by Deon Meyer
Griessel's phone rang.
'... then you can share the honours.'
Benny took the phone out of his pocket and checked the screen.
'It's Vusi,' he said meaningfully.
'Jissis,' said Afrika shaking his head. 'It never rains ...'
Griessel answered with a 'Vusi?'
'Is the Commissioner still there with you, Benny?'
'He's here.'
'Keep him there, please, just keep him there.'
Tafelberg Road is tarred, and follows the contour of the mountain, starting at 360 metres above sea level. It runs past the cable car station with its long queues of tourists, but just beyond Platteklipstroom ravine a concrete barrier keeps cars out, so only cyclists and pedestrians can continue. From there on it rises and falls between 380 and 460 metres for four kilometres or more around Devil's Peak before it becomes an increasingly rough dirt track, eventually connecting with the Kings Battery hiking trail.
The observation point with the best view of the city bowl is a hundred metres below Mount Prospect on the northern flank of Devil's Peak, just before the path turns sharply east.
The young man was sitting just above the path, on a rock in the shade of a now flowerless protea bush. He was in his late twenties, white, lean and tanned. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, a bleached blue shirt with a green collar, long khaki shorts and old worn Rocky sandals with deep tread soles. He held a pair of binoculars to his face and scanned the ground slowly from left to right, west to east. Below him the Cape was breathtaking - from the cable car sliding, seemingly weightless, past Table Mountain's rugged cliffs to the top, past the sensuous curves of Lion's Head and Signal Hill, over the blue bay, a glittering jewel that stretched to the horizon, to below him where the city nestled comfortably, like a contented child in the mountain's embrace. He saw none of this, because his attention was focused only on the city's edge.
Beside him on the flat rock was a map book of Cape Town. It was open at Oranjezicht, the suburb directly below him. The mountain breeze gently flipped the pages so that every now and then he had to put out an absent-minded hand to flatten them.
Rachel Anderson stood up slowly, like a sleepwalker. She walked around the long stack of logs and looked towards the mountain. She could not see anyone. She walked out of the shadow of the garage and turned right in the direction of the city, across the cement slab and stone paving, then across the tar of Bosch Avenue to where it turned into Rugby Road ten metres further on. She was drained, she could no longer run, she would go and phone her father, just walk slowly and go and phone her father.
The young man with the binoculars spotted her instantly, his lenses sliding over her, a tiny, lonely figure. The denim shorts, the powder-blue T-shirt and the small rucksack - it was her.
'Jesus Christ,' he said out loud.
He pulled the binoculars back, focused on her to make absolutely sure, then took out a cell phone from his shirt pocket and searched for a number. He called and brought the binoculars back to his eyes with one hand.
'Yeah?' he heard over the cell phone.
'I see her. She just fuckin' walked out of nowhere.'
'Where is she?'
'Right there, in the road, she's turning right...'
'Which road, Barry?'
'For fuck's sake,' said Barry, putting the binoculars down on the rock and picking up the map. The wind had turned the page again. Hurriedly, he turned the page back and ran his finger over the map, looking for the right place.
'It's right there, first road below ...'
'Barry, what fuckin' street?'
'I'm working on it,' said Barry hoarsely.
'Just relax. Give us a street name.'
'OK, OK ... It's Rugby Road ... Hang on ...' He grabbed the binoculars again.
'Rugby Road runs all along the mountain, you fucking idiot.'
'I know, but she's turning left into ...' He put the binoculars down again, searched the map feverishly. 'Braemar. That's it ...' Barry lifted up the binoculars again. 'Braemar ...' He searched for her, spotted her in the lenses for a moment. She was walking calmly, in no hurry. Then she began to disappear, as though the suburb was swallowing her feet first. 'Shit, she's ... she's gone, she just fucking disappeared.'
'Not possible.'
'I think she went down an embankment or something.'
'You'll have to do better than that.'
Barry trembled as he searched the map again. 'Stairs. She's taking the stairway to Strathcona Road.' He pointed the binoculars again. 'Ja. That's it. That's exactly where she is.'
Griessel stood outside on the pavement with Dekker and Cloete. Through the glass doors they watched John Afrika pacify Willie Mouton and his soberly dressed lawyer. 'Sorry, Fransman,' said Griessel.
Dekker didn't reply; he just stared at the three men inside.
'It happens,' said Cloete philosophically. He drew deeply on a cigarette and looked at his cell phone, which was receiving complaining texts from the press, one after another. He sighed. 'It's not Benny's fault.'
'I know,' said Dekker. 'But we're wasting time. Josh Geyser could be in fucking Timbuktu by now.'
'The Josh Geyser?' asked Cloete.
'Who?' asked Griessel.
'The gospel guy. Barnard pumped his wife yesterday in his office and she went and confessed the whole thing.'
'Barnard's wife?' asked Griessel.
'No. Geyser's.' 'Melinda?' asked Cloete urgently.
'That's right.'
'No!' Cloete was shocked.
'Hang on ...' said Griessel.
'I've got all their CDs,' said Cloete. 'I can't fucking believe it. Is that what Mouton is going around saying?'
'Are you a gospel fan?' Dekker asked.
Cloete nodded only fleetingly and flicked his cigarette butt in an arc down the street. 'He's lying, I'm telling you. Melinda is a sweet thing. And besides, she and Josh are born-again - she would never do a thing like that.'
'Born-again or not, that's what Mouton says.'
'Fransman, wait. Explain this to me,' said Griessel.
'Apparently, yesterday Barnard fucked Melinda Geyser in his office. So her husband, Josh, pitches up yesterday afternoon saying he knows all about it and he's going to beat Barnard to death, but Barnard wasn't there.'
'Can't be,' said Cloete, but as a policeman he knew people were capable of anything and he was already considering whether it might be true. Then his face fell. 'Oh man, the press ...'
'Ja,' said Griessel.
'Benny!' All three turned when they heard Vusi Ndabeni's voice. The black detective came jogging down the pavement and reached them, out of breath. 'Where is the Commissioner?'
As one, all three pointed accusing fingers through the glass doors where a doctor had now joined the Mouton conference.
'The other girl - she's still alive, Benny. But they're hunting her down, somewhere in this city. The Commissioner will have to organise more people.'
Without haste, she walked down Marmion Road in the direction of the city. There was an absence in her, an acceptance of her fate. Ahead she saw a car reversing out of a driveway, a small black Peugeot. The driver was a woman. Rachel did not increase her pace, continued to walk towards her, unthreatening. The woman drove to the edge of the street and stopped. She looked left for traffic, then right. She saw Rachel and for an instant made eye contact, then looked away.
'Hi,' said Rachel calmly, but the woman didn't hear her. She stepped forward and softly knocked on the window with the knuckle of her middle finger. The woman turned her head, irritably. Her mouth had a peculiar shape, the corners pulled down strongly. She turned the window down a few centimetres.
'May I use your telephone, please,' said Rachel, without emotion, as though she knew what the answer would be.
The woman looked her up and down, saw the dirty clothes, the grazed chin, hands and knees. 'There's a public telephone at Carlucci's. On Montrose.'
'I'm in real trouble.'
'It's just around the
corner,' and the woman looked again for traffic in Marmion Road. 'Just turn right at the next street, and walk two blocks.'
She wound up the window and reversed. As she turned left to drive away she looked once more at Rachel, suspicion and aversion in her face.
Barry studied the map on the hood of the vehicle and said over his phone: 'Look, she could have gone left into Chesterfield, or she could have taken Marmion, but I can't see her. The angle's not good from here.'
'Which one goes down into the city?' The voice was out of breath.
'Marmion.'
'Then keep your focus on Marmion. We're two minutes from the Landy, but you will have to tell us where she is. It's going to take ten minutes to get the cops there. And by then she could be anywhere ...'
Barry took the binoculars and held them to his eyes again. 'Hang on ...'
He followed Strathcona to where it led into Marmion, which was thickly lined with trees. The binoculars stripped the image of perspective, there were too many double storeys and it was too overgrown; only here and there could he see the western pavement and parts of the street surface. He followed the trajectory north towards the city, glanced swiftly at the map. Marmion ended in ... Montrose. She ought to turn left there, if she wanted to reach the city.
Binoculars again. He found Montrose, broad and more visible from here. He followed it west. Nothing. Would she have turned right? East?
'Barry?'
'Yeah?'
'We're at the Landy. We're going to Marmion.'
'OK,' he said, still looking through the binoculars.
He saw her, far and tiny in the lenses, but unmistakable. She crossed the intersection.
'I have her. She's in Montrose ...' He looked down at the map. 'She just crossed Forest, heading east.'
'OK. We're in Glencoe. Now just don't lose her.'
Chapter 13
John Afrika walked out of the glass doors of casualty alone. Apparently, Willie Mouton and the sombre lawyer, Regardt Groenewald, had gone into the hospital. 'Good news, kerels,' said John Afrika as he took his place in the circle. 'Alexa Barnard is out of danger. The damage is not so bad, she's just lost a lot of blood, they're keeping her... Oh, Vusi, morning, what are you doing here?'
'I'm sorry, sir, I know you're busy, but I thought I should come and ask for help ...'
'Don't apologise, Vusi. What can I do?'
'The American girl at the church ... there were two of them, we know that now ...' Vusi Ndabeni took out his notebook from the pocket of his neat jacket, stood up straight and said, 'The victim is Miss Erin Russel. Her friend is Miss Rachel Anderson. They came in with a tour group yesterday. Miss Anderson was seen on Signal Hill at approximately six o'clock this morning, pursued by assailants. Sir, she's an eyewitness, and she's in great danger. We need to find her.'
'Damn,' said John Afrika, but the English expletive seemed ineffective in his mouth.
'Pursued by assailants? What assailants?'
'Apparently five or six young men, some white, some black, the witness says.'
'And who is this witness?'
'A lady by the name of ... Sybil Gravett. She was walking her dog along Signal Hill when Miss Anderson came up to her and asked her for help. She then ran in the direction of Camps Bay after she asked Mrs Gravett to call the police. A few minutes later the young men came running past.'
The Commissioner checked his watch. 'Fuck it, Vusi, that was more than three hours ago ...'
'I know. That's why I need more people, sir.'
'Bliksem.' Afrika rubbed a hand over his jaw. 'I don't have more people. We'll have to get the stations involved.'
'I've already asked the stations, sir. But Caledon Square has to police a union march to Parliament, and Camps Bay has only two vehicles in operation. The SC says they lost one patrol van to theft on New Year's Eve and the other one was crashed ...'
'Neeo bliksem,' Afrika swore before Vusi could finish.
'I've put out another bulletin, sir, but I thought if we could get the chopper, and put some pressure on the SCs ...'
Afrika took out his cell phone. 'Let me see what I can do ... Who the hell is chasing her?'
'I don't know, sir. But they were at a nightclub last night. Van Hunks ...'
'Jissis,' said John Afrika and called a number. 'When are we going to clean out those dens?'
Rachel Anderson walked in through the front door of Carlucci's Quality Food Store, straight up to the counter where a young man in a white apron was busy taking change out of small plastic bags.
'Is there a telephone I can use?' Her voice was expressionless.
'Over there, next to the ATM,' he said and then he looked up. He saw the stains on her clothes, the dried blood on her face and knees. 'Hi... Are you OK?'
'No, I'm not. I need to make an urgent call, please.'
'It's not a card phone. Would you like some change?'
Rachel took the rucksack off her back. 'I've got some.' She went in the direction he had indicated.
He noticed her beauty, despite the state she was in. 'Can I help you with something?' She didn't answer. He watched her with concern.
'Jesus Christ,' Barry said over the cell phone. 'She's just gone into a fucking restaurant or something.' 'Shit. Which one?'
'It's on the corner of Montrose and ... I think it's Upper Orange .. .Yes that's it.'
'We'll be there in two minutes. Just keep looking ...'
'I'm not taking my eyes off the place.'
The ringing of the phone woke Bill Anderson in his house in West Lafayette, Indiana. With his first attempt he knocked off the receiver, so he had to sit up and swing his feet off the bed to reach it.
'What is it?' his wife asked beside him, confused.
'Daddy?' he heard as he picked up the receiver. He lifted it to his ear.
'Baby?'
'Daddy!' said his daughter, Rachel, thirty thousand kilometres away, and she began to cry.
Bill Anderson's guts contracted; suddenly he was wide awake. 'Honey, what's wrong?'
'Erin is dead, Daddy.'
'Oh, my God, baby, what happened?'
'Daddy, you have to help me. They want to kill me too.'
To her left was a large window looking out on Montrose Avenue; in front of her was the deli counter, where three coloured people exchanged looks when they heard her words.
'Honey, are you sure?' her father asked, his voice so terribly near.
'They cut her throat last night, Daddy. I saw it ...' Her voice caught.
'Oh, my God,' said Bill Anderson. 'Where are you?'
'I don't have much time, Daddy. I'm in Cape Town . . . the police, I can't even go to the police ...' She heard the screech of tyres on the road outside. She looked up and out. A new white Land Rover Defender stopped outside. She knew the occupants.
'They're here, Daddy, please help me ...'
'Who's there? Who killed Erin?' her father asked urgently, but she had seen the two men leap out of the Land Rover and run to the main door of the shop. She threw the receiver down and fled through the shop, past the dumbstruck women behind the deli counter, to a white wooden door at the back. She shoved it violently open. As she ran out she heard the man in the apron shout: 'Hey!' She was in a long narrow passage between the building and a high white wall. Along the top of the wall was a long row of broken glass. The only way out was at the end of the passage to the right - another wooden door. She sprinted, the awful terror upon her again.
If that door was locked ...
The soles of her running shoes slapped loudly in the narrow space. She pulled at the door. It wouldn't open. Behind her she heard the deli door open. She looked back. They saw her. She focused on the door in front of her. There was a Yale lock. She turned it. A small, anxious sound exploded from her lips. She jerked the door open. They were too close. She went out and slammed it shut behind her. She saw the street before her, realised the door had a bolt on this side, turned and her fingers worked in haste, it wouldn't budge, she heard them
at the lock on the other side. She banged the bolt with the palm of her hand; pain shot up her arm. The bolt slid and the door was barred. They jerked at it from the other side.
'Bitch!' one of them shouted.
She raced down four concrete steps. She was in the street, kept running, left, down the long slope of Upper Orange Street, her eyes searching for a way out, because they were too close, even if they went back through the shop, they were as close as they had been last night, just before they caught Erin.
Bill Anderson rushed down the stairs of his house to his study, with his wife, Jess, at his heels.
'They killed Erin?' she asked. Her voice heavy with fear and worry.
'Honey, we have to stay calm.'
'I am calm, but you have to tell me what's going on.'
Anderson stopped at the bottom where the stairs led into the hallway. He turned and put his hands on his wife's shoulders. 'I don't know what's going on,' he said slowly and calmly. 'Rachel says Erin was killed. She says she's still in Cape Town ... and that she's in danger ...'
'Oh, my God ...'
'If we want to help her at all, we have to stay calm.'
'But what can we do?'
The young man in the apron saw the two men who had chased the girl coming back through Carlucci's Quality Food Store. He shouted again: 'Hey!' and blocked the way to the front door. 'Stop!'
The one in front - white, taut and focused - scarcely looked at him as he raised both hands and shoved the young man in the chest, making him stagger and fall with his back against the counter near the door. Then they were past him, out in the street. He scrambled to his feet, saw them hesitate for a moment on the pavement.
'I'm calling the police,' he shouted, rubbing his back with his hand. They didn't respond, but looked down Upper Orange Street, said something to each other, ran to the Land Rover and jumped in.
The aproned young man turned to the counter, reached for the phone and dialled 10111. The Land Rover turned the corner of Belmont and Upper Orange with squealing tyres, forcing an old green Volkswagen Golf to brake sharply. He realised he should get the registration number. He slammed the phone down, ran outside and a short way down the street. He could see it was a CA number - he thought it was 412 and another four figures, but then the vehicle was too far off. He turned and hurried back to the shop.