Daddy's Girl (32 page)

Ouma Hendriks stopped chewing.

‘Is this why you’re here?’ She turned her milky eyes to where she imagined Clare was standing. ‘What has Pearl got to do with this?’

‘She said she could help,’ said Clare.

‘Why
are you dragging her back in when she’s just getting out of this hell?’

‘Captain Faizal’s little girl is missing,’ said Clare. ‘If anyone can help me find her, it will be Pearl.’

Avoiding further questions, Clare stepped outside and tried Pearl’s key. It wouldn’t turn.

‘Hey, aunty, can you tell me why everyone’s looking for Pearl?’ It was the boy again.

‘Who else is looking?’ Clare
rubbed a bit of hand cream onto the key and tried it again. This time it worked. She turned the handle and pushed at the door. It opened six inches, then stuck.

‘The man,’ the boy grinned as he displayed non-existent arm muscles. ‘Full of prison chappies. He waited a long time. He didn’t see me, but I saw him.’

Clare pressed redial. Inside the Wendy house a phone rang.

Putting her
shoulder against the door, Clare shoved. Another six inches. She shoved again.

Pearl on the floor. Clare dropped to her knees, her face close to Pearl’s. Still breathing. Maybe. She put her hands against her neck. The flicker of a pulse.

‘Go!’ Clare shouted, turning to the boy. ‘Fetch the police.’

He jumped up, the bravado knocked out of him.

Clare called an ambulance. Setting
in motion the moves triggered by violence.

Called Riedwaan. No answer.

Called Rita, told her what had happened. Asked where Riedwaan was.

‘He’s been charged, Clare,’ said Rita, her voice low. ‘He was seen in the basement of Disa Towers on Friday night. Ndlovu extracted the information from a Congolese guard whose papers aren’t in order.’

‘What was he doing there?’

‘Apparently
Yasmin was found there once before. She ran away when her parents first split up. Captain Faizal says that’s where he found her. Said he went back just to check.’

‘So what happened?’

‘The storage space was searched again. Three strands of long black hair were found. No sign of the child. He’s in the cells now.’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Clare. ‘I can’t speak to him?’

‘This is serious,
Clare. You must be careful.’

‘Why me?’

‘There’s a warrant coming for you too,’ said Rita.

‘What for?’

‘Interfering with police procedure. Breaking. Entering.’

‘That’s enough,’ said Clare. ‘Can you give me Shorty de Lange’s number?’

She punched it in. Dialled. Ten rings, her heart drumming against her ribs.

‘Ballistics.’ His voice gruff.

‘Clare Hart here,’ she said.
‘Caledon Square.’

‘I know who you are, Dr Hart,’ said De Lange. ‘Captain Faizal’s friend.’

‘That prisoner. The one whose gun was used to shoot the girls in Maitland. What did you say happened to him?’

‘Dead,’ said De Lange. ‘And buried.’

Clare looked at Pearl, her slashed face, her bloody wrists.

‘Who’d have signed the death certificate?’

‘The District Surgeon at the prison.’

‘Have you got a name for me? A number?’

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘I’m with someone who looks like she had a heart-to-heart with Graveyard de Wet.’

The wail of an ambulance in the distance.

‘And she’s alive?’ asked De Lange.

‘Just,’ said Clare.

‘Faizal. He there?’

‘Trying to stay out of the cells.’

‘What a fuck-up,’ said De Lange.

‘The number?’

Clare punched it
into her phone.

‘Hoffman,’ said a voice.

‘This is Dr Hart speaking. I—’

‘Yes, Doctor. From the mortuary? Thank you for being so prompt. Kobus Hoffman…’

‘Not from the mortuary,’ said Clare.

‘Where, then?’ Wary.

‘Gang Unit.’ Clare stretched the truth a bit. ‘Graveyard de Wet’s daughter—’

‘Let me speak to her.’

‘Pearl’s not speaking, but I think we need to discuss
why,’ said Clare. ‘I need to talk to you. In person.’

‘I’ll arrange for your admission.’

What had he wanted? Pearl’s shirt had been ripped open. White stretch marks feathered her belly, and slender crimson cuts radiated from her navel. In her pocket, a bloodstained piece of paper. Clare eased it out. A yellowed newspaper cutting: a photo of two men in the dock, one with Pearl’s sharp cheekbones.
And in a corner of the courtroom, Pearl’s face, her expression intent, listening.

Clare took Pearl’s hand and held it till the paramedics pushed their way through the crowd jostling in the yard.

The heron perched upon the fading sign fixed its yellow eyes on Clare when she turned into the prison grounds. The guard handed her the visitor’s logbook. Clare wrote down her name, identity number, phone number and the date. The last column requested purpose of visit. ‘Consultation’ was the word she picked. It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. Not yet. The guard gave her a pass and rolled back
the metal gate.

‘Go straight,’ he said. ‘Second left at Maximum.’

She drove past the wardens’ houses towards the prison, hidden from view by a row of pines silhouetted against the sullen sky. In the distance the mountains loomed, their granite faces gleaming.

A series of low buildings appeared before her, cordoned off behind a thirty-foot steel mesh tunnel. Two guards patrolled, their
German Shepherds leashed, batons and pistols conspicuous at their belts. Oblivious to the taunts that floated from the barred windows nearby. A bitch lunged at the thin brown hands held out through the bars when the guards lit their cigarettes. The dog’s handler allowed her to play the lead out fully before jerking her neck back. The hands did not flinch. In Maximum, the rules of engagement were
clear.

Clare zipped up her parka, pulling the hood around her neck to keep out the wind. She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked towards the grim administrative block. A large man was standing at the entrance, his face pale with tension.

‘Kobus Hoffman.’

‘Clare Hart.’

‘You’re smaller than I expected,’ he said as her hand disappeared into his.

‘It’s an illusion,’ said
Clare.

‘This way,’ he gestured.

Clare followed him along the length of the wire tunnel, looking away as he reached a gate and keyed in four numbers. The gate swung open and he stood back so that she could precede him. The sour tang of urine hovered below the smell of dust. The sounds that bubbled beneath the quiet were metallic, sharp. Their footsteps blurred into the din of the prison.
She flinched as she heard the gate bang shut behind her.

Hoffman pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the consultation room. He banged the bolts back and pushed the metal door open. His desk was littered with files and folders. He rummaged for the one he wanted. Inside it was the copy he had made of Graveyard de Wet’s death certificate. The photographs. The next of kin details
he had lifted from the files. He handed it all to Clare.

‘There was a body, it was autopsied. I can tell you, Dr Hart, it wasn’t his.’

It took a minute for the significance of what he was showing her to sink in.

‘When did you discover this?’

‘Saturday,’ said Hoffman. ‘I worked overtime. This was right at the end. If I hadn’t known him I wouldn’t even have noticed.’

‘You treated
him here?’

‘He used to come to me with endless complaints. Headaches, insomnia. Complained about Captain Faizal – the one whose daughter is missing. Said Faizal put him away, made sure they threw away the key. Didn’t seem to like being the first big fish the Gang Unit caught.’

‘You didn’t think the two were linked?’

‘I didn’t allow myself to think about it.’ Hoffman avoided Clare’s
gaze.

Clare let it ride. ‘Pearl – she was a witness at his trial?’

‘No, she wasn’t a witness. The Gang Unit had enough evidence to convict. But she informed the police – Captain Faizal, I imagine – of her father’s whereabouts. He’d gone after her her whole life, and the last time was no exception,’ said Hoffman, putting the autopsy photographs back into the envelope. ‘Pearl has a daughter
now, you know?’

Clare nodded. ‘She called her Hope, but gave her away.’

‘She asked me at the trial if the child would turn out to be a monster. I was never quite sure if she meant because of what her father had done.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘I didn’t say anything, really. How could I give her a direct answer? Anyway, after the trial she disappeared. Then I saw her on your TV
programme. She was disguised, but I’d recognise that voice anywhere. Hardest thing to disguise, the voice.’

‘So you didn’t do anything, either?’ Clare asked.

Hoffman looked away. ‘I tried to phone her, to warn her after her father was supposed to have died.’

‘Someone left her to die last night,’ said Clare. ‘He tortured her with a knife, Dr Hoffman. She’s in theatre now.’

‘Then
I was too late.’

‘What did the prison authorities say when you told them?’

‘They don’t know.’ The colour drained from Hoffman’s face. ‘You’ve seen the kind of thing he does, Dr Hart. I have two daughters. I have a wife.’

‘The prisoner whose death Graveyard de Wet stole,’ asked Clare. ‘When was he released?’

‘Thursday,’ said Hoffman.

‘And the next day Yasmin Faizal disappeared.
And two girls were gunned down with Graveyard de Wet’s gun. Pearl’s life is hanging by a thread now.’

‘If I report it, it will be obvious that it was me. I’ve been warned.’

‘By whom?’

‘Rafiek Khan. Another 27s general.’

‘What’s been going on here?’ Clare demanded.

‘Several killings.’ Hoffman’s shoulders drooped. ‘A
frans
, a non-gangster who got caught up in it, told me that
the 27s, the old members of the Number, are the men of blood, the soldiers who defend the camp of the Number. That’s their bullshit mythology, anyway.’

‘And all this elaborate escape business?’

‘Some awaiting-trial prisoners were killed recently, new recruits who come into prison with Number tattoos without having done time in prison. The Number gangsters were making it clear that their
chappies couldn’t just be bought – like a pair of Nikes. It was driving old prisoners like de Wet and Khan berserk. Because if you can just buy the Number on the streets, it erodes their power, the years of hardship they’ve endured.’

‘And this?’ She showed Hoffman the newspaper cutting: Pearl’s face, her expression intent as she listened to the sentence.

‘Khan and De Wet in the dock,’
said Hoffman.

‘But if he’d been sent out for revenge, he obviously prioritised Pearl. He put her before the Number.’

‘Well, you’ve seen the tattoos, so you know the saying.
Vrou is gif
. Woman is poison. Pearl betrayed him. Fought back, talked back. He couldn’t tolerate that. Who knows?’ His expression hardened. ‘Listen, Dr Hart, I don’t think like them. And now I’m going to have to get
back to work. A warden will escort you back in a few minutes.’

‘I’ll wait outside for him,’ said Clare.

The courtyard was painted in black and white squares. A giant chessboard, the pieces half the size of a man. She wandered through them, moved a white castle, freeing the black queen.

A loud angry buzzing came from the block next to the hospital wing. A metal door slid back, spilling
prisoners. Tattooed, all fifty, all one hundred of them. They surged through the open gates, a tide that broke as it reached Clare. Her throat closed at the smell of them. Institutionalised, feral, male. They parted for her at a signal from one among them. Rangy, medium-height, his orange prison garb sat snug on narrow hips. And a Rolex hung from his tattooed wrist.

He stopped in front of
Clare, the 27 tattooed on the back of his neck a brilliant blue against the orange jacket. Taking out a packet of Marlboros, he flared his lighter in Clare’s face. He exhaled, the smoke drifting across Clare’s face.

‘You like that?’

The escort caught up with her.

‘
Kom, julle, maak vinnig, los die dame uit
.’ The guard moved the prisoners on.

‘Sorry, Miss,’ he said. ‘
Vuilgoed
. Thinks
he owns this place.’

They stopped to unlock the gate. On the other side of a metal grille, Rafiek Khan, the man in Pearl’s newspaper cutting, grinned at Clare. Then he ran his tongue over his teeth.

Pearl had been transferred to the intensive care unit when Clare got to the hospital. No visitors were allowed, but when Clare gave her title, the sister at the front desk let her through immediately.

Pearl was hooked up to every conceivable kind of monitor. A nurse was checking her drip.

‘I’m Dr Hart,’ said Clare. ‘How’s she doing?’

‘The first operation went okay and she seems to be stable.’ Clare picked up the charts and flicked through them. They were written in abbreviated medical English that didn’t make much sense to her.

‘It’s a miracle he missed the trachea,’ said the
nurse. ‘Unusual for a Monday if the boyfriend did it.’ She smoothed Pearl’s hair from her forehead. ‘Her hands were lacerated. Where she’d tried to fend him off. It’ll be hard to fix up. The surgeon’s coming a little later to see what can be done with repairing the nerves.’

‘Has she said anything?’

‘Nothing,’ said the nurse. ‘She’s being kept under heavy sedation until the swelling on
the brain comes down. She’ll make it, I think. She’s a real fighter, this Pearl.’

‘That she is,’ said Clare.

The nurse moved on to the next patient and Clare sat beside Pearl, again opening the message Pearl had sent the night before.

Hey Doc. Sorry 4 delay. SWIM

She had ignored it at the time, waiting for the rest of the message to download. But that was all Pearl had keyed in.

Clare tried all the alternatives for SWIM, with predictive text switched on, and off. She switched the dictionary to Afrikaans. Nothing that made sense.

‘What were you trying to say, Pearl?’ she whispered.

Monday afternoon. Five-thirty.

‘It’s three whole days since Yasmin disappeared. And Calvaleen was looking for you.’ Clare took Pearl’s bandaged hand in hers. The nails were bitten
to the quick. ‘You know where she is, Pearl. Who else knows? Does your father know?’