BLOOD
ROSE
Crime novelist, award-winning journalist, film director and author, Margie Orford was born in London, and grew up in Namibia and South Africa. She lives in Cape Town. Blood Rose is the second in her series of novels featuring Dr Clare Hart.
Also by Margie Orford
Like Clockwork
BLOOD
ROSE
Margie Orford
Originally published in South Africa in 2007 by Oshun Books.
This edition first published in South Africa in 2009 by Jonathan Ball Publishers (PTY) Ltd.
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd.
Copyright © Margie Orford, 2007
The moral right of Margie Orford to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
The extract on p. vii is taken from ‘Burnt Norton’, Four Quartets, 2001 © The Estate of T. S. Eliot and reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
978 1 84354 944 4
eBook ISBN:978 0 85789 428 1
Printed in Great Britain
Atlantic Books
An imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd
Ormond House
26–27 Boswell Street
London WC1N 3JZ
www.atlantic-books.co.uk
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Scorpio Rising …
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Scorpio Setting …
A Short History of Walvis Bay
For my parents Jock and Rosie
Walvis Bay
22.95°S, 14.50°E
Here is a place of disaffection
T. S. Eliot, ‘Burnt Norton’
BLOOD
ROSE
scorpio rising …
No moon. The desert wind knifes down the gully, rattling the dry grass. Stars hang heavy above the dunes. To the east, the sky is clear. In the west, the retreating fog hovers over the sea. The vehicle crests the dune, its lights malignant twin moons. Car doors open, spilling a peal of laughter, music, the tang of tobacco.
Later, the heft of a pistol in your hand. Perfect. Circled forefinger and thumb slide down to trace the blind eye. A fingertip dipped inside the barrel fans desire, warms your cold body. Pace back one step, two. He watches, the target. Hands bound. Breath held. Eyes riveted. Filled with the hope that you mean something else. Not this. Not you.
Your finger curled round the trigger anticipates the weight needed to fire. Uncurls, extends the ecstasy. Your eyes on the metal marker, an erect nipple on the barrel. Breathe out. Your breath mists the desert air. Breathe in. Breathe out as you beckon. Release. The force of it explodes through your arm, chest, head, groin and erases everything.
Turn and reach for a cigarette. The match flares into the night, filling again with calls and stars. The cigarette glows; the nicotine stills the choppy sea that is your blood. You yearn for what is coming.
Oh. His final breath tongues up your back. You turn to look. Wonder lingers in the unblinking eyes, almonds above the high cheekbones. The crumpled whorl of the ear is innocent of the blood marking the forehead. The open eyes glaze. You go home to sleep, tail lights red in the dark.
Scorpio’s tail is poised over the numinous star at its base. Winking in the centre of the constellation, the star-eye mocks the dead face. The blood soaking into the sand summons the first wave of tiny scavengers. Insects, flies, bacteria marshal themselves for the onslaught.
one
The sound sliced open Clare Hart’s Monday morning, dragging her out of a catacomb of sleep. She sat up, heart pounding, and pushed a tousle of hair from her face. It was her cellphone writhing on the bedside table. She reached for it, knocking over a glass of water. She shook the droplets off the phone and onto the sleeping cat. Fritz hissed and dug her claws into her mistress’s bare thigh. Clare caught the tiny bead of blood on her nail before it trickled onto the sheet.
‘Witch!’ she hissed. The cat strutted out of the room, flicking her tail in regal affront.
‘Dr Hart?’ the phone crackled.
Clare pulled the duvet around her naked body. ‘Who is this?’ The reception was always bad in her bedroom.
‘Captain Riedwaan Faizal. South African Police Service.’
Clare sat up, zero-to-panic alert. ‘Where are you?’ The other side of her bed was empty.
‘I’m downstairs. Buzz me in.’
‘You bastard!’ Clare could not hide the relief in her tone.
‘Tell that to my mother.’
‘Where’s my tea?’
‘Come on, Clare. It’s freezing out here and the security guard is getting suspicious.’
‘You know the deal, Riedwaan. You get sex and a bed for the night; I get tea as I wake up.’
‘I’m trying to break your habit. I’ve got you a cappuccino and hot croissant instead.’
Clare wrapped her gown around her body. ‘Fair enough. Hang on.’ She pushed the red button on the intercom, listening for the thud of Riedwaan’s shoulder against the glass door. He came upstairs, bringing with him a blast of cold dawn air and two steaming coffees.
‘Giovanni’s. My favourite.’ Clare took the coffees from him and led the way to the kitchen.
Riedwaan followed her down the passage. ‘Maybe you should give me some keys. I could have brought you this in bed.’ He tipped the croissants onto a plate and opened the microwave.
Clare opened the plastic coffee lid. ‘Maybe.’
She snatched the Cape Times he had clamped under his arm and went back to bed. Clare had allowed her defences to be breached once,
long ago. The consequences had been devastating. It would take more than breakfast in bed for her to lower her defences a second time.
But Riedwaan pinged the microwave optimistically a second time and put his coffee and the croissants onto a tray.
In the bedroom, Clare had propped herself up against the pillows. The soft fabric of her wrap fell open as she leaned over to get a croissant.
‘I love this about you.’
‘What?’ asked Clare, her mouth full.
‘That you wake up ravenous.’ Riedwaan reached forward, cupping her breast on an upturned hand. The air seemed thin, as if there was only just enough oxygen, which he would have to use judiciously. He moved his hand down her body, onto her hip. Clare put her cup on the table and slid down the bed. She pulled him towards her, practised hands undoing buttons, seeking the satin warmth of the skin on his belly, his back.
‘I’m glad you came back,’ she whispered.
Riedwaan smiled down at her. ‘I’ll be back any time for a welcome like this.’
When he reached for his coffee again, it was cold …
‘It’s time to get up,’ said Clare.
‘Stay a bit.’ Riedwaan tightened his arms around her. ‘You’re going away.’
‘I’ve got things to do.’ Clare slipped from his grasp and went to the adjoining bathroom.
Riedwaan listened to her hum as she splashed and opened and closed cupboards. ‘Do you hum when I’m not here?’ he asked.
The humming stopped. ‘None of your business.’
He rolled over and looked out at the grey sea heaving itself against the rocks. He had meant to tell Clare last night about his wife’s decision to return to South Africa.
When she came out of the bathroom, she was wearing a tracksuit. ‘You coming?’ She bent down to put on her running shoes.
‘You must be joking.’
Clare reached under the duvet, her hands cold on Riedwaan’s chest. ‘I’m not. You need to do more exercise than occasionally getting it off with me.’ She turned towards him at the door, sunlight catching her face and the trace of a smile.
‘Clare, I wanted to—’
‘What?’ She raised an eyebrow.
But Riedwaan could not spoil the happiness he had coaxed from her. ‘Your eggs, fried or scrambled?’
‘Hardboiled would be apt, don’t you think?’ Then she was off, two steps at a time.
‘Feed Fritz,’ she yelled up the stairs. ‘Then she won’t attack you.’ The door slammed and she was gone.
two
One thousand six hundred kilometres north, as the crow flies, Herman Shipanga lay waiting, the cold biting through his thin mattress. The houses hunkered together for protection from the wind that moaned across the exposed dunes of the Namib Desert, only breaking into its hyena-laugh when it slunk between the houses. The wind probed cracks in the bricks, places where doors and windows had shrunk from their frames; it sought out and found tender limbs uncovered in sleep.
At last it came: the siren’s wail, tearing through Walvis Bay. Shipanga threw back the covers, his damaged hip protesting. He stepped over the huddle of children asleep on the floor, filled a bowl with water and went outside to wash. As he threw out the icy water, the siren wailed again. The fishmeal factory looming over the pinioned houses belched yellow smoke. Shipanga gagged at the stench.
His wife was up, stirring porridge on the two-plate. ‘You should be used to it by now. The smell of money,’ she said by way of a greeting as she handed him a bowl. He shovelled down the porridge without appetite.
He pulled his jacket on over his blue overalls. The children stirred, puppies burrowing back into the warmth of each other’s bodies. He bent down to stroke the smooth forehead of his youngest before leaving.
Outside, he broke into a steady trot, footsteps echoing down the empty streets. The viscous fog parted for him. A dustbin, a chained bike, a woman walking her dog materialised just in time for him to avoid colliding with them. He took a short cut through the alley running between the sandy yards. It spewed him out at the back of the school. Walvis Bay Combined School was perched on the edge of the town. Here, the shifting red sand shored against the perimeter fence as if looking for a way in. Shipanga slipped through a gap in the fence and fetched a rake from his caretaker’s shed.
He made his way to the youngest children’s playground and closed the tall wooden gate behind him. The jungle gym reared up in the mist. The swings hung mute beneath their frames. Vacant, except for the last one.
The child’s knees were drawn close to his chest. He was leaning, with adolescent nonchalance, against the chain looped around the yellow swing.
‘What are you doing?’ Shipanga called.
The boy did not answer. These swaggering older boys always taunted Shipanga, mimicking with pen marks on their own pocked cheeks the ritual scars on his face. The triple verticals were the last trace of the home Shipanga had left to seek his fortune in this sunless port.
A cat’s paw of wind buffeted the swing, but still the boy remained silent. Anger welled hot and painful in Shipanga’s chest. He grabbed the chain, turning the boy to face him.
The startled insects paused only for a moment before returning to their busy feasting. Where the forehead should have been, a third eye leered.
Shipanga’s rage gave way to horror. He backed away, his eyes riveted by the swing’s cargo. When he reached the gate, he turned and ran towards a pair of lights raking over the parking lot.
‘Mr Erasmus,’ he gasped, his chest raw with exertion and shock.
‘What?’ The headmaster was unlocking the boot of his car. He did not bother to look up.
‘Someone’s there.’ Shipanga put his calloused hand on the man’s arm. ‘On the swings.’
‘Speak to Darlene Ruyters. She’ll deal with it.’ Erasmus took his briefcase out of the boot.
‘It’s a child, sir.’ Shipanga blocked the man’s path, anger returning. ‘Another boy.’
‘The same as the others?’ asked Erasmus, looking at the caretaker now.
Shipanga nodded. Erasmus walked towards the enclosed play area, opening the gate to reveal the figure twisting on the bright-yellow swing.
‘Who brought him here?’ Sweat beaded Erasmus’s forehead.
‘I don’t know.’
‘The first one in town,’ Erasmus said, flicking open his cellphone. Calling an ambulance sustained the illusion of hope. ‘Go and wait for the police, Herman. I’ll watch him. And don’t let anybody through the gates.’
Shipanga walked towards the gate, the corpse’s staring eyes prickling his back with dread. The leaden sky was silvering the truck approaching the gate. George Meyer, always first, rolled down his window. ‘What is it?’ asked Meyer.
‘An accident,’ Shipanga explained. ‘In the playground. We’re waiting to see what the police say, Mr Meyer.’
‘Thank you,’ said Meyer. He shot a sidelong glance at the small red-haired boy sitting next to him. Oscar was craning his neck forward to see what was wrong. Mrs Ruyters was Oscar’s teacher. Her car was there. That part was right. Herman Shipanga stopping them at the gate wasn’t, even though his familiar smile was a comforting white flash in his face.
A shiny new Mercedes Benz skidded to a halt behind them. Herman Shipanga stepped forward as a man hurled himself from the driver’s seat and planted his hand on the caretaker’s chest. Shipanga cracked his knuckles and stood his ground. Twenty years on fishing trawlers gave him the edge over a manicured man who spent his days in a heated office.
‘Why is this car blocking my path?’ demanded the man.
‘No school today, Mr Goagab,’ Shipanga said. ‘You must wait here, please. There was an accident at the—’
‘I must speak to Mr Erasmus.’ Goagab pulled out his phone. Before he could dial, Erasmus appeared, attracted by the noise.
‘Explain this, Erasmus,’ Goagab shouted. ‘Why can’t I drop off my sons? I demand an explanation.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Goa
gab, but you’ll have to wait. Everyone will have to wait. The police are on their way. They’ll decide.’
Erasmus was relieved to see a blue light glowing in the distant mist. A pair of cars pulled up. Two men got out of a white 4x4. Elias Karamata was dark, shaven-headed and compact, just the hint of a beer belly pushing at his crisp khaki shirt. Kevin van Wyk was lithe and precise. In the right light, he could pass for a movie star.
‘Who’s in command?’ asked Erasmus, looking from one to the other.
A woman heaved herself out of the other car, a clapped-out bakkie. ‘I am,’ she said. ‘Captain Tamar Damases.’
Erasmus suppressed a sigh and took her hand. It was smooth to the touch. ‘Thank you for being so quick. You know Mr Goagab?’ he asked.
‘I do. Good morning, Calvin.’
‘What about my meeting? I’ve got to get to the mayor,’ bellowed Goagab.
Tamar Damases’s jaw set hard under her soft skin. ‘You’ll wait here. Either in your car or outside. You choose.’
‘I’ll report you to Mayor D’Almeida, Captain Damases,’ said Goagab.
‘Would you?’ she said. ‘I’m sure that he’ll appreciate the time to tell the media that we’ve a third dead child to bury within the same number of weeks.’
Goagab looked apoplectic, but when Karamata folded his muscular arms and stepped forward, he retreated, his sons scrabbling after him into his car.
‘Now,’ said Captain Damases, turning to Erasmus, ‘where’s the body?’
The headmaster opened the gate to the kindergarten playground. The high wooden paling shielded only three sides of the area. The fourth side was an open stretch of sand that sloped down to the barbed-wire perimeter fence. A red jungle gym, blue roundabout, a wall painted with rabbits and squirrels in aprons and hats. The yellow swings. A gust of wind twisted the body. The chain creaked, dismembering the silence.
‘Oh.’ Tamar Damases’s voice was soft with pain.
‘Strange fruit,’ murmured Van Wyk. Tamar looked at him, surprised. She would not have marked him as a jazz man.
‘Shall I send the scene-of-crime officers here when they come, Captain Damases?’ asked Erasmus.
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