Water Music (4 page)

Dr Hart, is it true that Section 28 is being dissolved?

Perhaps the ministers advisor would like to take that question, said Clare.

Everyone turned to look at Jakes Cwele, taking
in the leather coat, the fedora.

Expertise in this area is being redeployed, said Cwele. The new minister is taking the presidents instructions to heart. Economic stability is everything. We know that crime is a result of poverty, therefore this must be addressed first.

A tabloid journalist turned to Clare. Your views, Dr Hart?

Section 28 was set up by the previous minister after a Community
Consultation Forum like this one. You know this, said Clare. The minister laboured under the illusion that voters are owed explanations as to why so many children and their mothers die. She was removed during the last cabinet shuffle, but the 28s are still here, unwanted and unwelcome.

For how long, though?

I am contracted till the end of June, said Clare. Major Britz is permanent. The Gang
Unit Colonel Phiri is here too are our partners. Were not going anywhere. And now we have an investigation to complete.

It was over, and the journalists were shepherded out.

The old man who had caught Clares eye during the press conference was waiting for her when she and Ina Britz went outside.

Dr Hart?

Thats me, she said.

I know of your work, Dr Hart, Section 28. Its in the papers, on
the TV. You find them, the stolen ones. Youll bring her back to me. The old mans eyes were hollow. Clare knew that look. Shes gone. My little girl is gone.

Do you know something about the little girl we found this morning?

He shook his head. Im so sorry for her, but shes not the one I came for, Dr Hart. I came for you. She phoned me. He was fumbling with a cellphone, the instrument apparently
unfamiliar in his work-worn hands. Listen.

Rosa, Oupa, its Rosa.

There was a flaying purity in the terror of the girls voice.

Oupa. Theres trees outside. Get me help, Oupa, Oupa, come. Please.

A scream, high-pitched as a cats.

Oupa. Find me, Oupa. Find me please. Hes

The phone fell from the mans hands.

Clare picked it up and checked the log.

The call came at five this morning, said Clare.
Its eleven now. Thats six hours ago. Since then theres been nothing?

Nothing.

Theres no number, said Clare, handing the phone to Ina. Can you get a trace on this, Ina?

No problem, she said. Whats her name?

Rosa Wagner. Im Alfred Wagner. His voice was rough with pain. Im meant to protect her and I didnt hear her calling. I was asleep.

Does Rosa have a daughter? asked Ina Britz.

Rosas hardly
more than a child herself. A tear in the clouds; sunlight slanting through, the golden light mocking the mans anguish.

Alfred Wagner stopped in front of the map with the forest of pins that Clare had placed there over the past six months. She looked at her map through Wagners eyes: a chart of horror that covered one whole wall of her office. On the adjacent wall shed pinned up photographs of the little girl on the bridle path. Alongside it were pictures of the fallen tree, the leather restraint, the black plastic,
the dark rag shed been wrapped in. It was pitifully little: the only source of real information was the little girls mute, injured body.

What do the red pins mean? he asked.

Places where injured children have been found.

And the black pins?

The ones that didnt make it. Clare closed the door behind her, shutting out the hubbub of the rest of the Section 28 office. Uniforms coming in and out,
phones ringing, dog handlers wanting coffee for themselves, water for the dogs.

Youre going to put in a red pin for Rosa, he said, a catch in his voice. Not a black one.

Clare guided Wagner to the table in her office. He followed, obedient as a child, the weight of his desperation too heavy for him to stand any longer.

I went to the police. Helpless fury in his voice. An officer said nothing
could be done unless shes been missing twenty-four hours. I asked him to listen. He did, said she sounded like she was on drugs.

As soon as we get the number traced, said Clare, well have somewhere concrete to start. How old is Rosa, Mr Wagner?

Nineteen, he said.

This unit is for children.

The law might say she is no longer a child, Dr Hart, he said. But Im her grandfather. My son died, her
mother followed soon after. I am her family, he said. Theres Rosa, theres me. Thats it. Look at her.

Mr Wagner placed a photograph on Clares desk.

Rosa Wagner. She lay there between them, an accusation. An ethereal girl in a red velvet dress. Tawny skin, her hair a black cascade around a delicate face. Her knees were parted, a cello cradled between them. She clasped the instruments slender neck
in her arms, rapture in her upturned face. Clare looked at the old man his face was lined with anxiety and loss, his hands knotted with arthritis and a life of labour. It was hard to imagine how this girl was connected to him.

Shes a musician? asked Clare.

A student at the Cape College of Classical Music. Here in Hout Bay, he said. I phoned them. The secretary told me that she had withdrawn.

You didnt know?

I had no idea.

Clare pulled her notebook out of her bag, found a pen. Youd better tell me what you do know about her.

Shes a gifted cellist and she won a music scholarship. She left me and she came to Cape Town.

When last did you see her?

She came home for the weekend. It was a Friday. The twenty-fifth of May was the date. Mr Wagner picked up the photograph of his granddaughter.

Todays the fifteenth, said Clare. So thats three weeks ago. How was she?

Quiet, but thats how she is.

And you havent spoken to her since?

He shook his head.

How often do you usually speak to her on the phone? asked Clare.

When its essential, he said, touching the hearing aid tucked behind his left ear. Its not easy for me, the phone.

Did anything happen between you? Clare was making notes.

Nothing, he said. We didnt argue. We never argue. She said shed be back for the holidays.

Did she have a boyfriend? Was she unhappy that she told you about?

She never said.

Where did Rosa grow up?

With me, he said. In Churchhaven, an hour or so up the West Coast.

I know it, said Clare. Its like heaven.

For some, said Mr Wagner. For a long time it was. Then Rosa wanted more. There isnt even
a shop there. No electricity. No running water. Its how young people are.

Where are her parents? asked Clare.

Her father, my only son, died when Rosa was four. His wife his mouth twisted as he spoke the word she brought Rosa here some time later. My sons wife said shed come back for Rosa, but she never did. The damage was already done by then.

What damage?

The child never spoke of it. Mr
Wagner looked directly at Clare. But there are things that can be done to a childs soul that cannot be measured in bruises or blows. This you would know.

Wheres her mother now? asked Clare.

She died when Rosa was eight. Rosa said nothing at the time. She didnt even cry. There was only the silence her death left in its wake. A silence that Rosa filled with music. Thats how we lived together;
just me and her and our music.

Mr Wagner handed Clare an envelope. In it were a few photo graphs. Rosa in the sun on a wind-scoured beach, black rocks, her eyes slits against the wind. An only child sitting between her parents, her father the image of the man in front of Clare; the woman small, her face obscured by luxurious black hair but where Rosas skin was nearly as dark as her fathers,
her mothers was pale. The rest of the photographs were of Rosa alone on the beach, a three-legged dog beside her. A few more of her playing her cello. One of her standing outside a Victorian building: the Cape College of Classical Music.

Has Rosa ever disappeared before? asked Clare.

No.

Never went looking for her mothers family?

Not that I know of, he said. But I think it unlikely.

There
are few children who dont want to find their mothers, said Clare.

Even if their mothers have traded their bodies for drugs? the old man asked.

Even then, said Clare. Sometimes especially then. We have to consider everything.

There is no one that I know of, he said. She came from Joburg. Apart from my son, she seemed to have no one.

No school photos? said Clare. Always helpful, old school friends.

I taught her at home, said Mr Wagner. I taught her what I knew. Nothing that would help her, really. About birds and fish. Some Latin and Greek. And music. Rosa, my vulnerable granddaughter, was my consolation.

In what way was Rosa vulnerable?

Shes a lonely girl, he said. That makes you vulnerable.

Clare looked at the old man a moment.

I need a list of everyone she knows, where she goes, she
said. Friends, boyfriends, coffee shops, clubs. Phone numbers. Everything you have.

He took the pen she handed to him and began to write. I phoned the music school this morning, he said, looking up at Clare. When they said shed withdrawn, I didnt understand. She never abandoned anything in her life. Theres only love in her hands. Thats why she plays like an angel.

He handed the list to Clare.
It filled half a page, his number at the bottom.

Do you have somewhere to go? asked Clare.

I must go home. He stood up, unsteady on his feet. If shes running, thats where shell be headed. Im too old and too sick to do anything else but be there when she gets there. Thats the only thing Ive ever been able to do for her. Ill be waiting for her to come, or for you to phone.

He turned around, and
walked back into the rain.

Clare watched as he picked his way past the row of BMWs. He climbed into a rusted old Cortina and sat with his hands on the wheel. A dog hopped up and placed its grizzled head on his shoulder. Then Alfred Wagner started his car and drove away.

Ina Britz opened Clares door. She had a packet of biscuits in her hand.

Eat some of these, she said.

Im not hungry, said Clare.

I dont care, said Ina. Do what I tell you. Ginger biscuits the ginger will help with the nausea, the sugar will help with fatigue.

Clare stared at Ina.

Your secrets safe until you give it away, said Ina.

How did you guess?

I didnt, said Ina, opening the packet
and handing Clare two of the hard, sugary biscuits. And I havent got ESP or feminine intuition. We share the same bathroom here and youre not that good at tidying up after yourself.

I put the test through the shredder, said Ina. I guess youll say something when the time is right. She assessed the expression on Clares face. Or not. Your choice, girl. Im behind you either way.

Clare ate a biscuit.
The ginger was working, so was the sugar.

Rosa Wagner called from here in Hout Bay, she said. You got a trace?

I did, said Ina. Theres no one there. Just an answering machine. Dutch couple. Summer swallows.

You checked?

Called the number in Holland, said Ina. Hes an IT consultant. Been gone since early May. Wont be back till October.

Anyone staying at the house?

No one, said Ina. Maid comes
in once a week. Security at the estate keep an eye on things. They dont know any cellists called Rosa.

Ina put the details in front of Clare.

Sylvan Estate, said Clare. Thats the estate near where the child was found this morning.

So get there already, said Ina.

Rosa Wagners not a child, said Clare. If I take this on, it just gives Cwele more ammunition against the 28s and me.

Since when
did you give a fuck about Cwele or anybody else? Ina folded her arms. Get your arse into gear. Go find that old mans granddaughter.

Razor wire, electric fences, Alsatians, armed guards in Kevlar. Sylvan Estate residents spent a lot keeping themselves in, and the poor out unless, of course, they were cleaning, or tending the manicured grounds.

The guards at the gate had their hands wrapped around
tin mugs of coffee. It was raining. They waved Clare inside; pretty white women in new cars didnt fit the profile for a stop-and-search. Not in this weather.

The houses were blank-eyed, curtains closed against the winter, their stone-clad facades forbidding. Sunbird Close was a cul-de-sac, number thirty-nine the last house. Green-roofed and white-shuttered. The original farmhouse before the land
had been developed. The house was screened by trees, and the land behind it dipped down towards the river.

Clare switched off the ignition. There were no cars outside. No movement. A
Beware of the Dog
sign, but no animal. Clare rang the doorbell and there was a pretty chime inside. Other than that, silence. The windows were closed and the curtains were drawn.

Silence pressed in around her.

She worked her way around to the back.

On the back steps of a small stoep, a saucer with a splash of milk.

The back door was closed. She tried it; the door swung inwards.

She stood inside an old-fashioned scullery. Wellingtons lined up near the door, drying racks on the counter, a washer and dryer, bits of broken glass across the floor.

Clares heart banged when, behind her, the wind blew the
back door shut.

Rosa? she called.

Silence. There were two doors, both shut. Clare opened the first one: a neat pantry. A packet of Dutch stroopwafels was open, cinnamon and sugar dusting the shelf.

She opened the next door. It led her into the kitchen. Red-and-white gingham curtains. A scrubbed wooden table, and a cooking island. All the knives in place.

The entire wall opposite was filled
with photographs of two apple-cheeked blonde children. A list of emergency numbers written in clear letters, a box of chalk on a ledge by a small blackboard.

A wall-mounted phone next to it, the receiver dangling alongside brownish streaks on the wall that bloomed into a stain on the ground. Clare strode across the kitchen, bent down. She could smell it. Blood.