Thirteen Hours

by Deon Meyer

  'Mat, I'll call you back.' He switched calls and said: 'Mr Anderson?'

  'Oh, thank god, Captain, we were getting very worried. Is Rachel OK?' Shit.

  'Mr Anderson, Rachel was not at the address she gave me. We are still trying to track her down, but we are making good progress.' 'She wasn't there? How is that possible?'

  'I don't know, sir. I honestly don't know.'

  Two young men full of fire and self-confidence walked into the Cat & Moose Youth Hostel, up to the plump woman at the reception desk.

  'Hi,' said the black one and smiled. 'We've come for Rachel's stuff.'

  'Who?'

  'Rachel Anderson, the American girl. You know, the one who was missing.'

  'Are you from the police?'

  'No, we're friends.'

  'Don't I know you?' asked the generously built girl.

  'I don't think so. So where is her luggage?'

  'Down there, in their room, with the police. Did they find her?'

  'With the police?' The friendliness wavered.

  'Yes, they're guarding it. Guns and everything. You'll have to talk to them. Did they find the girl?'

  They didn't answer her. They looked at each other. Then they walked out.

  'Hey!' the girl shouted, but they didn't even look back. She came around from behind the desk and ran out through the door onto the Long Street pavement. She saw them walking fast. They looked back once and disappeared around the corner.

  'I know you,' she said, and hurried off to find the two men who were guarding the luggage.

  He wanted to pull off her running shoes. She pressed her feet against the cement floor with all her strength, so that he swore, stood beside her and violently kicked her feet out from under her with his boots.

  Her legs shot forward and she fell hard on her bare bottom. She lunged up, trying to struggle upright and hide her feet under her again, but one of the others had grabbed her legs and held them in a ferocious grip.

  'Jesus, you're a piece of work,' Jay said to her.

  She spat at him, but missed. She tried to jerk her legs free. It was no use. Jay began to untie her laces and pulled the shoe off her foot. He wrinkled his nose at the smell.

  'Don't you Yankee bitches ever change your socks?'

  She spat again, ineffectually. He had the other laces undone and pulled off the other shoe, threw it aside and pulled off both socks. 'You had better hold one leg,' he said to the third man. 'This is going to drive her nuts.'

  He stretched to reach the pruning shears, a big tool with green handles. 'OK, one last time: where is the video?'

  'Dead and buried,' she said.

  Now there were two of them holding her legs, pressing down with their full weight so that her heels pressed painfully against the concrete floor.

  'No,' Jay said to one of them. 'I want her to see what I'm doing. Move a little.'

  He grabbed her right foot, his hand around the cushion and the big toe. He brought the shears closer, looked at her, put the blades around her little toe. She jerked with all her might. They were too strong for her. He closed the handles. The pain was immediate and immense. She screamed against her will, a sound she did not know she could make.

  The blood made the toe stick to the silver blades. Jay shook them and the bit of flesh and nail fell in the dust.

  'This little piggy ...' said the one who was holding her right leg, and giggled nervously.

  She cried hysterically.

  'Where's the video?' Jay asked and gripped her foot again.

  'Fuck you,' she screamed.

  He grinned, held the foot tightly, hooked the blades around the second toe and snipped it off.

  'In my big bag,' she shrieked, because the pain, the brutality and the humiliation was too much.

  'Good. Where is the bag?'

  'At the youth hostel.'

  Then Jay's cell phone rang and they all jumped in fright.

  The superintendent came back through the glass doors with bloodied clothing in a large transparent plastic bag. Griessel told Bill Anderson: 'I am really sorry, but I have to go. If there is any news, I will call you, I promise.'

  Silence over the line. 'I don't think your promises mean all that much,' and then the audible click as the American put down the phone. Griessel stood frozen to the spot, torn between the injustice and the knowledge that, as a father, he would have felt the same.

  The superintendent held out the bag to him. 'Captain, this is everything, I don't know whether it will help you.'

  He came back to the present, replaced his phone in his pocket and took the plastic bag. 'Have you got a pair of rubber gloves around here?'

  'Miss, get the captain a pair of surgical gloves,' the doctor ordered. The nurse trotted off down the corridor. 'Will that be all, Captain?'

  'Doc, my colleague, Inspector Kaleni?'

  'The black woman?'

  'Yes. Any news?'

  'Her chances are better than the young man's in there. The gunshot trauma to her neck ... it looks like the jawbone deflected the projectile, so that it only damaged the edge of the carotid artery above the fourth cervical vertebra. Apparently she received treatment on the scene to control the bleeding, which made a great difference.'

  'Will she make it?'

  'It's too early to say.'

  The nurse returned with the gloves. 'Thank you,' he said.

  'Let me know if you need anything,' the superintendent said and walked towards the lift.

  'Thank you very much, Doc,' he said and put the big plastic bag on the nurses' desk. He pulled on the gloves hastily. It looked like a pair of trousers, shirt, a pair of brown boots ... He opened the bag and took out the shirt. White T-shirt, dark with blood. That meant no breast pocket. He took out the shoes and put them to one side. Then the trousers, jeans, with a worn leather belt. He felt in the pockets and took out a bunch of keys, studied them. Car keys with Mazda on them, four other keys - two that would open a house door and two smaller ones. For padlocks? No use. He put the keys beside the shoes. Nothing else in that pocket. In the other he found a handkerchief, clean and neatly folded. He turned the trousers over and immediately felt the back pockets were empty. But there was something on the belt, heavy, a pouch of rust-brown leather with a flap folded over some object. He undipped the flap.

  Inside the flap something was written, but he concentrated on the contents of the pouch - a Leatherman, it seemed. He pulled it out. Red handles, printed with Leatherman and Juice Cs4. The multi-tool was not new and bore the marks of use. Fingerprints, he could get fingerprints off it. He applied himself to the flap, lifting it up again. Three letters were written on it with permanent ink marker: A. OA.

  Initials?

  What is your name, fucker? Andries? He thought of Joubert, of the word Mbali had scribbled. Jas. He would have to phone Mat back, but first he must finish this. He put the Leatherman back in its pouch and went back to the plastic bag. Only a pair of underpants were left, and a pair of socks. He took them out and turned them over in his hands looking for more initials, a laundry label, anything, but there was nothing. A.O.A.

  Jas?

  'Miss,' he said to the nurse, 'do you perhaps have a small plastic bag?' He pulled the brown belt out of the jeans and took off the pouch.

  She nodded, penitent, eager to help after the good example set by the superintendent.

  She searched under her desk and produced an empty pill packet.

  'That's perfect,' said Griessel, 'thanks a lot.' He placed the Leatherman, pouch and all, in the packet. Then he put the packet in his shirt pocket. He pushed the clothing back into the big bag and looked up. The nurse was gazing intently at him, as though any minute he was going to perform a miracle.

  He pulled off the rubber gloves, hesitating, where could he dispose of them?

  'Give them to me,' she said softly.

  He nodded his thanks, passed them to her, took out his cell phone and called Mat Joubert.

  'Benny,' the deep voice said.

&nbs
p; 'Jas?' said Griessel.

  'J.A.S. Just the three letters. Did you find anything?'

  'Another three letters. A.O.A. With full stops between. I think they are the fucker's initials.'

  'Or an abbreviation.'

  'Could be.'

  'J.A.S. Could also be an abbreviation, I don't know ... Or a suspect wearing a coat, in this weather ...'

  A spark lit up in the back of Benny Griessel's mind, two thoughts coming together ... then it collapsed.

  'Say that again.'

  'I said J.A.S. could be an abbreviation too.'

  Nothing, the insight was gone, leaving no trace.

  His cell phone rang softly in his ear. Now what? He checked. It was the Caledon Square radio room. 'Mat, I've got another call, we'll talk.' He manipulated the phone's keys, said: 'Griessel.' The Sergeant said: 'Captain, two men just tried to collect the girl's luggage at the Cat & Moose.' Griessel's heart lurched.

  'Did you get the bastards?'

  'No, Captain, they ran away, but the manager says she knows one of them.'

  'Jissis,' said Griessel, grabbing the plastic bag and starting to run. 'I'm on my way.'

  'Right, Captain.'

  'How the hell do you know about the Captain?' Griessel asked as he stormed out through the door into the street, nearly knocking two schoolgirls head over heels.

  'Good news travels fast,' said the Sergeant, but Griessel didn't hear. He was too busy apologising to the girls.

  Chapter 40

  The woman at Cape Town Metropolitan Police: Administration pulled out the form from a file. She frowned and said: 'That's funny...'

  Vusi waited for her to explain. Distracted, she laid the form to one side and paged through the file, searching. 'I couldn't have ...' she said.

  'Ma'am, what's the problem?'

  'I can't find the receipt.'

  'What receipt?'

  She put the file aside and began pulling documents out of a basket that was three storeys high. 'The form says the pound and traffic fines were paid ...'

  'Would it help if we knew whose signature that is?'

  'These people, they sign like crabs.' She kept on looking through the decks of the in-basket, found nothing, picked up the single sheet, studied it and put a fingernail on the form. 'Look, the boxes are both clearly marked - traffic offence, fine paid, and pound release costs. But there is no receipt...'

  'Is that the only way someone can get a vehicle out of the pound?'

  'No, the other options are "Court Order" and "Successful Representation".' She showed him the relevant blocks. 'But then there would be documentation to confirm that also ...'

  'Ma'am, the signature ...'

  She stared at the scrawl at the bottom of the form. 'Looks like ... I'm not sure, could be Jerry ...'

  'Who is Jerry?'

  'Senior Inspector Jeremy Oerson. But I'm not sure ... it looks like his.'

  'Could we try to find out?'

  ' You can, I'm swamped.'

  'Could I have a copy of the form?'

  'That will be five rand.'

  Vusi reached for his wallet.

  'No, you can't pay me, you have to pay the cashier on the ground floor and bring me the receipt.'

  Inspector Vusi Ndabeni looked at her, the simmering impatience slowly awoke. 'It might be easier to just ask Oerson,' he said.

  'They're on the second floor.'

  Fransman Dekker saw Griessel run around the corner of City Park Hospital and called out Benny's name, but the white detective had gone. Probably better that way, Dekker thought, because he wanted to start at the beginning again, go over the ground that Griessel had covered that morning. He wanted to talk to Alexa again; from whatever angle he studied the case, it had to be someone close to Adam Barnard. Inside knowledge.

  And not the kind that Michele Malherbe had been referring to. Unfortunately dear Alexandra's situation is general knowledge. Especially in the industry. He knew her kind, the 'see, hear, speak no evil' kind. Sat there full of dignity - see, I'm a decent Afrikaner woman, pillar of the community, grieving deeply - but she fucked Barnard while they were both married. He, Fransman Dekker, knew the type: dressed like a nun, prim, disapproving, they were the wildcats in bed. He'd had one last year, white woman from Welgemoed, neighbour of a car-hijacking victim. He had knocked on the door looking for eyewitnesses. She was scared to open the door, eyes open wide behind her glasses, blouse buttoned up to her chin. Just over forty, housewife, kids at school, husband at work. When he had finished asking his questions, there was something about her, a reluctance to let him go. 'Would you like tea?' She couldn't even look him in the eye. He knew then, because it wasn't the first time it had happened to him. So he said 'thank you', ready for it, curious about what was under the chaste clothing. So he directed the conversation: 'It must be lonely at home,' and beforethe cups were emptied, she was talking about her marriage that was faltering and he knew the right noises to make, to prepare her, to open her up. Ten minutes later they grabbed each other, and she was hungry, hungry, hungry; he had to hold her hands - she was a scratcher. 'I'm married.' He had to prevent her marking his back. Lovely body. A wildcat.

  And the words she had shouted while he fucked her on that big white sitting-room sofa.

  He took out his SAPS identity card, held it up so the woman at City Park reception could read it and said: 'I want to see Alexandra Barnard.'

  'Oh,' she said, 'just a moment,' and picked up the phone.

  For a moment, when he reached his car, Griessel considered running the six city blocks, but what if he had to race off from there ...? He jumped into the car and pulled away. His cell phone rang. He swore, struggling to get it out of his pocket.

  FRITZ. His son. His feelings about tonight descended on him again, the date with Anna at seven o'clock made him instinctively look at his watch. A quarter to three; another four hours. Should he phone and say tonight was going to be difficult?

  'Fritz?' he said wondering whether his son knew anything about Anna's intentions.

  'Dad, I'm done with school.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Dad, we got this fat gig ...'

  'We?'

  'The band, Dad. Wet en Orde, that's our name, but you don't spell the "en", it's just that "and" sign, you know, that looks like an "s", Pa.'

  'An ampersand.'

  'Whatever. Wet en Orde, like your job, Law and Order, it was my idea, Pa. Don't you think that's cool?'

  'And now you're leaving school?'

  'Yes. Dad, this gig, we're opening for Gian Groen and Zinkplaat on a tour, Dad, they are talking about twenty-five thousand for a month, that's more than six thousand per guy.'

  'And?'

  'I don't need school any more, Pa.'

  The call came through at 14:48 to the office of the Provincial Commissioner: Western Cape. The little Xhosa answered, forewarned by his secretary. It was Dan Burton, the American Consul.

  'Mr Burton?'

  'Commissioner, could you please tell me what's going on?'

  The Commissioner drew himself up behind his desk. 'Yes, sir, I can tell you what is going on. We have every available police officer in Cape Town looking for the girl. We have what we believe is the best detective in the Peninsula leading the task force, and they are doing everything in their power, at this very moment, to try and find the young lady in question.'

  'I understand that, sir, but I've just had a call from her parents, and they are very, very worried. Apparently, she was safe, she called this Captain Ghree-zil, but he took his sweet time to get there, only to find her gone.'

  'That's not the information I have, sir ...'

  'Do you know what's going on? Do you know who these people are? Why are they hunting her like an animal?'

  'No, we don't know that. All I can tell you is that we are doing everything we can to find her.'

  'Apparently, sir, that is not enough. I am really sorry, but I will have to call the Minister. Something has to be done.'

  The Com
missioner stood up from his desk. 'Well, sir, you are most welcome to call the Minister. But I am not sure what else we can do.' He put the phone down and walked out, down the passage to John Afrika's office. On the way he said one word in his mother tongue; the click of the word echoed off the walls.

  She did not hear them arguing on the other side of the wooden door. She sat with her naked back against the pillar, dreadful pain in her foot, blood still running from the two stumps and the severed toes lying on the cement floor. Her head drooped andshe wept, tears and mucus streaming from her nose, mouth and eyes.

  She had nothing left.

  Nothing.

  They told Vusi Ndabeni that Senior Inspector Jeremy Oerson was out. He could reach him on his cell phone. They had the same sullen, 'it's-not-my-problem' attitude and thinly disguised superiority that he could not fathom. It had been like this the whole day - the ponytail at the club, the Russian woman, the man at the pound, the woman at Administration: nobody cared, he thought. In this city it was everyone for himself. He suppressed his escalating unease, the frustration. He must try to understand these people - that was the only way to deal with it. He took the number but before he could phone they said: 'Here he is now.'

  Vusi turned, recognised the man; he was the one who had been at the church this morning - dreadful uniform, not quite so neat now, face shiny with perspiration.

  'Inspector Oerson?' he asked.

  'What?' Hurried, irritated.

  'I am Inspector Vusumuzi Ndabeni of the SAPS. I am here about a vehicle that was booked out of the pound at twelve thirty- four, a Peugeot Boxer panel van, CA four-oh-nine, three-four- one ...'

  'So?' Oerson kept on walking towards his office. Vusi followed, amazed by his attitude.

  'They say you signed the form.'

  'Do you know how many forms I sign?' Oerson stood at a closed office door.

  Vusi took a deep breath. 'Inspector, you were at the scene this morning, the American girl...'

  'So?'

  'The vehicle was used to abduct her friend. It is our only clue. She is in great danger.'