by Deon Meyer
'I see.' Dekker thought for a while. 'And Barnard?'
'I don't know where Adam went. But this morning when I heard on the radio ...' Nell looked around at the people who were sitting too close for his liking, at Natasha who had got up and come closer. 'Is there somewhere we could talk?'
'What about?'
Nell came up close and spoke quietly: 'I think his death has something to do with our conversation last night, I don't know ...'
'What did you talk about, Mr Nell?'
He looked uneasy. 'Can we talk somewhere else?' It was an urgent whisper.
Dekker suppressed the impulse to sigh. 'Can you just give me two minutes, please?'
'Of course. I just don't want you to think, you know ...'
'No, Mr Nell, I don't know,' said Fransman Dekker. He looked at Natasha who was waiting patiently only steps away from them, then back at Nell. 'Just give me a moment.'
'Of course.'
Benny Griessel was not good at sitting and waiting. So he left the radio room, walked through the busy charge office and the security doors out onto Buitenkant Street. His brain was busy and his courage was low. They were not going to find her. He had fourteen patrol vehicles driving in a grid pattern, and one was parked in Long Street with the men waiting at the Cat & Moose. He had ten foot patrols, two of them searching the Company Gardens. The helicopter had returned from Table View and covered the entire bloody city. There was no sign of her.
Where could she be?
He walked to his car, unlocked it and took out the Chesterfields from the cubbyhole, locked the door again and stood on the pavement, holding the pack of cigarettes. What was he missing?
Was there something in the chaos of the morning that he had missed? It was a familiar feeling. On the day a crime took place, there was so much information, his head would be overflowing, the pieces unconnected and crowding each other out. It took time, a night's sleep sometimes, for the subconscious to sort and file, like a slow secretary working at her own unhurried tempo.
He took out a cigarette and put it between his lips.
He was missing something ...
He slid the box of matches open.
The Field Marshal. Jeremy Oerson and the search for the rucksack.
He began to walk hastily back along the pavement, putting the matches in his trouser pocket, and the cigarettes back in the pack. He went into the police station. Was that the only item knocking at the door of his consciousness?
In the radio room he asked a uniformed policeman where he could get a telephone directory.
'Charge office.'
Griessel fetched one, paging through it as he walked back. The local government numbers were all right at the back. He found Metro and put the book on the old government-issue table of dark wood, next to his maps, notebook, pen and cell phone. He kept a finger on the number and phoned. Two rings and a woman's voice said: 'Cape Town Metropolitan Police, good afternoon, goeimiddag.'
'Jeremy Oerson, please.'
'Please hold,' she said and put him through. It rang for a long time. A man answered.
'Metro.'
'Jeremy Oerson?'
'Jeremy is not here.'
'This is Insp ... Captain Benny Griessel, SAPS. Where can I get hold of him, it's quite urgent?'
'Hold on ...' A hand was held over the receiver and muffled words exchanged. 'He should be back soon. Do you want his cell phone number?'
'Please.' Griessel reached for his pen and book.
The man recited the number and Griessel wrote it down. He rang off and phoned it. Oerson answered instantly.
'Jeremy.'
'Benny Griessel, SAPS. We talked this morning in Long Street.'
'Yes.' A total lack of enthusiasm.
'Did you find anything?' 'Where?'
'In the city. The girl's rucksack. You were supposed to be looking ...'
'Oh. Yes. No, there was nothing.'
Griessel was not impressed by his attitude. 'Can you tell me exactly where you searched?'
'I'll have to check. I didn't do it myself. We do have work, you know ...'
'I thought that was your work, fighting crime?'
'Your case isn't the only one we are working on.'
No, indeed, they had parking tickets to write, but he limited himself to the subject at hand: 'And you are absolutely sure you found nothing?'
'Nothing that belonged to the girl.'
'So you did find something?'
'The streets are full of stuff. There's a bag of junk in my office, but there is no passport or a purse or anything that would belong to an American woman.'
'How do you know?'
'Do you think I'm stupid?'
Jissis. Griessel breathed deeply and slowly. 'No, I don't think you're stupid. Where is the bag?'
Oerson waited before he answered. 'Where are you now?'
'No, tell me where your office is and I'll have it fetched.'
Natasha Abader unlocked Adam Barnard's office and said: 'I will have to give you the password if you want to check his laptop.'
She went in and Dekker followed. There were large framed photographs on the walls, Barnard and stars, one after the other, the men with an arm around Barnard's shoulder, the women with an arm around Barnard's waist. Every photo had a signature and a message in thick black marker. 'Thank you, Adam!' 'Adam for president!!!' 'With love and thanks.' 'The star in my heaven.' 'You are my darling.' Hearts, crosses to represent kisses, music notes.
He looked at the desk on which, according to her personal testimony, Melinda Geyser had been screwed. Apart from the laptop there was nothing else on it. His imagination ran riot, Melinda lying on her back on the wide wooden surface, stark naked, legs hooked over the shoulders of the standing Barnard, her mouth open in ecstasy as Adam fucked her, the sounds audible through the thin walls.
Dekker looked at Natasha guiltily. Her attention was on the laptop, eyebrows raised in query.
'What?'
'Adam left his laptop on.'
Dekker walked around the desk and stood beside her. He could smell her perfume. Subtle. Sexy. 'So?'
'He wouldn't usually do that. I switch it on when I come in, so he ...'
The screensaver was on, the AfriSound logo like a small flag fluttering. She moved the mouse, the screensaver disappeared, replaced by a request for a password. Natasha bent down to type it in, her long nails clicking on the keys and her neckline gaping. Dekker's view was good; he could not look away. Her breasts were small, firm and perfect.
She stood up suddenly. His eyes slid away to the screen. There were no programs open.
'I will have to look at his emails.'
She nodded and bent down again to work the mouse. Why couldn't she sit down? Did she know he was looking?
'Where is his diary?'
'He used Outlook. Let me show you,' and she shifted the mouse, clicking here and there. 'You can use Alt and Tab to change between email and calendar,' she said, and then she moved away so he could sit down in the large comfortable chair.
'Thanks,' he said. 'Can I ask you a few questions?'
She went over to the door. At first he thought she was ignoring him, but she shut the door, came back and sat down opposite him. She looked him full in the eyes.
'I know what you want to ask.'
'What?'
'You want to know whether Adam and I... you know . ..' 'Why would I want to ask that?'
She shrugged dismissively. It was a sensual gesture, but he suspected she was unconscious of that. She had a subdued air about her, sad. 'You're going to interview everyone,' she said.
Now he did want to know, but for another reason. 'Did you?' His head was screaming, Fransman what are you doing? But he knew what he was doing - looking for trouble and he could not stop himself.
'Yes.' She dropped her eyes.
'Here?' He gestured at the desk.
'Yes.'
Why had she given herself to a white man, a middle-aged white man, when she was lovely enoug
h for the cover of a magazine? He wanted to know if that meant she was easy, accessible. To him.
'This morning I'm glad that I did,' she said.
'Because he's dead?'
'Yes.'
'There are stories about him ... and women.'
She did not respond.
'Did he force women?'
'No.' With an attitude that said she objected to the question.
'Did you hear, yesterday? When Melinda was here?'
'Yes, I did.' Without blushing or averting her eyes.
'Do you know why he sent for her?'
'No. I only saw in the diary that she was coming.'
'But usually Josh is with her.'
Again the shrug.
'This is what I don't understand: there are three of you who heard him ... "nailing her",' his fingers made quotation marks around the words, 'a gospel artist in his office, and nobody thought it was strange. What kind of place is this?'
That made her angry; he could read her body language, the way she pulled her mouth, suddenly tight and sour.
'Come on, sister, think how it looks.'
'Don't "sister" me.'
He waited for an explanation, but she just sat there.
'Did Adam say anything about a DVD last week? Something that came in his post?'
'No.'
'Do you know who shot him?'
It took a while for the answer to come, reluctantly, more of a question: 'Josh Geyser?'
'Maybe not.'
She looked surprised, brushing long hair back over her shoulder in a practised motion.
'Why do you think it was Josh?'
'I saw him yesterday. He was angry enough. And he's ... weird.'
'Weird?'
The shrug again, which conspired to make her breasts move oddly under the tight, thin material. 'Gladiator turned gospel singer. Don't you think that's weird? Look at him ...'
'I can't lock him up because of the way he looks. Who else was angry with Adam Barnard?'
She made a wry noise. 'This is the music business.'
'And that means ...'
'Everyone is angry with everyone sometimes.'
'And everyone screws everyone else.'
She was indignant again.
'Who else was angry enough to shoot him?'
'I really don't know.'
He asked the question that fascinated him: 'Why were ... the women so crazy about him? He was over fifty ...'
She stood up, crossed her arms over her breasts, cold and angry. 'He would have been fifty-two. In February.'
He waited for an answer but none was forthcoming. He egged her on: 'Why?'
'It's not about age, it's about aura.'
'Aura?'
'Yes.'
'What aura?'
'There's more than one kind.'
'What was his aura?' 'You wouldn't understand.'
'Educate me.'
'He had an aura of power. Very strong. 'Then she looked into his eyes with a challenge and said: 'Women like the power of money, and he had that. And for many women he was the gateway to the stars. He could introduce them to the celebrities with money. But there is another power that is totally irresistible - the power to empower.'
'Now you've lost me.'
'Second prize is to have a powerful man in your life. First prize is to have the power yourself so you don't need a man. That was the kind of power Adam Barnard could give.'
'To the artists? He could give them fame and fortune?'
'Yes.'
He nodded slowly. She hesitated, then turned and walked to the door.
'But you're not a singer,' he said.
With one hand on the doorknob, without looking around, she said: 'Second prize is not so bad.'
She opened the door and went out.
'Send the Nell ou in, please,' he called after her, but he couldn't tell if she had heard him.
Chapter 29
Alexa Barnard became aware of someone beside her bed.
She opened heavy eyelids and felt the dull ache in her forearm, the weight of her body and the peculiar odour of the hospital ward. On the right of her bed she saw large eyes behind thick spectacles. She tried to focus, but closed her eyes again.
'My name is Victor Barkhuizen, and I am an alcoholic,' said a voice very quietly and sympathetically.
She opened her eyes again. He was an old guy.
'Benny Griessel asked me to look in on you. The detective. I am his AA sponsor. I just want you to know you are not alone.'
Her mouth was very dry. She wondered if it was the medication, the stuff that made her sleep.
'The doctor?' she asked, but her tongue stuck to her palate, her lips were stiff and the words wouldn't form.
'You don't have to speak. I'm just going to sit here with you a while and I will leave my number with the ward sister. I will come again tonight.'
She turned her head towards him with effort and managed to open her eyes. He was short and stooped, bald and bespectacled, and the hair that he still had around his head hung down his back in a long plait. She slowly put out her right hand. He took it and held it tight.
'You're the doctor,' she tried to say.
'For my sins.'
'I smoke,' she said.
'And you don't even have a fever.'
She didn't know if the smile registered on her face. 'Thank you,' she said and closed her eyes again.
'No problem.'
Then she remembered, somewhere through the haze she had had a thought, a message. Without opening her eyes she said: 'The detective ...'
'Benny Griessel.'
'Yes. I need to tell him something.'
'I can send him a message.'
'Tell him to come. About Adam ...'
'I'll tell him.'
She wanted to add something, something that evaded her now, like silver fish slipping from her grasp into dark water. She sighed and felt Victor Barkhuizen's hand and pressed it slowly to make sure it was still there.
'I'd like to call my dad. I'll pay, of course,' said Rachel Anderson as she helped him carry the plates to the sink, in spite of his protests.
'No need for that,' he said. 'The phone is on the table, where I work.'
Then he laughed. 'If you can find it. Go, I will clear the dishes.'
'No,' she said. 'The least I can do is to wash up.'
'Under no circumstances.'
'Please, I insist. I love washing up.'
'You lie with such grace, my dear.'
'It's true! At home I do it all the time.'
'Then we'll do it together,' he said as he squirted dish-washing liquid over the plates and opened the taps. 'You do the washing, I'll dry and put them away. Do you still live with your parents?'
'Oh, yes, I just finished high school last year. This is supposed to be a gap year, before I go to college.'
'Here, you can wear these gloves .. . And where would you go for your studies?'
'Purdue. My parents work there.'
'They're academics?'
'My dad has tenure at English Lit. My mom's at the School of Aeronautics and Astronautics, on the Astrodynamics and Space Applications research team.' 'Good grief.'
'She's a real scientist, the most scatterbrained person I know. I love her to death, she's brilliant, she does spacecraft dynamics, orbit mechanics, it's about satellite control, how their orbits decay, how they re-enter the earth's atmosphere, and it's like a rhyme, I can say it, but I don't understand anything she does, I think I take after my dad, and I'm talking too much, right now.'
He put a hand on her upper arm. 'And I'm enjoying every minute, so talk all you like.'
'I miss them very much.'
'I'm sure you do.'
'No, it's more like ... I left home almost two months ago, I've been away from them for so long, it makes you ... I didn't know how dreadful I was, such a teenager ...'
'We all were. It's the way life works.'
'I know, but it took a really bad thing ...' Her han
ds stopped moving, her head drooped onto her chest and she stood still.
He said nothing at first, just watched her with immense compassion. He saw the tears rolling silently down her face. 'Would you like to talk about it?'
She shook her head, fighting for control. It came slowly. 'I can't. I shouldn't...'
'You're almost done. Go and call your father.'
'Thank you.' She hesitated. 'You've been so very kind ... I...'
'I have done very little.'
'Would it be rude if I...?'
'I don't think you have a rude bone in your body, my dear. Please, just ask.'
'I'm dying for a bath, I don't think I've ever been this dirty, I'll be quick, I promise ...'
'Good heavens, of course, and take all the time you need. Would you like a bubble bath? The grandchildren gave me some for my birthday, but I never use it...'
There was no parking in Castle Street. Griessel had to park a block away from the Van Hunks club in Long Street, and the parking attendant descended on him like a vulture. He paid for two hours and walked hastily towards the nightclub, surprised to find Vusi waiting at the front door.
'I thought you were still on your way?'
'Those Table View guys are crazy. Sirens all the way. This door is locked. We have to go round the back.'
'I sent for the eyewitness from Carlucci's, Vusi. And Oliver Sands from the hostel,' Griessel said as they walked side by side.
'OK, Benny.'
They turned into the service alley. Griessel's cell phone rang: the screen said MAT JOUBERT.
'Hey,' said Benny, answering.
'Is that Captain Benny Griessel?' Joubert asked.
'Can you fucking believe it?'
'Congratulations, Benny. It's high time. Where are you?'
'Nightclub in Castle Street. Van Hunks.'
'I'm just around the corner. Would you like some Steers?'
'Jissis, that would be great.' He had last eaten the previous night. 'A Dagwood burger, chips and Coke; I'll pay you back.' His belly rumbled in expectation. 'Wait, let me ask Vusi if he wants something too ...'
On the third floor of a recently restored office building in St George's Mall, the lift doors opened to release the fat woman.
She hitched the handbag over her shoulder, shifted the pistol on her belt and walked purposefully across the thick, light brown carpet to where a middle-aged coloured receptionist sat behind a dark wood desk. She took the SAPS identity card hanging around her neck between her thumb and forefinger and aimed it at the receptionist, looking up at the words Jack Fischer and Associates, which were displayed on a dark wooden panel, every letter cut from gleaming copper and individually mounted.