by Deon Meyer
'Thanks, Mike, thank him for us.'
'I will. I gave him your number, and he will call us as soon as he's got more information. He's going to call both the US
Ambassador in Pretoria and the Consul General in Cape Town to get confirmation and whatever facts are available. He also knows a staffer with Condi Rice, and he will ask the State Department for all the help they can give. Now, I know you're a Democrat, but the Congressman is a former military man, Bill, he gave up his law practice on three days' notice to serve in the first Gulf War. He gets things done. So don't you worry now, we are going to bring Rachel home.'
'Mike, I don't know how to thank you.'
'You know you don't have to.'
'Erin's parents ...'
'I'm thinking the same things here, but we need it to be official, Bill, before we say anything.'
'That might be best. I'm thinking of taking Chief Dombkowski with me. I don't think I can do it alone.'
'I'll call the Chief as soon as we have more information. Then we'll both go with you.'
The Sergeant walked out of Carlucci's Quality Food Store to his patrol vehicle, opened the door and picked up the handset of the radio. He called the Caledon Square charge office and spoke to the same Constable who had sent him here. He reported that they had taken a statement, that a young woman had been pursued by a white and a black man, but that there currently was no sign of any of them.
'See if you can find something on the system, a white Land Rover Discovery, registration number CA and the numbers four, one, six, that's all he could see, but he isn't dead certain. We'll look around a bit,' he said, and then he saw the second Metro Police car in minutes driving down Upper Orange. He recalled the two foot patrols in Metro uniform that he had seen on the way here. Why didn't they help with the march instead, he thought. Here they were wandering around looking for traffic offenders. Or buyers for fake drivers' licences.
His shift partner came out of the shop and said: 'If you ask me, it's drugs.'
Vusi Ndabeni met the police photographer at the Cat & Moose Youth Hostel and Backpackers Inn and asked them to fetch Oliver Sands and his camera again.
When Sands walked into the entrance hall, he still looked broken.
'I want to use that photograph of Erin and Rachel, please,' said Vusi.
'Sure,' said Sands.
'Can we borrow your camera for a few hours?'
'I can just take the memory card,' said the photographer.
'OK. I need ... fifty prints. But quickly. Mr Sands, please show our photographer which one is Rachel Anderson.'
'I'll get it back?' asked Sands.
'I can't get the prints to you today,' said the photographer. ,
Vusi stared at the man with his long hair and unhelpful attitude.
You have to be tough, Benny Griessel had said.
But he wasn't like that. And he didn't know if he could be. He would have to make another plan.
Vusi muffled a sigh. 'Tomorrow? Is tomorrow OK?'
'Tomorrow is better,' the photographer nodded.
Vusi took his phone out of his pocket. 'Just a minute,' he said, and pressed a number in and held the phone to his ear.
'When you hear the signal,' said a monotonous woman's voice on the phone, 'it will be ten ... seven ... and forty seconds.'
'May I speak to Commissioner Afrika, please?' said Vusi. He whispered to the photographer. 'I just want to hear if the Commissioner will be angry if the girl is dead tomorrow.'
'When you hear the signal it will be ...'
'What girl?' asked the photographer.
Oliver Sands looked from one to the other, bewildered.
'Ten seven ... and fifty seconds.'
'The one in the photo. She is out there somewhere, around Camps Bay, and there are people who want to kill her. If we only get the photographs tomorrow ...'
'When you hear the signal...' 'Hang on ...' said the photographer.
'I will hold for the Commissioner,' Vusi said into the phone while the woman's voice said, 'Ten eight exactly.'
'I didn't know,' said the photographer.
Vusi raised his eyebrows expectantly.
The photographer looked at his watch. 'Twelve o'clock, that's the best I can do.'
Vusi looked at his phone and ended the call. 'OK. Take the prints to Caledon Square and give them to Mbali Kaleni ...' and right then his phone rang.
'Detective Inspector Vusi Ndabeni.'
'Sawubona,Vusi,' said Mbali Kaleni in Zulu.
'Molo, Mbali,' said Vusi in Xhosa.
'Unjani' she asked in Zulu.
'Ntwengephi,' he said in Xhosa to make his point and then switched to English.
'Where are you?'
'On the Nl, coming from Bellville. Where are you?'
'I'm in Long Street, but I need you to go to Caledon Square.'
'No, brother, I must come to you. I can't take over the case if I don't know what's going on.'
'What?'
'The commissioner said I must take over the case.'
Vusi closed his eyes slowly. 'Can I call you back?'
'I'm waiting.'
Griessel walked into the arcade entrance at 16 Buiten Street. The building was built around an inner garden with paved pathways between flower beds, a fishpond and a birdbath. On the wall of the south wing was the huge logo of AfriSound, the word drawn in stalky letters that were probably meant to look African. The logo was a boastful bird with a black breast, yellow throat and eyebrows, singing with a gaping beak against an orange sun. Griessel had no idea what sort of bird it was. He crossed to the double glass doors. His cell phone rang. He knew this number by now.
'Vusi?' he said as he answered.
'Benny, I think we have a misunderstanding.'
The Metro patrol vehicle stopped beside the two young men in the Land Rover Defender on the corner of Prince and Breda Streets. Jeremy Oerson sat in the passenger seat of the Metro car. He wound the window down and asked the young white man behind the steering wheel of the Land Rover. 'Do you know what she's wearing, Jay?'
The young man nodded. 'Blue denim shorts, light-blue T-shirt. And a backpack.'
'OK,' said Jeremy Oerson and reached for his radio. He nodded to the driver. 'Let's go,' he said.
'Thank you, sir,' said Benny Griessel over the cell phone, turned it off and stood shaking his head for a second in front of the glass doors of AfriSound.
He wasn't a mentor, he was a fucking fireman, all he did was beat out fires.
Griessel sighed, opened the door and walked inside.
There were framed gold and platinum CDs and posters of artists' performances on the blood-red and sky-blue walls. Griessel recognised some of the names. Behind a modern desk of light wood sat a middle- aged black woman, who looked up when he came in. Her eyes were red, as though she had been crying, but her smile was brave.
'May I help you?'
'I'm here for Willie Mouton.'
'You must be Inspector Griessel.' Her pronunciation of his surname was perfect.
'I am.'
'Such a terrible thing, Mr Barnard ...' She nodded in the direction of the stairs.
'They're waiting for you on the first floor.'
'Thank you.'
Griessel climbed the wooden stairs. The railing was chrome and there were more framed CDs on the wall, with the name of the artist or band on a bronze plaque underneath each one.
The first floor opened up before him. The colour scheme was bright and multicoloured, but the atmosphere was sombre. No music, just the quiet whisper of the air conditioning and the hushed voices of five or six people sitting around a big, flat, chrome coffee table on couches and chairs in brightly coloured ostrich leather - blue, green, red.
They became aware of him and stopped talking, turning to look at him. Griessel saw an older woman crying; everyone looked distressed, but there was no sign of Mouton. Some of the faces studying him were familiar - he guessed they were singers or musicians. Was Josh Geyser one of them? For
a second he hoped Lize Beekman or Theuns Jordaan was there, or Schalk Joubert. But what would he say to them, here, under these circumstances?
There was no shame in hoping.
To his left, near the window, a coloured woman stood up from a desk. She was young and beautiful with high cheekbones, a full mouth and long black hair. She walked around the desk. Elegant close-fitting clothes, high-heeled shoes, a slim figure. 'Inspector?' The same subdued friendliness as the receptionist below.
'Benny Griessel,' he said, putting out a hand.
'Natasha Abader.' Her hand was small. 'I am Mr Mouton's PA. Please come with me.'
'Thank you,' said Griessel and followed her down the corridor. He looked at Natasha Abader's pert, perfect bottom and he couldn't help wondering if Adam Barnard had fucked her in his office too. He looked away deliberately, at the framed CD covers on the wall, more posters. There were plaques beside the doors. AfriSound Promo. Production. Finance & Administration. Recording Studio. AfriSound On-line. And almost at the back, to the right, Willie Mouton. Director.
To the left, another closed door. Adam Barnard. Managing Director.
Natasha knocked on Mouton's door and opened it. She put her head in. 'Inspector Griessel is here.' She stood back so that Griessel could enter.
'Thanks,' said Griessel. She nodded and walked back to her desk. Griessel went in. Mouton and his lawyer, Groenewald, sat stretched out like two magnates on either side of a large desk.
'Come in,' said Mouton.
The lawyer, still seated, put out a half-hearted hand to Griessel. 'Regardt Groenewald.'
'Benny Griessel. Is that Geyser out front?'
'No, they are in the conference room.' Mouton gestured with his head towards the far end of the corridor. There was a solemn air about him; the aggression had disappeared.
'They?'
'He brought Melinda along.'
Griessel could not mask his annoyance. Mouton saw it. 'I couldn't help it - I didn't tell him to bring her,' as if speaking to an inferior.
He knew Mouton's kind, self-important in their own little world, used to calling the shots. Now that he had had the ear of the Regional Commissioner, he would think he could keep on interfering. 'We want to question them separately,' Griessel said and took out his cell phone. 'My colleague thought she would be at home. I have to call him.'
He found Dekker's number and called.
'How much does Geyser know?' he asked while it rang.
'Nothing yet. Natasha just told him to wait in the conference room, but you can see he's guilty. Sweating like a pig.'
'Benny,' said Dekker over the phone.
'Things have changed,' said Griessel.
Chapter 16
Vusi Ndabeni was walking quickly down Long Street when John Afrika phoned him back.
'It's sorted out, Vusi. Inspector Kaleni's commanding officer misunderstood me.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'She's gone to Caledon Square, she will talk to the stations in the meantime.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'She will be a great help to you, Vusi. She's a smart woman.'
'Thank you, sir.'
More than 1,300 kilometres to the north, in the Wachthuis building, part of the Thibault Arcade in Pretorius Street, Pretoria, the telephone of the Acting National Police Commissioner made a single growling noise. He picked it up. 'The Deputy Minister wants to talk to you,' said his secretary.
'Thank you.' He hesitated for a second before pushing the white 'Line 1' button. He knew it would not be good news. The Deputy Minister only phoned when there was bad news about the currently-on-long-leave National Commissioner and his approaching corruption trial.
'Good morning, Minister,' he said.
'Morning, Commissioner,' she said, and he could hear she wasn't overjoyed. 'I just had a call from the US Consul General in Cape Town.'
The front door of Van Hunks was in Castle Street. There was a neon sign with the name and motto: Smokin'. Inspector
Vusumuzi Ndabeni pushed and tugged on the handle but it was locked.
'Ai,' he said, and walked around the corner to the entrance of the shop next door, a company that sold lights. He found a coloured woman at the checkout and asked if she knew whether there would be anyone at the club.
'Try the back door,' she said, and went to show him the service alley at the back. He thanked her and walked past men unloading crates of beer from a lorry and carrying them into the club, into the kitchen of Van Hunks. A white man with a short black ponytail and small eyes was supervising the unloading. He spotted Vusi.
'Hey!' he said. 'What do you want?' Aggressive, with a slight accent.
Vusi took out his SAPS identity card. He held it out for the man to read. 'I would like to speak to the manager,' he said politely.
Ponytail, a head taller than Vusi, pulled up his nose at the card and the detective.
'Why?'
'Are you the manager?' asked Vusi, still civil.
'No.'
'I would prefer to speak to him.'
'Her. She is busy.' With a faint accent. Foreign.
'Could you take me to her, please?'
'Have you got the warrant?'
'I don't need a warrant,' he explained patiently. 'I am investigating a murder, and the victim was in this club last night. I just need information.'
While Ponytail weighed him up, Vusi noticed that his eyes were too close together. He had heard that in white people it was a sign of stupidity. That would explain the man's behaviour.
'You wait, because they steal my beer.' Ponytail pointed at the black labourers carrying the beer crates. 'What will the police do about this?'
'Did you report it?'
'Why?'
'So the police can investigate,' said Vusi slowly and clearly. 'You have to go to the charge office and report the crime.'
Ponytail rolled his eyes. Vusi didn't know what he meant by that; surely he could not have put it more plainly? 'Look, my investigation is very urgent. I need to speak to the manager immediately.'
More hesitation. Then the man said: 'Down the passage. Third door right.'
'Thank you,' said Vusi, and walked out of the room.
Willie Mouton held the door to the conference room open for Griessel. The Geysers were seated at the long oval table. They were holding hands. Benny had imagined two young bubbly angelic faces, with that exaggerated joy of the newly converted. But the Geysers were on the wrong side of forty, she maybe older than him. They were tense and grim. Josh was a big man with white-blonde hair and a styled crew cut. There were deep etched lines on his face, a droopy blonde moustache trimmed carefully to his chin. Wide shoulders, big arms, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. Beside him Melinda looked tiny, like a doll, with her round face and red-blonde hair in a cascade of tight curls, a milky-white skin and long lashes. She had a heavy hand with the make-up, the beauty of another era. There was something about her mouth and eyes that would have marked her as an 'easy girl' in the Parow of Griessel's youth.
'Willie,' said Josh Geyser getting to his feet. 'What's going on?'
'This is Sergeant Benny Griessel of the police, Josh. We would like to talk to you.'
Griessel put out a hand. 'Inspector,' he said.
Geyser ignored Griessel's hand. 'Why?' he demanded with an authoritarian scowl.
'Adam is dead, Josh.'
An invisible hand wiped the scowl from Geyser's face. Griessel watched him pale.
Silence dominated the room.
In her seat, Melinda made a little noise, but Griessel kept his attention on Josh. The big man's shock seemed genuine.
'How?' asked Geyser.
'He was shot yesterday at his house,' said Mouton.
'Oh heavens!' Melinda cried out.
'I would like to talk to you alone, Mr Geyser,' said Griessel quickly, worried that the impetuous Mouton would say too much.
'Melinda, won't you wait in my office?' asked Mouton.
She didn't move.
&n
bsp; 'You're making a mistake,' Geyser said to Griessel.
'Would you sit down, please, Mr Geyser?'
'Come, Melinda,' said Mouton.
'I'm staying with Josh.'
'Mrs Geyser, I am afraid that I must speak with him alone.'
'She stays,' said Geyser.
Vusi found the manager in a small, untidy office with files and sheaves of accounts strewn across the table and shelves. She was typing figures into a large adding machine, painted nails pecking at the keys with lightning speed. He knocked on the frame of the open door and asked whether she was the manager.
'Yes.' She looked up. Forty, maybe, short black hair, strong features, but hard.
Vusi held out his identification and introduced himself.
'Galina Federova.' She shook Vusi's hand with a self-assured grip. 'Why are you here?' in the same accented English as Ponytail's.
Vusi gave her a quick outline of the case.
'Please sit down.' Somewhere between an order and an invitation, the please was a short, powerful pits. She began to pick up invoices from the table, looking for something. She found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, flipped open the packet's lid and offered it to Vusi.
'No, thanks.'
She took one out for herself, lit it and spoke, the smoke trickling from her mouth.
'You know how many people last night?'
No, he said, he didn't know.
'Maybe two hundred, maybe more. We are very poplar.'
The mispronunciation distracted him momentarily. 'I understand that. But something must have happened, Mrs Federova.'
'Call me Galia. It is the Russian way for Galina.'
'Are you the owner?'
'That is Gennady Demidov. I just manage.'
Vusi took his notebook from his inside pocket and scribbled a note.
'Why you write this down?'
He shrugged. 'Till what time are you open?'
'The door close at twelve on a Monday night.'
'And then everybody leaves?'
'No. Nobody can come in, but those inside, they can stay. We close the bar when everybody go home.'
'This morning, at two-fifteen, did you still have people?'
'I must ask the night manager. Petr.'
'Can you call him?'
'He sleeps.'
'You will have to wake him up.'