Daddy's Girl (23 page)

‘They are,’ said Clare. ‘So the sooner we can find this child, the better.’

‘You aren’t police, are you?’

‘Not police,’ said Clare.

‘Or social services? They’re always checking on me. My neighbours complain – rich Germans who come on holiday here, and chase my babies.’ She picked up a
cat rubbing against her leg.

‘Not social services either,’ said Clare.

‘Listen, I didn’t see your little girl.’ The woman stepped outside. ‘Not that the police ever asked.’

‘They didn’t come this way?’

‘No. They went down Gorge Road and into Buitenkant. I saw them,’ said the woman. ‘Not that I would have answered my door. They’re terrible with people, the police. Can you imagine
what they’d be like with animals? I stayed inside, with all my lights off, in case they came.’

‘Did they?’

‘No one came,’ she smirked. ‘I tricked them.’

‘Did anyone else come?’ asked Clare.

‘To my house?’

‘To your house, or this lane. It must be very quiet here.’

Seeming to lose interest, the woman stared past Clare.

‘Maybe you heard a car, one that you didn’t know.
Playing music,’ Clare persisted. ‘Loud music. Cats would hate it.’

‘Yes,’ her eyes flared. ‘Yes. I saw them there.’

‘Saw who? Where?’ asked Clare.

She pointed across the lane. ‘Parked there. Two men. I saw them when I came back from feeding the cats.’

‘What were they doing?’

‘Just standing,’ said the woman. ‘Standing and smoking.’

‘Did you see what they looked like?’

‘No,’ said the woman. ‘I stayed away. I’m scared of men.’

‘Did you see anyone else in the car?’

‘It was just the two men outside, talking. That’s when I went inside with my kitties; when I saw the other one move.’

‘Where was he?’ asked Clare.

‘Sitting in the back, of course.’

‘Did you see the number plates, what kind of car it was?’

‘A dark car, blue, maybe,’ she said. ‘No
number plates. But that’s enough, now, I must go.’

The woman retreated inside, closing the door.

Clare walked to where the woman had pointed. Just enough space for a car. You’d never have seen it, unless you were looking. As she picked her way through the carpet of brittle brown leaves, she saw that some had been pushed aside, revealing the rotting sludge beneath. The earthy smell caught
at her throat.

With her foot, Clare turned over the leaf litter. Cigarette stompies. Marlboro. Peter Stuyvesant. Four of each, scattered. They’d stood here a while, matching cigarette for cigarette.

Talking.

Waiting. For what?

An hour is a long time if you have a stolen child in your car. Unless you wanted to miss the CCTV cameras. The cops would check them around the time Yasmin
went missing. But an hour or so afterwards you could cruise through unnoticed.

Gorge Road was hidden from view. The flats had their backs to the road. The houses over the road were empty.

Pensive, Clare kicked up the debris blown into the gutter by the southeaster. In a pile of leaves, something glistened. She took a stick and poked through the mess. A Coke can. She kicked it hard across
the road, skittering it into the gutter on the other side. She was back at her car when the cat lady, out of breath, caught up with her.

‘Wait.’ Opening her palm, she revealed a silver Dunhill pen. ‘I found this.’

‘When did you find it?’

‘On Friday evening.’

‘What time?’ asked Clare.

‘Oh, I don’t know so much about time,’ said the woman.

‘You’re sure you didn’t see the
little girl?’

‘You keep asking me about that little girl,’ said the woman impatiently. ‘And I keep telling you I didn’t see her. One of my kitties was missing, so I went to look for her after everyone had gone.’

‘Okay. Then where did you find the pen?’

‘Where the car was parked.’

Clare reached for the pen, but the woman curled her fingers closed.

‘I need to buy more food for
my cats.’

‘How much?’ asked Clare.

‘Two hundred.’ Quick as a flash.

Clare took the pen. A straw – this time, a silver one. A writer’s pen. Not something you’d easily discard.

Tucked away on the second floor of the Waterfront shopping centre was the Dunhill shop, its window displaying a single absurdly expensive green sweater. Inside, a young man in a pale pink golf shirt was straightening a whorl of ties displayed on a circular table.

‘Can I help you, madam?’

‘I’d like a refill for this.’ Clare took the fat silver pen from her bag and laid it on the
counter.

‘That’s a special pen,’ he said, picking it up and weighing it appreciatively in his palm. ‘Is it yours?’

‘No,’ said Clare.

‘Well, this really is a man’s instrument. A limited edition.’ He picked up a magnifying glass and turned the pen over. ‘Have a look, here’s the date.’

Clare looked at the minutely etched date.

‘And this has lasted well,’ he said.

‘What has?’
asked Clare.

‘This repair. The pocket clip’s been soldered back on.’

‘A Dunhill anniversary edition. He’s lucky to own it.’ The young man opened a drawer and took out a packet of refills.

‘I don’t know who the owner is. I found the pen, and I may decide to trace the person. Do you keep a record of your sales?’

The man looked Clare over.

‘We didn’t sell this model here. It was
only sold in Europe, not even in Japan. See, the styling is too heavy.’ He pointed to another tray of pens. ‘These suit our Asian customers better.’

‘And the repairs,’ said Clare. ‘You keep a record of them?’

Just then, a customer stepped through the door, a balding man who fingered the shirts somewhat disdainfully.

The assistant took out a receipt book, turning it towards Clare so
that she could see its meagre entries. ‘Sales, as you can see.’

‘I’m sorry I can’t be of assistance. Now, if you’ll excuse me, madam.’

‘No trouble, thank you,’ said Clare, pretending to examine some items near the counter.

The assistant turned to his customer and showed him a selection of shirts. Clare eased the drawer open and saw another book, identical to the one on the table. On
its spine was written the word ‘Repairs’.

Clare slipped the book into her bag, turning to the assistant at the door. ‘Is there another Dunhill shop I could try?’ she asked.

‘Not in Cape Town. There’s one at Jo’burg airport, and a couple more in the malls there.’

‘Thanks,’ said Clare, then said to the customer, ‘that’s a good colour on you.’

She hurried back over the drawbridge,
past the pleasure boats gleaming in the marina, their masts slicing the morning sky into blue stripes. Back in her car, she opened the book. It dated back two and a half years. Not many repairs. Either the products were very durable or most sales were made to foreign visitors. She read through the customers’ names, the range of handwriting styles suggesting that there was a high staff turnover at
the Dunhill shop.

Clare dialled Rita’s number.

‘Hey, Doc,’ she greeted Clare.

‘You busy now?’

‘At the station, checking out ballet parents and a couple of crank calls to the hotline.’ Rita replied.

‘Anything interesting?’

‘A lot of nothing.’

‘Can you help me check something?’ asked Clare.

‘I’m not going anywhere, so okay.’

‘You look like you need some coffee,’
Rita said as Clare walked into her office.

‘I do.’ Clare shook the tin on the filing cabinet. ‘But that stuff’ll kill me.’

‘You saying no to six-month-old instant with creamer and sweetener?’

‘Not my favourite,’ said Clare.

Rita spooned the granules into a mug, poured hot water over it, and added three sugars. ‘You’re right, this is disgusting,’ she said. ‘Okay, show me what you’ve
got.’

Clare handed her the silver pen.

‘Where’d you get that?’ asked Rita.

‘It was found near where Yasmin disappeared – supposedly.’

‘Supposedly?’

‘It was found by a woman who feeds stray cats near where another old lady heard loud music on Friday night. I bought it from the cat woman.’

‘Chain of evidence never broken,’ said Rita. ‘What do you want me to do, fingerprint
it?’

‘Why not?’ asked Clare. She put the repairs book on the desk. ‘I got this from the Dunhill shop. There’s only the one, at the Waterfront.’ She pointed at the pen. ‘If you look carefully, here, you can see the clasp was soldered back on.’

‘Is this really all you have?’

‘Apart from the message and anything Riedwaan might have found in the meanwhile,’ said Clare, ‘that’s it.’

‘That’s not going to find a little girl, is it?’

‘It’s all we have for now, so we’d better try.’

Clinton van Rensburg’s crutch tapped in the passage as he walked past.

‘Me and Van Rensburg. Two people who never go home any more,’ said Rita, closing the door.

‘Why don’t you?’

‘This thing’s got to me, Clare,’ said Rita.

‘It’s got to me too. Yasmin’s such a little girl,’ said
Clare, ‘and you knew her.’

‘Know her,’ said Rita. ‘You have to say that. Know her.’

‘What’s bothering you?’ asked Clare. ‘Is it anything you can put a finger on?’

‘I’ve been going through the Gang Unit’s records,’ said Rita. ‘Trying to find a link, patterns…’

‘And?’

‘Gangster-style is gunfire. Spectacle. A public display. If it hasn’t been seen then it hasn’t been done. If
they punish you they want you and everyone you know to see it, to feel it. Yasmin’s disappearance doesn’t fit that. Not with this weird drip-feed of information. And it looks like it’s planted, to point us in a particular direction.’

‘What direction is that?’

‘Fuck only knows.’

‘There’ve been a lot of arrests recently. All members of the 28s and the 26s. Low-level people, drugs mainly.
Runners, small dealers, prostitutes…’ Rita tapped her pen against her cheek, her face pensive. ‘It must be convenient for business if you’re not a 28 or a 26. Our unit’s effective. We’ve been opening up quite a bit of space. If nature abhors a vacuum, how d’you think empty space makes a gangster feel?’

‘Who, specifically?’

‘Voëltjie Ahrend and his newly-minted 27s. So far, they’ve stayed
inside the prisons and on the Flats. They haven’t moved into the city yet and franchised their brand of violence there, like the 28s and the 26s.’

‘And now it’s different?’ Clare asked.

‘Those two girls were shot in Maitland. That was a gang shooting. Somebody moving himself up the ranks. Proving fearlessness. Loyalty. Things are wide open at the moment. For the 27s and whoever they’ve
been hanging out with. Thanks to us.’

‘You think someone’s on the take?’

‘So far I’ve seen nothing. And I can tell you, I’ve been looking. At Phiri, at Van Rensburg, at Delport – even though he’s seconded to us from the Narcs.’ Rita looked away. ‘At Captain Faizal. And I’ve checked the others who’ve worked with us on specific operations. So far, all they seem to take home is a cop’s salary.’

‘What’re you looking for?’

‘New cars, trips to Mauritius, Italian shoes,’ said Rita. ‘But so far nothing, except…’

‘Except what?’ prompted Clare.

‘A feeling that the pieces of the puzzle don’t fit. Or the picture I’m trying to match them to isn’t quite right.’

‘Have you raised this with Phiri or Faizal?’

‘All I have is feminine intuition. And how am I going to table that
as a point on the agenda?’

‘Call it “gut feel”,’ said Clare. ‘That’s what they call it.’

‘Captain Faizal won’t take it on. The unit’s his family. The most dysfunctional family you’ll find, but for him, blood is thicker than water. That’s what drove Shazia crazy.’ She looked at Clare. ‘But they’re not your brothers. So watch your back, and watch his back for him. They were planning a move
on Voëltjie Ahrend this weekend. With this happening, everything’s up in the air.’

The air conditioning hummed, recycling the stale air.

‘It’s nearly forty-eight hours since Yasmin disappeared,’ said Rita. ‘Experience tells us that finding her alive now is a long shot. We’d better take a look at that pen. In another six hours it may to all intents and purposes be a murder investigation.’

The sports club had previously belonged to the military. A homesick general from Pretoria once planted an avenue of jacarandas there, but the trees stood bare, their purple flowers months away from unfurling. Riedwaan parked at the tennis courts and watched Louis van Zyl hit the ball. He was broad-shouldered and athletic, and his tennis whites were immaculate. Riedwaan was glad not to
be the hapless subordinate at the other end of the court, receiving his punishing serve.

When the game ended, Riedwaan got out of his car.

Louis van Zyl shook hands with his defeated opponent and walked over to Riedwaan.

‘Faizal,’ he said. ‘What’ve you done to your face?’

‘I had a conversation,’ Riedwaan explained as he touched the swelling around his right eye. ‘It got out of
hand.’

‘I don’t imagine you’re here for a match.’

‘Not a tennis match.’ Riedwaan handed him the sheaf of papers he’d smuggled out of the evidence store.

‘Three heroin busts?’ Van Zyl scanned the notes.

‘I found these three dockets, all from the last couple of months, buried inside closed civil cases.’

‘Supe Phiri onto this?’

‘I don’t know who’s onto it,’ said Riedwaan.

‘How did you find them?’

‘I didn’t. They were dropped off,’ said Riedwaan. ‘My daughter—’

‘I heard.’ Van Zyl cut him short. ‘Also that Ndlovu is after you now. Okay, so where did you find these cases?’

‘Buried. I want to trace them, see what they were. See why they were given to me. But to find out why they came to me, I need to know more about these busts. Why they were of enough
interest to lose. Who wanted them found again. I need to know if they’ll help us find Yasmin.’

‘Us?’

‘Clare Hart. Someone dropped the docket numbers into her mailbox.’

‘A woman that smart can only be trouble.’