Thirteen Hours

by Deon Meyer

  'Inspector Mbali Kaleni, SAPS. I need to talk to Jack Fischer.'

  The coloured woman was unimpressed. 'I doubt he is available,' she said, putting a reluctant hand out to the telephone.

  'Is he here?'

  The receptionist ignored her. She typed in a four-figure number and said in an undertone: 'Marli, there is a woman from the police who wants to talk to Jack ...'

  'Is Jack here?' Kaleni asked again.

  'I see,' said the coloured woman into the telephone with an air of satisfaction. 'Thank you, Marli.' She replaced the phone and sniff-sniffed with a slight frown. 'What is that smell?'

  'I asked you if Jack Fischer is here.'

  'Mr Fischer's diary is full. He can only see you after six.'

  'But he is here?'

  The woman nodded unenthusiastically.

  'Tell him it is in connection with the murder of his client, Adam Barnard. I want to talk to him within the next fifteen minutes.'

  The receptionist opened her mouth to respond, but she saw Kaleni turn and waddle to one of the large easy chairs against the wall. She sat down and made herself comfortable, placed her handbag on her lap and took out a white plastic bag with the letters KFC and the logo of an old bearded, bespectacled man on it.

  The receptionist's frown deepened as Kaleni put her chubby hand into the plastic bag and took out a little red and white carton and a tin of Fanta Grape. She watched the policewoman put her handbag on the ground and the Fanta on the table beside her, opening the carton with absolute concentration.

  'You can't sit there and eat,' she said with more astonishment than authority.

  Mbali Kaleni lifted a chicken drumstick out of the packet. 'I can,' she said, and took a bite.

  The receptionist shook her head and made a little noise of disbelief and despair. She picked up the phone, without taking her eyes off the munching policewoman.

  Galina Federova walked down the passage with Vusi and Griessel behind her. Benny smelled the alcohol even before they entered the big nightclub - that familiar, musty old smell of drinking holes where alcohol has been poured, drunk and spilt, the smell that for more than ten years had offered him a refuge. His stomach contracted in fear and anticipation. As he went through the door and the club opened out before him, his eyes sought out the shelves of bottles against the wall, long rows glinting like jewels side by side in the bright lights.

  He heard the Russian woman say: 'This is the night shift,' but he continued staring at the liquor, his head full of memories. He felt a powerful wave of nostalgia for days and nights of drinking with forgotten booze buddies. And for the atmosphere of these twilight places, that feeling of total submission, clasping a glass with the knowledge that a refill was only a nod away.

  The taste in his mouth now was not the brandy or Jack Daniels that he used to drink, but the gin that he had poured that morning for Alexa Barnard. He recalled her relief with disturbing clarity; he could see the effect of the alcohol on her so clearly, how it drove out all the demons. That was what he desired now: not the smell or the taste, but the calm, the equilibrium that had evaded him all day. He craved the effect of alcohol. He heard Vusi say his name once, twice, and then he dragged his face away from the bottles and concentrated fiercely on his colleague.

  'These are the night-shift staff,' Vusi said.

  'OK.' Griessel looked around the room, aware that his heart was beating too quickly, his palms sweating, knowing he must squeeze the longing out of himself by force. He looked at all the people. Some of the staff were seated at tables, others were busy arranging chairs and wiping down tables. For the first time he heard the music in the background, unfamiliar rock.

  'Can you ask them to sit, please?' he said to Federova, thinking he must pull himself together pretty smartly; he had a young, lost and frightened girl to find.

  The woman nodded and clapped her hands to get everyone's attention. 'Come. Sit.' Griessel noted that they were all young and good looking - mostly men, nine or ten of them; four women. None of them looked particularly impressed to be here.

  'Can someone turn off the music?' Griessel asked, his patience worn thin by the general lack of interest, the liquor and the urgency inside him.

  A young man got up and walked over to the sound system, pressed or turned something and it went suddenly quiet.

  'They are from the police,' said Galina Federova in a businesslike voice, but her irritation came through. 'They want to ask questions about last night.' She looked at Griessel.

  'Good afternoon,' he said. 'Last night, two American girls visited this club, young tourists. This morning, the body of one of them was found at the top of Long Street. Her throat was cut.'

  He ignored the subdued sounds of dismay; at least he had their attention now. 'I'm going to pass around a photograph of the victim and her friend. We need your help urgently. If you remember them at all, put up your hand. We believe the other girl is still alive, and we have to find her.'

  'Before it is too late,' said Vusi Ndabeni softly beside him.

  'Yes,' said Griessel, and gave half of the photographs to Vusi, walked to the back table and began to hand them out, watching how they looked at the picture with the usual macabre interest.

  He went and stood in front again, waiting for Vusi to give out the last photos.

  Federova sat down at the bar and lit a cigarette. In front of him the young workers' heads were lowered, busy studying the photos.

  Then two or three slowly looked up, warily, with that tentative expression that said they recognised the girls, but they didn't want to be first to raise a hand.

  Chapter 30

  Mbali Kaleni was aware of the disapproval of the coloured receptionist, but didn't understand it. A person had to eat. It was lunchtime and here was a table and chairs. That was the problem with this country, she thought, all these little cultural differences. A Zulu eats when she must eat; it was normal, natural, and no big deal. She wasn't bothering anyone; she had no issue with how and what and when brown people or white people ate. If they wanted to eat their tasteless white sandwiches behind closed office doors or somewhere in a claustrophobic little kitchen, that was their problem. She didn't judge them.

  She shook her head, took out the tub of mashed potatoes and gravy, lifted the transparent lid, picked up the white plastic teaspoon and made sure she took a small, well-mannered portion. This was part of her ritual: first she ate all the chicken, then the potato, leaving half of the cold drink for last. And, as usual, she thought while she ate. Not about the murder of the music man; it was the American girl who haunted her. She had been so sure she would find her. Her colleagues had been running around in a panic; in the crisis they had acted like headless chickens, but that was the way men were. In an emergency they had to do something; they couldn't suppress the impulse. This situation called for calm, for logic and causal thought. That was how she had found the trail in the flower bed.

  And then, nothing. That was what she found perplexing.

  The girl would not have jumped the picket fence only to clamber over the next wall and run down the street again.

  But the old man had said he had heard her go up to the wall.

  Why didn't Rachel Anderson knock on his door and ask for shelter? Too little time.

  And if time was so short, she would have hidden from the street some other way. Why hadn't the helicopter spotted her? The way it seemed to Kaleni as she thought the situation through was that there were only two options for a fugitive woman trying to stay off the streets: get inside a house, or hide somewhere in a garden where nobody could see her. If she hadn't gone into the old man's house, she must have climbed over the northern wall to the next house. But Kaleni had had a policeman, a tall, skinny Xhosa, look over the wall for her, because she was too short. He said there was nothing there, just a little herb garden and a plastic table and chairs.

  Had she climbed over the next wall as well and gone through the next yard? The helicopter would have spotted her sooner or later.


  And if she had travelled so far, why did Mbali Kaleni have such a strong feeling that she was close by?

  She scraped out the last of the potato, put the lid back on the tub, and the tub back in the little carton.

  When she was finished here she would go back to Upper Orange. Have another look. She owed that to the girl: a woman's calm, logical and causal thought.

  Ivan Nell sat opposite Fransman Dekker in Adam Barnard's office and said in his deep voice: 'I wanted to see Adam, because I believe they are cheating me. Of my money.'

  'How's that?'

  'It's a long story ...'

  Dekker pulled his notebook and pen nearer. 'Can you give me the main points?'

  Nell leaned forward in his chair, put his elbows on his knees and said with a serious expression: 'I think they are cooking their books. Last night I told Adam I wanted to bring in an auditor, because things didn't look right. And when I heard over the radio this morning that he was dead ...'

  'What made you think things were not right?'

  'Well, to get sales figures had become like pulling teeth; it's very difficult to get something out of them. Then, last year, the money I received for some songs in compilations by independent labels ... It was a heck of a lot more than I expected. Then I started doing my own sums ...'

  'So AfriSound is not your label?'

  'No, they were, until February last year.'

  'They made your CDs?'

  'My contract was for three original albums and the option of a Greatest Hits. That came out last year, all with Adam.'

  'And then you went to someone else?'

  'No, I started my own label.'

  'Because AfriSound cheated you?'

  'No, no, I was not aware then that they were robbing me.'

  Dekker leaned back in the comfortable chair. 'Mr Nell, can you start at the beginning, please?'

  'I... please call me Ivan.'

  Dekker nodded, impressed, but he didn't show it. He had expected an attitude: the man was famous, white and successful. But there was no ego, no talking down to a coloured policeman, just a genuine desire to help.

  'At varsity I started playing in pubs, for pocket money mostly, around Nineteen ninety-six. I did English covers, Kristofferson, Cohen, Diamond, Dylan, that sort of thing, just me and my guitar. When I graduated in ninety-eight, I started going door to door to get gigs in Pretoria. I started singing in Cafe Amies, McGinty's, Maloney's, some places without pay. Nobody knew about me. I used to do two sets of English covers and the last set in Afrikaans with a couple of my own songs thrown in just to test the audience. Then it started happening, when the time came for the last set, the place would suddenly be full. The people would sing along. And the audiences grew bigger, like there was a hunger for Afrikaans stuff, like they wanted to belong somewhere, the students, the younger people. In any case, the gigs increased. Eventually I was playing six nights a week, making more money than I did at work, so I went full time in Two thousand. In Two thousand and one I made my own CD and I sold it at the shows . . .'

  'For which label?'

  'No, I didn't have a label.'

  'How can you make a CD if you don't have a label?'

  'You just have to have money. There was this guy at Hartebeespoort who had a studio in an outside room. I recorded it with him. He charged about sixty thousand then. I had to borrow the money ...'

  'So why would you need a label?'

  'For just about everything, but mostly for capital. If you want to make a decent album, a solid recording with good musicians and enough studio time, you need about two hundred thousand. I couldn't afford that. That first CD of mine was quite primitive, you can hear that. But you sit in the pub at night and sing, and then you tell people there's a CD, and they have had a couple of drinks and so they buy it, let's say ten per night, then you get your money back. But you can't play it on the radio; it's just not good enough. If you're with a label they pay for a band, a producer, sound engineer; they market the thing, distribute it - it's a whole different ball game.'

  'So how did you end up with AfriSound?'

  'Adam heard what was happening up there, about the audiences growing and so on. So he came up to listen and said he wanted to sign me. I mean, Adam Barnard, it's what a guy dreams about, he's this legend, Mr Afrikaans music. He gave me my big break; he put me on the map. I will always be grateful to him for that... Anyway, we signed for three albums and the option of a Greatest Hits. He said for the first one I must record my first album again with the best musicians. Adam produced it himself; it was a dream team. They paid RSG Radio to play the CD; the album went double platinum. It took more than three years, but we did well. So did the next two albums, and the Greatest Hits, all platinum already.'

  'So why don't you want to sing with AfriSound any more?'

  'Many reasons. Look, the big labels are going to squeeze every cent out of you. They make big promises, but they don't always keep them .. . but in the end it's about margins. From a record company you get twelve per cent, sometimes less. But on your

  own you get everything less input costs, eighty, eighty-five per cent once you've recouped your studio expenses. That is one heck of a difference. And now I have the capital to rent a decent studio long enough to make the best possible product.'

  'What do you mean when you say you "did well"? What amounts are we talking about?'

  'Look, it depends ...' Uncomfortable, as though he didn't really want to talk about it.

  'Plus minus.'

  'Jonkmanskas was my first album with Adam. It only did fifteen thousand in the first year, but you have to build your brand, because if people like your second album they will go back and buy your first. So, Jonkmanskas started reasonably, but now it's on a hundred and fifty thousand ...'

  'And what is your share of that?'

  'That also depends on whether I sold it myself at a concert or if you bought it in a shop.'

  Dekker sighed. 'Ivan, I'm trying to get my head around the music business. Give me a ball-park figure of what you earn with a CD. Nowadays.'

  Nell sat up slowly, still uncomfortable with the subject. 'Let's say about seven hundred and fifty, over three to four years.'

  'Seven hundred and fifty thousand?'

  'Yes.'

  'Fuck,' said Dekker and made a note in his book. 'Now how did they cheat you?'

  'It may sound like a lot of money, Inspector, but that is before tax, and there are a lot of expenses ...'

  'How did they cheat you?'

  'I don't know. That's why I want to bring in an auditor.'

  'Surely you must have a theory?'

  'Well, last year, I did three songs for compilation albums - one for Sean Else's rugby CD and two for Jeremy Taylor, a country album and Christmas album. Sean and Jeremy are independents, and when I got the rugby CD money, I started wondering, because it was a shitioad of money, proportionately much more

  than I was getting from Adam and them. When the country CD payment came, it was the same story. So I looked carefully at the statements, at the deductions and sales and royalties, and the more I looked, the less sense it made. You must remember, on a compilation album you are one of ten or more artists; so you would be getting roughly ten per cent, say, of the royalties you would usually receive. I wasn't expecting much. In the end it was good money. Then I started getting suspicious.'

  'And you spoke to Adam Barnard?'

  'I phoned him about a week ago, and said I wanted to come and see him. I didn't say why; I just said I wanted to talk about my contract. He said let's go and have a relaxed dinner.'

  'And that was last night?'

  'That's right.'

  'What was his reaction?'

  'He said that as far as he knew, they had nothing to hide. When I said I wanted to bring my own auditor, he said "no problem".'

  'And then?'

  'He offered me a new contract. I said "no thank you". And that was that. So we talked about other things. Adam ... He was great company, as a
lways. His stories ... The thing is, usually Adam will party to twelve or one o'clock, he never tires. But last night, at about half past nine, he said he had to make a quick phone call, and he went and stood outside to phone, and when he came in he said he had to leave. We got the bill and we left about ten o'clock.'

  Dekker looked at Barnard's diary. Alongside 19:00 was written Ivan Nell - Bizerca but there were no further entries for later that night. He made a note in his notebook: Cell phone 21:30?? and wondered what had happened to Adam Barnard's cell phone, because it wasn't on the scene that morning.

  'You have no idea who he called?'

  'No. But he wasn't the sort of guy who would leave the table to phone. He would just sit with you and talk, never mind who it was. When I heard this morning he had been shot, once I was over the worst shock, I started to wonder.'

  She stood with one foot in the hot foam bath and considered surrendering herself to the luxury, longing to wash her hair and scrub her body, then just lying back and letting the pain and the fatigue melt away.

  She couldn't. She had to phone her father; they would be insane with worry. But she wanted to bath quickly first. In the kitchen just now, she had seen a way out for the first time since last night, a prospect of safety. If she phoned her father, he could get someone to fetch her, someone from the embassy, maybe, and they could question her and she would tell them everything. It would be a long process, long discussions over everything that had happened. That meant it would be hours before she could wash off the blood and sweat and dust. She must take the opportunity to clean herself quickly now.

  She got into the bath and sat down. The hot water stung the scratches and cuts, but the satisfaction was immense. She slowly lay back until her breasts slipped under the foam.