Free Daddy's Girl by Margie Orford

you, congratulate. They want their pound of flesh, remember, for all the money they’ve donated to your cause.’
    ‘Let go of me, Giles,’ Clare lowered her voice. ‘You’re hurting me.’
    ‘It really would be worth your while.’ He leaned closer.
    ‘The final cut for tomorrow’s programme’s been approved,’ she said. ‘And I needto start on the next one early tomorrow. You’ll excuse me.’
    She fetched her coat, one eye on Giles Reid bearing down on the prettiest dancer. So English, so charming – until you crossed him. She leaned her head on the steering wheel for a second, letting the silence wash over her. Her ears were buzzing with music, people, talk. She drove home, longing for her crisp white sheets.
    It waslate, and Beach Road was empty. She saw Fritz silhouetted at her bedroom window, watching. A ragged mist was rolling in, the foghorn wailing its plaintive warning. Clare parked on the street, too tired to get out and open her garage.
    It was only when she was already out of the car that the man appeared from the shadows of the half-constructed wall nearby. His hands were deep in his pockets,his jacket pulled close around his lean body. He had been waiting for her for a while; at his feet were several cigarette butts.
    She clenched her fist around her keys, the longest one protruding between her second and third fingers, a weapon.
    He was in front of her, taller than she was – but at five foot four, most people were. There was nobody else on the Promenade.
    ‘Dr Hart?’
    Play for time.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
    He was reading her wariness, trying to put her at ease. His hands were at his side, empty, but he had blocked her path.
    ‘What do you want?’
    He handed her an ID. Captain Riedwaan Faizal. It felt warm from being against his body. Something familiar in the photo of his face, black hair growing straight up, full mouth, linesthat said there’d been laughter in his eyes. She glanced up at him. There was none now.
    ‘I remember you.’ She handed it back to him. ‘My lecture. Profiling sexual predators.’ The man at the back of the classroom, his head at an angle. Sceptical. Asking questions that had disconcerted her, seeing past the surface of what she was saying. Past her suit, the white shirt, the mask of a professionalwoman in a man’s domain. She handed his badge back.
    ‘I… yes. Last year.’ His voice caught in his throat. ‘You might have heard the news. The little girl…’
    On her way home last night, the newsreader’s voice. ‘Missing. Six. Dark hair tied in a ballet bun.’ That’s when Clare had muted the radio, not wanting to think about Chanel Adams, pinned like a butterfly to the board in her study – justlike the others.
    ‘My daughter.’
    ‘What do you want from me?’ Her guard down.
    ‘You’re going to help me find her.’ His hand around her wrist.
    ‘I can’t.’ She gripped the key tightly between her fingers. ‘All you’ll do is make things worse. The cops will find her. You’re one of their own.’
    Clare had her back to the wall. His fingers were around her wrist. His other hand was againstthe wall next to her face, his feet were planted on either side of hers, trapping her knees between his. She could feel the heat of his body, his arm close to her face. Her alternatives: knee him quick and fast, or jab a key into his eye.
    ‘Why don’t you let me go?’ There was sometimes a third way. ‘And can we talk about it.’
    He released her. ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘Why me?’ Clare didn’t relaxher grip on the keys. ‘In the middle of the night?’
    ‘Rita Mkhize gave me your number.’
    ‘Doesn’t answer my question. Why aren’t the cops looking for her, you with them?’
    ‘They think I have her.’
    ‘Do you?’
    ‘Would I be here if I did?’
    ‘You might well,’ said Clare.
    ‘Won’t you help me?’ he asked. ‘Please.’
    Clare’s refusal died in her throat. And with it, her better