Daddy's Girl (13 page)

‘You told him I was coming in?’

‘Senior Supe Phiri was in intelligence for a long time. There’s not much that he misses.’

‘Where does Phiri stand on Faizal’s record?’

‘He prevented Director Ndlovu from having Riedwaan arrested last night. Really pissed her off. He picks his men carefully – and Riedwaan he picked against most recommendations,’ said Rita. ‘Understands the way his mind works, I think.’

‘How does it work?’ asked Clare.

‘Riedwaan’s mind?’ Rita thought about it. ‘I think Phiri saw right away that Riedwaan doesn’t break the rules just because
he doesn’t like them.’

‘Why does he break them then?’ Clare was framed in the doorway.

‘I don’t think he’s realised they’re there.’

Rita had one hand on the phone, and the index finger of her other hand on the first number on the list. A for Appleby. The phone was answered almost as soon as she’d dialled. Yes, they knew the child. No, they hadn’t seen anything.

‘You’ll find Phiri’s
office easily.’ Rita waved, dialled the next number. ‘Up the stairs, at the end of the corridor. Just knock. He’s waiting for you.’

The door opened, revealing a handsome man with wide cheekbones and iron grey hair, his uniform tailored to fit his lean body.

‘Commander Phiri?’ The hand she extended disappeared in his.

‘No commanders any more, Dr Hart. I am a Senior Superintendent.’
He stood aside so that she could enter. Phiri’s wood-panelled corner office, high above the squalor of the street, was filled with light. The books in the glass-paned shelves caught Clare’s eye: Sol Plaatje, Chinua Achebe, Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Wole Soyinka. The grandfathers of African literature, moral lodestars ignored in the headlong rush for money and power.

‘You’ve read them?’ Phiri saw
her looking, and pulled out his dog-eared copy of
Things Fall Apart.

‘I have,’ said Clare.

‘My only friends when I was in exile,’ he said. ‘I read them during the long Moscow winters, when it was too cold outside for a civilised man to breathe. These writers brought me the sun.’ He gestured towards a chair. ‘Please sit.’

Clare waited for him to continue.

‘Dr Hart.’ Phiri sat opposite
her, the tabletop polished to a sheen, clear except for a chessboard with a game in progress. ‘Captain Faizal has asked for your assistance in this unfortunate business, am I correct?’

‘He has,’ said Clare. ‘Did he tell you?’

‘I spoke to him late last night. He said he’d seen you,’ said Phiri. ‘This is procedurally unprecedented.’

‘Captain Faizal asked me to help him. I’ve been tracking
some missing girls. You might have seen the programme? A mixture of reality television and documentary.’

‘I know your film work,’ said Phiri. ‘I’ve also read your doctoral thesis. I’m familiar with your research, too; I just signed off on your research with Dr Lyndall, so you have a quasi-official status with the SAPS now.’

‘Thank you,’ said Clare. ‘She told me yesterday.’

‘But this
case,’ said Phiri. ‘You know her father is the chief suspect?’

‘He told me,’ said Clare.

‘What do you know about Captain Faizal?’

‘Not much,’ said Clare. ‘He came to the lecture I gave; I spoke to him last night; I’ve read what’s on the internet about him.’

Phiri steepled his fingers. ‘He has an unusual reputation.’

‘As does your Gang Unit, Superintendent.’

‘We’ve been
effective. We have the trust of the public, but we aren’t that popular with politicians and those who play their politics for them.’

‘So, you don’t wish me to work on this case?’

‘Captain Faizal is a very valuable member of my unit. He does not endear himself to his superiors, however.’ Phiri pulled the chess set towards him. ‘But he gets things done.’

‘Do you think he abducted his
own daughter?’ asked Clare.

‘Dr Hart, I’ve known men who have shot their wives in front of their children; I’ve had men who have shot their own children in their beds. I’ve had too many men who’ve put a service pistol into their own mouths and pulled the trigger. Do I think that Captain Faizal has done anything to his own child? No. Do I think that the work he has been involved in has put
her in harm’s way? Yes.’

‘Then call off the investigation, get rid of Ndlovu, and do a proper search for Yasmin.’

‘I can’t,’ Phiri picked up the white queen. ‘Not yet. Even if I did, I’m not sure it would help us find the child at this stage. Does Faizal seem like a man who would harm his daughter?’

‘So hard to say,’ said Clare. ‘Probably why so many women get themselves killed.’

‘But you’re working with him.’ Phiri’s dark eyes on her, as he put the queen back.

‘Move that bishop and you’ll block the check,’ said Clare.

‘Do you play, Dr Hart?’ His eyes on the board, assessing the move she suggested.

‘I do,’ said Clare.

‘Who taught you?’

‘My father.’

‘I never knew my father,’ said Phiri. ‘I learnt in exile. There were many hours to fill. I was
taught by an old man in Gorky Park. He taught Salome Ndlovu too – she turned out to be a formidable opponent.’

Phiri took a card out of his pocket and handed it to Clare. ‘My private number. Call me when you need me. I don’t sleep much, so any time.’

He moved the bishop, as Clare had suggested. His queen was now securely defended. ‘Win or lose, chess is the best way to learn about your
opponent.’

‘Am I an opponent, Superintendent Phiri?’

‘That remains to be seen, Dr Hart.’

The Cyclops Centre was housed in a building on the Foreshore so anonymous that it took Clare a few minutes to find it. Riedwaan Faizal was waiting for her next to his motorbike. A security guard escorted them to the lifts, keyed in a PIN code and sent them to the top floor.

‘Morning, Pretorius,’ said Riedwaan.

‘Faizal.’ Arno Pretorius’s pale eyes rested on Riedwaan’s face for a
second longer than necessary. This was more sympathy than he showed most people.

‘Arno Pretorius, Clare Hart,’ said Riedwaan, introducing them.

Pretorius nodded.

‘Good to meet you,’ said Clare.

But Pretorius was already at the door. Down the passage, he ushered them into the command centre. Consoles of CCTV screens were banked up from eye level to ceiling, a giant insect’s eye
seeing everything within range.

‘What the 2010 World Cup has given us,’ said Arno. ‘A way of watching all our citizens all at once.’

‘You use face recognition software?’ asked Clare, staring back at the compound eye surrounding them, showing images of cars, quiet streets, two men walking too close to a woman, her nervous backward glance, then into her car, gone, the men exchanging looks,
continuing to walk.

‘We do,’ said Pretorius, ‘but we’ve only managed to scan in a thousand of our most wanted criminals, and English soccer hooligans so ugly, not even their mothers could love them.’

‘So, no way of tracking Yasmin?’ asked Clare.

‘Not from this.’

Pretorius walked on and opened the door to his inner sanctum. Here, the panoramic view of Table Bay was blocked out by
black velvet, and the morning sun defeated by the relentless glimmer of television screens. A pile of DVDs lay on the desks.

‘For you, Faizal,’ he said. ‘Five-fifteen to six-fifteen. All exits.’

‘Anybody else request these?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘You’re the only one looking,’ said Pretorius. ‘I pulled them last night. Whole city. Every entrance, every exit. All the speeding cars,’ said
Pretorius, pointing to a sheaf of papers stacked on his desk. ‘You want to run through those? You can check back with the time codes. A few coming into town, then leaving later.’

Pretorius was already logging onto a computer.

‘Gallows Hill Traffic.’ Grudgingly, the database loaded. He turned the screen for Riedwaan. ‘Use my access codes. See who was speeding, jumping red lights. Check
them out.’

‘You see anything?’ Riedwaan took a seat in front of the computer screen, hand awkward on the mouse.

‘Nothing jumped out, but run through the registered owners, see what you find. She’s your daughter,’ said Pretorius. ‘You’ll know better what to look for.’

Like looking for a needle in a haystack. Both men thought it, neither man said it.

‘I called in a couple of favours
and got you the private stuff,’ said Pretorius instead. ‘Garages, fast food outlets, home systems. It’s all here, too.’

He pushed another box towards Riedwaan.

‘You have Gorge Road in here?’ Riedwaan was rifling through the DVDs. Pretorius had noted down place, date and time in his precise handwriting.

‘It’s one of the blinds,’ said Pretorius. ‘I did get what footage the school had.’

‘Show it to me.’

‘She’s standing inside the screen and then she just steps,’ said Pretorius. ‘Doesn’t come back.’

‘Show it to me.’ An edge to Riedwaan’s voice.

‘Faizal, you don’t want to see this, man. There’s nothing. She’s there. Then she’s not.’

‘I said show me,’ Riedwaan insisted. ‘I want to see her.’

Arno Pretorius pressed two buttons, and a screen that had been blank
flickered to black-and-white life, the time code five minutes after Riedwaan had missed Yasmin’s call from the payphone. The gates of the ballet school, the tangled bougainvillea, the road plunging towards the city. The time code jumped ten seconds. A little girl was pressed into the shelter of the hedge. Yasmin, holding something, putting her hand behind her back. Another ten seconds, and she
was eating her sandwich. Then she lifted her head, looking directly at the camera, smiling, her hand still behind her back. A ten-second jump on the time code, then Yasmin was stepping out of the frame.

Another ten seconds, and the screen was empty.

Trees, hedge, gates, street.

No vehicle.

No pedestrians.

No child.

‘Why did she smile?’ Riedwaan was ashen. ‘Who was she smiling
at?’

‘The logs?’ asked Clare. ‘You have them here?’

‘Copies in there,’ said Arno. ‘Ours and theirs.’

Riedwaan picked up the boxes.

‘You owe me, Faizal,’ said Pretorius. ‘We’ll be even when you find her.’

Alive.

They were all thinking that, but no one was going to say it. Not yet.

The wind buffeted Clare and Riedwaan as they stepped out of the shelter of the building.

‘You want to put those in my car?’ Clare opened the boot.

‘What’re you going to do with them?’

‘I’ve got a friend who does face recognition stuff. He did the software for this. Maybe he can find something.’

Riedwaan was pulling out his phone. ‘You got something, Pretorius?’

‘I ran the number plate checks on speeding cars.’

‘I know,’ said Riedwaan. ‘You just gave them to
us.’

‘I thought I’d check for cars going at the speed limit, stopping at the red lights. Those are the drivers to be suspicious of in this country.’

‘What’d you find?’ Riedwaan’s body was taut with concentration.

‘A lot of law-abiding citizens and a Maserati,’ said Pretorius. ‘Midnight blue, going at sixty all the way from the Winter Palace to the end of the cameras on the N2. Beautiful
vehicle if you’re not fussy about the origins of the cash that paid for it.’

‘Voëltjie Ahrend?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘Your man,’ said Pretorius. ‘I ran some number checks.’

‘And?’ said Riedwaan.

‘He came into town at five. Against the traffic, clear as day on the last camera on De Waal Drive.’

‘Did he turn towards the mountain there?’

‘He turned.’

‘Voëltjie Ahrend.’ Riedwaan
snapped his phone shut, turning to Clare. ‘You heard of him?’

‘I’ve come across him,’ she replied. ‘I’ve interviewed some of the women who’ve survived his ministrations.’

‘He’s been off the radar for months. Went to ground. Now he’s in town just before Yasmin disappeared.’ Riedwaan lit a cigarette, one hand against the other to contain the tremor. ‘I’ve been on his case.’ He looked away.
‘This operation – the one before Yasmin. He’s involved.’

‘You didn’t think to mention it?’ asked Clare.

‘Whole thing’s not his style,’ said Riedwaan. ‘He likes attention, likes to be seen. More like that shooting in Maitland. That would’ve been his style, except—’

‘Except what?’ asked Clare.

‘Shorty de Lange. You know him? Ballistics?’ Clare nodded. ‘He ran some tests on the bullets
in those girls. Nothing to do with any of the guns we know Ahrend controls.’

‘Who, then?’ asked Clare.

‘Graveyard de Wet.’

‘The 27s general?’

Riedwaan nodded. ‘He’s in jail. Life – no parole.’

‘You sure?’

‘I checked with the prison. But De Wet died on Thursday. In his sleep. Natural causes, apparently.’

‘You think that’s true?’

‘The natural causes?’ asked Riedwaan.
‘There’s no one who’d care. As long as he’s dead, no one’s going to ask too many questions. Especially not Voëltjie Ahrend. He’s taken the 27s brand, even though he only spent less than a year inside. He and De Wet were in Pollsmoor Prison together, and they took quite a shine to each other. Ahrend sat at the feet of the master and learnt to
sabela
– to speak the language of the Number gangs.
De Wet was being a father to the son he never had. Men of Blood, the soldiers of the Number. It’s useful to Ahrend: total loyalty, unquestioning brutality. Works for him and his plans for Cape Town.’

‘So, a conversation would be useful?’ asked Clare.

‘You coming?’

‘I need to get these tapes started,’ said Clare, finding Charlie Wang’s number. ‘Where will Ahrend be?’

‘I’ve never
known him move before two in the afternoon. I’ll check if he’s at home.’

‘Where’s home?’ asked Clare.

‘These days, a penthouse apartment at the Waterfront.’

‘Sounds very grand.’

‘How else you going to sell a two-bedroom flat by the docks for a couple of million,’ said Riedwaan, ‘unless you call it a penthouse? If he’s not at home, there’s a couple of bars he goes to. A restaurant
in Sea Point. His new thing, the Winter Palace. We’ve had him under surveillance for a while. Bought-and-paid-for relationships,’ said Riedwaan. ‘There’s a lot to be said for them. I’ll find him, talk to him.’