Water Music (11 page)

Thinking about dead or nearly
dead children on Youth Day would drive anyone to philosophy, said Ina. But last year we had over two hundred cases like this, girlie, so I wouldnt go all New Age and see it as symbolic. Happens pretty much every weekend.

Anything from Shorty de Lange yet?

Not yet, hes working on it. But the rubbish that they found in the cottage is photographed and up now. The rest is bagged and tagged in the
incident room. The photographs from the house in Sylvan Estate are up there too.

Youre like Wonder Woman, Ina, said Clare.

Clare went to look through what had been found. The order in the room dispelled both the fury and the fear that Jakes Cwele had managed to trigger in her. She focused on the evidence, working methodically through the detritus that had been sorted and labelled.

Ina, said
Clare, where does this come from?

She was holding a photograph of five scraps of soiled yellow paper.

Its part of the rubbish from the cottage, said Ina.

Where is it? asked Clare.

Its there, with all the other evidence. Id planned to take it over to De Lange this morning.

Clare opened the box on the table marked and labelled and signed for. She broke the seal, signed again, and tipped out
its contents. She laid out the plastic sleeves, one by one. Pictures of the girls, each telling its predictable story. Clare pushed them out of the way. Not what she was looking for. The magazine was there, the sweet wrappers. She found what she was looking for in the last bag.

She arranged the five torn scraps of paper, like a jigsaw puzzle. She Sellotaped them together. They were smudged and
damp and it was hard to make out the details. A Ministry of Health logo, at least. Graphs and some smudged numbers. Like the one shed picked up for the pregnant woman yesterday in Casualty. Like the one Dr Evans had shown her an hour ago after he had done her scan.

Ina, she said, clutching the card. Ive got us an ID.

The Sentinel, the lopsided hill at the harbour entrance, loomed over the fishing village that had clung for centuries to its wind-scoured flanks. Hangberg straggled above the harbour, its humble houses shuttered against the storm.

The Community Clinic was situated in the no-mans-land between an abandoned warehouse and a crescent of rundown council flats. It was ringed by a razor-wire fence
and had grenade mesh on its windows.

The sign outside said
No Guns Allowed
. It also said that Saturday was for emergencies only. A Kevlar-jacketed security guard checked Clares bag for weapons and patted her down.

She pushed the door open. The waiting room was packed. Friday night in Hangberg produced more than its fair share of emergencies. Women looking worse for a nights marital wear and
tear, coughing children slumped against their grandmothers, fishermen with bandaged hands, boys in hoodies leaning their bandaged, bloody heads against the wall.

There was a scrum of people at Reception.

I need to see the head sister, Clare demanded.

So does everybody, said the receptionist, looking up at Clare. She scanned her hair, her clothes, her authority. Then she said, Let me call the
sister for you.

Can I help? The nurse was immaculate in her white uniform. A plump, pretty face; tired eyes.

I need to know something: is this one of yours? Clare said, holding out the patched-together clinic card to the nurse.

It is, said the nurse impatiently. As you can see, we are short-staffed and busy.

Like the police, said Clare. But please, I need to know who it belongs to. The name
is smudged.

A ripple of silence was spreading out from where Clare stood. This was not a community that shared its secrets with outsiders. The nurses glance shifted to the watching patients, then back to Clare.

Sorry, I dont have the time now, she said.

This wont take long, Sister. Clare proffered her ID, and the nurse capitulated.

Come through, then.

She followed the nurse into an office
that doubled as an examining room. A raised bed, steel instruments, a light, lubricant, an empty box of tissues, posters about breastfeeding.

Right, Dr Hart, said the nurse. What do you need to know?

I want to know whose card this is, said Clare.

Patient information is confidential, Dr Hart, said the sister. Do you have a warrant?

No, said Clare. But a young woman has gone missing. This was
found in a cottage on an estate near Judas Peak. Looked like people had been smoking tik there. Im hoping it was someone who can help us with the enquiry.

The gangsters dont come in here much, said the nurse. If they need attention, they go private so theres no record.

Please take a look at the card, said Clare.

The nurse scrutinised it.

This is an antenatal card. She held the card up to the
light. DesRay Daniels. Fifteen years old, weight fifty kilos, third trimester.

When last was she here? asked Clare.

Her last appointment was Friday. Yesterday. She rifled through a drawer, pulled out a file. Shes due in a month, said the nurse.

And the father, said Clare. Do you know him?

Not personally, no, but I see a version of him every day. She ran a finger down the notes and said: The
side effects of pregnancy. Nausea and tiredness: yes; black eyes and split lips: no. Two of DesRays visits have been because of assault. She pushed the notes over to Clare.

Do you know his name? asked Clare.

No, said the sister. But I can tell you where DesRay lives. Her chance of surviving will be much higher if hes in jail.

Clare stepped out of the clinic. The boy sitting on the pavement
watched as she walked by. She could feel his eyes on her, two knives in her back. A dog with swollen dugs was scavenging in the gutter next to Clares car. The boy picked up a stone and aimed it at the bitchs scrawny flank. The animal howled, then disappeared among the crowded houses. The raw sensation in Clares stomach was way beyond morning sickness. She started the car and drove up the steep cobbled
street. Past the crèche, past the barricaded sports centre and the Anglican Church to where Vulcan Close petered out into a footpath that ascended the contour of the mountain. Number twenty-six was the last house, but there were no signs of life when Clare knocked on the door. She could feel eyes watching her from behind shabby lace curtains that hung in all the windows on the desolate crescent.
At the Danielss house, someone had planted a geranium in a tin. It nodded a pretty red flower at Clare as she knocked on the bright yellow door.

The bolt shot back and the door opened a crack.

Mrs Daniels? asked Clare. The woman was about Clares age, though a very different life had been scripted on her once-pretty face. A wiry little boy clung to her legs. A television, tuned into Cartoon Network,
rat-a-tatted and squealed.

Hello, Im looking for DesRay.

What for?

Can I come in? asked Clare, aware of the watchers behind the windows arrayed behind her. Mrs Daniels seemed to have the same concern, as she quickly opened the door and ushered Clare in.

Why you looking for her? Belligerence and fear in her voice, Mrs Daniels stood in the middle of the living room with her arms folded. Outside,
two black-and-white maids uniforms were pegged on the washing line. Inside, a flatscreen TV, a puffy leather lounge suite that crowded the small room, a sound system. Costly possessions, on a cleaning womans wage.

DesRay, said Clare. Is she in?

Ja, shes here. Arms folded across her chest. Shes asleep.

Could you wake her? asked Clare. I need to speak to her.

Why, whats she done?

Is she pregnant,
your daughter? asked Clare.

Whats it got to do with you?

Her clinic card was found in a house down the valley, said Clare. Something seems to have happened in there. Id like to talk to her about it.

Its hard for her. She hasnt got a father, said Mrs Daniels. My husband, he drowned in a fishing accident. A girl needs her father in a place like this. Thats what I say. Otherwise she goes with
gangsters. What else can she do? They dont take no for an answer.

Whats his name? asked Clare.

The shoulders of the womans dressing gown sagged.

Chadley, said the little boy who was wrapped around her legs. Chadley Wewers. Hes mos there in the Wendy house at the back.

Clare knocked on the flimsy wooden door.

Whos it? A rough voice.

Child Protection, said Clare, not quite truthfully. Open the door. She didnt need to knock twice. A man opened the door, his jeans buckled low. Calvins a white stripe against his belly. His chest was inked blue with the gang chappies hed earned in prison, the tattoos giving a detailed history of his relationship with the law.
He looked to be twenty-one, an old man by some standards. He had a gold bridge where hed had his Flats passion-gap filled the abalone hed fished out converted into mouth bling.

Clare flashed her badge. Im looking for DesRay.

A girl appeared in the doorway, the cold wind moulding her pink nylon nightie against her breasts, the tight curve of her belly, her bare legs. Bambi-eyes, full mouth,
her bleached hair windblown.

Youre DesRay? asked Clare.

What you want, she said. I did nothing.

There was a gap between the two young people and the door. Clare stepped inside. It was dim the windows salted up and grimy from the stiff wind that blew in off the ocean. Another flatscreen television, a sound system that looked like a spaceship. The room smelt of cigarettes and takeaways and sex.
DesRays clothes lay in a heap on the floor. An orange hoodie, black leggings, muddy Nikes.

You went mountain climbing last night, DesRay? Clare picked up one of her tackies. Size three.

She looked at Clare and shook her head.

I was here, she said.

He was with you? asked Clare.

We were together. The girl glanced at her boyfriend. He put his arm around her narrow shoulders.

You been on the
mountain too, Chadley? asked Clare. Theres mud on your jeans. Ive never seen mud in Hangberg all you get here is sand.

Why you fucking with us?

Like I said, Child Protection, said Clare. Is that your baby?

Of course its my fucking baby, said Chadley.

Do you go to the clinic with DesRay?

Of course I go, said Chadley. I got to see what she must eat. What she must do. I check what they write
there, its mos our baby. I take DesRay and the card to the clinic. I know what they think of me, but Im not a monster. Im making it right.

I found DesRays clinic card on the other side of the valley, said Clare.

His hand went instinctively to his empty back pocket.

You dropped the card? asked Clare.

I didnt drop nothing, he said.

What were you doing up there, Chadley? asked Clare.

I wasnt
there, he said.

So how did this get into Sylvan Estate?

Maybe I lost it. DesRays hands went round her belly, a flash in her eyes. Maybe somebody picked it up.

Like I say, why you fucking with us? He stepped forwards, but Clare didnt move. His eyes were bloodshot, and on his breath was the smell of decay of an amphetamine user.

Chadley, dyou know a girl called Rosa Wagner? said Clare. She didnt
step back, didnt drop her gaze. Theres traces of her blood close to where this card was found. It would help if you told me what you were doing up there.

I did fuck-all, so fuck you. He fumbled in his pockets for a lighter. Leaned over and took a box of cigarettes out of the shopping bag on the table.

There were a couple of Sweetie Pie wrappers there too, said Clare. She lifted a shopping bag
from the mess on the table. Inside it were Nik Naks, a Sweetie Pie, a bottle of milk, a cash slip.

The KwikShop on Valley Road, she said. Thats far from here.

Its pregnant women. You mos know what theyre like. Want weird stuff all the time.

Clare smoothed out the slip. So you walked up there at three this morning? She pocketed the receipt.

I know my rights, said DesRay. You cant come in here
and take my stuff without a warrant.

Should I get one? asked Clare.

DesRay shrugged and the sweater shed tied around her shoulders slipped, exposing her skinny upper arms. Five fading fingerprints on each.

Id like to know what you and your boyfriend were doing up there, said Clare.

Wes mos family, said Chadley.

So thats why shes got those bruises? asked Clare.

DesRay covered her upper arms
with her hands.

Chadley was with me all the time. Her face mutinous.

You were both up there, said Clare.

You cant prove fuck-all, lady, said DesRay. She looked at Chadley, her eyes question marks.

Not yet, said Clare. But I soon will.

Clare headed home, past narrow streets, cramped cul-de-sacs and graffitied walls. This is where he was most at home. This was Riedwaan Faizals territory.

The Gang Unit building had a state-of-the-art security system that had never worked. Riedwaan Faizal went through the motions anyway

He placed his yellowed index finger on the scanner. It flashed red. He did it again. And a third time.

State-of-the-art se moer, Captain. The security guard spat, lifting the heavy boom. Welcome back. Whereve you been, Captain?

Joburg, said Riedwaan.

He had
been awake all night. His mother, spry as a city sparrow, had fractured her hip while he was away. Leaving suddenly to see her would have broken his cover and the precarious trust he had built with his twitchy source. So hed done what had already cost him a marriage: he put work before family. The most he could get from his job was a bullet in the head. But with family came reproach and yearning
and the long, slow twisting of the heart.

Still, he had come back, and last night hed been at her bedside, her bony hand in his, the hollow feeling in his chest growing as he watched her fade.
And
hed broken his promise to Clare. He was in shit.

The building was only a year old, but the brass plaque commemorating its opening had not been polished in twelve months. The police commissioner who
had done the honours was now serving fifteen years for racketeering. Or corruption; Riedwaan could never remember which, and in the end it didnt really matter.