alone?’
Clare looked away and nodded.
‘You want a lift?’
‘No, thank you.’
He put out his hand and touched her cheek. ‘It’d be good to catch up.’
‘It would.’ It seemed churlish to step away from his forgotten touch.
‘Dinner?’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty tonight.’
‘I’m staying at the Lagoon-Side Cottages.’
‘I know.’
The light changed and Ragnar drove off. He and his wet dog huddled together on the front seat. Both grinning. Clare’s face felt hot where he had touched it. She rubbed her cheek, then licked her finger. It tasted salty. Like blood.
fifteen
Tamar Damases had arranged a vehicle for Clare’s interview with Shipanga. Clare signed for it, picked up the keys, and within five minutes was guiding the 4x4 along the wide avenue that led to Kuisebmond, the township where the caretaker lived. The quiet streets of the town gave way to a warren of lanes, and she slowed to avoid the darting children and mangy, slinking dogs. The cracked pavements were crowded with stalls selling single cigarettes and plastic bags holding an onion and two potatoes. Women squatted by low fires, tending fragrant vetkoek and frying pig trotters. Men with glazed eyes and the concentrated precision of the permanently drunk watched Clare drive past the dark shebeens, before turning back to the pool tables.
The address Tamar had given Clare didn’t mean much in the thicket of houses. She hazarded a guess and turned down a newly laid road that took her away from the larger houses and into a maze of narrow paths. Tin shacks and tarpaulins had been replaced with brick boxes. Green, red, pink, yellow, brown: brightly coloured, poorly built. The Smartie houses. A flock of chubby-legged urchins ran alongside the car. Clare parked. An entourage of children clustered around their minder, a girl of nine or ten, staring at Clare getting out of the enormous car.
‘Where does Herman Shipanga live?’ Clare asked the girl.
The fat baby on the girl’s hip gave a terrified wail and buried its face into her neck.
‘Come,’ the girl beamed. Clare followed her through backyardswhere washing snapped and forlorn patches of mielies somehow grew.
‘There.’ The girl pointed at a yellow house. The little boys backed up against her skinny legs. A few plugged their thumbs into their mouths and watched, solemn-eyed, as Clare knocked on the door. She could hear the radio blaring inside. It sounded like a church service, but the language was unfamiliar.
The door cracked open a few inches. A man, wiry and shorter than Clare, looked out from the gloom. His hair was sprinkled with grey; cheekbones high and wide; dark eyes, kind.
‘Herman Shipanga?’
The man nodded, wary. The air that escaped was stale, laden with the smell of too many bodies in too small a place.
Clare held out her temporary police ID. Shipanga opened the door wider and took it. ‘I’m Clare Hart. I’m investigating the death of Kaiser Apollis.’ The man’s eyes flickered with fear, anger, sadness; Clare couldn’t say which. ‘I wanted to ask you about him. About how you found him.’
Shipanga did not respond. Clare repeated the question in Afrikaans. Her train of urchins scuffled closer.
‘One minute.’ Shipanga answered in English. He closed the door, and the radio stopped. Then he opened the door again and set down two Coke crates in front of the house. ‘
Sit
,
asseblief.
’
Clare obeyed.
‘
Voetsek
!’ Shipanga raised his hand at the children and they scattered like gulls to settle at a safer distance.
‘English?’ Clare asked.
Shipanga looked down and spread out his hands.
She switched back to Afrikaans: ‘You found the boy?’
Shipanga nodded. He ran his hands over his eyes, as if trying to erase the image.
‘I read your statement,’ said Clare. ‘But I wanted to hear from you what you saw on Monday, from beginning to end.’
Shipanga did not take his eyes off her face. The beginning? His
Clare looked away and nodded.
‘You want a lift?’
‘No, thank you.’
He put out his hand and touched her cheek. ‘It’d be good to catch up.’
‘It would.’ It seemed churlish to step away from his forgotten touch.
‘Dinner?’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty tonight.’
‘I’m staying at the Lagoon-Side Cottages.’
‘I know.’
The light changed and Ragnar drove off. He and his wet dog huddled together on the front seat. Both grinning. Clare’s face felt hot where he had touched it. She rubbed her cheek, then licked her finger. It tasted salty. Like blood.
fifteen
Tamar Damases had arranged a vehicle for Clare’s interview with Shipanga. Clare signed for it, picked up the keys, and within five minutes was guiding the 4x4 along the wide avenue that led to Kuisebmond, the township where the caretaker lived. The quiet streets of the town gave way to a warren of lanes, and she slowed to avoid the darting children and mangy, slinking dogs. The cracked pavements were crowded with stalls selling single cigarettes and plastic bags holding an onion and two potatoes. Women squatted by low fires, tending fragrant vetkoek and frying pig trotters. Men with glazed eyes and the concentrated precision of the permanently drunk watched Clare drive past the dark shebeens, before turning back to the pool tables.
The address Tamar had given Clare didn’t mean much in the thicket of houses. She hazarded a guess and turned down a newly laid road that took her away from the larger houses and into a maze of narrow paths. Tin shacks and tarpaulins had been replaced with brick boxes. Green, red, pink, yellow, brown: brightly coloured, poorly built. The Smartie houses. A flock of chubby-legged urchins ran alongside the car. Clare parked. An entourage of children clustered around their minder, a girl of nine or ten, staring at Clare getting out of the enormous car.
‘Where does Herman Shipanga live?’ Clare asked the girl.
The fat baby on the girl’s hip gave a terrified wail and buried its face into her neck.
‘Come,’ the girl beamed. Clare followed her through backyardswhere washing snapped and forlorn patches of mielies somehow grew.
‘There.’ The girl pointed at a yellow house. The little boys backed up against her skinny legs. A few plugged their thumbs into their mouths and watched, solemn-eyed, as Clare knocked on the door. She could hear the radio blaring inside. It sounded like a church service, but the language was unfamiliar.
The door cracked open a few inches. A man, wiry and shorter than Clare, looked out from the gloom. His hair was sprinkled with grey; cheekbones high and wide; dark eyes, kind.
‘Herman Shipanga?’
The man nodded, wary. The air that escaped was stale, laden with the smell of too many bodies in too small a place.
Clare held out her temporary police ID. Shipanga opened the door wider and took it. ‘I’m Clare Hart. I’m investigating the death of Kaiser Apollis.’ The man’s eyes flickered with fear, anger, sadness; Clare couldn’t say which. ‘I wanted to ask you about him. About how you found him.’
Shipanga did not respond. Clare repeated the question in Afrikaans. Her train of urchins scuffled closer.
‘One minute.’ Shipanga answered in English. He closed the door, and the radio stopped. Then he opened the door again and set down two Coke crates in front of the house. ‘
Sit
,
asseblief.
’
Clare obeyed.
‘
Voetsek
!’ Shipanga raised his hand at the children and they scattered like gulls to settle at a safer distance.
‘English?’ Clare asked.
Shipanga looked down and spread out his hands.
She switched back to Afrikaans: ‘You found the boy?’
Shipanga nodded. He ran his hands over his eyes, as if trying to erase the image.
‘I read your statement,’ said Clare. ‘But I wanted to hear from you what you saw on Monday, from beginning to end.’
Shipanga did not take his eyes off her face. The beginning? His
Similar Books
