Like Clockwork

by Margie Orford

  ‘I can’t tell you much more about her than is in my statement. That is her mother’s domain. This is most upsetting, most unnecessary. I warned Cathy so often that the girl was not disciplined enough. That she gave her too much leeway.’ Clare kept quiet, waited for the anger just below the surface to bubble over. ‘India was cheeky, dressed like a tart. They all do, don’t they?’ Clare’s incredulity must have shown, because he caught himself. He avoided Clare’s gaze, running his fingers through his hair. His wedding band glinted in the subdued light.

  ‘Did she bring her friends home? Did you know them?’ Clare stood. She walked to the bookshelf and looked at the single photograph displayed there. It showed Brian King with his arms draped over his wife and daughter.

  ‘No, none of them. I work long hours, you know. And she was not very sociable. Recently, I think she went out more. But other than that, I can’t tell you much else.’

  ‘India was interested in acting. She went to a drama school in town, didn’t she? Did you ever see any of her shows?’ asked Clare.

  ‘No. No, I didn’t.’ He stood up. ‘I am upset, as you can see. I’m not myself. And with all the funeral arrangements …’ He walked over to the desk and picked up a sheet of paper. ‘Her school wants a memorial service. Some march against violence against women. Most unfortunate.’ He paused again. ‘It’s so difficult for me to deal with. My wife, of course, is hopeless. Has completely collapsed. Not that I blame her, of course.’

  ‘Can I see Mrs King?’

  ‘Not now. She is devastated, and our doctor has had to sedate her. Now, if you wouldn’t mind …’ taking her cue, Clare stood up, too ‘… I have several things to attend to.’ He held the study door open for her. ‘Mr King,’ said Clare, ‘do you have any idea why India installed a bolt on the inside of her bedroom door?’

  ‘I have no idea. I never went to her room. What were you doing there? Do you have a search warrant?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t search. I just wanted to get a sense of her.’ Clare stepped past him. She saw Portia slip away. ‘I’ll find my way out, thanks.’ Clare held her hand out to him. He shook it, his grip unnecessarily hard, hurting her.

  ‘I hope you find him. The police are not known for their competence, are they?’

  Clare did not rise to this. ‘Please contact me if you think of anything. Or anyone that India met recently.’

  ‘I will. Goodbye, Dr Hart.’ She turned to leave. ‘Oh, by the way, I enjoyed your documentary on the DRC immensely. The one about the women. Excellent.’ His tone sent a shiver down Clare’s spine.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said politely, and turned round again. ‘There’s one more thing I’d like to ask you.’

  ‘Yes?’ he said, looking at his watch.

  ‘Where were you on the night India disappeared?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We need to check everything,’ said Clare.

  ‘I’ve already spoken to your colleague. Rizza – or something like that.’

  Riedwaan Faizal?’ asked Clare.

  ‘Something like that. Rather a chip on his shoulder, I thought.’ Clare did not respond. ‘I told him I was having a celebratory dinner with some business associates.’

  ‘All night?’ said Clare.

  ‘Well, you know what business is like – we had overseas clients, from the East, and that’s how they do things.’

  ‘How do they do things, Mr King?’

  ‘They expect to be entertained.’

  ‘So I hear,’ said Clare. ‘I presume that they will corroborate?’

  ‘If it’s absolutely necessary, I’m sure it can be arranged.’ His face had purpled with rage. ‘Your colleague asked me the same question. I supplied him with the name of the business manager. I hope he’ll be discreet.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll be as discreet as he needs to be. You will remember, I’m sure, that we are investigating a murder case. You had a booking at Sushi-Zen that night. The restaurant where India’s body was found. Any reason why you didn’t make it?’

  A vein pulsed in King’s temple. ‘Dr Hart, I am her father. Surely you can’t be so crass as to interrogate me when I have just endured the most tragic loss.’

  ‘Where were you, Mr King?’

  ‘We changed our minds and went to the Isis Club instead. Nothing sinister. Just a change of mind.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Clare. ‘And what was the reason for this celebratory dinner?’

  ‘Just a potential property deal. Really, Dr Hart, I do find this most intrusive.’

  ‘Who were your companions?’ persisted Clare.

  ‘Our Asian investors. Two fellow directors. The City Manager, Hermanus Fipaza, and two local investors.’

  Clare looked up from her notebook. ‘And who are these investors?’ she asked.

  ‘Otis Tohar and Kelvin Landman.’

  ‘Surely the Isis is a bit noisy to discuss business. A bit distracting?’ asked Clare. She brushed against King’s luxurious coat hanging near the door.

  ‘You are naive, Dr Hart,’ said King.

  ‘What time did you say your dinner was?’ asked Clare, ignoring his derision. She closed her left hand over the smooth black fibres she had pulled from the sleeve of King’s coat.

  ‘I didn’t,’ said King. ‘But we ate at ten, ten-thirty. Landman and Tohar were a bit late.’

  ‘Did they say why?’ Clare asked, facing him.

  ‘We have mutual interests, that is all. I did not consider it appropriate to pry.’

  ‘You will be asked to come and make a formal statement.’

  ‘Is that necessary?’ asked King.

  ‘Mr King, this is a triple murder investigation. One of those is your own daughter.’

  ‘One cannot forget, can one?’ King hurriedly ushered Clare through the door, closing it before she could say anything more. She walked rapidly to her car, relieved when the side of the house hid her from his view. Then she slammed her door shut and rested her head on the steering-wheel. With trembling hands, she pulled an envelope from her bag and dropped the threads of black cashmere into it. Clare jumped at the quiet knock on her window. It was Portia.

  ‘Hello, Portia,’ she said, opening the window and wiping away tears she had been unaware of shedding.

  ‘He is not her father, Dr Hart,’ said Portia. Her gentle face was twisted by fear and fierce anger. ‘He hates her. Hated her.’

  ‘What do you mean, Portia?’

  ‘The reason her mother couldn’t speak to you is he beat her.’ She spat. ‘He beat her because her baby was murdered. He married Cathy. Yes. When she already had India. He just married her to punish her. You find who killed that baby girl.’

  ‘Where did she go that night, Portia? Who did she go with?’

  ‘She went to town. Her mummy dropped her to meet her friend. But she never came back. Cathy waited all night but she never came back. Mr King never came either. In the morning Cathy was more afraid for her baby than she was afraid of her husband. That is when she went to the police. To the inspector who came here.’

  ‘Where was King?’

  ‘I don’t know. He is never here on weekends. I think he has other women somewhere. It gives Cathy some peace at least.’

  ‘There wasn’t anyone India was seeing?’ Portia shook her head, and Clare continued, ‘Her friend said they had no plans to meet on Saturday. That she was at home working for exams.’

  ‘I don’t know, but I hope she had a boyfriend who loved her. She was a very unhappy girl, her heart was breaking,’ said Portia.

  ‘Will you tell Mrs King that she should phone me? I would like to talk to her too. Tell her I’ll meet her somewhere else. And please give me your phone number, Portia – I may need to get hold of you.’

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ said Portia. ‘You remember you asked about that lock?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clare.

  ‘I put it there for her. So she can be safe.’

  Clare looked up at the house. Security beams were discreetly positioned e
verywhere. Portia shook her head.

  ‘The danger in this house – it is right inside.’ She stepped back into the shadow of the garage as Clare started her car.

  There were only two lights on in the enormous house. One was in King’s study. It had a blue television flicker. The other was in a bedroom upstairs. The curtains parted slightly as Clare drove back up the lane. Behind them, Cathy King pressed her swollen cheek against the wall as she watched Clare’s headlights flicker past the trees. The coolness relieved the pain of her bruised face. She watched the lights until they were gone. Then she counted the pills that lay in a neat row in front of her. Soon there would be enough.

  37

  Clare had two calls to make. She pulled over once she was out of the driveway. The first call was to a number she had saved to her phone but never used. She scrolled through until she found it, then dialled.

  ‘Landman.’ The voice was harsh.

  ‘Mr Landman, this is Clare Hart.’ There was silence. ‘I wanted to ask you a few more questions.’

  ‘Clare.’ He sounded flattered. ‘You did have me for longer than most women get. Do you want to know about my new career prospects?’

  ‘No,’ said Clare. ‘I wanted to ask you about the deaths of three girls.’

  Clare could hear his breathing. ‘You listen to me,’ he said. The charm was gone, his accent raw. ‘I explained to you clearly. I’m a fucking businessman. Willing buyer, willing seller. Why do you think I would know anything about those girls? From a business perspective it would be stupid to waste stock like that, even if it had been mine in the first place. You’ve been to my clubs, you’ve spoken to my girls. You know it’s a fair deal. They’re safer with me than they are on the streets. Why would I risk my investment by killing girls who will then attract a big investigation? Why would I kill them, anyway? Dead girls make me no money. Live ones do. Even you should understand that.’

  ‘Two of the girls who died had your blue calling card,’ said Clare.

  ‘Well, maybe they were auditioning. I run a corporation. I have managers, scouts, recruiters, like anybody else running a business.’ He paused and breathed in, calming himself. ‘They’re no use to me dead.’

  ‘It depends how they die, Mr Landman. It depends where they die. And why. I’ve heard that there is a nice little sideline in real live action.’

  ‘Don’t start that shit about snuff movies, Clare. They’re all staged. Nobody dies in them. Even if they did, why would anybody be so stupid as to distribute them?’

  ‘The first girl, Charnay, she’d been tattooed with your – what shall I call it? – trademark. The same one as your Isis girls have.’

  ‘Maybe she freelanced. So what? She was old enough. She needed the money. She had expensive tastes.’

  ‘So you knew her?’

  ‘She came to the bar. Christ, what does it matter?’

  ‘You saw her that evening, Mr Landman. She was at the same bar that you were at the night she disappeared. Why did she die?’

  ‘Who the fuck knows? Who the fuck cares? One cunt less, what difference does it make to anybody?’

  Clare thought about Charnay’s mother rocking herself back and forth, arms clutched around a hollow womb. She didn’t answer.

  ‘I hear from Brian King that you two had dinner together the night India King’s body was found. With Otis Tohar and the City Manager. You were meant to have dinner at the restaurant near where her body was found. Just a coincidence that you didn’t arrive for that dinner?’

  ‘I think you should listen to me, Dr Hart: I’m warning you to stay right away. I have helped you with your film, explained things to you about my business. People like sex. They like pornography. If they are prepared to pay, let them have it. But you be very fucking careful about what you say and who you talk to.’

  ‘Are you threatening me, Mr Landman?’ Clare asked.

  ‘I hear you’ve got a pretty little niece, Dr Hart? Nice tits she’s got. I think I might even have seen where she goes to school.’

  ‘You stay away from her, Landman. I’m warning you.’

  ‘You stay away from my girls too, then. And Dr Hart …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘While I do my job, you do yours. Catch your killer. This whole business is fucking up my trade. Figure out who he is, and you’ve done us both a favour. Then I can get on with my business in peace. And that washed-up alky boyfriend of yours will look good too.’ He leered. ‘Maybe he’ll be able to keep it up long enough to make you happy.’

  Clare killed the connection, unable to shake the conviction that he was telling at least half the truth. ‘Which half?’ she muttered to herself as she jerked her car into gear and onto the road that would take her back into the city.

  ‘Bastard,’ said Clare as a driver cut in front of her.

  She made her second call while she was driving, keeping an eye open all the while for a highway patrol car.

  ‘Mouton.’

  ‘Hello, Piet. It’s Clare. Can I bring a sample over?’ she asked. She could sense his reluctance. A warm dinner would be waiting at home for him. So would Mrs Mouton. ‘I’ll be quick. I’ve got something I need you to match urgently.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, his professional curiosity piqued. ‘Call me when you get here and I’ll let you in.’

  ‘Thanks, Piet.’ Clare drove quickly to the lab, grateful to have missed the afternoon gridlock. Piet let her in. He seemed surprised that she was alone.

  ‘So, what have you got?’

  ‘Fibres from a black cashmere coat. India King’s father’s.’ Clare handed him the envelope. Mouton shook the fibres carefully onto a slide and slipped it under a microscope.

  ‘You won’t be able to use this as evidence, you know that.’

  ‘I know,’ said Clare. ‘But can you check anyway?’

  ‘I’ll check for you. But I’ll have to let you know. It might take me a bit of time.’ He scrabbled at the pile of folders on his desk and pulled out the one containing India King’s autopsy. ‘I’ll check back on the other two as well.’

  ‘Thanks, Piet. I appreciate that.’

  He walked her to the exit. ‘Don’t give Riedwaan too much of a hard time.’ He closed her door behind her. ‘He’s not so bad.’

  Clare sighed. ‘I’m the problem, not him.’

  Piet patted her hand. ‘You’re not so bad either, Clare.’

  ‘See you, Piet.’

  As Clare headed westwards along the freeway, her thoughts returned to Brian King. She could not place where she had seen him before. The memory was there, on the outer periphery of her thoughts, but each time she directed her mind at it, the detail vanished. She gave up, and relaxed into the curving sweep of De Waal Drive where it hugged Devil’s Peak. Where, where, where? The swish of the wheels on the wet road mocked her. She turned down Loop Street and drove past Jakes’s studio. Then she braked sharply. The party. Of course. Tohar’s party that she’d gone to with Jakes. She parked, hazard lights flashing, and pushed Jakes’s buzzer.

  ‘Who’s missing me?’ came his voice.

  ‘Don’t be a moron, Jakes. It’s me.’ The door opened immediately and she took the lift up to his floor. Jakes was waiting for her. He kissed her cheek.

  ‘Hello, darling. This is a surprise.’

  ‘Hi, Jakes.’ She followed him into the flat. There was a white sofa, a shaggy carpet near the fire, and a bottle of red wine with two glasses – only one used so far – on the low table. ‘Am I interrupting you?’

  ‘Not yet, not yet. And you wouldn’t care if you were, would you?’ He took her coat. ‘Can I give you a glass of wine?’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, craving a drink. ‘I stopped on the off-chance that you’d have the photos from that Osiris launch party we went to. Do you?’

  ‘Yes. I do have them. I’ve just developed the last lot. They’re here.’

  Clare picked up her glass and followed him to the studio. The old picture of her was still there at the end of the passage: he
had caught her off-guard, her face turned towards him at the moment he had called, her mouth just open, eyes unguarded, her naked body twisted beneath the long curtain of her hair. He had taken the photo soon after they had become lovers – the year Clare had gone to university. The year Constance had immured herself on Serenity Farm. Jakes had taken it to show Clare that she was beautiful, that her body was whole, unblemished, that he loved it. It had made his reputation when he exhibited it as ‘The Victim’s Sister’.

  The darkroom was an ordered muddle, and Jakes ferreted around among a pile of pictures. He pulled out the contact sheets Clare wanted and handed them to her. They were pungent with chemicals. Clare flicked through them. With his practised, cynical eye, Jakes had captured the party’s slide into decadence.

  ‘Thanks, Jakes,’ said Clare. ‘I’ll bring them back in a day or so.’

  ‘Oh, keep them,’ said Jakes. ‘I have the negatives and I’ve already chosen the ones I want to enlarge.’ He pointed to a picture of Kelvin Landman standing next to Otis Tohar. Landman’s arm was around Tohar’s shoulders, his veined hand resting on Tohar’s chest, casually malignant. Tohar was a big man, but in this photograph he was diminished by Landman’s proprietary grip. The doorbell chimed and Jakes twitched in anticipation.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ Clare said.

  He walked with her to the door. ‘You don’t want to stay for another glass of wine?’ Jakes asked as they waited for the lift. It opened, spilling out a blonde confection of hair and legs, high heels and cigarette smoke.

  ‘Some other time, Jakes.’ Then, ‘Hello,’ she said to the girl, stepping around her to get into the lift.

  ‘Hi,’ said the girl to Jakes, proffering her face for a kiss, winding his arm around her bare waist.

  ‘I’ll see you, Clare.’

  The lift closed on them and returned Clare to the street. She sat behind the wheel, switched on the light, and went through the pictures Jakes had given her. She found him on the third sheet. King – sitting at one of the card tables. Playing with Tohar and two other men. One she did not recognise, the other was a member of Landman’s entourage whom she had met at the Isis Club. There was an apparent ease between them, a camaraderie. Clare looked up. The street was empty except for a couple of vagrants listlessly begging from the last of the evening stragglers.