she pleaded for her daughter. Clare had panned to the child’s portrait in the display cabinet: the kernel around which she would wrap her next film.
The search for the child had begun in earnest after the local police were called. The last part of her interview was done outside: the head of the Neighbourhood Watch street committee and some uniformed cops, behind them a rubbish-filled culvert, the metal grille propped open to reveal an ambiguous heap under a sack in the shadowed tunnel. The credits would run over the image of a missing green-eyedchild, framed and sealed behind glass – before the screen went black. ‘What does one more little girl mean, in a war?’ The mother’s anguished question floating in the dark.
The phone was ringing. Clare scrabbled for it, finding it under the Cape Times .
‘Hello.’
‘Dr Hart?’ The voice knotted her stomach.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got another one for you.’
‘Who found her?’
‘Kids. Playing.She’s Muslim, so I’m doing her now. Bring a pair of socks.’
The kitchen clock chimed six.
Clare put on her coat, pulling the belt tight over her hollow belly. She set the burglar alarm, locked the front door and hurried to her car. No one about, except the Congolese car guard who was her self-appointed protector. She waved at him as she joined the stream of cars heading into town. Shepushed in a CD, turning up the volume. Moby. The music so loud it drowned her thoughts. She would have just enough time for her detour if the lights were on her side.
She put her foot down and took the first set on orange.
6
‘What size are you?’ Dr Ruth Lyndall’s dark hair was cropped short. If the pathologist had put on make-up that morning, it had long since worn off.
‘Five,’ said Clare. ‘Why?’
‘I thought I might as well set you to work right away. Try these, then.’ She selected a pair of gumboots from the communal heap. ‘They’re our new director’s. She’s the same size. As stubborn as you, too, convincedthat if enough people know what’s happening to our little girls, it will stop. And Senior Superintendent Edgar Phiri signed the approval for your research this afternoon.’
‘Head of the Gang Unit?’
‘That’s your man,’ said Ruth.
‘What’s he like?’ asked Clare.
‘Reminded me of those early pictures of Mandela. Tall and honourable and saintly-looking, but looks like he knows how to fighthis way out of a corner.’
‘He must stand out in the police force.’
‘Phiri’s unit gets things done, and that has pissed off some senior people. Don’t be too hard on the cops. Phiri’s approved your research.’
‘All of it?’
‘All of it,’ said the pathologist. ‘That’s why you’re trying on the new boots. You’re going to be attending more autopsies than you can imagine.’
Clare tookoff her heels and pulled on some socks. She pushed her feet into the white boots and pulled a green hospital gown over her evening dress.
‘Let me help you.’
Ruth Lyndall took the belt, looping it twice. She rested her hands on Clare’s narrow waist, her face next to Clare’s in the mirror. Forty-three. Ten years older than Clare. Ten years wiser.
‘You’re running on empty, Clare.’
‘I’m just running.’
‘It won’t fix things.’
‘It might fix me.’ She took a mask and unclipped the perspex eye shield, throwing it into the bin.
‘You won’t be needing that?’
‘I won’t be staying for the blood splatter,’ said Clare.
‘I didn’t think so, dressed like that,’ she smiled. ‘A date?’
‘The gala ballet I’m hosting.’
‘ Persephone . Of course. Your fundraising thing.’
‘Finding missing girls, helping them heal, returning them to their mothers.’
‘It’s not going to help the little one on the slab. She’s with Hades for good.’
‘Does she have a name?’ asked Clare.
‘A weggooi kind like this?’ Ruth’s voice was bitter. ‘Even a throwaway child has a name. Look in the docket there.
The search for the child had begun in earnest after the local police were called. The last part of her interview was done outside: the head of the Neighbourhood Watch street committee and some uniformed cops, behind them a rubbish-filled culvert, the metal grille propped open to reveal an ambiguous heap under a sack in the shadowed tunnel. The credits would run over the image of a missing green-eyedchild, framed and sealed behind glass – before the screen went black. ‘What does one more little girl mean, in a war?’ The mother’s anguished question floating in the dark.
The phone was ringing. Clare scrabbled for it, finding it under the Cape Times .
‘Hello.’
‘Dr Hart?’ The voice knotted her stomach.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got another one for you.’
‘Who found her?’
‘Kids. Playing.She’s Muslim, so I’m doing her now. Bring a pair of socks.’
The kitchen clock chimed six.
Clare put on her coat, pulling the belt tight over her hollow belly. She set the burglar alarm, locked the front door and hurried to her car. No one about, except the Congolese car guard who was her self-appointed protector. She waved at him as she joined the stream of cars heading into town. Shepushed in a CD, turning up the volume. Moby. The music so loud it drowned her thoughts. She would have just enough time for her detour if the lights were on her side.
She put her foot down and took the first set on orange.
6
‘What size are you?’ Dr Ruth Lyndall’s dark hair was cropped short. If the pathologist had put on make-up that morning, it had long since worn off.
‘Five,’ said Clare. ‘Why?’
‘I thought I might as well set you to work right away. Try these, then.’ She selected a pair of gumboots from the communal heap. ‘They’re our new director’s. She’s the same size. As stubborn as you, too, convincedthat if enough people know what’s happening to our little girls, it will stop. And Senior Superintendent Edgar Phiri signed the approval for your research this afternoon.’
‘Head of the Gang Unit?’
‘That’s your man,’ said Ruth.
‘What’s he like?’ asked Clare.
‘Reminded me of those early pictures of Mandela. Tall and honourable and saintly-looking, but looks like he knows how to fighthis way out of a corner.’
‘He must stand out in the police force.’
‘Phiri’s unit gets things done, and that has pissed off some senior people. Don’t be too hard on the cops. Phiri’s approved your research.’
‘All of it?’
‘All of it,’ said the pathologist. ‘That’s why you’re trying on the new boots. You’re going to be attending more autopsies than you can imagine.’
Clare tookoff her heels and pulled on some socks. She pushed her feet into the white boots and pulled a green hospital gown over her evening dress.
‘Let me help you.’
Ruth Lyndall took the belt, looping it twice. She rested her hands on Clare’s narrow waist, her face next to Clare’s in the mirror. Forty-three. Ten years older than Clare. Ten years wiser.
‘You’re running on empty, Clare.’
‘I’m just running.’
‘It won’t fix things.’
‘It might fix me.’ She took a mask and unclipped the perspex eye shield, throwing it into the bin.
‘You won’t be needing that?’
‘I won’t be staying for the blood splatter,’ said Clare.
‘I didn’t think so, dressed like that,’ she smiled. ‘A date?’
‘The gala ballet I’m hosting.’
‘ Persephone . Of course. Your fundraising thing.’
‘Finding missing girls, helping them heal, returning them to their mothers.’
‘It’s not going to help the little one on the slab. She’s with Hades for good.’
‘Does she have a name?’ asked Clare.
‘A weggooi kind like this?’ Ruth’s voice was bitter. ‘Even a throwaway child has a name. Look in the docket there.
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