Water Music (17 page)

Thats as good as it gets in Cape Town, said Anwar.

He walked with Clare to her car. Watched her drive off, the traffic lights bleeding green, orange, red in the rain.
She drove through the empty Sunday morning streets towards the Salt River Mortuary.

The hospice was a bilious green on the outside, but inside it was comforting, calm. Cream walls, white curtains. Riedwaan walked down the corridor and put the yellow chrysanthemums on a bedside table in his mothers sparse little room. He sat down beside her and took her hand.

Wanie, my boy, she said with a wan though welcoming smile.
Jyt gekom.

Ekt gekom, Ma.

She looked at him; a flare of
memory gleamed on a sea of forgetting.

I dreamed you had a son, Wanie, said Mrs Faizal. The nurse said I must wait, but my time is up.

Not yet, Ma. Riedwaan held her hand tighter.

What would you know, my boy? she said, her old tartness sparking for a moment. You never knew nothing. I was thinking of a name for my grandson and I thought I must tell Wanie.

Not going to happen, Ma, he said, opening
the Peppermint Crisp hed brought for her. She put out her tongue so that the chocolate could melt on it.

Ishmael. She fixed beady black eyes on her son. Saw the grey streaks in his black hair, the longing, quickly doused, in his eyes. That would be the name for him. If he was born.

Aysha Faizal, seamstress, gossip, keeper of memories hed long let go of. Custodian of traditions hed long since
abandoned and forgotten.

He felt a twinge of longing: the comfort of prostration before an all-knowing paternal wisdom. Instead, he settled his mothers pillow so that she was more comfortable.

He hadnt visited her enough, his excuse being that because she was losing her memory she wouldnt remember if he had been there or not. That was true she didnt. What was also true, and he knew this, was
that she lived for the most part in an endless present, a stretch of time alleviated only by small pleasures. A bar of chocolate, a sliced banana, his presence at her bedside.

When she awoke shed have no idea who he was or why he was there. He sat and listened to the rain. For him too, time had no meaning here. His phone rang, wrenching him from his stupor. He stepped into the corridor. Cabbage
and urine, the smell of old age.

Faizal. It was Edgar Phiri. When can you get here?

It was a relief to walk out into the rain and to hear the swish of his wipers on the empty Sunday highway.

The security guard raised the boom and waved Riedwaan through. The building was deserted, except for him and Phiri. The colonel was pacing not a good sign passing back and forth in front of the slatted
blinds.

Come in, he barked, when Riedwaan knocked. The Sunday paper lay open on Phiris conference table.

Colonel, said Riedwaan.

Dirty politics has just been replaced with filthy politics. Jakes Cweles just been promoted, said Phiri, jabbing at the
Sunday Times
. Head of Special Operations.

Riedwaan pulled the paper towards him. Cwele smiled up at him.

First thing hes doing is going for the
specialist units, said Phiri. Anything that might be outside of the politicians control.

Thats why he got the job. Riedwaan scanned the report: the Gang Unit was outdated for policing modern-day South Africa. Expertise needs to be redeployed.

Redeployed. That means cutting its balls off, said Riedwaan.

Not quite how I would have put it, Faizal, said Phiri, with the ghost of smile. But yes,
thats the effect. Hes got it in for Section 28s too, said Phiri. Page three, look there: Clare Hart. Hes singled her out. Says it creates security problems having civilians looking at crimes against children. Of course, whats needed is the preservation of law and order and the protection of national key points. He says the minister is unhappy with her approach focusing too much on cases that make
TV news. Says things must change.

The minister is the presidents poodle, said Riedwaan, closing the page. What do you know about this, apart from whats in the paper?

An old connection called me, said Phiri. Told me off the record that the Gang Units already been dissolved. Theyre just waiting for the right moment to take the political flack. Ill be offered a toothless job with a big salary at
headquarters in Pretoria. And your transfer papers are on their way.

Transfer to where? asked Riedwaan.

Economic Stability Unit.

What the fuck is that? asked Riedwaan.

The new ministers name for the Riot Squad. Apparently he thinks thats all the country needs after those mineworkers were shot.

Youre making this up, said Riedwaan.

Phiri handed him an envelope.

It was littered with gleaming
government seals and bold signatures. Riedwaan opened it, fought his way through the verbiage.

The Economic Stability Unit, some patriotic nonsense about serving the countrys best interest, an order to be on a military plane on Monday morning. Tomorrow morning. A single night away. Riedwaan thought of Clare and the conversation they hadnt finished. The conversation they had not even begun.

Fuck them, Im not doing it, he said.

You dont have a choice, said Phiri. All leave has been cancelled. The cabinet says subversive elements are involved in the strikes. All police force members who are called up are obliged to report. A state of emergency has been declared on the mines.

How is this suddenly an emergency? asked Riedwaan. Its the same shit thats been happening for months, years.
Service delivery protests and now miners on strike, miners killing each other, strikers getting shot by cops who get three weeks training in public order. Whats changed?

The emergency is the fall in share prices. Phiris jaw was clenched. Thats a genuine emergency if youre a kept politician.

You tell them that?

I havent, said Phiri, Im not speaking in my personal capacity. Not yet, anyway. The
line from above is that the stability of the country is under threat, and the Economic Stability Unit is going to sort it out. There are no exceptions, Faizal. If you want your salary, if you want to keep your pension, you get on that plane on time.

Riedwaan took out a cigarette.

Milan Savić, said Riedwaan. You know him?

Heard of him, said Phiri. He puts money into township soccer on the Flats.

He owns an estate up where that girl went missing. Got security like a private army up there.

What are you thinking, Faizal? asked Phiri.

Why does he have Stavros the Greek skipper a tourist yacht that goes out beyond territorial waters where every South American ship slips past, its hold full of coke? Im thinking why does Stavros hire a gangster whos there the night a beautiful girl goes missing.
Thats what Im thinking.

I dont like it when you feel, Faizal, said Phiri. And I like it even less when you think.

Riedwaan looked at his boss; Phiri looked at the rain-lashed window.

You asked for a connection, said Riedwaan. Im getting it.

Just be on that plane tomorrow, Faizal, said Phiri. His body seemed to cave inside the carapace of his pressed uniform. Theres nothing more I can do.

Why not, sir? Riedwaan faced his boss in all the years theyd worked together, this was the first time he didnt feel his back was safe.

I cant say, said Phiri. All I can tell you is that I got this order and I was told to relay the message to you and a couple of others.

Riedwaan stood up and turned to the window. Cape Town lay below, spread like a dirty picnic blanket under the sodden sky.

You going to take it, Faizal? asked Phiri.

I had a wife, I have a daughter. Means Ive got maintenance to pay. Ive been a cop since 94. I dont know how to be anything else, said Riedwaan. So fuck knows.

Can I have one?

I never saw you smoke, Colonel, said Riedwaan.

I havent since Mandela came out of prison.

The end of an era, said Riedwaan. You keep the box; youre going to need it.

As Riedwaan
closed the door, he heard coughing.

Piet Mouton was waiting at the door to the freezers.

Come see her. Wheres Faizal? said Mouton. I thought youd bring him. Save you the trouble of explaining things to him.

Very thoughtful of you, Piet, said Clare. He called while I was on my way here. Says Phiris told him hes been seconded to something called the Economic Stability Unit. Hes heading up to Joburg.

You wouldnt be the first
person to have thought youd got rid of him and been wrong, said Piet.

Clare shrugged.

By the way, I had an email from Cwele this morning.

Hes up early, said Clare. Did he have a sudden attack of work ethic?

Oh, Cwele always does his work, said Mouton. Its just his aims are different to yours.

So, what did he want?

The email said that Section 28 was being terminated and that all outstanding
casework was to go via Cwele and his uniformed cops. You be careful, now, said Mouton.

Theyve told me nothing yet, said Clare, stopping outside the womens change rooms. And until they do, this is my case.

Im not arguing with you, Clare. Im just warning you. Be careful.

Tell me what you know, said Clare.

Mouton waited as Clare put on a white coat, rubber boots, a mask.

This is what we know.
Shes white, about thirty-five. She was badly nourished, that you already know. Vitamin D deficiencies, bruises old and new, and those sjambok scars on her back.

So what killed her? asked Clare.

Mouton held open the swing doors to the cutting room. Clare stepped into the sepulchral space. The roof vaulted, early-morning light filtering through tall windows. Rows of empty gurneys awaited Saturday
nights bloody harvest.

Did she starve to death? Clares stomach turning, a sweet stench discernible beneath the whiff of bleach.

Its what I first thought, said Piet Mouton, but our lady here was asphyxiated.

The corpse lay on a table at the centre of the room, seeming to eavesdrop from under the white sheet.

The eyes, the tiny lesions inside her lips. My guess is someone held a pillow over
her face until she stopped kicking. The state she was in, he said, pulling back the sheet, it wouldnt have taken very long.

Clare wasnt hearing him. She was looking at the woman lying on her back, her unseeing eyes fixed on the vaulted ceiling. Her hair had been swept back from her pale face in preparation for the autopsy.

Look at her face, said Clare. A vee of black hair on the high wide forehead.
A widows peak.

Frames her face, said Mouton. Gave it beauty when she was alive.

No, no, said Clare. The little girl, she has the same thing. Clares heart raced. She had something now. She recognised it: that moment when anger distils into comprehension or the beginnings, at least.

A not uncommon feature, said Mouton.

Oh, come on, Piet, said Clare. The injuries are so similar. Sjambok scars.
The emaciation, the paleness. I want a DNA analysis on her and a comparison with Esther. And I want it today, please.

Maybe youre seeing what you want to see, Clare.

Do the DNA, said Clare. Prove me wrong.

Its Sunday, Clare. The labs

Tell them to open, said Clare. Find a graduate student, I dont care. But I want those tests done right now. She opened her bag and took out the photographs of
Esther. Look at this, Piet, the hair, the shape of the face, the pallor. Im dealing with something monstrous here. Tell them to get moving. Get them busy with their Petri dishes.

OK, Clare, calm down. Ill do it. Well run it through the databases. If shes in there, well find her. Ill let you know as soon as its done.

Im sorry, Piet, she said. Theres a lot happening.

I understand, Clare. You
carry a lot on your shoulders.

Ive got a name, the childs name.

Well, that changes everything. Why didnt you say?

A tattoo on the nape of the little girls neck, said Clare. It says Esther.

My wifes name, he smiled. The beautiful queen who used her influence to save the Israelites from persecution.

She seems to know all about persecution, said Clare, looking down at the dead womans face. This
possibly explains why Esthers mother wasnt looking for her.

But it doesnt explain who she was with during the week her mother was dead. Find that person, youll have all your answers, said Mouton. Any matches to the little girls DNA?

Ive logged it with the Missing Persons Records, said Clare. Theres nothing so far on the South African database, which as you know doesnt mean much. So few records
are kept.

Run her through the European and US databases too, if you can, said Mouton.

As I said, there was nothing on the little girl.

But if this is the mother, said Mouton, maybe youll get a hit. Anyway, youll be interested to know that she had some expensive dental work done. When she was an adolescent, Id say, the kind of filling you dont see much of around here. No recent dental work,
just signs of an untreated abscess that must have been agony.

OK, but I need to know who she is before I can use dental records if it comes to that, of course, said Clare. Anything else you can tell me about her?

Not much till we open her up, said Mouton. But theres something else with her teeth that might help you.

He lifted the womans upper lip. The teeth gleamed against her gums. There
was a slight gap between the two front teeth.

See this? Mouton pointed at the right-hand tooth, which had been worn away at an angle. Its from playing the flute. Not as a hobby. Id say she was a professional musician.

Sounds of people arriving; doors opening, exchanges about a wedding someone had attended, a snatch of a popular song.

The chill Clare felt had nothing to do with the refrigerated
air of the autopsy room.

A girl called Rosa Wagner went missing three weeks ago. A cellist.

Footsteps coming down the passage, the door opening, two men in scrubs. The cutting was about to start.

Its happened before, Clare, said Mouton. People being buried alive for years.