty scabs at the back of her neck under her hair. Whatever has happened to her has been going on for a long time.

And these? asked Clare, indicating two ridged scars across her back.

Thats from a sjambok, Id guess. Ive seen this
on farm kids a few times. Less so in town. In the meantime well keep her sedated. Its who she is and whats happened to her that I need to know. As soon as I have that, Ill know whats wrong with her and what she needs.

So far weve had nothing, said Clare. Inas just done a press conference, though, so maybe thatll result in something. You said no sexual assault?

No semen traces, no tears in the
vagina or the anus, no burns on the nipples, so none of the usual stuff, if thats what you want. Anwars voice was pruned of all emotion. Those two scars across her back are from a beating thats long past. We X-rayed her, and it looks like the beating fractured some ribs, but there are a number of other fractures too.

Beatings, you say?

Maybe, he said. But it could be rickets vitamin D deficiency
thats made the bones brittle. Shes like a little old lady her bones are like meringue.

Thats the malnourishment you mentioned? asked Clare.

Could be, said Anwar. But I think it might be more than that. Her case is so severe, must have been lack of sunlight.

Clare looked at the childs wan face. How do you manage that in South Africa?

Clare left the Childrens Hospital. It was only a handful of days shy of the winter solstice, and the darkness came swiftly. She thought of Rosa. Girls vanished without trace, that she knew, but unless the earth opened and swallowed them up there was always someone who knew where they were. And why.

Thats what Clare wanted to know. Where. And why.

The black dress she kept for sartorial emergencies
was in its dry-cleaning bag under the seat. It was dark in the parking lot, so she slid her seat back, stripped, and eased herself into the dress. She found the heels she had abandoned after the press conference and slipped them on.

Clare flicked down the sun visor and the mirror light came on. Her angular face seemed that of a stranger; the two vertical lines between her brows lingered even
after she had finished frowning. She dug a comb out of her handbag and ran it through her hair. She dug deeper, and was rewarded with foundation and a lipstick. The former erased the dark rings under her eyes; the latter restored colour to her lips and cheeks.

That should do, she thought.

She drove over Constantia Nek and down into Hout Bay, transformed into a place where all lights sparkled
equally. The democracy of darkness. She turned in at the College of Classical Music. The gravel parking area was filled with cars, some with drivers hunkered down, engines idling to keep the heating on, but Clare managed to find a place that wasnt completely illegal.

The noise of the Gala spilled out of the front door where a pretty usher stood at her post.

Welcome, maam, she said. You have
a ticket?

Clare flashed her official ID and the girl took a step back to let her pass. Four girls wearing expensive shoes and not much else, despite the cold, trotted in after her, but the usher continued to stare after Clare as she strode towards the reception.

A waiter at the door had a tray poised sparkling wine, Bloody Marys, whiskey. The warm notes of a cello wove through the cocktail
party chatter. Caviar and trays of carpaccio too raw, too red against the silver.

The musicians were grouped on a raised dais. Irina Petrova had a conductors baton in her hand and her back to Clare. Katarina Kraft was there too, pale, her cello cradled between her knees. Lily smiled briefly as she tossed back her hair.

Laughter erupted on the other side of the room. A tall man at the centre
of a knot of people. Mid-forties. A hard good-looking face. A hard good-looking body too. Good suit, good shirt, bad shoes.

Mr Savić, Irina Petrova called out to her guest of honour. A toast. Welcome. The programme begins in half an hour. For now, enjoy.

The merest hint of a frown as she noticed Clare in the crowd.

Dr Hart. This Winter Gala is the highlight of our calendar. I must ask you what
you are doing here. Surely this is not a time for an investigation?

Irina, darling, this is wonderful, what a crowd. It was the good-looking man. He smiled at Clare.

Dr Hart, may I introduce Mr Savić, said Irina Petrova. Mr Savić is one of our sponsors, he is the one who has kept this college alive, is that not so, Milan?

She laid a hand on his arm. Savić patted it. I give money to soccer teams,
of course. But who could resist you, Irina? Who could resist all this? he said, with a sweep of his hand.

Clare felt his dark eyes on her before he said, You are a music lover?

Irina coldly interrupted, Dr Hart thinks there may have been an incident with a former student.

Which one? he asked.

Rosa Wagner, Clare replied.

The lovely cellist? he asked. What has happened? She cannot be allowed
to drop out. I was so looking forward to hearing her this evening. That beautiful piece she played last time she entertained us. Shes one of the highlights, you know.

Rosas grandfather reported her missing this morning, said Clare. She called him before dawn this morning, very distressed, there has been nothing since.

You were up at my residence this morning, no? Savić was looking intently at
Clare.

One of your men let me through, said Clare.

Mikey, said Savić. He told me. He seemed pleased at the surprise on Clares face. Weve had security issues. Not everyone in the valley appreciates our conservation efforts. There were some beehives up there that we had to move.

Paradys Honey, you mean? asked Clare.

Yes, them, Noah Stern and his wife, said Savić. You know them?

I was up there
today, said Clare. Seems as if Rosa Wagner spent some time there.

An eccentric man, Stern, said Savić. We have not been able to see eye to eye. But hes a hippy type. Harmless, I believe.

Clare ignored the observation and said, How well do you know Rosa?

Shes one of Irinas special girls, said Savić. Shes played at events at my residence. I have a yacht,
The Siren
you may know it?

Clare nodded,
recalling news reports of the luxury vessel.

In the summer, she played there too. I hope she returns soon. She has a great gift.

Irina Petrova was clearly impatient with the conversation. Rosa is young and impulsive. She will turn up, she said. It would be a pity for the name of the school to be sullied. She rested her hand on Savićs arm, and said, I assure you, this has nothing to do with the
school; it has nothing to do with our partners.

The thought never crossed my mind, Irina, said Savić.

Im truly sorry about this, said Petrova. But you will still be able to hear the piece. Bach. I know you love it.

With a tight smile, she said to her companions, Come, theyre due to start in half an hour. Lets first find my lovely Lily, and then we take our seats.

Clare watched as the director
and the patron walked towards the front row. It was then that she became aware of being watched herself. She turned to look for Katarina. Instead, she saw Jonny Diamond, without the luminous Lily this time, leaning against a wall. Clare worked her way around the room towards him.

Hello, Im looking for Katarina, she said. Do you know where she is?

The bathroom, Im sure. Throwing up, said Diamond.

Is she sick?

Nervous, said Jonny Diamond. An ugly sister trying to fit into Cinderellas shoes.

You do have a charming way with women, Jonny, said Clare, turning on her heel.

She found Katarina in the bathroom splashing her face.

Hello, said Clare. The girl looked up, startled.

I have to go on soon, she said.

I need to ask you more about the farm Rosa used to go to. The one up the valley.
Paradys.

Yes, said Katarina, drying her hands.

Rosa went back.

Thats no big deal. Rosa liked the little boy. He was home-schooled like her, and she taught him a bit. The person she really liked was Nancy, though. I thought she was a bit weird, but Rosa liked that she was so devoted to her husband. Katarina picked up her bag. I suppose she was the opposite of her own mother.

Clare walked with
her towards the door. Then why did she stop going there?

I didnt know she went again, said Katarina. I dont know anything about that. She didnt talk to me about it.

You didnt like it, then?

The place was a bit too old-fashioned for me. And I didnt like all the Bible stuff. I told her that, then she didnt talk about it again.

What are the other places Rosa went to that youre not telling me
about?

Look, we studied together, we shared a rehearsal room. Does that make me my sisters keeper?

Tell me what you know.

I have to go. Im on now.

Clare took her arm, and just then Irina Petrova opened the door.

Is everything alright, Katarina? she asked. Dr Hart, please, this girl must perform now. Why are you upsetting her?

I need to know if she is withholding information about Rosa, said
Clare.

Are you, Katarina? asked Petrova. This would not be wise.

Ive told you what I know, Dr Hart.

Good girl, said Petrova, her hand in the small of Katarinas back, guiding her into the corridor. Everyone is waiting to hear you play, Katarina. You will make me very proud.

The door swung closed behind them. She slipped into the back of the concert room. It was a charming room, pale blue walls
and grey velvet curtains draped across the tall, narrow windows. The small orchestra was gathered at the far end, and the light gleamed on the instruments. Katarina looked out over the audience, but when she caught Clares eye she dropped her gaze. She clasped her instrument, her bow moving rapidly over the strings. Clare listened to her play Rosas solo. It was technically perfect, but even as
the music swelled, filling the room, there was no heart.

It was later than shed have liked when she got into her car. Sea Point was quiet, just the occasional car hissing along the wet roads. Hungry waves leapt over the sea wall, scattering tangled strands of kelp across the Promenade. There were no lights on in her flat, and no sign of Riedwaans motorbike outside her flat.

Fritz was sitting on the top step, slit-eyed with disapproval, when Clare
opened the door.

Hello, kitty-cat. Clare picked her up and, with her body warm and purring in her arms, went through to the kitchen. Just as shed left it that morning: half a cup of coffee on the table, burnt toast in the sink, wet washing in the machine. She tipped some pellets into Fritzs bowl and put the clothes into the tumble dryer.

The kitchen table was littered with old photo albums,
the funny haircuts and the too-tight, too-short shorts of her childhood. She and Constance: her twin and her doppelganger. Their birthday tomorrow. Clare packed away her efforts at making a collage of their shared lives something her sister would love, and something that Constance was incapable of doing. She pushed it all away and opened her laptop, the Marie biscuit she was nibbling settling her
stomach. She typed in Rosas name, Google-trawled it.

Rosalind Wagner was listed as a student at the Cape College of Classical Music a formal shot of her playing the cello, a brief note about her scholarship, notices of concerts, a shot of her playing on a yacht. Hout Bay harbour in the summer. A few entries for her performances, and a Facebook page.

Clare clicked on it.

Lifes about the journey
. A stock image of a mountain scene, a waterfall plunging down a cliff face, and some pictures of cats and laughing babies. Stupid, Clare thought. She scrolled through some of her posts on other peoples pages. Lacking the glibness essential for easy Internet socialising, very few of them had a response. A few photographs in all of them, Rosa had merely been tagged. Rosalind with her cello, some
group shots with her class. A small number of friends, and none, apparently, that preceded her arrival at the college. The last time shed posted was the middle of May.