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who she is – if Solly can make her bones tell her story,’ said Clare. ‘It’ll be much harder, then, for the developer to pay to make this go away.’
    ‘You’re smart,’ said Riedwaan, ‘I always forget how smart.’
    ‘Maybe it’ll help save the rest of the dead from obscurity.’
    Clare tossed Riedwaan a roll of crime-scenetape, and he wrapped the chevrons around the site.
    Black and yellow, nature’s colours that signal danger.

5
    Clare brushed the sand off the soil-stained crate. Faint marks, possibly letters, appeared, but she could not make them out. She photographed them.
    ‘You’ve always lived nearby, in Sea Point,’ Clare said, turning to Solly. ‘Do you remember what this part of Green Point used to be like?’
    ‘Warehouses, ships’ chandlers, things like that. Before they moved to Paarden Island. Some ofthe art galleries off Somerset Road may have used this area for storage. But at the end of the 90s, things got too pricey and most moved out to Woodstock.’
    Clare finished photographing the makeshift coffin. She stepped aside so that the mortuary attendants could remove it. They lifted it onto a gurney, strapping it down securely.
    ‘I’m on my way,’ said Solly Friedman. ‘I’ll see you at 12.30.It’s the only autopsy slot I have until next week.’
    ‘I’ll be there.’ Clare did not look up. She was making notes at the place where the crate had been buried. It was a good few feet away from where the older skeletons were found. And higher up. Only three, maybe four feet below the ground. Two walls and some trusses were all that remained of the warehouse. The remnants of the concrete slabthat had entombed the body lay to one side.
    ‘When was this built?’ asked Clare.
    ‘Not so long ago – the 80s, I’d guess. It was easy to push things through planning then.’
    ‘Doesn’t look like much has changed since then,’ said Clare. ‘They knew there were bones here when they built the first time round,’ she said. ‘Look at these foundations.’
    Cores of concrete and aggregate that hadanchored the bulldozed buildings lay adrift in the sand. There were pieces of broken bone, shards of skull, more stained femurs. ‘Whoever built this just drilled through it all and concreted over.’
    ‘Ja. And they were about to do it again,’ said Riedwaan.
    He had his eyes on the black Hummer nudging through the gawking crowd. It came to a stop with its snub nose against the gate. The constableson guard were forced to step back. The driver was checking himself in the mirror. A Breitling watch flashed from his linen cuffs as he smoothed his clipped hair. He put on his sunglasses, opened the door.
    ‘D’you know who it is?’ asked Clare
    ‘Waleed Williams,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Nickname used to be Hond.’
    ‘Dog?’
    ‘There’s the pitbull,’ said Riedwaan. A dog jumped out of the car. Studdedcollar, 50 kilos of muscle, a flimsy muzzle. Williams raised a hand and the animal was at his heel. ‘I’ve heard he prefers to be called Mr Williams now.’
    ‘Do you two have a history?’ asked Clare.
    ‘He used to run Woodstock – tik, abelone, girls, guns, protection for brothels, later for politicians. Then he went to Jo’burg. I haven’t seen him for a while,’ said Riedwaan. ‘He was slappedwith 25 years for murder at the Cape High Court, last time I saw him. I gave evidence against him. I watched him go down the steps into the holding cell. The mothers of the two girls he’d dismembered watched him too.’
    ‘So what happened?’
    ‘The witness whose testimony was key to Hond’s conviction retracted his statement.’ Riedwaan adjusted his pistol. ‘Said I put him under duress, forcedhim to make the statement. Then Hond claimed that the Gang Unit tortured him.’
    ‘And did you?’
    ‘That’s not what I’d have called it,’ said Riedwaan. ‘He’s got expensive lawyers. The charges didn’t stick. Next thing, he went to Jo’burg.’
    Williams was speaking to the