the night.
‘Money certainly doesn’t buy you taste,’ said Jakes under his breath while waving at someone across the room. Clare circulated with Jakes, admiring his social dexterity. He already had several fading models around him, competing for lens space.
‘Chick magnet,’ Clare muttered. She went in search of a drink.
An obese politician, whose incompetence seemed directly proportional to the number of companies desperate to have him on their boards, cornered her at the bar. Clare extricated herself as the man piled his plate high with canapés offered to him by a succulent waitress.
Going over to the window, she noticed with surprise that she could see her flat from up there. She had bought it with the first royalty cheque she had received for the book she had written about the gang rape of her beloved twin. Blood money was what Julie called it. Clare had divided the income. Half for her, half for Constance.
She scanned the promenade where Charnay Swanepoel’s body had been dumped. If the girl’s family had made a shrine, the rain had washed it clear. The investigation team was nocloser to solving Charnay’s murder, even though the police lab had analysed the DNA traces on the body and it looked like they might be searching for two men. The blood group of the skin under the dead girl’s nails was one group, the semen traces indicated another. Riedwaan thought there could be two or more people involved. Clare thought not. The posthumous mutilations spoke to her of one man. Nothing had turned up. No cellphone records, no witness. Nothing on the CCTV. The police had checked – only to find that the camera along that stretch of the promenade was fake. Clare felt a surge of guilt that the days since Charnay’s murder had stretched first into one week and then another. That silence was ominous. And now another girl had vanished. Clare suddenly wished she was home.
She turned back to the vast room, which was swathed in blue velvet. It was filling up rapidly. She greeted a senior policeman who had an expensive-looking woman on his arm. Clare had once interviewed him about proposed anti-trafficking legislation. He shifted uncomfortably when he recognised Clare, apparently unable to remember her name.
Otis Tohar had not yet arrived, but Kelvin Landman was there. He was sprawled on the largest of the couches, surrounded by his entourage. Clare walked closer, but stopped as a waitress brought them a bottle of single malt. One of the men pulled the waitress towards him, grinding her into his lap, one hand mauling her small breasts. Landman watched, amused.
Just then, a soft flurry of sound blew from the entrance through the scattered conversations. Otis Tohar, tall and striking, paused just long enough to be sure that all eyes were on him. Trailing in his wake was a woman who wore her exotic beauty like a mask. Clare jumped at the sudden hand on her arm. One of Kelvin Landman’s companions was at her elbow.
‘Excuse me, Dr Hart. Mr Landman says you must join us.’ Clare looked across at Landman. He inclined his head towards her in greeting. The waitress, Clare noted with relief, had escaped.
‘Hello again, Dr Hart,’ said Kelvin Landman, standing as Clare reached the table. ‘Please join us.’ A glance dislodged two of the men seated close to him. Clare sat down. ‘Can I offer you a whiskey?’ He handed her a glass, not waiting for her to reply. Clare took it but did not drink.
‘A fine couple, Otis Tohar and Tatiana,’ said Landman, looking speculatively at the woman.
Clare looked over at Tohar. ‘Tatiana? That sounds Russian.’
‘Could be. Cape Town is an international city these days.’
Clare added some water to her drink.
‘I’m glad to see you, Dr Hart. I hope your research is going well?’ He paused, the question hanging between them.
Clare smiled at him, holding his gaze. ‘I have spoken to some of the women. I look forward to hearing what you have to say.’
‘I create work,’
‘Money certainly doesn’t buy you taste,’ said Jakes under his breath while waving at someone across the room. Clare circulated with Jakes, admiring his social dexterity. He already had several fading models around him, competing for lens space.
‘Chick magnet,’ Clare muttered. She went in search of a drink.
An obese politician, whose incompetence seemed directly proportional to the number of companies desperate to have him on their boards, cornered her at the bar. Clare extricated herself as the man piled his plate high with canapés offered to him by a succulent waitress.
Going over to the window, she noticed with surprise that she could see her flat from up there. She had bought it with the first royalty cheque she had received for the book she had written about the gang rape of her beloved twin. Blood money was what Julie called it. Clare had divided the income. Half for her, half for Constance.
She scanned the promenade where Charnay Swanepoel’s body had been dumped. If the girl’s family had made a shrine, the rain had washed it clear. The investigation team was nocloser to solving Charnay’s murder, even though the police lab had analysed the DNA traces on the body and it looked like they might be searching for two men. The blood group of the skin under the dead girl’s nails was one group, the semen traces indicated another. Riedwaan thought there could be two or more people involved. Clare thought not. The posthumous mutilations spoke to her of one man. Nothing had turned up. No cellphone records, no witness. Nothing on the CCTV. The police had checked – only to find that the camera along that stretch of the promenade was fake. Clare felt a surge of guilt that the days since Charnay’s murder had stretched first into one week and then another. That silence was ominous. And now another girl had vanished. Clare suddenly wished she was home.
She turned back to the vast room, which was swathed in blue velvet. It was filling up rapidly. She greeted a senior policeman who had an expensive-looking woman on his arm. Clare had once interviewed him about proposed anti-trafficking legislation. He shifted uncomfortably when he recognised Clare, apparently unable to remember her name.
Otis Tohar had not yet arrived, but Kelvin Landman was there. He was sprawled on the largest of the couches, surrounded by his entourage. Clare walked closer, but stopped as a waitress brought them a bottle of single malt. One of the men pulled the waitress towards him, grinding her into his lap, one hand mauling her small breasts. Landman watched, amused.
Just then, a soft flurry of sound blew from the entrance through the scattered conversations. Otis Tohar, tall and striking, paused just long enough to be sure that all eyes were on him. Trailing in his wake was a woman who wore her exotic beauty like a mask. Clare jumped at the sudden hand on her arm. One of Kelvin Landman’s companions was at her elbow.
‘Excuse me, Dr Hart. Mr Landman says you must join us.’ Clare looked across at Landman. He inclined his head towards her in greeting. The waitress, Clare noted with relief, had escaped.
‘Hello again, Dr Hart,’ said Kelvin Landman, standing as Clare reached the table. ‘Please join us.’ A glance dislodged two of the men seated close to him. Clare sat down. ‘Can I offer you a whiskey?’ He handed her a glass, not waiting for her to reply. Clare took it but did not drink.
‘A fine couple, Otis Tohar and Tatiana,’ said Landman, looking speculatively at the woman.
Clare looked over at Tohar. ‘Tatiana? That sounds Russian.’
‘Could be. Cape Town is an international city these days.’
Clare added some water to her drink.
‘I’m glad to see you, Dr Hart. I hope your research is going well?’ He paused, the question hanging between them.
Clare smiled at him, holding his gaze. ‘I have spoken to some of the women. I look forward to hearing what you have to say.’
‘I create work,’
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