said Landman, leaning forward. ‘With forty per cent unemployment in the country, that can only be a good thing. Where I come from, people are proud of me. They eat. Their kids go to school.’
Clare swirled the whiskey, the crystal refracting the golden liquid, and waited for him to continue.
‘I provide a service. Where there is a demand, I find a supply. Look at these girls.’ He gestured towards the half-naked waitresses, several of whom looked far too young to be up this late. ‘If it wasn’t for me these girls wouldn’t be working, their families wouldn’t be eating.’ Landman smiled, top lip curling back, revealing his teeth.
‘Why don’t you come to one of my clubs, Dr Hart? Come to the Isis. You’ll be my guest. You can meet some of mygirls.’ He handed her a card. On it was a familiar city address. ‘Eleven o’clock, Saturday?’
‘Thank you,’ said Clare. ‘Shall we record the interview there?’
‘Why not?’ he replied. He leaned towards her, placing one manicured hand on her exposed knee. Clare shivered involuntarily. ‘But no cameraman. No sound man. Only you.’ Clare swallowed. His physical presence was unnerving. She looked down at the card.
‘Fine,’ she agreed. She slipped the card into her bag and got up to leave. ‘I’ll see you there at eleven.’ Her knee felt hot when he removed his hand.
Otis Tohar’s guests were drinking steadily. He circulated, slapping fawning politicians on the back, complimenting the overweight wives of eager businessmen. Clare watched Tatiana as she drifted unnoticed out of his orbit. She had bruises blooming like bracts of irises up her arms. She turned to see where Tohar was, then drew aside a heavy blue curtain and stepped behind it.
Clare followed her into the concealed passage. Ahead was a staircase spiralling down to the floor below and into Tohar’s private quarters. Clare heard whimpering. There was a sliver of light from a door at the end of the passage. Clare pushed it open to reveal an editing suite and, behind it, a home cinema. The woman was folded into the director’s chair, her back to a phalanx of video cases packed into glass-fronted shelves. Her slender arms were clenched with knuckle-whitening force around her knees. Her head was bent, the black hair a parted curtain. On her exposed neck was the tattoo: two verticals scored through with an X. Clare repressed the urge to reach out and touch it.
‘Excuse me, Tatiana,’ said Clare. ‘Is something wrong?’
Tatiana’s head snapped up, a video cassette in her hand.Her eyes were blank for a moment and then they blazed with fury. She stood up and pushed past Clare.
Clare looked at the cover left behind on the desk. It was blank. There were banks of tapes, but the shelf above the edit suite was locked. Each of the videos had the Isis logo stuck to it. The lock was flimsy. Clare tried to twist it open, but before she could do so, she heard voices. She slipped back into the passage, her heart pounding. She was halfway up the stairs when whoever it was turned into the passage and closed the door that Clare had left wide open.
Clare pushed the curtain aside and walked straight into Otis Tohar. She was so close she could smell the sharpness of him beneath his expensive cologne.
‘Dr Clare Hart. Were you lost? In search of entertainment?’ he said, pulling her away from the curtain as he shook her proffered hand. The arm that slipped around her waist brooked no resistance. She allowed herself to be propelled across the floor towards the bar.
‘I was looking for you. My friend, Kelvin Landman, tells me that you are going to be interviewing him for your latest film. Tell me, I have a special interest in film.’
‘I’m researching a documentary on the business of trafficking women and children,’ said Clare.
‘How worthy,’ said Tohar. ‘You know, I suppose, that we have refurbished all the Isis clubs?’
‘We?’ said Clare.
‘Oh, yes, I acquired several of the
Clare swirled the whiskey, the crystal refracting the golden liquid, and waited for him to continue.
‘I provide a service. Where there is a demand, I find a supply. Look at these girls.’ He gestured towards the half-naked waitresses, several of whom looked far too young to be up this late. ‘If it wasn’t for me these girls wouldn’t be working, their families wouldn’t be eating.’ Landman smiled, top lip curling back, revealing his teeth.
‘Why don’t you come to one of my clubs, Dr Hart? Come to the Isis. You’ll be my guest. You can meet some of mygirls.’ He handed her a card. On it was a familiar city address. ‘Eleven o’clock, Saturday?’
‘Thank you,’ said Clare. ‘Shall we record the interview there?’
‘Why not?’ he replied. He leaned towards her, placing one manicured hand on her exposed knee. Clare shivered involuntarily. ‘But no cameraman. No sound man. Only you.’ Clare swallowed. His physical presence was unnerving. She looked down at the card.
‘Fine,’ she agreed. She slipped the card into her bag and got up to leave. ‘I’ll see you there at eleven.’ Her knee felt hot when he removed his hand.
Otis Tohar’s guests were drinking steadily. He circulated, slapping fawning politicians on the back, complimenting the overweight wives of eager businessmen. Clare watched Tatiana as she drifted unnoticed out of his orbit. She had bruises blooming like bracts of irises up her arms. She turned to see where Tohar was, then drew aside a heavy blue curtain and stepped behind it.
Clare followed her into the concealed passage. Ahead was a staircase spiralling down to the floor below and into Tohar’s private quarters. Clare heard whimpering. There was a sliver of light from a door at the end of the passage. Clare pushed it open to reveal an editing suite and, behind it, a home cinema. The woman was folded into the director’s chair, her back to a phalanx of video cases packed into glass-fronted shelves. Her slender arms were clenched with knuckle-whitening force around her knees. Her head was bent, the black hair a parted curtain. On her exposed neck was the tattoo: two verticals scored through with an X. Clare repressed the urge to reach out and touch it.
‘Excuse me, Tatiana,’ said Clare. ‘Is something wrong?’
Tatiana’s head snapped up, a video cassette in her hand.Her eyes were blank for a moment and then they blazed with fury. She stood up and pushed past Clare.
Clare looked at the cover left behind on the desk. It was blank. There were banks of tapes, but the shelf above the edit suite was locked. Each of the videos had the Isis logo stuck to it. The lock was flimsy. Clare tried to twist it open, but before she could do so, she heard voices. She slipped back into the passage, her heart pounding. She was halfway up the stairs when whoever it was turned into the passage and closed the door that Clare had left wide open.
Clare pushed the curtain aside and walked straight into Otis Tohar. She was so close she could smell the sharpness of him beneath his expensive cologne.
‘Dr Clare Hart. Were you lost? In search of entertainment?’ he said, pulling her away from the curtain as he shook her proffered hand. The arm that slipped around her waist brooked no resistance. She allowed herself to be propelled across the floor towards the bar.
‘I was looking for you. My friend, Kelvin Landman, tells me that you are going to be interviewing him for your latest film. Tell me, I have a special interest in film.’
‘I’m researching a documentary on the business of trafficking women and children,’ said Clare.
‘How worthy,’ said Tohar. ‘You know, I suppose, that we have refurbished all the Isis clubs?’
‘We?’ said Clare.
‘Oh, yes, I acquired several of the
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