Free Like Clockwork by Margie Orford Page B

strict limits to what can be built there,’ Clare said.
    ‘Be careful,’ said Marcus. ‘Otis Tohar is very well connected.’
    ‘That’s no problem.’ Clare had dealt with corrupt politicians often enough not to fear them. ‘I’ve been invited to the launch with the rest of the press. It should be worth it.’
    ‘It’ll be interesting to see who’s there,’ said Marcus. ‘I’ve also heard that he is in the pocket of some very powerful people who are not concerned about what the press says about them.’
    Clare remembered the guard’s cuff of blue prison-gang tattoos, revealed when he had leashed his dog. ‘Who?’ she asked.
    Marcus held his hands up. ‘This is third-hand, but I have heard that Kelvin Landman has helped him with a couple of cash-flow tight spots. That advertising producer, King I think is his name, has apparently also invested. Must have money to burn. Or launder. The construction business is a brilliant way of getting dirty money clean. So much cash, so many costs, so many places to hide the money and then pop it out later as legitimate profit.’
    ‘Not a pleasant combination,’ said Clare. ‘Kelvin Landmanturns up all over the place. He’s the guy I have been angling to interview for my new documentary.’
    ‘Who wants pudding?’ asked Julie, adding a log to the fire to dispel the sudden chill in the room.
    ‘I’ll get it,’ said Imogen, getting up.
    ‘Come, I’ll help you,’ said Clare, gathering their plates. They walked though to the kitchen together. Clare stacked the dishwasher while Imogen set bowls, spoons and Julie’s lemon ice cream on a tray.
    ‘My friend knew her,’ said Imogen.
    ‘Who, darling?’ asked Clare, rinsing glasses in the sink. Imogen didn’t reply. ‘Who knew who?’
    ‘That girl they found near you.’ Clare looked up. Imogen was watching her. ‘My friend Frances knew her. The police came to speak to Frances. That guy we met once. He came.’
    ‘Riedwaan?’ said Clare.
    ‘
Ja
, him. And a woman. Rita someone. Frances had to make a whole statement.’
    ‘How did your friend know Charnay?’ Clare asked.
    ‘She didn’t know her well, but she’d seen her at the Chili Club and once or twice at Dolce’s at the Waterfront.’ In fact, Clare had picked Imogen up from both places before. ‘Frances says she saw her last week,’ said Imogen. ‘She was sitting at a table next to hers at Dolce’s. I had flu so I couldn’t go out. Frances says she was boasting that she would soon be a star. And that we should all get her autograph now because she was going to be the next Charlize.’
    ‘Why did she say that?’ asked Clare.
    ‘I don’t know. Maybe she had finally got a part. She was always going to auditions. Frances says she ignored her.’ Her face was pale, the set of her mouth adult beyond her sixteen years.
    ‘Did anything else happen?’ asked Clare.
    ‘Nothing,’ said Imogen. ‘She went to see a movie.’
    ‘What time was that?’ asked Clare.
    ‘It must have been a quarter to eight,’ said Imogen. ‘For the eight o’clock show. So, yes, a quarter to eight.’ She picked up the dessert tray. She paused at the kitchen door. ‘That was the night she disappeared, wasn’t it?’
    Clare nodded.
    ‘So where was she all that time before she died?’
    Clare looked at Imogen. She was no longer a child. Imogen might even have some idea of what the dead girl had endured in the days before she died. Clare shook her head. ‘I have no idea yet.’
    ‘She was a pain, that girl,’ said Imogen, pushing through the swing door. ‘But she didn’t deserve what she got.’
    ‘Who does?’ said Clare to the door, which had swung closed behind Imogen.
    Clare followed her back to the fire but she found it difficult to settle down. She couldn’t finish her dessert. She felt tired and she suddenly needed to be alone.
    ‘I think I’ll be on my way,’ said Clare, standing up. She carried a tray of glasses through to the kitchen.
    ‘Don’t