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 packetand 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 comesin 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 whendid 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 aroundtin 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 landhad 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 theback 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 filledwith 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.
She stood up, the familiar crawlin her marrow. She had learned to pay it attention.
A solid oak door led from the kitchen into the house. She tried it, but it was locked.
Rosa, Clare shouted.
Clare stared at Ina.
Your secrets safe until you give it away, said Ina.
How did you guess?
I didnt, said Ina, opening the packetand 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 comesin 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 whendid 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 aroundtin 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 landhad 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 theback 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 filledwith 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.
She stood up, the familiar crawlin her marrow. She had learned to pay it attention.
A solid oak door led from the kitchen into the house. She tried it, but it was locked.
Rosa, Clare shouted.
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