She found a stone and cracked a pane. She waited, holding her breath. No alarm. She unhooked the catch and opened the window. She climbed in. She ran through the living room, the immaculate dining room, a playroom where two teddies sat wide-eyed, expectant, amid a pile of toys.
The oak door into the kitchen was locked, the key on the inside of the door.
Clare ran outside again. Nothing but the view onto the wintry garden. Woody rose bushes, lavender, the lawn. Behind her, the roar of security vehicles as they raced towards the house. At the end of the garden the trees swayed in the wind, a branch skimming the electrified wire fence that encircled Sylvan Estate.
She ran down the slope.
The grass here was long, with straggly runners flattened under the fence. A steep bank, invisible from the house, had washed away the ground eroded by the rain. There were marks in the earth where tiny claws had burrowed under the fence. Nearby, a porcupine quill lay in the mud. Clare picked it up, testing its pointed end against her skin. Neat black-and-white quills, little javelins, afforded the creature protection that Clare envied right then.
The winter-hungry animal had squeezed under the fence to forage in the estate. The tracks used by other creatures surviving on the edge of the suburb were visible among the trees. And it would have been the trees that drew the girl into the forest, closing up behind her. In the woods, Rosa would have been in another world, dark, forested, a refuge. But Sylvan Estate was not a benign place, as the skull and crossbones small yellow-and-black signs strung along the fence at eye level, warned. Clare tossed a small branch, and the fence hissed and spat, lethal as a cobra. Voltage like this would have knocked Rosa out unless the current was off.
Clare slipped the quill into her pocket. There was the semblance of a path next to the fence. It led towards a stand of oak trees fifty metres away. She followed it and her pulse quickened when, among the solid old trunks, she saw a dry-packed wall.
The cottage on the other side was constructed from dressed stone that was a mottled orange-grey from the lichen. Raspberry canes had grown rampant in this corner of the garden, almost swamping the roof and recessed windows. Clare tried the door, but the wood had swollen in the rain and it was stuck. She put her shoulder to it and shoved. It gave way suddenly and she stumbled inside.
Light filtered in through a cobwebbed window. Clare probed the gloom with her flashlight. A pile of blankets and old scraps of carpet in the corner. A snug nest against the cold. An empty vodka bottle on the floor, a half-eaten packet of stroopwafels, the same as those shed seen in the pantry.
Clare held her breath and went over to the bed. Lying on a grubby blanket was a light bulb, the crystal meth residue streaked across the inside. Tik, the smell of new money. Tik, the smell of fleeting power, the stench of a slow death. A new copy of Glamour magazine was jammed between the bed and the wall, a torn scrap marking the fashion spread. Clare slid it out and turned it over, noticing part of a graph and handwritten notes that she couldnt quite decipher. There were a few more scraps underneath the magazine. Clare placed them on one side, all five pieces, evidence to be bagged with the other detritus. One fell to the floor, and as she bent to pick it up she saw the corner of a photograph protruding from under the mattress. She took it out it was part of a pile of photos, images that erased all other thoughts from her head. She looked at one. Small-breasted, the pubis shaven, childlike. The body bound and helpless. The fear and pain in the girls eyes as naked as her body. Grainy prints from a mobile phone.
It wasnt Rosa.
10
Clare went back to the guardhouse at the entrance of the estate. The guard Kevlar, cuffs, taser on his belt came out to greet her this time. He did not look happy when he saw her ID.
Your people have been here, he said. Asking questions this morning about the bridle path and the little boy
A girl, Clare corrected him.
The girl they found on the bridle path, said the guard. We gave them the logs.
Its not that, said Clare. Someone phoned from number thirty-nine, sometime between three and four this morning.
That cant be, said the guard. The owners arent there. They left for Amsterdam last month. Theyll be back in October. Theres nobody there now.
And the cat? asked Clare.
Mavis feeds them Friday afternoon. Thats the maid. Shes back Monday. Here, look. He pushed the log over to Clare. There she is. They have to sign in every day, the domestics.
No one else went to the house?
Not according to the log, he said.
I didnt sign in when I came, said Clare.
Well, lady, you dont look…
The silence stretched.
I went straight past you, said Clare. You have no record of that.
The man looked away, his job on the line.
So, who else came in? asked Clare.
Its all on the CCTV.
Clare sat down in front of the monitors that were in the guardhouse. There were CCTV cameras everywhere.
Which cameras are closest to the old farmhouse? asked Clare.
These two, said the security officer. Neither camera showed much more than the facade. Both a bit of a distance away. That house has got the most privacy.
Or the least security, said Clare. I want your footage of the periphery fence. What do you have?
Not much, he said.
The guard keyed in a code. Cameras dotted the periphery fence that was strung like a noose around the estate but the screen was blank.
Wheres the footage? asked Clare.
Weve been checking. It looks like the storm knocked out one of the cameras.
And the electric fence? That was on?
A branch came down on it near the guardhouse on Sunday night. We had to take it away, so the fence was off then.
What time was that? asked Clare.
Four, he said. Took us an hour and a half.
The guard called up the footage. Nothing but rain and branches moving in the ghostly light of the night vision cameras. No other movement at all. Until the time code said four-thirty. A hunched shape moving out of the darkness.
Stop it there, said Clare. Now go back.
The dark shape moved out of the trees, hesitant without any cover. It crouched at the edge of the clearing along the fence.
Go closer, said Clare. Whats that?
The guard zoomed the camera. Just a porcupine.
Wait, said Clare. Where did it go, can you see?
The guard had frozen the frame on the animal, silvered by the security light it had triggered. He slowed the footage down, going frame by frame. Back into the trees, looks like.
No, said Clare. Hes not. Look. Go back again, look there.
OK, said the guard, bemused. So the porcupine gets into the estate. So what? People pay a lot of money so they can have animals in here.
How does it get in? Clare persisted.
Ag, lady, they dig, he said. You seen one before?
Yes, Ive seen them, said Clare. The fence on that side theres a steep embankment on the other side, isnt there?
Yes, its steep.
So they dig in, the porcupines, said Clare. They dont always trigger the electric fence?
If they did, the fuckers would fry.
If the porcupines can get through, then whoever got in and out could do the same thing.
You might be blonde, lady, said the guard, but youre not
I wouldnt say dumb, if I were you. Ina Britz stepped inside. She flashed her badge at the guard, but spoke to Clare. Forensics is here, Doc, at least what I could muster with the cutbacks. Lets get the house searched.
They drove the short distance back to the house. Clare took her round the back and through the kitchen.
She slid down the wall and sat here, said Clare. The phone hung limply on the wall. Next to it was the blood smear, and two faint stains on the floor. I think she was naked.
Ina squatted down and studied the smear of blood. It was in the butterfly-wing shape of a g
irls bottom.
Any other signs of her? asked Ina.
This, said Clare.
She pointed to a clump of hair on a branch, some strands tipped with follicles, on the scullery window. Its how she got in, looks like.
Man, this is not good, said Ina.
Theres more, said Clare.
They walked down towards the stone cottage. Pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, Clare pushed open the door. Again the smell assailed her.
Cosy little tik den here, said Ina. You think its kids who live around here?
Nothing would surprise me, said Clare. Its The Truman Show meets Desperate Housewives, this estate. Enough to drive anyone mad.
The two women worked methodically, bagging and tagging the broken light bulb, the tik straws, the bottles, the magazines, the papers, the leftover food. Sweetie Pies, Nik Naks, childrens party food.
Tik smokers have records usually, said Ina. And teenagers do this shit if theyre bored and stoned.
Yes, said Clare. But I dont think Rosa chose to be here, and it doesnt look to me like she left the place on her own.
Rain last night, so no chance of footprints, said Ina. No scent trail either.
Lets work on what we have here, said Clare. Therell be fingerprints in the house too. That packet of stroopwafels those cinnamon biscuits must come from the house. Nobody sells them here.
Wheres the boyfriend? asked Ina. You questioned him?
So far, no evidence she had a boyfriend.
Doesnt mean there isnt one out there somewhere.
Have you checked out the grandfather? asked Clare.
He seemed to be who he said he is. Teacher, studied classics on some sort of Commonwealth scholarship. Retired to Churchhaven a long time ago. Hes Rosas guardian, has been since she was little. Ina Britz lit a Lucky Strike. The techs tell me her cellphones not been used for three weeks. Last triangulation was the Hout Bay mast. Then it was switched off, and nothing. Same with her bank. Nothing since the twenty-fifth of May. She doesnt have a laptop, hasnt checked her email in three weeks.
Some rowdy guinea fowl settled in a tree on the other side of the fence.
Theres nothing connecting her with the little girl we found this morning? Ina asked. The bridle path isnt so far from here, as the crow flies.
No, nothing that I can see, said Clare. Rosa is nineteen, never had a child. Seems to be an accident of geography.
Not unlikely in South Africa, said Ina. Crime scenes are as crowded in on each other as graves in an old cemetery.
A mud-splattered forensics van pulled up.
Heres Fingerprints, said Ina, as Shorty de Lange uncurled his long body from the car.
Maybe theyll pull the rabbit out of the hat for a change.
De Lange walked towards the two women. He was in his version of casual Friday clothes, but looked as much a cop as if hed been wearing full dress uniform.
Its been a while, Shorty, said Clare.
Morning, Clare, he gave her one of his rare smiles. What a pleasure to see your face and not Faizals. Morning Britz, you know hes the cop this beautiful woman is usually cursed with, winking at Ina.
When I called I said I wanted help, not trouble, said Clare.
Captain Faizal, said Ina. Hes a man who gets you into trouble.
From what Ive seen he gets you out of it too, nè Clare? said De Lange.
Been known to happen, Clare laughed. You want to check things out?
What you got?
Someones been smoking tik in there.
That means Faizal will find you soon enough. Brings that Gang Unit out like bees to a flower, said De Lange, ducking into the cottage.
He appraised the familiar scene: the drug detritus of addicts who all too often dragged others into the vortex of their nasty, brutish lives.
Fuckers, he said, picking up one of the photographs. You want it all tested?
Searched and tested, said Clare. Wheres your help?
Ministers got some ceremony going today, said De Lange. Seems they have to be there to make him look good.
And you? asked Clare.
Im a dinosaur, said De Lange. I just do my job. That never made any politician look good.
Clare left De Lange to get on with his work. Curious neighbours loitered at the front of the house as she walked back to the bottom of the garden. Ina Britz joined her, and the two women looked towards the forest that seemed to absorb the early-afternoon light.
I want a search of the forest, said Clare. This girl didnt just disappear.
But theres no one to do it. Ina put her hand on Clares shoulder. Cweles pulled everything. Says the priority is economic stability. Not domestic incidents. Moneys a higher priority than people these days.
He thinks this is a domestic? said Clare.
He told me theres no evidence to justify resources.
How does he know about this girl?
When I was checking the numbers, he came in.
Ina, well pretend were looking for this girl, but you know and I know that what well probably find is a body. What on earth must I tell that old man?
My hands are tied, said Ina. Theres no one who can help.
Theres Mandla Njobe, said Clare.
OK, ask him. Hell do it. Cweles cut all overtime for the 28s and he wants to authorise each and every expenditure we make, said Ina. He told me this just before I came here.
Can he do that? asked Clare.
Hes found some clause that authorises him, said Ina. Ive got our lawyers looking at it. You carry on in the meantime. Ill cover for you. Just get the fuck out of here before he arrives.
Clare looked at the trees jostling in the wind. Shes out there. Somewhere. Well find her.
11
Clare nosed her car into the afternoon traffic. She imagined the CapeTalk anchor, snug in his heated studio as he rattled off plummeting solstice temperatures. There was snow on the mountain ranges that hemmed in Cape Town. The power lines were going down and the passes were being closed, one after another. The station cut back to the weekends main news story.
Another of Dr Clare Harts little girls was found early this morning. She had been abandoned on a Hout Bay bridle path, the reporter was saying. Major Ina Britz of Section 28, established to replace the Child Protection Unit, has appealed to anyone who has information to come forward or to phone the Section 28 hotline 0800 KIDZLIVE. At an explosive press conference this morning it was revealed that the 28s themselves are under threat because of new government policies regarding service delivery riots and the newly established Economic Stability Unit. We have in our studio Jakes Cwele, the man behind this new policy drive. Good afternoon, sir.
Good afternoon to you and your listeners. Cweles unguent tones were not good for the debilitating nausea that Clare had briefly managed to get under control.
Clare shut him up by switching stations to Fine Music Radio. Bach. The music swelled, its slow beauty bringing into focus the irredeemable ugliness of the day. E minor, the cello rich and full, the plangent music calling to her. Almost missing the sign for the Cape College of Classical Music, she had to brake sharply before turning into the oak-lined driveway.
There was a faded grandeur to the front entrance; the heavy door was surrounded by mullioned windows. Cape Towns Juilliard, said the banner that hung above the stairs. The schools claim to the famous New York School of Music was not that far off the mark. Only the most talented survived the school. They thrived winged to fame by their voices, or their ability with an instrument. Hard to know what happened to those who fell through the cracks.
At the entrance, a poster: musicians surrounding a lovely blonde with kohled eyes. Soprano: Lily Lovich. She already had the look of a diva, thought Clare. At the edge of the group, Rosa in a red sleeveless dress, a tumble of black hair down her back. She had her cello clasped as if to keep herself upright. A list of the other performers, Rosa Wagner: cellist struck through with a heavy black line. Todays date, the performance later that evening. Clare pushed the dou
ble doors open.
She walked over to the receptionist, a fat woman with crisp grey curls.
Hello, said Clare. Im looking for Rosa Wagner and Im hoping that youll be able to help.
Rosalind, she said, pausing her fingers over her keyboard. She hasnt been here since Easter.
Im trying to trace her, said Clare. Her grandfather is very concerned.
The receptionist went at her keyboard again.
I explained to him that Rosalind is an adult, she said, without looking up at Clare. She wrote to us saying she was withdrawing. A waste, I told the director. I knew it, these country girls with nothing but raw talent never last in Cape Town. Out of their depth. Trouble follows them.
Clare took a breath, made herself be polite.
I would like to see your director, said Clare.
Director Petrova is very busy.
So am I. Clare handed the woman her Section 28 identity card. Phone her. Please. Say I am on my way up.
Clares card looked too official to ignore. The receptionist hedged her bets and dialled.
Director? A Dr Hart is here. From Section 28. Shes insisting on seeing you, she said. The receptionist listened to the voice at the other end of the line; the momentary silence was filled with the warm swell of a cello, the sound drifting through the cold air.
You can go up, said the receptionist.
Thank you, said Clare. It will save us all time if you could find Rosa Wagners file, make me a copy and kindly bring that upstairs.
The womans mouth turned down with disapproval, but she got up and went to poke at the filing cabinet as Clare took the stairs. A door opened, emptying a classroom. Students flowed down the stairs a river of chatter and plans and talk about coffee and drinks and who has a light? And an image flashed unbidden before Clares minds eye. Her own arrival in Cape Town at fourteen, a scholarship girl from a farm in Namaqualand. Then she had felt like a fish finally slipping into her element the anonymity of a city where she could make herself up, far from the eyes of those who knew her. She pushed the disruptive genie of memory back into the bottle of the past.
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