Gallows Hill (35 page)

‘Hello, Pedro here.’

‘Faizal.’

A pause.

‘You seen Clare?’ Riedwaan asked. Casual.

‘Yes, she was here at the exhibition.’

‘How long since you saw her?’

‘Half an hour ago,’ said Da Silva, ‘maybe more. She was looking for Lilith.’

Heart rate, pulse, blood pressure – up. Zero
to panic. The acceleration instantaneous. ‘She’s not picking up her phone,’ said Riedwaan.

‘Say that again? It’s very loud in here.’

‘Look for her, Da Silva, find her,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Stay with her, whether she likes it or not.’

‘I’ll try,’ he said. ‘But she’s not a woman to argue with.’

‘She’s not a woman to lose either,’ said Riedwaan.

‘You don’t need to tell me that,’ said
Da Silva.

The drive from the Flats to Woodstock seemed interminable. Once there, the veneer of gentrification seemed as thin as a soap opera’s plot. Cars everywhere, car guards keeping an eye on things.

Pedro was waiting for him outside.

‘No sign of her,’ he said. ‘Someone says they saw her leaving.’

There was no sign of her car either. Riedwaan closed his mind to the thought of
rubbish-clogged alleyways. He’d found too many women in places like that.

‘Any idea where she went?’

‘She was looking for Lilith le Roux,’ said Da Silva. ‘It’s her show, you know, but she’s not around either.’

The chill in Riedwaan’s voice transformed into ice in his chest.

‘You know where she lives?’

‘Up on Signal Hill,’ said Pedro. ‘Near the quarry.’

Riedwaan took off.
Signal Hill, on the periphery of the Bo-Kaap, was a place he’d known better than the lines on his mother’s face when he was a boy.

If Clare was there, he’d find her.

‘I knew you’d come here.’ The man in the doorway switched on the light. He was holding a Glock. ‘I don’t suppose I need to spell out what I’ll do if you make a sudden movement.’

‘No,’ Clare said. ‘You don’t.’

That white Namibian plain. The bone-white land. Basson in the Bedford with conscripts. All but one bare-chested. An angled face, with dark hair. Aloof.

Gilles Osman.

‘The gun you’ve got under your shirt,’ he said. ‘Put it down.’

Clare did not move.

‘I can see it,’ he said, training his gun at Lilith. ‘Do what I say.’

‘She’s alive still,’ said Clare.

‘You understand English,’ he said. ‘Do what I tell you.’

Clare obeyed him.

Osman picked up her gun.

‘Call the medics,’ she pleaded.

‘Too late for that,’ he said, aiming at her
once more. ‘And you’re the one who pushed it. If you’d left everything in peace at Gallows Hill this would never have happened. Lilith would be fucking the latest girl on the art scene, and tomorrow’s papers would be full of her fabulous exhibition.’

‘Like her mother,’ said Clare.

‘Stupid woman.’ His elegant fingers tightened on the trigger. ‘Thanks for finding my missing paperwork, by
the way. So helpful you’ve been, tying up loose ends.’

‘You don’t have a silencer,’ said Clare. ‘Makes a lot more noise than a knife. Or a rock, for that matter.’

‘Move away from her.’ Osman stepped towards Clare. She stood her ground.

‘There’s no chance you’ll get away with this. So save her, save yourself,’ she said.

‘You let me worry about salvation.’ He pointed at Lilith. ‘You,
her. This time, at least, there’s no child to worry about. She was so light, I put her in a crate marked Fragile.’

His smile turned Clare’s stomach.

‘You’d worked it all out,’ said Clare. ‘Easy, seeing how close you were to the security police. That’s what Suzanne figured out, you and your cosy arrangement with Jacques Basson.’

‘She wouldn’t see reason, but it didn’t matter in the
end. I’ve always been lucky, you see. There was already a crate, and the foundations had been dug at our storeroom at Gallows Hill. Come Monday morning, the concrete would be thrown. Twenty minutes was all it took, and we had the thing in the hole.’

‘We?’ said Clare.

Gilles Osman smiled, so pleased with his own cleverness he did not notice her interruption. ‘Our business really took off
after that. And then little Lilith emerged onto the art school circuit. A windfall from a risky investment.’

‘You were a spy for him, weren’t you, Osman?’ said Clare. ‘That’ll damage your reputation far more than a bit of long-ago smuggling. Ruin it, in fact.’

‘Don’t you talk to me like that. Cunt.’

‘Just one scratch, and the mask peels away,’ said Clare.

Osman’s knuckles whitened
as he tightened his grip on the Glock.

‘Jacques Basson had to clean up for you, didn’t he?’ she taunted. It was a gamble, but Clare needed him off-guard. ‘Just like he looked after you in that hillbilly town you came from. Like he looked after you in the army. You owed him, then, so you sold him information, let him use your gallery as a front. But this messy business with Suzanne meant that
you owed him for ever. He owns you, no matter how many elocution lessons you took, no matter how many smart cars you bought yourself. You’re still his lapdog. And you’re still paying for it, aren’t you? He’s owned you since then, body and soul – if you ever had one of those. That’s what Lilith was saying in her installation tonight, by including Suzanne’s painting. For all the world to see. For
you and me to understand.’

The edge.

Clare had pushed him there. His handsome face was distorted with rage. When he came for her, she brought her knee up hard. She got him on target.

But not quite hard enough. He doubled over, but his gun was still in his hand. Clare dashed towards the stairs, but not fast enough. The butt of the gun hit the side of her head.

She crawled away,
but he caught her scarf, snapping her head back. She could see the door behind him, open, the stairs beckoning.

He hit her again.

He had hit her too hard. She was light, but awkward to carry, just like the other one. He had to cradle her in his arms, as one does a child or a beloved. It was uncomfortable. But he did it, her head lolling against his chest. He got her into the chair and
tied her hands behind her back. He rinsed his hands in the basin, rubbing his knuckles where the skin had split open her face. The blood that tinged the water disappeared down the drain.

He threw water into her face. Clare came to, rage and pain flashing in her eyes.

He had tied her ankles. Panic would not help, she knew that. She tried to calm the heart that hammered in her chest. She
moved her hands, gently working the rope around her wrists. It bit into her skin, sharp as a vixen’s teeth.

‘Are you going to be a good girl now?’ He took a seat across from her at the table.

‘Fuck off,’ said Clare.

‘The doors are locked. The windows closed. It’s dark outside. And no one knows where you are, do they?’

‘Like I said before, fuck off.’

‘We’re alone here, unless
you count that,’ he nodded towards Lilith.

‘It would have been better if she’d been a good girl and stayed in bed that night, wouldn’t it? It would have been even better if you had stayed out of this, like you were told.’

Clare shook her head.

‘You will give me exactly what I want. If you don’t, the only person who will pay for it is you. As you can see, our mutual friend paid dearly.’

Lilith moaned. Outside, the wind picked up, herding debris ahead of it. Somewhere it picked up a metal sheet. The din did not quite synchronise with another sound – the click of the kitchen door opening.

‘Why did you do that to her?’ Clare demanded, a frantic edge to her voice.

‘That was you, my dear,’ he said. ‘It was you who forced open the past, brought it flooding back into the
present. It breached her defences, as you can see, and drowned her.’

‘What do you want? Just please call an ambulance.’

‘You found some documents, I think,’ he said. ‘They were mine. Ours, in fact. I’d like them back.’

‘You’d kill two women for that?’

‘Three, if you count yourself,’ he said. ‘Now, I want them. And you have them. I will work on you slowly, make you into a living
work of art. And in the end, of course, you will tell me, Dr Hart.’

He leaned forward.

The hair on Clare’s arms prickled at his proximity.

‘She couldn’t leave things that were not her business. Just likeyou. Lilith was fine until you came and stirred. Before, all she reallydid was make art.’

‘That’s exactly where the evidence was,’ said Clare. ‘It was all there, hidden in plain
sight. There’s a lot of space in a frame, inside a sculpture, in a fake crate. I can see it. Army-poached ivory and rhino horns on the way out, and on the way back, Mandrax for the Special Branch to distribute on the Cape Flats. All neatly laundered through your art business.’

‘That was long ago,’ said Osman, ‘But you’ve stirred up a hornets’ nest with this. And you’re going to pay.’

‘We’re all paying your debts,’ said Clare. ‘We live with both wars still – poachers in Mpumalanga, and a tsunami of tik here in the Cape.’

‘Clever girl,’ he said. ‘South Africa always caught onto things rather late. So, by the end of the 80s, even Cape Town had caught on. There was a gap in the market. I’m a methodical man. And I’m not given to idle threats.’

‘So why am I alive, still?’
asked Clare. ‘Who are you waiting for?’

Osman’s attention switched to the door as it opened.

‘Basson,’ Clare whispered.

‘Put your gun away,’ said Basson. ‘I told you: get the evidence then get the bitch out of here.’

‘It’s too risky,’ said Osman. ‘There’s a fire, and the place will be crawling with people.’

‘Bullshit, man.’ Basson was pale with rage. ‘Fire’s way off still,
and fucking Dlamini didn’t phone.’

‘So, where’s her boyfriend then?’

‘Good fucking question,’ said Basson.

‘You said he’d sort her out last night,’ said Osman. ‘That didn’t happen.’

‘I’ll sort him out,’ said Basson. ‘You take care of your business now. You’ve got half an hour, max. So do it. You want to walk around Green Point with a gun, like you’re some fucking moffie John Wayne?’

‘So, you underestimated Riedwaan Faizal?’ Clare hazarded a guess.

Basson looped a dog leash around her neck. A choke chain. Pulled it tight. She took that as a yes. When he had her to heel, he patted her down. Found the scriber and sent it skittering across the floor, her hope of survival going with it.

In his hand a knife, silver and sharp as the new moon. It cut through the rope around
her wrists, nicking her skin.

‘You talk. You move. I’ll kill you.’

Basson gave a tug.

Clare slipped a finger between the chain and her throat.

‘Merle Osman,’ Clare whispered, ‘she’s the one who called you?’

‘She did,’ said Basson.

‘She called you 23 years ago too, didn’t she?’ said Clare. ‘The three of you, you did it together.’

‘Gilles got the looks,’ said Basson.
‘His big sister got the brains. But vol fiemies as he is, he’s going to do his own cleaning up this time, isn’t he?’

‘The whole raid was fake,’ said Clare. She turned to Osman. ‘You’d already killed her, hadn’t you?’

‘A bit late now,’ said Basson, handing the leash to Osman. ‘Take her away.’

The metal bit into Clare’s skin, obstructing her breathing. Osman pulled her down the stairs.
He stopped to open the door, and the chain went slack. Clare slipped her fingers under it and felt her breath flow again as her lungs expanded.

He yanked her, and she followed him through the tangled garden and up onto Signal Hill. Gilles Osman’s lean frame was silhouetted against a sky burnished by the fire on Lion’s Head. The line of trees, branches etched like witches’ arms against the
sky, screened them from view.

‘It won’t save you, you know.’ Clare spoke to Osman ahead of her. ‘All that evidence that Suzanne collected, the evidence you’ve searched for all this time, she found it. Lilith found it,’ she said. ‘You’ll be exposed for what you are.’

‘You’re playing for time, Dr Hart,’ said Osman, ‘and it’s not going to work, you know.’

‘She found all the transactions.’
Clare began to spin a story that had by now become clear to her. ‘And so did I. And right now they are with the police.’

‘The police,’ Osman said. ‘Don’t make me laugh. The police are cheaper than a Woodstock street whore. Just a hundred bucks and you get whatever you want.’

He tugged the leash, and Clare trotted after him again. Right then, she had no choice.

The sweep of Table Bay was spectacular, the lights along the shoreline shimmering, but Riedwaan had his back to the view. Staying out of sight, he took a track between the gum trees. The darkness below was thick, a presence in itself. The flames on Lion’s Head had leapt across the granite cliffs and were roaring towards Signal Hill, goaded by the wind.

Riedwaan found his way down to
Carreg Crescent. Number three was the last house in the cul-de-sac. There were no lights, and nor were there any cars in the street. He wondered if he’d miscalculated. He pushed open the gateand made his way to the back of the house. Someone had recentlybeen there. Broken twigs, leaves pushed aside. He stepped onto the porch.

The door was shut, but not latched. Riedwaan pushed it open.

No movement.

No sound.

Nothing but the roar of the wind outside.

He stepped into the kitchen.

Photographs were strewn across the floor. He picked one up. The sight of the beautiful, blinded girl was chilling.

Riedwaan scanned the floor. A trapdoor handle. Below it, the smell of clay and damp, but apart from a squabble of rats, the space was empty. He dropped the door and moved
through the house. Bedrooms, bathroom, empty room, stairs. A rectangle of grey light beckoned.

Riedwaan climbed the stairs, pushed the door at the top open with his foot, and took in the upturned chairs, the mess on the floor. The blood.

The tumble of blonde hair.

There she was, covered in an old curtain. Riedwaan was acrossthe room and at her side before he realised it wasn’t Clare.
He tiltedthe girl’s blue-white face. He whipped off the cover, saw the blood-soaked fabric around both wrists.