Free Blood Rose by Margie Orford Page B

your list for interviewing. She was here early, before Herman Shipanga arrived,’ said Tamar, looking at her watch. ‘Shall we get going? I need to get some coffee and pastries on the way. I can’t do pregnancy on an empty stomach. Post-mortems neither.’
    The Venus Bakery was bustling with early-morning trade when Tamar pulled up on the opposite side of the road. At the stop street ahead, a familiar figure peered into the windows of cars caught by the traffic light.
    ‘That’s the boy I met last night,’ said Clare, feeling the bruise on the side of her arm. ‘I’ll need to talk to him again.’
    ‘Lazarus,’ said Tamar. ‘Lazarus Beukes. He’s sharp. Been living on the streets most of his life. He’ll spin you whatever story he thinks you want to hear.’
    ‘You wouldn’t believe him?’ asked Clare.
    ‘Put it this way,’ said Tamar, ‘Lazarus rarely lets the truth interfere with a good story.’
    To the left of the bakery entrance, a wiry girl, her hair a wild black halo, chained her bike to a blue column. Lazarus approached her, trying to sell her a tatty-looking newspaper, his bony shoulders sharp against his worn jersey.
    ‘That’s Mara Thomson. The English volunteer.’ Tamar pointed to the girl as she entered the store.
    ‘They look so alike,’ said Clare as they crossed the road. ‘Funny to think they grew up six thousand miles apart.’
    ‘Two rolls with cheese, please,’ Mara was saying when they entered the bakery.
    The woman behind the counter pulled two buttered rolls out of a tray, slapped the cheese onto them and wrapped them in plastic. She pushed them across the counter to Mara. ‘You shouldn’t talk to these street boys.’ Disdain curled her thin upper lip. ‘Six Nam dollars.’
    ‘They’re good kids,’ said Mara, ‘living a bad life.’
    ‘It’s easy for you foreigners to feel sorry for them, but we have to live with them. Aids orphans are just trouble.’ The woman counted out Mara’s change. ‘Look at that one who got himself killed. And the other two they found in the desert. What do they think that’ll do for our tourism?’
    ‘I’m sure they’d have avoided being shot,’ Tamar interjected tartly, ‘if they’d known what their murders would do to your business.’
    ‘Hello, Captain,’ said Mara, her relief at being rescued palpable.
    ‘Morning, Mara. This is Dr Hart,’ said Tamar. ‘She’s here from Cape Town, working with me.’
    ‘Yeah, well, I’m glad somebody’s bothered,’ said Mara, shaking Clare’s hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’
    ‘And you,’ said Clare. ‘You knew Kaiser? And the other boys, I understand?’
    ‘Kaiser plays … played in the soccer team I coach. So did Fritz and Nicanor, on and off,’ said Mara, moving towards the door, out of earshot of the sour-faced shop assistant. ‘Fritz Woestyn’s death, that was part of the odds they play with anyway,’ she went on. ‘There’ve been murders before this. Nicanor Jones’s death made them scared. This last one …’ Mara’s voice trailed off.
    ‘I’ll need to talk to you,’ said Clare. ‘About the boys.’
    ‘All right,’ said Mara. ‘I rent a room in that double-storey on the lagoon. George Meyer’s house, if you need to ask for directions.’
    ‘I’ve seen it,’ said Clare. ‘A little redhead on a bike went in there.’
    ‘That’s Oscar,’ said Mara. ‘I’ll be back after soccer practice this afternoon.’ She nodded goodbye and walked outside. Clare watched her give a roll to Lazarus.
    ‘No meat?’ he asked, pulling off the wrapping and dropping it to the floor.
    ‘How about a thank you?’ said Mara, picking up the discarded wrapping.
    ‘Thanks,’ he said, throwing the cheese roll into the bin as Mara turned the corner.
    ‘Her visa’s almost expired.’ Clare had not heard Tamar come outside. ‘She’s got to go home, whether she wants to or not.’
    ‘And does she?’ asked Clare.
    ‘I don’t think so,’ said Tamar. ‘She’s fallen for a