Daddy's Girl (7 page)

’Dr Hart,’ he announced to the relief of the production manager. ‘Mike her up.’

A technician threaded the wire up the inside of her dress and clipped the microphone to the neckline. The cameramen lounged next to their idle cameras, checked batteries, adjusted their
headphones.

‘Good luck, darling.’ Giles Reid kissed her cheek. ‘We’ll do dinner afterwards.’

Clare stepped onto the stage, away from his hand that had slid uninvited to her bottom.

She stood without notes, or a lectern to shield her, the familiar whirr of the cameras a comfort. The audience, fingering programmes and sweet wrappers, settled. The rustle was like rain on leaves.

‘What does it feel like to come back from the dead?’

Clare let the question hang over her audience, invisible in the velvet darkness around her.

‘That is the question which Persephone, goddess of the spring, must surely have been asked when she returned to the world of the living.
Persephone
, the ballet you’ve come to see tonight, tells Persephone’s story, and also that of her mother, the
goddess Demeter, who avenges Persephone’s abduction by Hades, King of the Underworld. Demeter lays waste the earth, her wintry grief freezing the land until Hades agrees to let Persephone return, bringing the spring with her.’

The orchestra shifted in the pit, and was still again.

‘So, what does it feel like to return?’ Clare’s eyes were adjusting to the dark. She could make out the shapes
of the seats, of heads in the darkness.

‘What does it feel like to return but to be unable to live, unable to love?’

Darkness, except for a single spot trained on her, its light bleaching her skin; the lily she held was stark against her black dress.

Clare clicked the remote in her hand. A series of faces appeared on the screen behind her, some culled from Christmas and holiday snaps.
Many had the stilted innocence of school portraits. A single professional portrait of a redhead. Each one with her name, her date of birth, the date she disappeared and, if she’d been found, that date too. Only two did not have crosses next to their names. Two found alive. Just.

‘Ours is a nation of missing girls.’ In the wings the dancers checking their shoes, tucking away tendrils of hair.

‘But tonight we are here to celebrate all the Persephones. Those we managed to find, and bring back from the dark grip of Hades. Like Demeter, who did find her lovely lost daughter.’

The lights went off, plunging the theatre into darkness. Clare left the stage, slipping into her seat as the applause faded away.

The conductor took his bow and the orchestra began to play, the sombre cellos
haunted by a single violin. The dancers stirred, their tulle skirts fluttering, like moths drawn by the light. Then the slide of pointe shoes as they took up their positions.

The curtain opened to reveal the chorus poised around the dark-haired principal, her tutu silvered, like water catching the light of the dawn. Then the music started, a chorus of morning birdsong, and the dancer began
to move.

Beatrice put out her hand and caught the tear sliding down Clare’s cheek, then she leaned against her aunt and soon fell asleep, her small body a comfort.

The ballerinas glided onto the stage for the first act, the pale greens and yellows and blues the colours of spring. Persephone drifted like a white butterfly into the centre of the stage. Beneath the dancers was a vertiginous
drop. Hades and his henchmen stirring below them in the depths, awakened by their dance, beginning the climb out of hell.

‘You were wonderful.’ Giles Reid’s breath was warm in Clare’s ear as he settled his hand on her knee. She crossed her legs away from him, annoyed with herself that she’d slept with him.

Rita Mkhize’s office ended up as the unofficial search and rescue centre for the Yasmin Faizal case. The room was taller than it was wide. It had been a storeroom before Rita commandeered it, tossing out a heap of Remington typewriters that had last seen action in the 1970s. Her dockets stacked, pens in a jam jar, pot plant watered – Rita had learnt long ago to order the small things.
For there wasn’t much one could do about the big things.

Because the single sash window opened onto the street, it had been nailed shut; its lower pane was painted the yellow-green found in hospitals and reformatories. Mental asylum green is what Rita called it. The room smelt of damp, and stale cigarette smoke. There were two chairs, one desk, one phone, one laptop. Rita had found an aerial
map of Cape Town and put it on the wall. Someone had pinned a pink ribbon onto the place where Yasmin had gone missing.

Rita crumpled her Nando’s bag and lobbed it into the dustbin. It joined the remnants of Clinton van Rensburg’s Steers burger. He was on the phone to his wife. Rita was listening with half an ear. He was heading home, no, they hadn’t found the child, no Faizal wasn’t under
arrest yet, yes it was a good idea that she go and see Shazia. Tomorrow, not tonight, there was someone with her, yes, they would find Yasmin. Alive, yes, of course alive. His voice soothing but strained, as it had been since his shooting, their own troubles with Calvaleen.

‘Still the netball queen, Mkhize?’ Delport leaned against the door frame, gnawing at a rib. He eyed Rita’s pert backside.

‘Takes one to know one, I suppose,’ Rita shot back.

‘What?’ Delport licked the tangy sauce from his fingers.

‘One queen,’ said Rita, ‘to know another one.’

Delport threw his takeaway packaging after hers. Missed. ‘Fuck you.’

‘You wish.’ Rita took the tacks out of her pocket and pinned up the printout she had brought with her.

‘Delport,’ said Clinton van Rensburg. ‘Go home.’

‘What about this weekend’s operation?’

‘Nothing’s happening tonight.’

‘How convenient,’ Delport sneered.

‘We’ll meet tomorrow. Reassess.’

‘I’ll see you then.’ Delport sauntered out; the noise of the bar on the first floor was loud, enticing.

‘There’s him, home but not dry for the night,’ Rita said. She examined her printout. Timelines. Places. People. The when-where-who
of an investigation. Just a few sparse facts on the vast savannah of their ignorance. Opposite, she pinned up two headings. Method. Motive. The how, the why. Journalists’ questions. No press yet, but they were sniffing.

She went through the list of numbers that the ballet school security guard had given her, the same numbers Shazia had called, hysteria rising, as the guards had hunted for
her child. All of them sure she was somewhere, asleep with her head on her school bag. Riedwaan had called Madame Merle, the ballet teacher. She had seen Yasmin in class, that was it. The piano man said the same. Mister Henry, the kids called him. Surname Harries. On the surface, nothing.

She tried Yasmin’s best friend, but she hadn’t seen Yasmin either.

She tried Calvaleen van Rensburg,
but she didn’t pick up.

‘Was your daughter not at dancing this afternoon?’ she asked Van Rensburg.

‘No,’ he said. ‘She’s not dancing much. I’ve got to go too. Latisha… She’s nervous.’ Van Rensburg’s euphemism for his wife’s unravelling; his inability to reach her.

‘And this?’ Rita gestured at the phones, the map, her scraps of information.

‘He’ll bring her back,’ said Van Rensburg,
gathering his things, awkward with his crutch.

‘Captain Faizal doesn’t have her,’ said Rita, anger rising in her chest. ‘Why are we doing this?’

‘Special Director Ndlovu’s orders,’ said Van Rensburg. ‘She’s taking this domestic violence in the police seriously. Her career’s on the line if another officer takes out his family.’

‘She wants an operation to be in charge of,’ said Rita.
‘She’s a civilian who was parachuted in on the back of some dodgy degree from a country that doesn’t exist any more. She’s using him, she’s made this happen so she looks good for her political bosses before the minister’s budget speech next month.’

‘Rita,’ he said. ‘You have a blind spot for your partner. Try to see him as he is, not as you wish he was. He’ll bring his daughter back.’

‘Say he doesn’t have Yasmin, Captain van Rensburg.’ Her voice was a dart in his back as he made his awkward way down the passage. ‘Then what?’

‘He’ll take out whoever’s got her.’

From down another passage came the sound of raised voices.

‘Your service pistol, Faizal.’

‘“Captain” to you, Sergeant.’ Riedwaan’s face was inches from the junior officer’s. He did not flinch.

‘Your
gun, Captain Faizal.’ He pushed a piece of paper across the desk towards Riedwaan. ‘Hand it in. An order signed personally by Special Director Ndlovu.’

Riedwaan tore it in half. ‘You tell Special Director Ndlovu to take this and put it in a special place…’

‘Not the best idea I’ve heard, Captain Faizal.’ Rita Mkhize put her hand on Riedwaan’s arm. It was small, her hand, but that she meant
business was clear. She picked up the pieces of paper.

‘In the drawer, Sergeant.’ She gave him a practised bat of her eyelashes. ‘The Sellotape’s always there, on the left.’

He felt in the drawer, pulled out the tape.

‘Two pieces, please.’

He tore them off and passed them to her. The paper was whole again. She smoothed it out.

‘Your weapon, Captain?’ Her grip on his arm tightened.
She reached around with the other hand and unclipped his gun.

‘I’ve got it, Sergeant,’ she said sweetly, and sauntered down the passage.

She did not loosen her grip as she walked Riedwaan down the corridor.

‘Ndlovu wants you arrested,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Don’t make it easy for her.’

‘I haven’t got her,’ said Riedwaan.

‘I know,’ said Rita. She unlocked her office, shoving
the door open with her hip.

‘I’m not going to ask what you were doing there,’ she said, ‘just take my motorbike and get out of here. Go find her. Don’t go home. Don’t go to Shazia’s. Don’t go to your mother’s. If you’ve left, you don’t know about it.’

She handed him the keys to her Yamaha.

Riedwaan hesitated.

‘Go!’ she said. ‘You’re going to be in the cells for the weekend unless
you get out of here.’

‘I’m going to need help finding her,’ said Riedwaan.

‘I’m doing what I can.’ She handed him a sheaf of papers.

‘You’re something, Rita.’ Riedwaan looked at the time codes, preliminary interviews, contact numbers. ‘You’ll get fired,’ he said.

His phone flashed.

‘Things don’t look good, Faizal,’ said Edgar Phiri. ‘And there’s only so much I can do for you
if you don’t cooperate.’

‘I am cooperating.’

‘Not answering your phone is not cooperating.’

‘I was looking for her,’ said Riedwaan. ‘We need a proper door-to-door, not Ndlovu and her muscle-men asking if someone saw me kidnap my child.’

‘If Rita Mkhize organises, will you accept that?’ asked Phiri.

‘Do I have a choice?’ asked Riedwaan.

‘No,’ said Phiri, ‘and the more trouble
you cause, the more Ndlovu can nail you. She wants you in the cells.’

‘This is my daughter we’re talking about,’ said Riedwaan.

‘I know that, Faizal,’ said Phiri. ‘And believe me, I want you to find her. So work with me on this.’

Phiri disconnected.

‘I’m sharp,’ said Rita. ‘But you’re going to need more help. Call Dr Clare Hart.’ She wrote down a number, handed it to him. ‘Remember
her? She gave that lecture on profiling rapists in that series Supe Phiri organised: “Extending the Police Skills Base”.’

‘You must be joking. She’s like Jodie Foster in
Silence of the Lambs
, but without the sense of humour. I’ll be right up there on her top ten feminist favourites: cop with restraining order against his wife and a kidnap charge against his daughter.’

‘You asked her a
stupid question that day. What’s new?’ Rita lifted an eyebrow. ‘Call her, say you’re sorry you pissed her off. Grovel. Do whatever. She’ll help you. She won’t care about you, but she’ll care about your daughter and she’ll know how to find her. ’

‘Profilers. Journalists. I might as well go to a fortune teller.’

‘You might as well get over yourself, Riedwaan. She knows how to investigate.
She’s got connections you don’t have. She has brains,’ said Rita. ‘And she’s not trying to arrest you. That Persephone Project of hers – Clare’s been tracking missing girls. Sometimes she finds them.’

‘Dead, usually,’ said Riedwaan.

‘Not always.’ Rita Mkhize stood closer to him, her seen-it-all eyes on his face. ‘Maybe she can find Yasmin.’

‘I’ll call her.’

Rita’s phone was ringing.
She checked the caller ID. ‘It’s Director Ndlovu. Now go, so I’m not lying when I tell her I don’t know where you are.’

‘She’ll kill you.’

‘I’ve handled worse.’

‘Sergeant Mkhize—’

Rita closed the door on Riedwaan, trying to remember when she’d had to handle worse, but an occasion didn’t leap to mind.

‘No, ma’am,’ she said. ‘Captain Faizal’s not with me.’

Outside, the roar
of the bike. Riedwaan Faizal doing a U-turn, jumping the red lights, as he headed up towards Devil’s Peak.

The ballet school was shuttered and dark. Riedwaan cut the engine where his daughter had last been seen. Returning – like a textbook suspect – to the scene of a crime. Except that there was nothing, no crime-scene tape, no blood, no curious onlookers, to mark this as the place where a few hours earlier Yasmin Faizal had left her ballet class and stepped out of her life.

His little
girl. Yasmin. Just two and a half kilograms at birth.

He had taken her into his arms and she had quieted, dark eyes searching his face, imprinting her features on his heart – instinctively staking her life on that. As he cupped her tender skull in his hand, her butterfly breath settled on his skin, staying with him. He and Shazia had looked at each other over the infant’s dark, downy head,
measuring the distance between them.

Riedwaan phoned the place that had been his home. He imagined the phone ringing less than a kilometre away in the flat where Yasmin should at this hour be curled under her quilt.

‘It’s Riedwaan.’