by Deon Meyer
Again someone hammered on the door. 'Hello, anybody home?' in an African accent, a woman, urgent.
What did it mean?
'Hey, guys!' the same voice barked, authoritarian. 'I called you back, but you did not hear.'
A man's voice answered from the street, then the same African woman: 'No, stay on the pavement, this might be a crime scene. Just go and tell them at the restaurant I need Forensics. Shoe imprints, I want them cast and identified.'
There was the sound of a door opening and a man's voice: 'Can I help you?'
'How are you?'
'That is not an appropriate question. Why are you hammering on my door?' The man's voice answered calm, timid.
'Because your doorbell is broken.'
'It's not broken. There is a power failure.'
'What? Again?'
'Yes. Can I help you?'
'I am Inspector Mbali Kaleni of the SAPS. We are looking for a girl who is running away from assailants, and I think she was in your garden. I want to know if you saw her.'
'I didn't see her ...'
'Over there. Can you come and take a look?'
'Is that your police ID?'
'Yes.'
'When did this happen?'
'About forty minutes ago. Can you please come and look at your garden? You did not see her?'
'No. But I heard her ..
Rachel Anderson's heart went cold.
'You did?'
'Yes,' said the man. 'I heard footsteps, around the corner of the house ...'
'Here?'
'Yes, just here. But I heard her run to the wall there, I think she jumped over, to the next house. By the time I looked through the window, she was gone.'
'Take a look at the tracks,' said the policewoman.
There was a moment of relief as the voices faded, but her pulse accelerated again because she didn't know where her tracks led. Then she remembered falling in the flower bed when she jumped over the wall. Was that all? Did the tracks lead here? She had stepped in damp ground; mud might have stuck to the grass or the slate of the path.
She heard the woman's footsteps on the path again. She kept dead still and closed her eyes.
Benny Griessel opened the big door of the AfriSound recording studio angrily. John Afrika had told him to hurry; they were waiting for him. The room was pitch dark, as it had no windows. The shaft of light from the open door illuminated Melinda; she stood with big, frightened eyes, hands folded across her breast, Bambi In Danger. He said, 'The power is off,' and she dropped her hands. Had she thought the darkened room was a police ploy?
He went up to her and said with all the patience he could muster: 'Madam, you will have to talk to Inspector Dekker. With or without your lawyer. That is your choice. You can request that a female officer be present, but you are not a victim; it's his discretion.'
'A female officer?' she was confused.
'A female member of the police.'
She thought for a moment. Then she said: 'He misunderstood me.'
'Oh?'
'After yesterday's events, I only meant it would be easier to talk to a woman about it.'
A meek little lamb without guile.
'So what do you want to do?'
'I just want to be sure it's confidential.'
He explained to her that if she or Josh were charged, nothing could be confidential.
'But we didn't do anything.'
'Then it will all be confidential.' So she agreed and he had to ask bloody Mouton where Fransman could question Melinda, because the studio was too dark. Natasha brought in a gas lamp and put it near Melinda in the recording studio.
Griessel and Dekker watched Natasha walk away. When she disappeared around the corner, Benny pulled his colleague by the arm as far as Adam Barnard's empty office. He had received a message from the Commissioner that he needed to pass on to Dekker. He knew what his reaction would be. There was only one way to do it: 'John Afrika says I must bring Mbali Kaleni in to help you.'
Fransman Dekker exploded. Not straight away, as if the implications mounted up in him first. Then he stood up straight, his eyes wild, his mouth opening and closing once, then the jaw muscles clamped shut, twitching as it all burst out and he hammered his fist against Adam Barnard's door:' Jirre-jissis!' He spun around, aimed for the door again, but Griessel had him, gripped his arm.
'Fransman!'
Dekker struggled to hold the arm. 'It stays your case.'
The coloured detective stopped, eyes staring, arms still up in the air. Griessel felt the strength in the shoulders as he pulled against them.
'I've got a son in Matric,' said Griessel. 'He's always telling me "Pa you must chill" and I think that is what you must do now, Fransman.'
Dekker's jaw began to work again. He jerked his arm out of Griessel's grasp and glared angrily at the door.
'You let everything wind you up, Fransman. It doesn't help shit.'
'You would never understand.'
'Try me.'
'How can I? You're white.'
'What is that supposed to mean?'
'It means you're not coloured,' he said, an angry finger pointed at Griessel's face.
'Fransman, I have no fucking idea ...'
'Did you see, Benny? Last week, with the Commissioner? How many coloureds were there?'
'You were the only one.'
'Yes, just me. Because they push the darkies. That's why they are sending Kaleni. They must be pushed in everywhere. I'm just a fucking statistic, Benny, I'm just there to fill their fucking quota. Did you watch the Commissioner on Thursday? He only had eyes for the bloody Xhosas, he didn't even see me. Eight per cent Coloureds. Eight fucking per cent. That's how many of us they want. Who decided that? How? Do you know how many brown people that has ruined. Thousands, I'm telling you. Not black enough, sorry, brother, off you go, get a job with Coin Security, go and drive a fucking cash van. But not me, Benny, I'm not going anywhere.' Fransman Dekker's zeal drove him to the words and rhythms of his Atlantis childhood. 'It's my fokken life. I was just so big, I said to my ma I'm gonna be a policeman. She skivvied her gat af so I could get Matric and go to the polieste. Not drive a fokken cash van ...'
He wiped spit from his lips. Griessel said: 'I do understand, Fransman, but...'
'You think so? Have you been marginalised all your life? Now that you whiteys have affirmative action at your backs, now you think you understand? You understand fokkol, I'm telling you. You were either Baas or Klaas, we were fokkol, always, we weren't white enough then, we're not black enough now; it never ends, stuck in the fucking middle of the colour palette. Now this white Christian lady says no, she's not talking to a man, but she doesn't know I can read her like I can read all the whiteys.'
'Can you read me, Fransman?' Griessel was growing angry too.
Dekker didn't reply, but turned away breathing heavily.
Griessel walked around him, so he could talk to his face. 'They say you've got ambition. Now listen to me, I threw my fokken career away because I didn't have control, because I let the shit get to me. That's why I'm standing here now. I didn't have any more options. Do you want options, Fransman? Or do you want to still be an Inspector at forty-four, with a job description that says "mentor" because they don't know what the fuck to do with you? Do you know how that feels? They look you up and down and think, what kak did you get up to that you're just a fucking Inspector with all that grey hair? Is that what you want? Do you want to be more than a bloody race statistic in the Service? Do you want to be the best policeman you can be? Then drop the shit and take the case and solve it, never mind what they say or how they talk to you or who John Afrika sends to help you. You have rights, just like Melinda Geyser. There are rules. Use them. In any case, you can do what you want, it won't change. I have been a policeman for over twenty-five years, Fransman, and I'm telling you now, they will always treat you like a dog, the people, the press, the bosses, politicians, regardless of whether you are black, white or brown. Unless they'r
e phoning you in the middle of the night saying "there's someone at the window" - then you're the fucking hero. But tomorrow when the sun shines, you're nothing again. The question is: can you take it? Ask yourself that. If you can't, drop it, get another job. Or put up with it, Fransman, because it's never going to stop.'
Dekker stood still, breathing heavily.
Griessel wanted to say more, but he decided against it. He stepped away from Dekker, his brain at work, shifting his focus.
'I don't believe it was Josh Geyser. If he's lying, he deserves a fucking Oscar. Melinda is the only alibi he has, and there's something about her ... she doesn't know what he said, let her talk, get her to give you more detail about yesterday, exactly what happened, then phone me and we can compare their stories. I have to go and see the Commissioner.'
Dekker didn't look at him. Griessel walked away down the passage.
'Benny,' said Dekker when he was almost in the reception area. Griessel turned.
'Thank you,' with reluctant frankness.
Griessel gestured with his hand and left.
One of the men in the lounge got up from an ostrich leather couch and tried to intercept him. Benny tried to avoid eye contact, but the man was too quick for him. 'Are you from the police?' He was tall, just over thirty, with a face that seemed very familiar to Griessel.
In a hurry and bothered, he said: 'Yes, but I can't talk to you now.' He would have liked to add 'because they are fucking me around', but he didn't. 'My colleague is still inside. Talk to him when he comes out,' and he jogged down the stairs, across the grass to where his car was parked.
There was a parking ticket stuck to the windscreen, right in the middle of the driver's window.
'Fuck,' he said, frustration surging over his dam wall of self- control. More paperwork that he didn't need. Metro Police had time to write fucking parking tickets, but don't ask them to help with anything else. He left the ticket right where it was, climbed in, started the engine and reversed out, grinding the gears as he drove away. He was going to ask the Commissioner for a clear job description.
Benny Griessel, Great Mentor, just didn't work for him. He had asked John Afrika last Thursday exactly what this job entailed. The answer: 'Benny, you're my safety net, my supervisor. Just keep an eye, check the crime scene management, don't let them miss suspects. Bliksem, Benny, we train them until it's coming out of everybody's ears, but the minute they stand on the scene, either it's stage fright or just plain sloppiness, I don't know. Maybe we're pushing them too fast, but I have to meet my targets, what else can I do? Look at the bliksemse Van der Vyver case; he's suing the Minister for millions; we just can't let that happen. Look over shoulders, Benny, give a gentle nudge where necessary.'
A fucking gentle nudge?
He had to brake suddenly for the traffic jam up ahead, two rows of cars, ten deep. The power cut meant all the traffic lights were down. Chaos.
'Jissis,' he said aloud. At least Eskom was one state institution that was worse than the SAPS.
He leaned back against the seat. It wouldn't help to get angry.
But, fuck it, what were you supposed to do?
From one case to the next. First here, then there. That was a recipe for a disaster.
If Josh Geyser wasn't the one who shot Barnard ...
That guy inside, he remembered now who he was. Ivan Nell, the star, he'd heard all his stuff on RSG; good, modulated rock, although he was stingy with the bass. He was sorry he hadn't talked to him quickly, he could have written to Carla about it tonight, but that's how it went, time for fuck all except sitting in the traffic, cursing.
He was hungry too. Only coffee since last night, he would have to do something about his blood sugar and suddenly he had a desire to smoke. He opened the cubbyhole, scratched around and found a half-pack of Chesterfield and a box of Lion matches. He lit one, wound the window down and felt the heat rising up from the street surface and flowing into the window.
He drew on the cigarette, slowly blowing out the smoke. It dammed up against the windscreen, then wafted out the window.
This morning Alexa Barnard had offered him a cigarette and he had said no thank you. 'An alcoholic that doesn't smoke?' she had asked. He had said he was trying to cut down because his AA sponsor was a doctor.
Then she said get another sponsor.
He liked her.
He should never have given her the alcohol.
And then he remembered that he wanted to atone for his mistake. He felt in his pocket while moving one car-length forward, found the phone and pressed the keys with his thumb.
It rang for a long time, as usual.
'Benny!' said Doc Barkhuizen, always bloody upbeat. 'Are you persevering?'
'Doc, you ever heard of the famous singer, Xandra Barnard?'
'They're taking a lot of interest in a house here,' said Barry over the cell phone. He drove slowly down Upper Orange in his beat- up red Toyota single-cab.
'What sort of interest?'
'There's a thousand uniformed Constables on the pavement, and this fat woman detective standing in the garden with a geriatric guy.'
'So find out what it's about.'
Barry looked at the houses in the street. On the right, a hundred metres down and opposite the Victorian house was a possibility. A long tar driveway to a single garage. 'Yeah...' He saw the uniforms watching him. 'Maybe. But not right now, there are too many eyes. Let me give it ten minutes or so ...'
11:03-12:00
Chapter 21
The hissing gas lamp that stood on the mixer bench threw an absurd shadow of Melinda Geyser onto the opposite wall. She stood with her face only centimetres from the glass, the recording booths behind her shaded in gloom. Dekker leaned forward in a leather chair on wheels, his elbows on his knees, because the leather back creaked loudly when he leaned back. He was perspiring. Without air conditioning it was getting hotter.
'Sorry about the misunderstanding,' she said, folding her arms under her breasts. Her figure was not without its attractions - the green blouse, jeans with white leather belt and big silver buckle, white pumps with wedge cork heels. But it bothered him, it wasn't what he expected from a gospel artist, the clothes were just that little bit too tight. They made him think of the kind of women who were most blatantly interested in him - late thirties, early forties, looks just starting to fade, and wanting to make the most of the last years of their sensual prime.
Maybe that was just how musicians were. 'Maybe I overreacted,' he said, and the sincerity in his voice was a surprise to him.
'Do you know what the difference is between life and making a CD?' she asked. She kept staring at the glass. He wondered if she was watching her own reflection.
'No,' said Dekker.
'The difference is that in life there is only one take.'
Was she about to lecture him?
'Adam had never asked me to come on my own before .Yesterday morning he phoned to say he had to see me. Those were his words, as though he had no choice. As though I was in trouble. "I have to see you. Just you." Like a headmaster sending for a naughty child.'
Then she moved, unfolding her arms, and turning to face Dekker. She took two steps and sat down on a two-seater leather couch opposite him, with her right arm on the armrest and the left on the cushions. She looked him in the eye and said: 'If you have done things in your life that might catch up with you, then you don't argue. You lie to your beloved husband, Mr Dekker, and you go to Adam Barnard's office and ask him what is going on.'
Mister. Now I'm a Mister.
The usually jovial Adam Barnard was serious, she said. Melinda sat dead still while she talked, not moving her hands or body, as if she was on thin ice, over deep waters. There was a determination in her voice.
Barnard had pushed a slim DVD case across his desk to her, the rewritable kind with the manufacturer's logo visible through the transparent plastic. She had looked at him, questioning. He had said nothing. She'd opened it. Inside someone had written on
the white surface of the DVD in permanent ink, Melinda 1987. She had known right away what it was.
She took a deep breath, looked to the right at the glass, as if to see herself one last time.
'You need to know about my background, Mr Dekker. We live in a strange world, in a society that has to label things to accommodate them.' Her use of language surprised him, more sophisticated than he had expected.
'But the process is neither logical nor fair. If you are a person who by nature struggles to conform, you're called a rebel when you're young. Later you're called other things. I was a so-called rebel. At school I was ... disobedient. I wanted to do everything my way. I was inquisitive. About everything. I had a craving for excitement, for the things a good little Afrikaans girl was not supposed to do. For many years I picked men who represented a certain amount of risk. It was instinctive, not conscious. Sometimes I wonder if it would have turned out differently if that had been my only weakness. But it isn't. From an early age I had a need for recognition. An affirmation that I am not ordinary. I wanted to stand out from the crowd. It's not necessarily a search for fame, just a need for attention, I think. In the end it is this combination that makes me who I am.'
She was not stupid, he thought. She was a woman who could easily deceive people. 'I was never terribly pretty. Not that I'm ugly, I'm grateful for that. If I use what I have I can attract attention, but I don't take men's breath away. I knew I was smart enough to study, but there is no degree in what I wanted to do. All I had left to me was my voice. And a stage personality, but that I only discovered later. Then I crossed paths with Danny Vlok. He can play anything from a violin to a trumpet. He had a music shop in the city, in Bloemfontein, and a four-piece band for weddings and parties. I saw his ad for a singer in the Volksblad's Classifieds. Danny dreamed of being a rock star. He tried to look like one. I thought it was cool then, and he was ten years older than me. Worldly wise. He tried to live like a rocker too. Drink and dagga. The problem was that Danny could only sing other people's music. His own was ... not good. I went for an audition with his band and afterwards we went to his flat in Park Road and had a zol and then sex. Two months later we got married in the magistrate's court. Four years later we were divorced.'