by Deon Meyer
'Jeez, Benny, don't you read the You magazine? She's a singer.'
'So Joost grabs him after the show and says, "You can't talk to my wife like that", and the ou says to Joost, "But she has got nice tits" ...' Arnold laughed uproariously.
Jimmy hee-heed along. Tiffany October walked off towards the wall, clearly annoyed.
'What?' said the short one innocently after her. 'It's a true story ...'
'You should say "bosom",' said Jimmy.
'But it's what the ou said.'
'Now why didn't Joost just klap him?' 'That's what I'd like to know. He tackled Jonah Lomu till his teeth rattled ...'
'Jonah who?' asked Vusi.
'Jeez, Vusi, that huge New Zealand winger. Anyway, Joost breaks booms at security gates when he's the hell-in, he's hell on wheels on the rugby field, but he won't smack a guy that talks about his wife's t... uh, bosoms.'
'Let's be reasonable, how is he going to get that past the magistrate? The guy's lawyer just has to whip out a stack of You magazines and say "Your Honour, check this out, in every photo her exhibits are displayed, from Tittendale down to Naval Hill". What can you expect, the guys will talk about your wife's assets like they belong to them.'
'That's true. But I'm telling you, it's Amor.'
'Never.'
'You're thinking of Amore Bekker, the DJ.'
'Nuh-uh. But let me tell you one thing: I wouldn't let my wife walk around like that.'
'Your wife doesn't have the best tits in the business. If you've got it, flaunt it...'
'Are you finished?' asked Benny.
'We have to finish the path and do the wall,' said Jimmy and got to his feet. Vusi called the photographer over. 'How soon can I get my pictures of the face?' The photographer, young, curly-haired, shrugged. 'I'll see what I can do.'
Tell him not a damn, thought Griessel. Vusi just nodded.
'No,' said Griessel. 'We need them before eight. It's not negotiable.'
The photographer walked away to the wall, not bothering to hide his attitude. Griessel looked after him with disgust. 'Thanks, Benny,' said Vusi quietly.
'Don't be too nice, Vusi.'
'I know ...'
After an uncomfortable silence, he asked: 'Benny, what am I missing?'
Griessel kept his voice gentle, counselling. 'The backpack. It must have been robbery, Vusi. Her money, passport, cell phone ...'
Ndabeni caught on quickly. 'You think they dumped the backpack somewhere.' Griessel couldn't stand around like this any more. He looked about him, at the pavement where the spectators were getting out of hand. 'I'll handle that, Vusi, let's give the Metro guys something to do.' He went up to the wall and called to the uniforms. 'Who's in charge here?'
They just looked at each other.
'This pavement is ours,' said a coloured Metro policeman in an impressive uniform, emblems of rank all over it. Field Marshal at the very least, Griessel mused.
'Yours?'
'That's right.'
He felt the anger rise. He had an issue with the whole concept of the city police, fucking traffic cops that didn't do their jobs, total absence of law enforcement on the roads. He restrained himself and pointed a finger at a SAPS Constable: 'I want you to seal off this pavement, from down there to up to here. If people want to stand around they can do it on the other side of the street.'
The Constable shook his head. 'We don't have any tape.'
'Then go and get some.'
The SAPS man did not like to be the one singled out, but he turned and went off through the crowd. From his left-hand side an ambulance approached with some difficulty through the crowd.
'This is our pavement,' said the heavily ranked Metro policeman stubbornly.
'Are you the chief in charge here?' Benny asked him.
'Yes.'
'What is your name?'
'Jeremy Oerson.'
'And the pavements are under your jurisdiction?'
'Yes.'
'Perfect,' said Griessel. 'Make sure that the ambulance parks here. Right here. And then I want you to inspect every pavement and alley within six blocks of here, livery dustbin, every nook and cranny, got that?'
The man gave him a long look. Probably weighing up the implications should he refuse. Then he nodded, sourly, and began barking orders at his men.
Griessel turned back to Vusi.
'You need to look at this,' the pathologist called from where she was crouched by the body.
They went over to her. With a pair of tweezers, she held up a clothing label, the one from the back of the girl's T-shirt.
'Broad Ripple Vintage, Indianapolis,' she said and gave them a meaningful look.
'What does that mean?' asked Vusi Ndabeni.
'I think she's American,' she said.
'Oh fuck,' said Benny Griessel. 'Are you sure?'
Tiffany October's eyes widened somewhat at his language and her tone of voice confirmed it: 'Pretty sure.'
'Trouble,' said Ndabeni. 'Big trouble.'
07:02-08:13
Chapter 4
In the library of the big house in Brownlow Street, Tamboerskloof, the shrill, terrified screams of the maid shocked Alexandra Barnard from her sleep.
It was a surreal moment. She had no idea where she was, her limbs felt peculiar, stiff and unwieldy, and her thoughts were as sluggish as molasses. She lifted her head and tried to focus. She saw the plump woman at the door, mouth twisted in what she at first recognised as revulsion. Then the noise penetrated to the marrow.
Alexandra realised she was lying on her back on the Persian rug and wondered how she had come to be there. As she became aware of the horrible taste in her mouth and the fact that she had spent the night on the floor in a drunken stupor, she followed the gaze of Sylvia Buys: someone was lying beside the large brown leather armchair opposite her. She pushed herself up on her arms, wishing Sylvia would stop screaming. She couldn't recall anyone drinking with her last night. Who could it be? She sat upright, and with better perspective, recognised the figure. Adam. Her husband. He was wearing only one shoe, the other foot wore a drooping sock, as if he had been in the process of taking it off. Black trousers, and a white shirt smeared with black on the chest.
Then, as if someone had eventually focused the camera's lens, she realised that Adam was wounded. The black on the shirt was blood, the shirt itself was torn. She pressed her hands on the carpet to get up. She was confused, stunned. She saw the bottle and glass on the wooden table beside her. Her fingers touched something and she looked down and saw the firearm lying next to her. She recognised it, Adam's pistol. What was it doing here?
She got to her feet.
'Sylvia,' she said.
The coloured woman kept screaming.
'Sylvia!'
The sudden silence was a huge relief. Sylvia stood at the door with her hands over her mouth, and her eyes glued to the pistol.
Alexandra took a cautious step forward and stopped again. Adam was dead. She knew it now, from the sum of all the wounds and the way he was lying, but she couldn't understand it. Was it a dream?
'Why?' said Sylvia, approaching hysteria.
Alexandra looked at her.
'Why did you kill him?'
The pathologist and the two ambulance men manoeuvred the corpse carefully into a black zip-up bag. Griessel sat on the stone border of a palm tree bed. Vusi Ndabeni was on his cell phone talking to the station commander. 'I need at least four, Sup, for leg work ... I understand, but it's an American tourist ... Yes, we're pretty sure ... I know ... I know. No, nothing yet.. .Thanks, Sup, I'll wait for them.'
He came over to Benny. 'The SC says there's a protest of some or other labour union at Parliament and he can only send me two people.'
'There's always a fucking protest of some other union,' said Griessel and stood up. 'I'll help with the footwork, Vusi, until the photos arrive.' He couldn't sit around like this.
'Thanks, Benny. Would you like some coffee?'
'Are you going to s
end someone?'
'There's a place down the street. I'll go quickly.'
'Let me go.'
They filled the Caledon Square charge office, complainants, victims, witnesses and their hangers-on with stories of the night past. Over the sea of protesting and accusatory voices a telephone rang monotonously, on and on. A female Sergeant, weary after nine hours on her feet, ignored the scowling face across the counter and grabbed the receiver. 'Caledon Square, Sergeant Thanduxolo Nyathi speaking, how may I help you?'
It was a woman's voice, barely audible.
'You'll have to speak up, madam, I can't hear you.'
'I want to report something.'
'Yes, madam?'
'There was this girl...'
'Yes, madam?'
'This morning, at about six o'clock, on Signal Hill. She asked me to call the police because someone wanted to kill her.'
'One moment, madam.' She reached for a SAPS form and took a pen from her breast pocket. 'May I have your name?'
'Well, I just want to report it...'
'I know, madam, but I need a name.'
Silence.
'Madam?'
'My name is Sybil Gravett.'
'And your address?'
'I really can't see how this is pertinent. I saw the girl on Signal Hill. I was walking my dog.'
The Sergeant suppressed a sigh. 'And then what happened, madam?'
'Well, she came running up to me and she said I must call the police, someone was trying to kill her, and then she ran off again.'
'Did you see anybody following her?'
'I did. A few minutes later, they came running.'
'How many, ma'am?'
'Well, I didn't count them, but there must have been five or six.'
'Can you describe them?'
'They were, well, some were white and some were black. And they were quite young ... I found that very disturbing, these young men, running with such intent...'
She was woken with a start by someone shouting at her. She tried to stand up in her panic, but her legs betrayed her and she stumbled and fell with her shoulder against the wall.
'You fucking druggie!' He stood on the other side of the shrubbery with his hands on his hips, the same voice that had shouted from the house earlier.
'Please,' she sobbed, and stood upright.
'Just get off my property,' he said pointing to the gate. 'What is it with you people? Snoring in my shrubs.'
She made her way through the plants. She saw he was wearing a dark suit, a businessman, middle-aged, furious. 'Please, I need your help ...'
'No. You need to shoot up somewhere else. I'm sick and tired of this. Get out.'
She began to cry. She approached him. 'It's not what you think, please, I'm from the United—'
The man grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the gate. 'I don't give a fuck where you come from.' He pulled her roughly. 'All I want is for you people to stop using my property for your filthy habits.' At the gate he shoved her towards the road. 'Now fuck off, before I call the police,' he said and turned and walked back to his house.
'Please, call them,' she said through sobs, shoulders jerking, her whole body trembling. He kept on walking, opened a metal gate, slammed it shut and disappeared. 'Oh, God.' She stood crying on the pavement, shivering. 'Oh, God.' Through the tears she looked instinctively up and down the street, first left, then right. Far off, just where the road curled over the flank of the mountain, stood two of them. Small, watchful figures, one with a cell phone to his ear. Frightened, she began walking in the opposite direction, the way she had come earlier. She didn't know whether they had seen her. She kept to the left, against the walls of the houses, looking back over her shoulder. They were no longer standing. They were running, towards her.
Despair dragged at her. One solution would be to stop, so that it could all be over, the inevitable could happen. She couldn't keep this up, her strength was gone. For a second that option seemed irresistible, the perfect way out, and it slowed her down. But in her mind she replayed the scene with Erin in the night, and the adrenaline gushed and she carried on, weeping as she ran.
The ambulance men were lifting the body over the wall on a stretcher as Griessel arrived with the coffee. The spectators crowded closer, up to the yellow crime scene tape that now cordoned off the pavement. Griessel had long ceased to wonder about humanity's macabre fascination with death. He passed one of the polystyrene cups to his colleague.
'Thanks, Benny.'
The aroma of coffee reminded Griessel that he hadn't had breakfast yet. Perhaps he could get back to the flat for a quick bowl of Weet-Bix before the photos arrived, it was only a kilometre away. He could check whether Carla had written to him. Because last night...
No, he wasn't going to think about last night.
Vusi said something in Xhosa that he couldn't understand, some exclamation of surprise. He followed the detective's gaze and saw three of the Metro policemen climbing the wall. Oerson, the one Griessel had argued with earlier, was carrying a blue rucksack. They marched up, full of bravado.
'uNkulunkulu, Vusi said.
'Jesus,' said Benny Griessel.
'We found it,' said the self-satisfied Field Marshal and held out the rucksack to Vusi. The Xhosa man just shook his head and pulled his rubber gloves from his pocket.
'What?' said Oerson.
'Next time,' said Griessel in a reasonable voice, 'it would be better if you let us know you found it. Then we would bring in the forensic guys and cordon off the area before anyone touched it.'
'It was lying in a fucking doorway in Bloem Street. A thousand people could have touched it already. There's not much in it anyway.'
'You opened it?' asked Vusi, reaching for the bag. The two straps were cut, just as the pathologist had predicted.
'There might have been a bomb inside,' said Oerson defensively.
'Did you handle these items?' asked Vusi, taking out a make-up bag. He crouched down to put the contents on the tarred path.
'No,' said Oerson, but Griessel could tell he was lying.
Vusi took a Steers serviette out of the backpack. Next, a small wooden carving of a hippopotamus in dark wood, a white plastic spoon and a Petzl headlamp. 'That's all?'
'That's all,' said Oerson.
'Do me a favour, please?'
They didn't respond.
'Would you go back and see if there is anything else? Something that might have been thrown away. Anything. What I need most is some form of identification. A passport, a driver's licence, anything ...'
Oerson was not keen. 'We can't help you all day.'
'I know,' said Vusi, quietly and patiently. 'But if you could just do that for me, please.'
'OK. I'll get some more people,' said Oerson. He turned away and went back over the wall.
Vusi's fingers explored the few small pockets on the sides of the backpack. The first one was empty. He pulled out something from the bottom of the second - a green cardboard card with a black and yellow logo: Hodson's Bay Company. In smaller type: Bicycles, fitness, backpacking, camping, climbing gear, and technical clothing for all ages and abilities. There was an address: 360 Brown Street, Levee Plaza, West Lafayette, IN 47906. There were two telephone numbers as well. The Xhosa man studied it and then passed it to Griessel. 'I think the IN stands for Indiana.'
'West Lafayette,' said Griessel dubiously.
'Probably a small place,' said Vusi. 'I've never heard of it.'
'Fax them a photo, Vusi. They might be able to identify her.'
'Great idea.'
Griessel's cell phone rang shrilly in his pocket. He took it out and answered.
'Griessel.'
'Benny, it's Mavis. An Inspector Fransman Dekker called. He said to tell you he has a murder at Forty-seven Brownlow Street in Tamboerskloof, if you want to mentor him.'
'If I want to?'
'That's what he said. Wound-up guy, bit of a windgat.'
'Thanks, Mavis. Forty-seven Brownl
ow?'
'That's right.'
'I'm on my way.' He ended the call and told Vusi, 'Another murder. Up in Tamboerskloof. Sorry, Vusi...'
'No problem. I'll call you when we find something.'
Griessel began to walk away. Ndabeni called after him: 'Benny .,.'
Griessel turned. Vusi came up to him. 'I just wanted to ask you ... I... uh ...
'Ask me, Vusi.'
'The pathologist... She ... Do you think .. .Would a coloured doctor go out with a darkie cop?'
It took him a few seconds to make the leap. 'Er ... you asking the wrong guy, Vusi... but yes, why not? A man can only try ...'
'Thanks, Benny.'
Griessel climbed over the wall. At the churchyard gate he saw a tall, sombre man unlocking it with an extremely worried frown. The priest had arrived, he thought, or did the Lutherans call their ministers something else?
Chapter 5
The traffic was impossible now. It took fifteen minutes just to get from Long Street to Buitengracht. They were bumper to bumper up Buitesingel's hill. He drained the dregs of the sweet coffee. It would last him until he could get something to eat. But his plan to quickly download Carla's email was stuffed. It would just have to wait until tonight. He had been offline for a week already with that damn laptop - he could wait a few more hours. Carla would understand - he'd had problems with the stupid machine from the start. How was he to know there were laptops without internal modems? He had bought his for a knock-down price at a police auction of unclaimed stolen goods. Once Carla left for London, he needed to know how she was - his Carla who needed to 'sort her head out overseas' before she decided what to do with the rest of her life.
So how did vacuuming floors in a hotel in London sort out your head?
It had cost him R500 to get the laptop connected to the Internet. He had to buy a damn modem and get an Internet service provider. Then he spent three hours on the phone with a computer guy getting the fucking connection to work and then Microsoft Outlook Express was a nightmare to configure. That took another hour on the phone to sort out before he could send an email to Carla saying:
Here I am, how are you? I miss you and worry about you. There was an article in the Burger that said South African kids in London drink a lot and cause trouble. Don't let anyone put pressure on you...