by Deon Meyer
'I can't help you, I just signed the form,' said Oerson, shrugging and placing a hand on the door handle. 'Every day they come running in here, those girls down there, wanting someone to sign. I only check that everything is in order.'
Behind the door a telephone began to ring. 'My phone,' said Oerson and opened the door.
'Was everything in order with that vehicle?'
'I wouldn't have signed it if it wasn't.'
The phone continued to ring.
'But they say there is no receipt or anything.'
'Everything was correct when I signed it,' said Oerson, going into the office and closing the door.
Vusi stood there.
How could people be like that?
He pressed a hand on the closed door's frame. He must ignore them; he had a job to do. What he should do is investigate the whole process from the beginning. Where would you begin if you wanted to retrieve a vehicle from the pound? Who took your particulars; did anyone ask for an ID?
He sighed, ready to turn away, when he heard Oerson's voice say something inside that sounded familiar ... Cat and Moose ... Wait, hold on .. .
Vusi stood spellbound.
The door opened suddenly; Oerson's face accused him. 'What are you still doing here?'
'Nothing,' said Vusi and left. Halfway down the passage he looked back. Oerson was leaning on the door to monitor his progress. Vusi kept on walking. He heard the door shut. He stopped at the stairs.
The Cat & Moose? What did Oerson have to do with that?
Coincidence?
Oerson had been there this morning, very early. A Senior Inspector from Metro.
He was the one who had found the rucksack. He was the one who had walked up with it, full of bravado; he was the one who had rummaged in it before handing it over. In the club, Benny Griessel had talked to Fransman Dekker, he had told Dekker to call Oerson about the bag of stuff they had picked up.
Oerson had signed the form. His attitude, arrogance, the sweat on his brow. Cat & Moose. Snake in the grass.
Vusi wondered whether he ought to phone Griessel first. He decided against it. Benny had a thousand things to think of. He turned and went back to Oerson's closed door.
Chapter 41
They told Fransman Dekker he could not see Alexandra Barnard now. 'Doctor says she's on medication,' as if the burning bush itself had made the pronouncement. It irritated the living hell out of him. 'You are obsessed with Doctor, fuck Doctor' - that was what someone should tell them sometime, but he did not. Benny Griessel's words today had struck home.
They say you are ambitious, so let me tell you, I threw my fokken career away because I didn't have control...
It was the first time in his life that someone had spoken to him that way. It was the first time anyone had taken the trouble. He had been crapped out by the best, but that was different, usually no more than disapproval and criticism. With Griessel it was different.
'When will I be able to see her?' he asked the woman, under control now.
'Doctor says sometime after four, the medication should have worn off by then.' He checked his watch. Ten to three. He might just as well get something to eat; he was hollow inside, thirsty too. It would give him a chance to think - and what else could he do, he had let Josh and Melinda go home? 'I want to know if you leave the city,' he threatened and avoided the reproachful eyes. He had gone over to Natasha and said: 'Can you give me the contact details of all the staff?' and she gave him a look that said she knew why he wanted them.
He left the hospital feeling ravenous.
Vusi stood and listened at Oerson's door. He heard English spoken. But if they don't know what we're looking for, let's wait. Sooner or later they'll move the stuff. A long silence. Are we absolutely sure? A short, barking laugh, scornful. And then the words that stopped Vusumuzi Ndabeni's heart: Let's make sure, and then kill the bitch. Before she fucks up everything. But wait for me, I want to see...
Vusi's hand dropped to his service pistol, took hold of it and pulled it out. He lifted his left hand to open the door and saw how it was shaking, realised his heart was beating wildly and his breathing was shallow, almost panicky.
No, I'm fine. They have nothing, no proof Oerson, inside, so smug.
It gave Vusi pause, he froze. Because all he had were suspicions and a conversation overheard. He caught a glimpse of the coming minutes: he would burst in, Oerson would deny everything, he could arrest him and he would refuse to cooperate, demand a lawyer, it could take hours and the girl would die. Oerson's word against his.
I'm coming, Oerson had said in there. Wait for me.
Vusi Ndabeni whispered a prayer. What should he do?
He shoved the pistol back in the holster, turned and ran down the passage. He would have to follow Oerson. While he was contacting Benny.
Oh God, he must not let this man slip away.
There was no parking in Long Street. A SAPS patrol vehicle was already double-parked. Griessel pulled two wheels onto the broader pavement in front of the 'Travel Centre - Safari Tour Specialists' building beside the Cat & Moose, leapt out and, seeing the metre maid a hundred metres down the street, knew he was going to get a ticket. He muttered a curse, locked the car and jogged to the entrance of the building with its garish pink and orange colours. He sidestepped a young couple at the door conversing in a foreign language. The plump girl was behind the desk, in animated discussion with two uniformed men, one of the Caledon Square patrols. He ran up to them. She did not recognise him. He had to say: 'Benny Griessel, SAPS, I was here this morning. I hear you recognised one of the men.'
Her face changed in the blink of an eye from insecure receptionist to indignant witness. 'I've just been telling your colleagues, they just waltzed in here and said they were taking the luggage, can you believe it?'
'And you recognised one of them?'
'Tried to bluff their way past me, telling me they were her friends, do they think I am stupid?'
'But you knew one of them?'
'I don't know him, but I've seen him. So I just said: "Why don't you guys go talk to the SWAT team in there?" and they, like, stopped dead, and the next thing ...'
'A SWAT team?' Griessel asked.
'Yes, those buddies of yours guarding the luggage in there, and the next thing, they just waltzed right out again.'
'Miss, where have you seen this man?'
'Here ...' She waved her hand. Griessel wasn't sure what it was meant to include.
'In the hostel?'
'Well, he might have been in here, but I've seen him around, you know, he's in the industry, I'm sure.'
'What industry?'
'The tourist industry,' as though it went without saying.
'Look,' said Griessel, desperate that this not turn out to be a disappointment. 'A girl's life depends on the fact that we have to identify this guy, that you remember where you've seen him, so please ...'
'Really?' The responsibility came to rest on her, the indignation evaporated and enthusiasm took its place. 'Well, OK, look ... I, I know I've seen him at the cafe ...'
'What cafe?'
'The Long Street Cafe.'
'Does he work there?'
'No, he was, like, a customer ...' Deeply thoughtful, eyes squinting, the picture of concentration.
Griessel tried another tack. 'OK, can you describe him?'
'He's black. Tall. Handsome guy, you know, twenty-something ...' Then her face brightened. 'He's, like, skinny, you know, thatlook ... like all the guides, that's most likely where I saw him, in the cafe with the others ...'
But Benny Griessel wasn't listening to her because the elusive, slippery thing in his mind was rushing at him, he had to shut her up, he said: 'Wait, wait...'
'What?' she said, but he didn't hear her, his hand combed through his hair, and lingered on his neck. He scratched behind his ear, head bent, thoughts jumbled, he must get them in order. This morning ... Griessel looked to the right where they had talked to Oliver Sands this morning
, that's what his head had been trying to tell him all fucking afternoon, it was that conversation. He tried to recall it, groping in the dark. Ollie had talked about the club, the girls in the club ...
No. Nothing. Wrong track.
He watched the girl behind the reception desk, looking disgruntled after being silenced. She'd said he's, like, skinny, you know, that look... like all the guides, that was the trigger. The guides. What had Sands said about that? Vusi had asked the questions this morning. He'd wanted to know who was with Sands and the girls at the club. Sands said a whole bunch. A group. And somewhere along the way he had said the guides were there too.
He whispered to himself. 'Jissis.' Because the thing was almost within his grasp, if he could only see it. He was unaware that he made a gesture of frustration, he was unaware of the two uniforms and the girl staring at him and looking vaguely concerned.
Griessel's phone began to ring. He ignored it. Not now. He tried to dredge up the words of that morning's conversation from his memory. He stood at the desk, put his palms flat on it and dipped his head. The girl stepped back half a pace.
Vusi Ndabeni, cell phone to his ear, listened to Griessel's number ringing while he watched Jeremy Oerson hurry out of the Metro building and go to his car.
'Answer me, Benny,' lie said and started to walk quickly towards his own car. Oerson climbed into a Nissan Sentra with the city police badge on the door.
The phone continued to ring.
'Please, Benny,' but the call diverted to Griessel's voice mail just as Vusi got his car unlocked and jumped in.
'Are you all right?' the Cat & Moose girl asked Griessel.
One of the uniforms realised what was going on and hushed her with a finger to his lips.
Benny stood still. He, Vusi and Oliver Sands. At the table. Sands telling them they came on the tour through Africa. They talked about last night. The club. The girls. The drink. Who was with them, Vusi had asked. A whole bunch. Do you know the names? Vusi had his notebook ready and Sands said ...
The answer came like a hammer blow. It made Griessel's body shudder. 'Fuck,' he said in triumph, loudly, startling the others. Oliver Sands had given them the names, the funny names, the funny pronunciation, that was the spectre that had been running through his head the whole goddamn afternoon, one name, he heard it now in Ollie's voice: Jason Dicklurk. Dicklurk. This morning Griessel had thought to himself, what a fucking funny name. Dick Lurk. But the redhead's pronunciation, that had been the problem. Jissis, he should have made the connection. Rachel's father calling him Ghree-zil, only the Afrikaners could say their own names. And one Zulu. Mbali Kaleni. She had phoned him while he was sitting in that office with the Commissioner. This is Inspector Mbali Kaleni of the South African Police Service, Benny. Zulu accent, but her pronunciation was flawless. We traced a Land Rover Defender that fits the number. It belongs to a man in Parklands, a Mr J. M. de Klerk.
Dicklurk was de Klerk. J. M. de Klerk. Jason de Klerk. One of the guides.
'The tour company,' he said to the girl. 'Which tour company were the girls with?'
'Tour company?' she asked, intimidated by Griessel's fervour.
'You know, the people who took them through Africa.'
'Oh.' For a second there was a frown, then her face brightened: 'African Overland Adventures. That's where he works, the
black guy, that's where I've seen him, they do all their Cape accommodation bookings with us, I sometimes go to see their—' 'Where are they?'
'Just one block down. My God, that's where—' 'Show me,' said Griessel and ran to the door. She came after him, stopped on the pavement, pointed to the right, across the street. 'On the corner.'
'Come, kerels,' said Benny Griessel to the uniforms as another insight lit up his head. A.O.A. African Overland Adventures. On the spur of the moment he kissed the plump girl on the cheek before he ran off.
She watched him speechlessly.
Chapter 42
Fransman Dekker took a bite of the toasted chicken mayonnaise sandwich in his left hand while he scribbled in his notebook with his right.
Alexa Barnard. That attitude this morning.
Inside knowledge.
A woman hiding in her house all day long. Alone. Lonely. Drinking. Lots of time to think about her husband, her life, her lot. A husband who was chronically unfaithful, a man who couldn't keep his hands off anything in a skirt. A man making big bucks while his wife rotted away at home.
Don't expect me to believe that she had never wondered what life would be like without the bastard, Fransman thought. Consider the national sport: hire a coloured to do your shooting. Or the stabbing. Three or four cases in the past year alone. It was a disease, a fucking epidemic.
Come on, Sylvia, come and have a chat with the madam, tell me where I can find someone to knock the master off.
Or: Sylvia, I see you're carrying off the silverware. So before I call the police, let's have a little talk.
Or: the master has a fat life insurance policy, my dear. What sort of share are we looking at if you find us a gunman?
Inside knowledge. Two women with all the inside knowledge in the world.
Only one little problem with that. You don't hire people to make it look as though you did it, in the exalted words of Captain Benny Griessel. But, oh Captain, my Captain, what if she read the papers and saw what mistakes those other girls made. And she thought: I won't fall into the same traps, I'm too clever, I'm a former pop star,
I'm not thick. I'll make it look like a frame-up, Captain. Suspicion one step removed. The music business is a war zone, they'll look at them before they look at me. And when they do look at me, hey, I'm an alky, how could I drag this man's big body up the stairs? What do you say to that, Captain?
In his dash to African Overland Adventures, weaving through pedestrians on the pavement, Griessel thought that was what Mbali Kaleni must have been trying to write. Jason.
How had she known? What made her go back to Upper Orange Street? What did she see that everyone else missed?
Just before he burst through the doors, his phone started ringing again. He wasn't going to answer it. He was going to get Jason de Klerk and then find Rachel Anderson. She had to live.
John Afrika sat with the receiver in his hand listening to Griessel's phone ringing.
Opposite him stood the Provincial Commissioner.
'If we are making a mistake ...'
'Benny is clean,' Afrika said.
'John, we're talking about my career.'
'This is Benny, leave a message,' over the phone. Afrika sighed and replaced the receiver. 'He's not answering.'
'They are going to clean up when Zuma gets in. They will use any excuse. You know how it is. Zulus in, Xhosas out.'
'Commissioner, I understand. But what am I supposed to do?' 'Is there no one else?'
John Afrika shook his head from side to side. 'Even if there were, it's too late now.'
He looked at the phone. 'Benny is clean.' He didn't sound so sure of himself any more.
Jeremy Oerson turned left into Ebenezer. Vusi gave him a gap, then pulled away himself, feeling tense: don't let the man get away.
The Metro Nissan was on the way to the Waterfront under the Western Boulevard Freeway. Vusi drove cautiously, not daring to get too close, or too far. He had to see where he turned off.
Oerson drove into the Harbour Road traffic circle and then out to the right.
He was heading for the N1.
Vusi relaxed fractionally. That would make it easier.
Griessel banged open the double glass doors with the two Constables behind him. The lobby of African Overland Adventures was spacious - a long counter with two young women and a man behind it, a flat- screen TV against the wall, a few coffee tables and easy chairs. Nine young people standing or sitting, some drinking coffee. Everyone looked up, startled. Griessel pulled out his service pistol before he reached the desk. His cell phone was still ringing in his pocket.
'SAPS. Staan ne
t stil dan het ons nie moeilikheid nie.'
'What did he say?' a voice asked from an easy chair.
He turned and saw the Constables had their pistols in their hands too. He nodded in approval. 'I said, just keep still and everything will be fine. Nobody's leaving and nobody is going to make a phone call.'
Everyone was quiet. Griessel's phone as well. The sound of the TV drew his attention. The big screen displayed images of an African adventure. On the walls were big posters with scenes of the continent, laughing young people with mountains, animals and lakes in the background. On the long desk were containers of brochures.
'Please turn off the TV.'
'Can we see some ID?' a girl asked from behind the desk, a sultry, stubborn beauty. He pulled out his identity card. Everyone watched TV nowadays, he thought, maybe he should start wearing it around his bloody neck like Kaleni.
The stubborn one inspected it. 'Is that for real?'
'What is your name?'
'Melissa,' It was a challenge.
'Please switch off that television, and then you call the police. Dial one zero triple one, and tell them Captain Benny Griessel needs back-up at African Overland Adventures. Tell them to call the Sergeant at Caledon Square.'
'I'll have to move,' said Melissa. 'The remote is under here ...'
'Then move,' said Griessel. She stretched and took out the remote control and aimed it at the TV. Griessel saw she had a tattoo of barbed wire on her upper arm. The room went quiet. 'Now call the police,' he said.
'It's OK. I believe you.'
'Call them.'
She walked reluctantly to the telephone and picked it up.
'Which one of you is Jason de Klerk?'
It was a while before the other desk girl answered. 'Jason isn't here.'
'They're not answering,' said Melissa.
'They will. Where is Jason de Klerk?'
'We don't know.'
'All the men, I want you to show us your IDs.' To the Constables he said: 'Check them.'