‘Okay, but how can I help you?’ asked Imogen.
‘All I’ve got to go on is a label – attached to what seems to have been an evening dress.’
‘Which the woman had been wearing?’
‘Yes. Take a look,’ Clare took out her laptop and showed Imogen pictures of a dirty label dangling from a seam alongside a rusted zip. ‘See, there’s metal thread in the stitching of the label.’
‘A double V,’ said Imogen. ‘I don’t know it. But mail it to me now – we’ll soon see if there’s anyone who recognises it.’
Imogen opened the files as they pinged into her laptop, then she fired off a series of posts. She poured the coffee and put some shortbread onto a tray with her computer.
‘Come and sit in the garden,’ she said. ‘This will take a little time.’ She saw Clare hesitate.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘You could do with a swim. You’re filthy.’
‘You’re right,’ said Clare. Closing her laptop, she got up, grabbed a bikini from the bathroom, and plunged into the pool outside. The icy water took her breath away, but it washed away the grime of the building site and erased for a moment the image of the skeleton curled in the coffin.
‘Here you go.’ Imogen had checked her
Facebook page. ‘V V.’
‘That was quick,’ said Clare, pulling herself out of the water.
‘Social networking. Someone always knows someone who knows someone…’
‘Okay, okay, make me feel old.’ Clare wrapped a towel around herself.
‘Clare, duh, you’re over thirty. You
are
old!’
‘I won’t argue with that,’ said Clare.
‘V V is an Amsterdam designer,’ read Imogen. ‘The initials stand
for Vincent van Kleef. His actual name, apparently. A cult label, it says here. Loved by designers and artists. He did collections early on, but then stopped. He’s still working, but only has private clients. He only ever had two boutiques, both in Amsterdam. He never exported. Part of his cachet. You had to go to him to buy his stuff.’
‘Did your friend send contact details?’
‘Of course.
There’s a website.’ Then she rattled off an email and a Skype address. ‘Here’s a phone number too. Call him now.’
Clare dialled the number, the link she had to Amsterdam tenuous, to say the least. It took a detailed explanation and a lot of charm to get past a defensive assistant. Soon enough, though, Clare was introducing herself to Vincent van Kleef.
‘The late 80s is what I’m interested
in,’ said Clare.
‘These days, everybody is, darling.’ His voice was ageless, botoxed, if that were possible. ‘Power dressing, big hair, colour blocking. It’s all coming back. Of course, the originals are still the best. I was quite established back then,’ he said. ‘I’d already made a name for myself. First collection 1985.
Vogue
featured that, so I was on the map.’
‘Did you ever export
to South Africa?’
‘No, darling, of course not,’ he said. ‘Don’t you remember sanctions? We were all very political in those days.’
‘Did you know any South Africans?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I did. The white ones that came here to avoid the army.’
‘Any women?’ asked Clare.
Silence.
‘Why are you asking? This is not about forged labels, is it?’
‘I’m trying to identify human remains,’
said Clare. ‘A young woman. She was murdered. Her skeleton was found today. There’s no way at all of identifying her. Except for the remnants of the dress she was wearing. Your label was on it.’
A longer silence.
‘What colour was the dress?’
‘I’d say it was green,’ said Clare. ‘Possibly silk.’
‘If it was mine, of course silk,’ he said. ‘Green. Such a colour. Must have been ’87.
Summer. That would’ve been my third collection. Blue, red, then green.’
‘I don’t imagine you have any records for then?’
‘No sales records. I was selling out of my studio those years.’ A pause. ‘Do you know what she looked like? If she bought my clothes, I will know her.’
‘She’s been dead for more than twenty years,’ said Clare. ‘There was nothing left of her but bones.’
The designer
was silent, behind him the muffled sounds of his Amsterdam apartment.
‘I used to take polaroids of everyone who bought my frocks. If she bought it from me, here in Amsterdam, there’ll be a picture of her in my archive. I keep everything. If you know what she looked like, we could find her among them, I’m sure.’
‘If I could conjure up her face for you, I’d send it.’
‘I’m sorry not to
have been able to help,’ he said. ‘Terrible to think of her, a young woman, lost like that.’
Clare thanked him and stood silent a while.
‘No good?’ asked Imogen.
‘Not yet,’ said Clare. ‘Not if I don’t know what she looked like.’ Clare finished her coffee. ‘Thanks, though, darling.’
‘Where are you off to now?’ asked Imogen, following Clare back into the house.
‘A shoot,’ said
Clare. ‘New film.’ She pulled her clothes back on.
‘Oh?’ said Imogen. ‘Who’re you working with?’
‘Pedro da Silva,’ said Clare.
‘
The
Pedro da Silva?’ Imogen arched an eyebrow. ‘What does Riedwaan think?’
‘He hasn’t said.’
‘You haven’t told him yet, have you?’ Imogen had the same dark eyes, the same perceptive gaze as her mother. She saw straight through Clare.
‘Nothing to
tell,’ said Clare, unlocking her car.
‘Ja, right.’ Imogen leaned in at her car window. ‘And by the way, this doesn’t count as a family reunion, Clare.’
‘I know. Darling, I’ve got to go. And thanks. See you soon.’
‘Yes. Valentine’s Day,’ said Imogen. ‘Picnic in the garden. Come along, bring Riedwaan. And wear red.’
Specialist Detective Services was situated behind the Waterfront. Riedwaan flashed his ID at the constable on duty and headed towards his office. The windows had been tinted, but still the February sun streamed in, no match for the air conditioning.
‘Faizal.’ Major Phiri strode down the passage, his years as a soldier detectable in his gait.
‘Boss,’ said Riedwaan.
‘These skeletons
in Green Point.’ Phiri’s large, lean frame filled the doorway. ‘I’ve just had our new minister on the line. Parliament is opening in a few days. The press is after him because the rape and murder rates won’t drop. He’s questioning the resources going to this case. Says we have to be strategic in our spend.’
‘Politics.’ Riedwaan shook his head. ‘I’d make a better ballet dancer than a fucking
politician. Excuse my language, sir.’
Phiri was a staunch Methodist. He didn’t drink, he didn’t swear. As far as anyone knew, he didn’t fornicate either.
‘Apology accepted, Captain,’ said Phiri.
‘The minister might be sensitive, but one of the skeletons is more recent. A police case. I can’t make it go away,’ said Riedwaan. ‘It’ll take time and luck to find out who she was.’
‘Or
intelligence,’ said Phiri. ‘I hear you put Clare Hart onto it.’
It had taken Phiri time to warm to Clare, to accept her expertise, to tune in to her intuitive intelligence. But the last case Clare had worked on had brought Riedwaan’s commanding officer around.
‘Make sure she has the access she needs,’ said Phiri. ‘I had a call this morning. Someone who said he was head of security for
the developer. He’s lodging a complaint against you.’
‘Waleed Williams,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Started out doing Woodstock, moved on to Long Street when the tourists started coming. Small-time protection, extortion, debt collection. Spent time in jail. Met all the right people while he was there. He’s now moved into the big-time.’
‘Watch yourself, Faizal,’ warned Phiri. ‘Watch your temper. Play
by the rules. If you don’t know what they are, read the handbook.’
‘I’m sure I have a copy somewhere, sir.’
‘Good,’ said Phiri. ‘For now, it’s still a crime scene. But the politicians are hovering. Not everyone is concerned with the past. You were at the meeting last week when we were told that the opening of Parliament was to be smooth. Clean slate, new year, no embarrassing stories breaking
in Cape Town.’
‘I could make some suggestions,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Less bling, fewer wives, and no non-family members getting mining concessions. All that would help.’
‘Indeed, Faizal,’ said Phiri. ‘But try to keep a lid on this.’
Riedwaan watched as a few gulls fought over a crust of bread. The largest bird wrestled the scrap away from the smaller ones. Then it flew off, in triumph.
There was a lesson there that Riedwaan was not in the mood to figure out.
He dialled Goodman Langa’s number. Ex-cop. Private investigations now. Insurance claims, mainly. Arson, road accidents, suspicious hijackings. In his spare time Langa kept an eye on organised crime. Six rings, and he picked up.
‘Faizal.’ Langa’s deep bass. ‘You still in the police force?’ he asked.
‘It’s why
I’m phoning,’ said Riedwaan.
‘Nothing changes,’ said Langa. ‘You going to tell me why you’re interrupting my bunny chow?’
‘You’re going to kill yourself eating that shit, Langa,’ said Riedwaan. ‘What about your cholesterol?’
‘Don’t know him,’ said Langa. ‘Doesn’t operate in Jo’burg. Now tell me what you want.’
‘Waleed Williams,’ said Riedwaan. ‘What’s he been up to?’
‘I just
saw the news,’ said Langa. ‘Williams looking windswept – but sharp. Saying dark forces were conspiring against black economic empowerment. Now you call me, I understand what he meant by dark force.’
‘You got names?’
‘Aaron Mtimbe,’ said Langa.
‘I know that name. Party royalty?’
‘Too young. He was born ten years before Mandela was released from jail. He missed the struggle, he missed
matric, but he has a talent for secrecy and violence.’
‘Useful,’ said Riedwaan.
‘More useful is that he knows what powerful men desire, and he supplies it. Girls, boys, money, prestige. Only problem is, he uses those secrets if he needs to. I hadn’t heard of him till 18 months ago,’ said Langa. ‘But as you know, I’ve drifted far from the corridors of power.’
‘A sign of integrity, that,’
Riedwaan said. ‘Where’s he from?’
‘Mpumalanga,’ said Langa. ‘A village somewhere near the Kruger Park. It wasn’t on a map then, and I doubt it is now. But he runs the province. Not one tender is awarded unless he gives it the nod. And his nods cost. So does refusing him. Three councillors decided to follow correct tender procedure, and all their wives ended up cashing in their funeral policies.’
‘Government and business,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Hard to tell these days where one ends and the other begins.’
‘You said it,’ said Langa.
‘Just work out what Waleed Williams has got to do with all these government tender millionaires, and you’ll unravel the property deals in Green Point.’
‘Partners,’ said Langa. ‘You can’t do business without muscle. Judging by his assets, he’s flourished
in Johannesburg. What’s he doing down south?’
‘Providing security for a development,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Right in the middle of Green Point. No tenders, no sale. Just bulldozers and a plan.’
Langa grunted.
‘Some lawyers too,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Tshablala, Malan. You know them?’
‘Legal lubricants,’ said Langa. ‘Get people in and out of tight spots. Now let me eat, before my food’s cold.’
The door to Riedwaan’s office was open. Sergeant Rita Mkhize was at her desk. It was awash in a sea of doodles – scraps that she insisted helped her to think. Like thinking aloud, but on paper. Too much going on in her head for her to keep it all there. Especially with her iPod so loud, he could hear the bass.
‘Morning, Captain,’ she said, removing the ear buds. She was skinny and smart,
no bigger than a 12-year-old. It was easy to underestimate her. Riedwaan had seen men do so and live to regret it. She hadn’t earned her karate black belt at 16 for show.
‘Mkhize,’ he said. ‘You and I are going to visit the Deeds Office to see what they’ve got. But first I want everything on that site,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Transactions, shareholders, correspondence. Anything they’ve got.’
Rita opened her laptop and did a search.
‘Mpumalanga Holdings,’ Rita read out. She looked up at Riedwaan. ‘They’re out in Mpumalanga, where business and politics have disappeared so far up each other’s backsides that no one can tell them apart any more. They’re the money behind this Gallows Hill development. Something called The Onyx is planned. Black glass. Fuck-you architecture.’
‘Where
did you get this so quickly?’
‘Google,’ said Rita. ‘It’s so simple. You type in the name you want – it’ll even correct your spelling – then you press go.’
‘Mkhize,’ warned Riedwaan. ‘With our new military ranks, that counts as insubordination.’
She grinned. ‘Sorry, Captain.’
Riedwaan skimmed the documents.
‘Valuable land,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Deal done, just like that. No warning,
no notice. Just the land transferred. Barely left a ripple in the records.’
He scrolled down.
‘You know who did the transfer?’
She angled the screen towards herself.
‘Very little paperwork,’ said Rita. ‘Not many names. A lawyer in Jo’burg did this. Name’s Malan.’
‘You got a list of directors?’ he asked.
‘Companies register,’ she said, her fingers flying across the keyboard.
‘Here.’ She turned the screen around.
Riedwaan read the list.
‘Children of MPs, spouses, a brother-in-law. It’s like a whole extended family as your board of directors,’ said Rita. ‘You could just have your AGM at your Christmas party. Save on the catering.’
‘Aaron Mtimbe,’ said Riedwaan. ‘There was a drug bust last year. Big one. Tik and abalone. The whole case went very quiet, now
that I think about it.’
‘How was Mtimbe involved?’
‘Phone record,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Landline in Mpumalanga, it appeared on the surveillance. Overlapped with a gang case I was working on. His was the name attached to the number.’
‘Is there nothing you don’t remember?’ Rita sighed.
‘Birthdays,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Wedding anniversaries.’
Rita typed the details Riedwaan had given her
into her laptop.
‘There’s nothing in the system,’ said Rita, turning the screen around. ‘The whole thing has gone. Dockets, case numbers, witnesses, the lot.’