that?’
‘You said that when you go to a crime scene you like to sit there a while alone or with the body. That sometimes a feeling of what happened washed over you like a warm breeze. That spooked me.’ Tamar was quiet for a second. ‘You weren’t talking about the feeling of the victim. You were talking about the killer. What you feel is what the killer leaves behind. His heart, that’s what you find. When I saw that body in the school playground it raised the hairs on the back of my neck. I had that feeling, Clare. The one you described.’
‘I wouldn’t put that down in the case file, if I were you,’ Clare laughed.
‘I won’t.’ Tamar looked tired, older than her thirty-two years. ‘Stranger killings are the hardest to solve,’ she said.
‘Hard to be a stranger in a town this size,’ said Clare. ‘Hard to keep a secret, I’d imagine.’
‘You’d be surprised how many secrets there are.’ Tamar opened the fridge. ‘I put some wine in for you. And some milk and bread.’
‘Very thoughtful,’ said Clare, walking outside with her.
‘I’ll see you at 7.00 am, then?’
Clare nodded and watched Tamar ease her bulk into the front seat of the vehicle. Within moments, the mist had swallowed her car. She was heading due east. Clare guessed that she lived in Narraville, a windswept township that had uplifted itself into a suburb. There had been a few nice gardens there, if she remembered correctly. Roses flowered in some of them, despite the desert.
eleven
Out of habit, Clare locked the front door to the cottage. It didn’t take long to put away her tracksuit, T-shirts and jeans. She hung up her black dress and put a framed photograph next to the bed. Three little girls next to a childhood swimming pool laughed up at her. Two identical in frilled white swimming costumes: Clare and Constance. The third stood in the middle: Julia, older, breasts budding in her yellow bikini top, her arms around her twin sisters. Clare always carried the photo with her.
She opened the sliding doors and stepped onto the sheltered stoep. The lawn sloped away towards the boulevard that circled a tempting five kilometres around the lagoon. Clare reckoned she still had another hour of light. She was tired, her limbs sluggish, but the nausea from the small plane lingered. She needed a run.
It was a release dropping the weight of the day with her clothes and replacing them with her tracksuit.
The lagoon stretched towards the horizon, burnished a deep copper by the setting sun. A swathe of flamingos took off in a startled flurry of pink. They whirled out to sea before banking to fly inland, stragglers trailing like the tails of a kite. A boy of about seven hurtled past Clare on his bicycle, his hair set aflame by the setting sun. He waved shyly before turning in to the yard of a dilapidated double-storey house.
The wind was picking up, carrying the ice of the Benguela current with it. The last kite-boarders were peeling off theirwetsuits and packing up their equipment. Clare was glad of her hood. The thick grey fabric cocooned her, the rhythmic thud of her feet on the ground as familiar now as her own heartbeat. For the first time since she had opened that Pandora’s box in Riedwaan’s car, her mood lifted. She ran faster, pushing the thought of him from her mind, burying it beneath the task that lay ahead of her.
Some problems are better buried. The boy on the swing, for instance; he would have been less trouble if he had been buried. To the killer, at any rate. Clare wondered what lesson had been intended.
She reached the end of the paved boulevard, but she wasn’t ready to go back to the empty cottage yet. She kept on, running past the arc of streetlights and towards the salt marshes. Beyond them, if she remembered correctly, lay the Kuiseb Delta, an area of treacherous tributaries and restless sand blowing off the dunes. She repressed an atavistic fear of the dark and pressed on into the wind, losing herself in
‘You said that when you go to a crime scene you like to sit there a while alone or with the body. That sometimes a feeling of what happened washed over you like a warm breeze. That spooked me.’ Tamar was quiet for a second. ‘You weren’t talking about the feeling of the victim. You were talking about the killer. What you feel is what the killer leaves behind. His heart, that’s what you find. When I saw that body in the school playground it raised the hairs on the back of my neck. I had that feeling, Clare. The one you described.’
‘I wouldn’t put that down in the case file, if I were you,’ Clare laughed.
‘I won’t.’ Tamar looked tired, older than her thirty-two years. ‘Stranger killings are the hardest to solve,’ she said.
‘Hard to be a stranger in a town this size,’ said Clare. ‘Hard to keep a secret, I’d imagine.’
‘You’d be surprised how many secrets there are.’ Tamar opened the fridge. ‘I put some wine in for you. And some milk and bread.’
‘Very thoughtful,’ said Clare, walking outside with her.
‘I’ll see you at 7.00 am, then?’
Clare nodded and watched Tamar ease her bulk into the front seat of the vehicle. Within moments, the mist had swallowed her car. She was heading due east. Clare guessed that she lived in Narraville, a windswept township that had uplifted itself into a suburb. There had been a few nice gardens there, if she remembered correctly. Roses flowered in some of them, despite the desert.
eleven
Out of habit, Clare locked the front door to the cottage. It didn’t take long to put away her tracksuit, T-shirts and jeans. She hung up her black dress and put a framed photograph next to the bed. Three little girls next to a childhood swimming pool laughed up at her. Two identical in frilled white swimming costumes: Clare and Constance. The third stood in the middle: Julia, older, breasts budding in her yellow bikini top, her arms around her twin sisters. Clare always carried the photo with her.
She opened the sliding doors and stepped onto the sheltered stoep. The lawn sloped away towards the boulevard that circled a tempting five kilometres around the lagoon. Clare reckoned she still had another hour of light. She was tired, her limbs sluggish, but the nausea from the small plane lingered. She needed a run.
It was a release dropping the weight of the day with her clothes and replacing them with her tracksuit.
The lagoon stretched towards the horizon, burnished a deep copper by the setting sun. A swathe of flamingos took off in a startled flurry of pink. They whirled out to sea before banking to fly inland, stragglers trailing like the tails of a kite. A boy of about seven hurtled past Clare on his bicycle, his hair set aflame by the setting sun. He waved shyly before turning in to the yard of a dilapidated double-storey house.
The wind was picking up, carrying the ice of the Benguela current with it. The last kite-boarders were peeling off theirwetsuits and packing up their equipment. Clare was glad of her hood. The thick grey fabric cocooned her, the rhythmic thud of her feet on the ground as familiar now as her own heartbeat. For the first time since she had opened that Pandora’s box in Riedwaan’s car, her mood lifted. She ran faster, pushing the thought of him from her mind, burying it beneath the task that lay ahead of her.
Some problems are better buried. The boy on the swing, for instance; he would have been less trouble if he had been buried. To the killer, at any rate. Clare wondered what lesson had been intended.
She reached the end of the paved boulevard, but she wasn’t ready to go back to the empty cottage yet. She kept on, running past the arc of streetlights and towards the salt marshes. Beyond them, if she remembered correctly, lay the Kuiseb Delta, an area of treacherous tributaries and restless sand blowing off the dunes. She repressed an atavistic fear of the dark and pressed on into the wind, losing herself in
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