Daddy's Girl (10 page)

The child’s vanishing, going unnoticed in a quiet, policed suburb, indicated someone close. Someone intimate, someone inconspicuous. And yet something told her no.

Clare had believed him. It was that simple. That bothered her, though. She shoved her pepper spray into her pocket. Her phone, notebook, camera and
recording equipment went into her leather backpack.

It was cold out; and too early to see Rita Mkhize. The sky was silvering above the distant Hottentots Holland Mountains as Clare drove across town and climbed up Buitenkant Street to the crags at the base of Devil’s Peak. Gorge Road was narrow, and it fell steeply towards the city. A century earlier it had been a winding footpath, and before
that a game track where animals ran, single file, to escape sharp-eyed hunters. At six-thirty it was deserted. Just sprays of glass from smashed car windows. Cape Town’s confetti. The old-aged home opposite the school lay asleep, waiting for the morning staff to arrive and start the day – except for one square of light on the top floor, five flats along. And in the wooden hut nearby, a nightwatchman
sat hunched over a crackling radio.

If Yasmin had walked off, it would have been with someone she knew. It’d be hard to pull a six-year-old down a long street, unseen. Clare walked towards the overgrown entrance to the ballet school. Next to it was a recess in the foliage, offering respite from the wind. As she hunkered down into it, Clare saw the bright pink, a snagged strand of wool. She
eased it off the bougainvillea thorn. Yasmin’s ballet cardigan. The child must have waited in this spot, in the gathering dark. Clare photographed every angle, picturing a man in a car, hidden among the pines.

A stalker would have waited right there, tucked out of sight behind the scrub, watching for his prey: Yasmin’s vulnerability logged, her abduction precisely planned – and then executed.
Or if it was chance, Yasmin being in the wrong place at the wrong time, the abductor would have seized the opportunity that is a solitary child. Either way, the hunter would have tensed, leaned forward, his breathing becoming shallow the second the child stepped into view.

A car slipped down the road towards Clare. With barely a glance, the driver swept past her.

She walked up the hill,
past open bins with their evidence of too many meals eaten alone, single servings of ready-prepared food, chocolate wrappers, the sad pleasures of the lonely and the old. Three men – SOLID WASTE emblazoned on their yellow shirts – were tossing the bins up onto the back of a truck. Clare walked to the driver’s door.

‘Yes, lady?’ He leaned out of his window.

‘This your route?’ asked Clare.

The driver took a drag of his cigarette.

‘Friday evening, Saturday morning. Why?’

‘I’m looking for a girl,’ said Clare.

‘So was I.’ The man’s mouth curled into a thin smile. ‘Looks like I found her.’

‘A six-year-old,’ said Clare. ‘She went missing yesterday afternoon. Were you here yesterday?’

‘We came this way about six. Half-past, maybe. Did the houses. Today’s
mos
institutions.
The school, the old
toppies
. The council outsourced us. Made us free enterprises. Means we work seven days a week for the same money we got working for the council for five. What’s she look like?’

Clare showed him the picture.

‘Ag, shame. Such a small girlie. I didn’t see her.’ He gave a loud whistle. The men loading were around Clare in a second. ‘Ask them,’ he said.

‘Did any of you
see this little girl yesterday?’ asked Clare. ‘About the time you came through here. After five, before six.’

The men wiped their hands on the sides of their pants and passed the photograph round.

‘No.’ One after the other.

‘Anything you saw here yesterday that was different?’ she asked.

‘Like what?’ A skinny man, putting his gloves on again.

‘Something different from what
you usually see,’ said Clare. ‘A smell, some sounds, someone you don’t usually see here. A car in an odd place. Could seem like nothing.’

The men passed the photograph of Yasmin around again. Shook their heads.

‘Sorry, lady.’ The driver handed the photograph back to Clare. ‘I hope you find her.’

Clare was doing her seatbelt up when the man appeared at the passenger window. He was out
of breath from running. The rubbish truck was back, idling in the empty street.

‘Sorry, sorry for the fright.’ He was studying Clare’s face, hands clamped onto the car window. ‘I’ve seen you before. I told them. Aren’t you on TV?’

’Sometimes,’ said Clare

‘I told them.’ Triumphant. ‘
Survivor
?’

Clare shook her head.

‘
Idols
?’ Sceptical.

‘No,’ said Clare. ‘
Missing
. About the
missing girls.’

‘Pearl,’ he said to her. ‘I remember her. Pearl, was that her name? Thursday night,
mos
. For Women’s Day. She said her father’s a general in the 27s. He did things to her. That everyone thinks he’s this strong man, but he’s a coward because he picks on young girls.’ The man’s voice rose in indignation. ‘His own daughter,
nogal
.’

‘That’s the one.’ Clare started her car.

‘It’s her.’ Pointing at Clare, grinning gummily at his companions. ‘The one who went after the gangsters, told their secrets on TV.’

‘You should watch yourself,
nooi
.’ He turned back to Clare, his hand on her window again. ‘The 27s kill people who tell their secrets. You didn’t show the girl’s face, but they can find you easy.’

He sprinted up the road, swinging himself up onto the truck.
The driver hit the sound system and the bass juddered.

The only car parked outside the ballet school was an old yellow Beetle. The piano music, a waltz by Liszt or Schubert, stopped when Clare knocked.

‘Dr Hart.’ Madame Merle was taken aback as she opened the door. ‘Are you here about last night’s performance?’

‘It was a great success.’ Clare stepped past Madame Merle into the cold room. ‘But that’s not why I’m here. I’ve come about
one of your little scholarship girls, Yasmin Faizal.’

‘I have a class in fifteen minutes.’ Madame Merle tapped her wrist. ‘How have you become ensnared with the Faizal family?’

‘I look for little girls who go missing.’ Clare followed Madame Merle into her studio. ‘Yasmin went missing from here.’

A man stood by the window, his figure dark against the morning light.

‘You’ve not met
my piano man.’ Madame Merle followed Clare’s gaze. ‘Henry Harries, officially. Everyone here calls him Mister Henry.’

‘Hello.’ Clare put out her hand, and the man’s pallid fingers lay limp in hers.

‘We went over this with Captain Faizal last night. With the mother, too.’ Madame Merle fitted her cigarette into the long filter, flared her lighter, and leaned against the broad windowsill.
‘I had a call from the mother first. Told her that if Yasmin wasn’t at the school, it was probably the same as last time.’

‘And Captain Faizal?’

‘Told him that if Yasmin wasn’t with him this time, then she probably went home with one of the other girls.’

‘But she didn’t,’ said Clare.

Madame Merle blew smoke rings in the air.

‘This has happened before, Dr Hart. Last time there
was all this song and dance and it turned out that the child had run away from her mother. A difficult woman. Volatile. The child wanted to go and live with her father. She was found unharmed. The next time, it was the father who took her. Picked her up early from school and kept her for the weekend in some beach shack.’

‘If I’m to find her,’ said Clare, ‘I need to know who she is and what
she does.’

Madame Merle sighed. ‘Yasmin comes here straight after school every day. I assume her taxi dropped her as usual yesterday. She joined her class and danced perfectly. Class was dismissed. She gave me a hug and left. I didn’t see her again. I have a class straight after – the senior girls. You saw them last night. The chorus in
Persephone
.’

‘Where did she go after she said goodbye?’

‘That way.’ Madame Merle waved a manicured hand towards the passage. ‘The change-rooms are that way. Big girls on the right, behind that door. Little ones on the left.’

‘Who keeps an eye on them?’ asked Clare.

‘Nobody. We’re a ballet school, not a crèche.’

‘Yasmin spent long hours here.’

‘An exception,’ said Madame Merle. ‘A police officer and a nurse can’t afford an au pair.
Yasmin has a scholarship, so she has to dance every day. As I said, she comes here after school, then does her homework while waiting for her class. Her mother always fetches her after her shift ends. Six, sometimes half-past.’

‘So who waited with her?’

‘Calvaleen used to—’ Henry began.

‘I teach till seven,’ interrupted Madame Merle. ‘She was never fetched later than that.’

‘Calvaleen?’
asked Clare, turning to Henry

The ballet mistress pivoted on an elegant ankle.

‘One of our older dancers. Dropped out. Yasmin looked up to her – they came from the same background – but she hasn’t been here for some time.’

‘There was no one else that Yasmin was close to?’

‘I’ve no idea. She was so much better than the other girls. Is. Is so much better…’ Her voice trailed off;
silence hung in the cold air. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that… we’ve been so busy recently.’

‘You finished early on Friday,’ said Clare. ‘How were the parents informed?’

‘The children were given notes to bring back signed,’ said Madame Merle. ‘I’m not very good with email yet.’

‘Yasmin brought hers back?’

‘She must have done.’

‘Who collects the notes?’

‘Henry does.’

‘Can
I see?’ asked Clare.

‘Get the folder, will you?’ Madame Merle turned to Henry. ‘It’s in my desk, top drawer.’

‘The change-rooms,’ said Clare.

‘Of course. This way.’ Clare followed Madame Merle down the dimly lit corridor.

‘There are few who can tolerate the discipline of ballet,’ said Madame Merle. ‘Though not a meek child, Yasmin was one of them.’

The ‘was’ again. Clare let
it ride.

‘Tell me about her,’ said Clare.

‘She’s a self-sufficient little girl. Tougher than the pampered Constantia princesses I teach. And she had something. An attunement to music. It was as if she absorbed its sound through her skin, and the music then moved her. That’s what dancing should be, a physical manifestation of music. And another thing: Yasmin had a resilience beyond her
years.’

‘You said she wasn’t easy.’

‘How could she be?’ was the response. ‘Look at her father. A law unto himself.’

‘How was she on Friday?’

Madame Merle closed her hooded eyes, thoughtful. ‘Maybe she was anxious. Maybe not. Maybe she just wanted a hug. She’s a lonely little girl. She loves me; all my pupils do. Love and fear: it’s what makes them dance.’

Yasmin’s locker was
empty, except for a half-eaten banana. Madame Merle took it out and dropped it in a bin.

Henry stood at the end of the passage, an envelope in his hand.

‘You find it?’ asked Madame Merle.

‘No signed form from Yasmin’s family. An oversight.’

Madame Merle flicked through the contents, twice. Dug for another cigarette.

‘You get one from Calvaleen?’ asked Clare.

Henry rummaged
through the sheaf of papers. ‘Ja. Here it is. Looks like her father signed it.’

A car crunched on the gravel outside. A door slammed shut and two sets of feet pattered up the path. Two little girls burst into the door, skidding to a stop when they saw the three silent adults standing there.

‘Good morning Madame Merle and Mister Henry and Miss… Lady.’ The two girls stood staring at Clare.
Madame Merle clapped her hands.

‘Off with you, girls. Change and go and warm up on the barre.’

They slalomed off to the change-rooms.

‘Can I keep those forms?’ asked Clare. ‘And your class lists. We’ll need to contact these parents. See if any of them saw anything, do some background checks.’

‘You’ll be discreet? This is my livelihood.’

‘Of course,’ said Clare.

Mister Henry
gave Clare the envelope.

‘Anything else?’ asked Madame Merle.

‘A word with Mister Henry.’

‘He’s never with the girls unsupervised,’ said Madame Merle. ‘The rules are so strict these days, especially after there was an incident at the school – with that chess teacher, wasn’t it, Henry? Nothing to do with us. Anyway, class begins in ten minutes.’ Madame Merle turned around and disappeared
into the studio.

‘You’re here every day?’ asked Clare.

‘Every afternoon. Monday, Wednesday, Friday evenings. Saturdays. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I do some voluntary work.’

‘Oh, what kind?’

‘Music therapy,’ said Mister Henry. ‘At an addiction clinic.’

‘Do you manage to make a living from your music?’

‘Well, I don’t really need much.’

Mister Henry walked outside with
Clare.

‘So, Yasmin’s here every day?’ she asked.

‘Pretty much,’ he said. Her dancing’s been the one thing that hasn’t changed in her life.’

The parking lot was clogged with cars. Pink-clad girls spilled out, chattering as they swirled up the path, shoes in one hand. A piece of elastic circled their little bodies where their waists should be.

‘Tell me about Yasmin.’ Clare leaned
against her car, making no move to open the door. ‘What she was like when class finished early?’

‘She seemed upset. She asked Madame Merle about it.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘She sent her packing.’ Mister Henry pulled at a piece of skin on his thumb. ‘She only sees the children when they are dancing.’

‘And you?’

‘I see the dancer.’ Mister Henry looked at the stragglers dawdling
up the path. ‘And I see their pain.’

‘Shazia Faizal tells me you saw a blue Mazda here in the afternoon.’

Henry nodded.

‘Captain Faizal’s car?’

He nodded again.

‘You know the car?’ asked Clare.

‘I know it,’ said Henry.