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in his arms. Seen, too, the acrimony between him and his ex-wife. She didnt know if thats what she wanted to be part of that.
Mother, father, child. It messed with her head; she couldnt think straight. And she hadto, she had to. She had to decide. She had to tell him what shed decided. That was the courtesy a woman owed her lover. It was the least she could do, but fuck it. She couldnt. Not now, not with the job ahead of her, and the child abandoned on the icy mountainside.
She put her phone away and grabbed her bag, got out of the car, and strode across the muddy parking lot to her office.
Ina Britzhad a sea of paper in front of her, her glasses slipping down a nose that was dished like that of a prizefighter.
Those are the missing persons files? asked Clare.
Ive pulled up all the missing little girls I can find.
Ina Britz laid out the photographs of the lost girls, their eyes fixed for ever in the grimace of a pre-school portrait or happily snapped birthday party. Cake, crown, a proudmothers lap.
Its none of them, said Clare, flicking through them. She knew each face intimately. They lived in her now, folded into the other faces that populated her dreams. What about the international cases?
Heres what Ive got from FindKidz and Interpol. The same eyes, the same poses, the same routine of childhood interrupted.
Wheres the mother? asked Clare. Thats what I want to know.
Ive got nothing that shows a woman and a child missing together, said Ina. Were looking up some that could match, but so far nothing.
Clares gaze moved from one womans face to the next. Looking for something that might trigger recognition. Pale skin, dark hair, widows peak. She picked up one or two photographs, but there was nothing. She put them down again.
Ive never dealt with a child thatwas never reported missing, Clare said.
Look at these. The Mountain Men incident reports. Ina Brtiz handed Clare a list of incidents that the security company had dealt with. Barking dogs, vagrants, break-ins, smashed car windows, a domestic, alarms activated. Lists of phone numbers of the houses that had called in. No sightings of untoward movement in the valley.
Whoever put the child hereknew the mountain well, said Clare, studying the report. Theres nothing here.
Clare closed her office door behind her. She threw the rest of the coffee out of the window, swallowed the wave of nausea and opened her laptop, found the database of missing children. Abandoned babies, wiry kids, teenagers. On the cusp of adulthood, their photographs had the posed stiffness of the school portrait orthe graininess of a cheap cellphone shot. Most of them were South African.
With the sparse details she had, she sent out the standard alert.
She dialled Dr Anwar Jacobs, closing her eyes against the headache building in the base of her skull. The momentary darkness was a relief but not an escape. When he answered she could hear the electronic beeps, the clink of metal, the muted voices of nurses,other doctors. The comforting orderliness of the Intensive Care Unit.
Hows she doing? asked Clare.
The staff have named her Engeltjie. The little angels alive, shes fighting, said Anwar. But I need the mother to come forward. I need to know what her history is, so that I can work out how to treat her.
Ive got a press conference right now, said Clare. I need some detail.
I have so little, hesaid. Clare could hear exhaustion in his voice, he sounded close to defeat.
Give me what you have, said Clare. Theyd worked on many cases together. Clare admired his thoroughness, his astuteness, and his compassion for his helpless little patients.
Shes alive, but shes not going to be conscious any time soon. Ive induced a coma because her vital signs are so fragile. She has hypothermia andlong-term malnutrition.
How old is she? asked Clare.
By weight, two or three, but if I look at her teeth, bad as they are, then I think shes five, even six. Her growth is stunted in a way Ive never seen before. And
Mother, father, child. It messed with her head; she couldnt think straight. And she hadto, she had to. She had to decide. She had to tell him what shed decided. That was the courtesy a woman owed her lover. It was the least she could do, but fuck it. She couldnt. Not now, not with the job ahead of her, and the child abandoned on the icy mountainside.
She put her phone away and grabbed her bag, got out of the car, and strode across the muddy parking lot to her office.
Ina Britzhad a sea of paper in front of her, her glasses slipping down a nose that was dished like that of a prizefighter.
Those are the missing persons files? asked Clare.
Ive pulled up all the missing little girls I can find.
Ina Britz laid out the photographs of the lost girls, their eyes fixed for ever in the grimace of a pre-school portrait or happily snapped birthday party. Cake, crown, a proudmothers lap.
Its none of them, said Clare, flicking through them. She knew each face intimately. They lived in her now, folded into the other faces that populated her dreams. What about the international cases?
Heres what Ive got from FindKidz and Interpol. The same eyes, the same poses, the same routine of childhood interrupted.
Wheres the mother? asked Clare. Thats what I want to know.
Ive got nothing that shows a woman and a child missing together, said Ina. Were looking up some that could match, but so far nothing.
Clares gaze moved from one womans face to the next. Looking for something that might trigger recognition. Pale skin, dark hair, widows peak. She picked up one or two photographs, but there was nothing. She put them down again.
Ive never dealt with a child thatwas never reported missing, Clare said.
Look at these. The Mountain Men incident reports. Ina Brtiz handed Clare a list of incidents that the security company had dealt with. Barking dogs, vagrants, break-ins, smashed car windows, a domestic, alarms activated. Lists of phone numbers of the houses that had called in. No sightings of untoward movement in the valley.
Whoever put the child hereknew the mountain well, said Clare, studying the report. Theres nothing here.
Clare closed her office door behind her. She threw the rest of the coffee out of the window, swallowed the wave of nausea and opened her laptop, found the database of missing children. Abandoned babies, wiry kids, teenagers. On the cusp of adulthood, their photographs had the posed stiffness of the school portrait orthe graininess of a cheap cellphone shot. Most of them were South African.
With the sparse details she had, she sent out the standard alert.
She dialled Dr Anwar Jacobs, closing her eyes against the headache building in the base of her skull. The momentary darkness was a relief but not an escape. When he answered she could hear the electronic beeps, the clink of metal, the muted voices of nurses,other doctors. The comforting orderliness of the Intensive Care Unit.
Hows she doing? asked Clare.
The staff have named her Engeltjie. The little angels alive, shes fighting, said Anwar. But I need the mother to come forward. I need to know what her history is, so that I can work out how to treat her.
Ive got a press conference right now, said Clare. I need some detail.
I have so little, hesaid. Clare could hear exhaustion in his voice, he sounded close to defeat.
Give me what you have, said Clare. Theyd worked on many cases together. Clare admired his thoroughness, his astuteness, and his compassion for his helpless little patients.
Shes alive, but shes not going to be conscious any time soon. Ive induced a coma because her vital signs are so fragile. She has hypothermia andlong-term malnutrition.
How old is she? asked Clare.
By weight, two or three, but if I look at her teeth, bad as they are, then I think shes five, even six. Her growth is stunted in a way Ive never seen before. And
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