Thirteen Hours (16 page)

The one in front - white, taut and focused - scarcely looked
at him as he raised both hands and shoved the young man in the chest, making
him stagger and fall with his back against the counter near the door. Then they
were past him, out in the street. He scrambled to his feet, saw them hesitate
for a moment on the pavement.

'I'm calling the police,' he shouted, rubbing his back with
his hand. They didn't respond, but looked down Upper Orange Street, said
something to each other, ran to the Land Rover and jumped in.

The aproned young man turned to the counter, reached for the
phone and dialled 10111. The Land Rover turned the corner of Belmont and Upper
Orange with squealing tyres, forcing an old green Volkswagen Golf to brake
sharply. He realised he should get the registration number. He slammed the
phone down, ran outside and a short way down the street. He could see it was a
CA number - he thought it was 412 and another four figures, but then the vehicle
was too far off. He turned and hurried back to the shop.

On the slope of Devil's Peak, Barry's cell phone rang and he
grabbed it. 'Yes!'

'Where did she go, Barry?'

'She went down Upper Orange. What happened?'

'Where is she now, for fuck's sake?'

'I don't know, I thought you could see her.'

'Aren't you fucking watching?'

'Of course I'm fucking watching, but I can't see the whole
goddamn street from here ...'

'Jesus! She went down Upper Orange?'

'I saw her, for about ... sixty metres, then she went behind some
trees ...'

'Fuck! Keep looking. Don't take your fucking eyes off this
street.'

Bill Anderson sat in his study with his elbows on the old
desk and the telephone to his ear. It was ringing in the home of his lawyer.
His wife, Jess, stood behind him, crying softly, her arms wrapped around
herself.

'Is he answering?' she asked.

'It's two o'clock in the morning. Even lawyers are asleep.'

A familiar voice answered at the other end, clearly befuddled
with sleep. 'Connelly.'

'Mike, this is Bill. I am truly sorry to call you at this
hour, but it's about Rachel. And Erin.'

'Then you don't have to be sorry at all.'

There were four uniformed members of the SAPS on duty at the
charge office of the Caledon Square police station - a Captain, a Sergeant and
two Constables. The Constable taking the call from Carlucci's Quality Food
Store was unaware of Vusi Ndabeni's bulletin and the incident on Lion's Head.

He made notes while the young man described the incident in
his shop, then he went over to the Sergeant in the radio control room and they
contacted the station patrol vehicles. The Sergeant knew they were all near
Parliament where a march was taking place that morning. He gave cursory details
of the incident and asked one of the vehicles to investigate. He received a
chorus of volunteers. The march was small, peaceful and boring. He chose the
vehicle closest to Upper Orange Street. The Constable went back to the charge
office desk.

He made sure all the paperwork relating to the call was in
order.

They sat outside a coffee shop on the corner of Shortmarket
and Bree Street, five policemen around a table for four. Cloete sat a little
apart, beyond the shade of the red umbrella, cigarette between his fingers,
talking quietly on his cell phone, pleading for patience from some determined
journalist. The rest had their elbows on the table and their heads together.

John Afrika's deep frown showed that his burden of
responsibility was weighing heavily on him. 'Benny, it's your show,' he said.

Griessel had known that was coming, it always did. The men at
the top wanted to do everything except make the decisions.

'Commissioner, it's important that we utilise the available
manpower as efficiently as possible.' He listened to his own words. Why was he
always so pompous when he spoke to important people?

Afrika nodded solemnly.

'Our main problem is that we don't know where the Barnard
murder took place. We need forensics from the scene. There were exit wounds,
there would have to be blood, bullets ... and then we need to place Greyling at
the scene ...'

'Geyser,' said Fransman Dekker, still sullen.

He ought to have remembered that, Griessel thought. What was
the matter with him today? 'Geyser', he burned it into his memory. 'I'll have
them brought in to the station, the man and his wife. We need to talk to them
separately. Meanwhile Fransman can go to AfriSound ...' He glanced at Dekker,
uncertain whether he had the company name right. Dekker did not react. '... the
record company. We need to know about Barnard's day. Where was he last night,
and with whom? How late? Why? We have to build this case from the ground up.'

'Amen,' said Afrika. 'I want a rock-solid case.'

'We need a formal statement from Willie Mouton. Fransman?'

'I'll handle it.'

'Did anyone else see or hear Geyser yesterday? Who saw
Geyser's wife when she went to Barnard's office?'

'The Big Bang,' said Cloete in disgust, his conversation
over. Then his phone rang again. He sighed and turned away.

'As far as Vusi's case is concerned - he needs help, sir, someone
to coordinate the stations, someone with authority, someone who can bring more
people in from the southern suburbs, Milnerton or Table View ...'

'Table View?' said Dekker. 'That lot couldn't find their own
arses with a hand mirror.'

'The chopper can help us in an hour's time. Benny, you'll
have to coordinate. Who else is there?' said John Afrika, feeling
uncomfortable.

Griessel's voice became quiet and serious. 'Commissioner,
this is someone's child out there. They have been hunting her from the early
hours of the morning ...'

Afrika avoided the intensity of Griessel's gaze. He knew
where this was coming from, he knew the story of Benny's daughter and her
abduction, six months ago.

'True,' he said.

'We need feet on the ground. Vehicles, patrols. Vusi, the
photo the American boy took - the one of the missing girl - we need prints.
Every policeman in the Peninsula ... the Metro people ...' and Griessel
wondered what had come of the Field Marshal and his street search.

'The Metro people?' said Dekker. 'Fucking glorified traffic
cops...'

John Afrika gave Dekker a stern look. Dekker gazed out at the
street.

'It makes no difference,' said Griessel. 'We need all the
eyes we can get. I thought we should bring Mat Joubert in to coordinate, sir.
He's fairly free at the PT ...'

'No,' said Afrika firmly. He raised his eyebrows. 'You don't
know about Joubert yet?' 'What about him?' Griessel's phone rang. He looked at
the screen. The number was unfamiliar. 'Excuse me,' he said as he answered,
'Benny Griessel.'

'This is Willie Mouton.' The voice was self-important.

'Mr Mouton,' Griessel said deliberately, so the others would
know.

John Afrika nodded. 'I gave him your number,' he said
quietly.

Mouton said: 'I phoned Josh Geyser and told him to come to the
office, I have something important to say to him. He will be here in ten
minutes, if you want to arrest him.'

'Mr Mouton, we would have preferred to bring him in
ourselves.' Griessel did his best to disguise his frustration.

'First you complain that I won't cooperate,' said Mouton,
touchy now.

Griessel sighed. 'Where is your office?'

'Sixteen Buiten Street. Go through the ground-floor building
- our entrance is through the garden at the back. There's a big sign on the
wall. Ask for me at reception on the ground floor.'

'We'll be there now.' He ended the call. 'Mouton asked Geyser
to come to his office. He'll be there in ten minutes.'

'Jissis
,' said Dekker, 'what an idiot.'

'Fransman, I will talk to Geyser, but you have to find the
wife ...'

'Melinda?' Cloete still had trouble believing it. 'Pretty
Melinda?'

'I'll get their home address from Mouton, then I'll call you.
Commissioner, none of this helps Vusi. Is there no one who can help him?'

'Well, it sounds as though the Barnard affair is sorted out.
If the case against Geyser is strong enough, lock him up and go and help Vusi.
We can tie up the loose ends tomorrow.'

Afrika saw the look on Benny's face and he knew it wasn't the
solution he had hoped for.

'OK. We can bring in Mbali Kaleni temporarily until you are
free.'

'Mbali Kaleni?' Dekker was taken aback.

'Shit,' said Vusi Ndabeni. Immediately he added: 'I'm sorry
...'

'Nee, o fok
,' said Dekker.

'She's clever. And thorough,' said the Commissioner, on the
back foot for the first time.

'She's a Zulu,' said Vusi.

'She's a pain in the
gat
,'
said Dekker. 'And she's at Bellville, her SC won't release her.'

'He will,' said John Afrika, in control again. 'She's all I
have available, and she's on Benny's mentor list. She can coordinate from Caledon
Square - I'll ask them to arrange something for her.'

He saw no relief on Vusi and Fransman Dekker's faces.

'Besides,' said Afrika with finality, 'it's only temporary,
until Benny can take over.' As an afterthought he added reproachfully: 'And you
should be supporting our efforts to develop more women in the Service.'

Easy and athletic, the young black man jogged through the
trees of De Waal Park, from the Molteno Reservoir end to the waiting Land Rover
Defender in Upper Orange Street.

'Nothing,' he said as he got in.

'Fuck,' said the young white driver. He pulled away before
the door was even properly shut. 'We have to get out of here. He would have
called the cops. And he saw the Landy.'

'Well, then we'll have to get our own cops here too.'

The white man took his cell phone out of his breast pocket
and passed it to the black man. 'Call them. Make sure they know exactly where
she disappeared. And get Barry down here as well. He's no use up the fucking
mountain any more. Tell him to go to the restaurant.'

Griessel and Dekker walked to Loop Street together. 'What
have you got against Inspector Kaleni?' Griessel asked.

'She's the fat one,' said Dekker, as if that explained
everything. Griessel remembered her from last Thursday: short, very fat, with
an unattractive face, severe as the sphinx, in a black trouser suit that sat
too tight.

'And
...?'         

'We were at Bellville together and she irritates the living
shit out of everyone. Fucking bra-burning feminist, she thinks she knows
everything, sucks up to the SC like you won't believe ...' Dekker stopped. 'I'm
this way.' He pointed down the street.

'Come to AfriSound when you're finished.'

Dekker wasn't finished yet: 'She has this
moerse
irritating habit of appearing out of
nowhere, like a fucking bad omen. She sneaks up, quiet as a wet dream, on those
little feet and all of a sudden there she is, always smelling of KFC, though
you never see her eating the fucking stuff.'

'Does your wife know?'

'Know what?'

'That you have the horny hots for Kaleni?'

Dekker growled something indiscernible and irascible. Then he
threw back his head and laughed, a deep bark that echoed off the building
across the road.

Griessel thought about fat policemen as he walked to his car,
of the late Inspector Tony O'Grady. Fat Englishman, smartass know- it-all,
always chewing nougat with his mouth half open. Didn't bath quite as often as
he should. Could drink with the best of them, one of the guys, never unpopular.
It was because Kaleni was a woman; the detectives weren't ready for that.

Where were the days of Nougat O'Grady?

Then Griessel had been sober, keen and fearless. Always
sharp, he could make a parade room of detectives roar with laughter, every
fucking Monday morning. The days of Murder and Robbery, of the ascetic Colonel
Willie Theal, already three months in his grave now from cancer, of Captain
Gerbrand Vos, later Superintendent, with his bright blue eyes, shot dead in
front of his house by a Cape Flats syndicate. And Mat Joubert ... which
reminded Griessel of what the Commissioner had said. He took out his phone and
called.

'Mat Joubert,' said the familiar voice.

'I suggested to the Commissioner that we bring the Senior
Superintendent in, because we need help and he says: "Don't you know about
Joubert yet?" ...'

'Benny ...' Apologetic.

'What don't I know yet?'