Water Music (18 page)

In Europe, yes. I know those cases, said Clare. The girl in Austria, locked in a cellar by her father for twenty-four
years. Thats three years short of Nelson Mandelas incarceration right here in the Cape. Hidden in plain sight.

Go look in my office, said Mouton. I went to a conference on South African Paedocide.

Jesus, said Clare. Only here would you need that word.

Theres a DVD of the conference proceedings in my office, he said. Take it with you, it may help. There was a case years ago. Two girls, buried
alive in a hole in the ground. In the Hemel-en-Aarde Valley.

Clare opened Moutons office door. There was a picture of his plump wife on the table, his sons next to her. A half-eaten bacon sandwich on the desk. The bookshelf was meticulously arranged. Clare ran her nail along the covers until she reached P. There it was, the DVD. She slotted it into her laptop.

The social worker on the monitor was dressed in the professional womans uniform of tailored
navy skirt and crisp white blouse. In even tones she presented her findings, fact by excruciating fact. The search, the symptoms, the treatment of the buried girls in the Hemel-en-Aarde Valley.

Heaven and Earth.

A memory flickered in Clares consciousness. She scrolled through the findings until she came to the interview she was seeking. The girl was slender, her face a blank; she wore a blue
top, and her hair was braided against her head. She looked directly at the camera, at Clare, said her name, said she was now nineteen. And then she told her story, one sentence running into the other:

I grew up here on this farm. I lived with my mother and my stepfather, until the Christmas Day when I was kidnapped. I was twelve. It was early on Monday morning. We were still sleeping. We heard
a knock on the door. We got up and saw the man standing in the doorway with a mask over his face.

He left with me and we walked.

He held me tightly by my arm. I had to walk with him. We walked past the house, and my stepfather came outside. He said he had to bring me back. He said to my stepfather that my stepfather must go back inside or hell hurt me. My stepfather turned around, and we left.

When we came to the reeds he said I must lie down and take off my pants. I did what he said. When he was finished we carried on walking.

When we came to the dirt road, he turned me with my back to the road so that the cars couldnt see me. When we came to a fence, he covered my eyes. I didnt ask him why. He held my arm and we walked. All I could feel was that we climbed over a fence and over a
stump.

When he took the thing off my eyes, I saw I was in a bush. I saw a white house, thats all. There was a pear orchard, and he lived just below the pear orchard. There was a little girl there. She was two years old. I asked him about the girls mother, and he said her mother is dead. He didnt talk much about the mother. When I asked about her, he got very angry.

We couldnt talk a lot. At
one time, the little girl had two dolls. He brought them for her one day. She started to play and made a bit of a noise and he broke the dolls into pieces and threw them.

And the people. We heard people talking but we didnt know who it was. They walked above us but we didnt talk or shout. We were just quiet.

When the helicopters were flying over the bush and over the rivers, he said he wouldnt
walk around so much any more. He said to me and the little one that we must be glad with what we have. It was a Saturday evening that he left. He didnt come back. The child asked where her father is, and I said, Hes not here yet. We waited for him the whole time, we didnt go out. Then we heard people talking but we just kept quiet.

Then I heard one calling my name. They gave me a jacket and I
tied it around my body and I came out.

We were together in one orphanage. Then, when I turned fifteen they sent me to another orphanage. And her too. But we didnt live together for long. I miss her a lot. I talk about her often.

Her voice was low and urgent; it was as if a pause, even drawing breath, might make her lose the thread, burying her again in silence. When the interview stopped and
the camera cut to the social worker, Clare herself could at last breathe.

Esther had shown reasonable growth in infancy. Most likely because shed been breast-fed for an extended time. Clare thought of the symptoms to be found in a child who has never seen the sun.

A child with smooth soles, feet that had never walked or run or climbed.

It was cold outside in the courtyard. She could see the
silhouettes of Mouton and his two assistants bent over the pale body of the young woman, taking out her heart. As if a muscle might tell what she had endured.

The roses outside the mortuarys utilitarian brick looked neglected, the winter pruning abandoned half-way. A pair of secateurs lay on the grimy windowsill, and Clare picked them up.

She found the growth point on a straggling branch and
cut back the dead wood. She moved down the serried ranks. Red ones, then white; red ones, then white. The rhythm of her movements, find the growth point, cut the dead wood, soothed her and stilled her nausea.

Maybe this was what she should do: erect a picket fence; prune roses. Stop worrying about women who were starved and beaten, and girls she couldnt find.

Clares phone rang. She put down
the secateurs and answered the call.

Dr Hart? A womans voice, unfamiliar. You left a message about Rosa Wagner.

Who is this? asked Clare.

Melissa Patrick. Ive been away, the woman said. So I didnt get your message. I am Rosa Wagners doctor.

The doctors house was pretty, a thatched roof and cream-coloured walls. Clare followed the signs to the consulting rooms at the back. The lights were on, despite the wan sunlight that was breaking through the clouds.

Dr Patrick? she called, as she knocked on the glass door.

You must be Clare, said Melissa Patrick. She was dressed in expensive yoga clothes. She looked to be a fit, attractive
forty, though Clare put her closer to fifty.

You were asking about Rosa Wagner. You said it was very urgent. How did you find me?

I saw from the music college records that youre her doctor.

You got those out of Irina Petrova?

Is that a problem? asked Clare.

Its not the main problem. As Im sure she told you, the directors way is the Bolshoi way, said Dr Patrick. Shes only interested in the
perfection of performance. That overrides any other considerations if she ever had any.

And there are other considerations?

Of course, said Dr Patrick. Rosa is young, shes vulnerable, shes in a big city for the first time in her life. You can imagine.

Rosas missing, said Clare. The college tells me she withdrew on the twenty-fifth of May. Thats three weeks ago, just after shed visited you.
Since then no one has seen her. No contact at all until she left a message with her grandfather early on Friday morning. We found the place where she called from, but since then theres been no trace of her.

She didnt go home?

No, said Clare. Her grandfather assumed she was at the college. And the college if they thought of her at all assumed shed returned home.

Oh my god, said Melissa Patrick.

Do you have any idea what was wrong, where she might have gone? asked Clare.

None, said the doctor.

How often did you see her?

A few times, she said. Colds, flu, the usual. It was an excuse to talk to someone, I think.

What did she talk about?

Rosa needed a sanctuary, she said. I suppose coming here was an attempt to find one, even if it was just for half an hour. She didnt have the easiest
childhood, but she was devoted to her oupa, as she calls him. Shes a solitary creature, but here she was lonely for the first time in her life. The way she survived was to keep things to herself and play her cello.

What did she come to see you about the last time?

Dr Patrick pulled Rosas file out of a drawer.

It was in late May, she said. I was concerned about her then, I clearly remember now.
She seemed agitated in her quiet way.

Did she tell you what was wrong?

There was nothing physically wrong with her, said Dr Patrick. But she seemed close to breaking point. I prescribed something to help her sleep I assumed it was just end-of-semester nerves.

So, no history of depression? No suicide attempts?

Not that I know of. Why do you ask?

Im trying to form a picture of her, said Clare,
but its so opaque. She seems to have organised herself, her things, and then simply walked out of her life and vanished. Until that phone call. Im trying to work out what happened, where she might have gone, and why. Did you have any reason to think she might be taking drugs?

No, Dr Patrick replied. At least, she never gave me any reason to think so.

What about the other students, do they take
drugs?

Its not unheard of, said the doctor. Theyre young, theyre gifted, theyre unmoored from their families, their homes. Theyre driven. I have sent a couple to rehab.

Have you got a name you can give me, a lead?

I cant

Look, said Clare. I understand about confidentiality, but this girl has disappeared and I need to know where to start looking. If shes alive and its to do with money, then
maybe we can find where she is and help her.

Lily, said the doctor. Shes been to see me a couple of times. I tried to get her into rehab.

What for?

Cocaine, she replied. But I dont think she was the source.

Who, then?

A friend of hers, a handsome boy. Wears dreadlocks.

Jonny Diamond?

Thats it, said Melissa. He wasnt my patient, but I think he was part of the problem. There were rumours
of tik too. A couple of the others I saw mentioned things. When I told Irina Petrova she said shed deal with it. It seems that the boys father is a lawyer, that he made a donation to the school, so the enquiry never happened. I do know he stopped his studies rather suddenly, but he still hangs out there now and again. Ive seen him on occasion, but whatever, he was taken off my books.

Was Rosa
part of any of this?

I didnt see any signs, said the doctor. She kept herself apart from things.

Was she bullied?

Melissa Patrick considered the question. She wasnt like other teenagers.

How do you mean?

Its as if she had a layer of social skin missing, said Dr Patrick. But it didnt matter, her strangeness. Her music, its such a start ling gift.

Did you discuss Rosa with Petrova or anyone
else at the school?

I didnt, said the doctor. Perhaps I should have. But its only with you here and her gone that the fleeting observations I made when she was sitting where you now are, seem at all significant.

Melissa Patrick tapped the file with her fingertips. I was remiss, but perhaps my own life swept me away. You know how it is, mid-life and marriages. Things fall apart somewhat.

Did
Rosa mention a boyfriend? asked Clare.

No, said the doctor. No contraception either. She lived with her oupa, the one I mentioned. Have you spoken to him?

Hes the one who reported her missing, said Clare.

Of course, said Dr Patrick. You said.

She fell silent. A thrush called from the garden, the tranquil sound strangely discordant in the doctors room.

What did you think when Rosa didnt come
back? asked Clare.

I didnt think of it until I got your message. Dr Patrick scanned her notes. Its not in here.

What isnt?

There was something she asked me, she said. We were walking across the lawn and she asked me about cancer. She was very precise. Castrate-resistant prostate cancer.

Did she say why? asked Clare.

Melissa Patrick shook her head. She asked about the tests and how long the
person would live if they had it. Apparently someone she knew had a father who was sick. Rosa was worried because the person didnt like talking about illness.

So what was it that bothered you? asked Clare.

The cancer she was asking about has a poor prognosis. She asked about the treatment, she said. I told her that theres a new drug. Its called Xtandi. New and very expensive. The medical aids
dont cover it yet, and the State system certainly doesnt.

And so? Clare prompted.

She asked me what it cost and I told her thousands. After that she left. I didnt see her again.

Can you tell me a bit more about the cancer?

Its virulent and the prognosis is poor. Without treatment you have just a couple of months, and thats it.

Churchhaven, an hours drive up the bleak West Coast, was nothing more than a scatter of weather-worn houses on a lagoon. There was no electricity, no running water, no shop. The stark white church was flanked by a crowded graveyard where two spindly palm trees one dead, one alive stretched into the sky.

A biting wind and the melancholy cry of seabirds greeted Clare as she walked towards
Alfred Wagners house on the lee side of the church. An old mongrel staggered down the steps, her master behind her.

You have news? Terror and hope in equal measure, his bent shoulders squaring for whatever burden Clare might place on them.

No, not yet, she replied. I need to ask you some more questions.

Come in, please.

Clare followed the old man into the kitchen. The room was warm, the Aga
nearby, a pot of moer-koffie simmering. The rich smell aroused memories of early farm mornings, just her and her father awake, an uncertain sun spilling light over the Namaqua plain.

A Welsh dresser with stencilled enamel utensils; on one shelf an empty blister pack of pills, and two unopened packs. Clare picked one up. Xtandi expensive, unaffordable to most, the doctor had implied.

Excuse
me, but are these yours, Mr Wagner? asked Clare.

He nodded, acknowledgement of the disease somehow shameful to him.

Cancer? Clare gently enquired.