Thirteen Hours (24 page)

'Can you read
me,
Fransman?' Griessel was growing angry too.

Dekker didn't reply, but turned away breathing heavily.

Griessel walked around him, so he could talk to his face.
'They say you've got ambition. Now listen to me, I threw my
fokken
career away because I didn't have control,
because I let the shit get to me. That's why I'm standing here now. I didn't
have any more options. Do you want options, Fransman? Or do you want to still
be an Inspector at forty-four, with a job description that says
"mentor" because they don't know what the fuck to do with you? Do you
know how that feels? They look you up and down and think, what
kak
did you get up to that you're just a fucking
Inspector with all that grey hair? Is that what you want? Do you want to be
more than a bloody race statistic in the Service? Do you want to be the best
policeman you can be? Then drop the shit and take the case and solve it, never
mind what they say or how they talk to you or who John Afrika sends to help
you. You have rights, just like Melinda Geyser. There are rules. Use them. In
any case, you can do what you want, it won't change. I have been a policeman
for over twenty-five years, Fransman, and I'm telling you now, they will always
treat you like a dog, the people, the press, the bosses, politicians,
regardless of whether you are black, white or brown. Unless they're phoning you
in the middle of the night saying "there's someone at the window" -
then you're the fucking hero. But tomorrow when the sun shines, you're nothing
again. The question is: can you take it? Ask yourself that. If you can't, drop
it, get another job. Or put up with it, Fransman, because it's never going to
stop.'

Dekker stood still, breathing heavily.

Griessel wanted to say more, but he decided against it. He
stepped away from Dekker, his brain at work, shifting his focus.

'I don't believe it was Josh Geyser. If he's lying, he
deserves a fucking Oscar. Melinda is the only alibi he has, and there's
something about
her ...
she doesn't know what he
said, let her talk, get her to give you more detail about yesterday, exactly
what happened, then phone me and we can compare their stories. I have to go and
see the Commissioner.'

Dekker didn't look at him. Griessel walked away down the
passage.

'Benny,' said Dekker when he was almost in the reception
area. Griessel turned.

'Thank you,' with reluctant frankness.

Griessel gestured with his hand and left.

One of the men in the lounge got up from an ostrich leather
couch and tried to intercept him. Benny tried to avoid eye contact, but the man
was too quick for him. 'Are you from the police?' He was tall, just over
thirty, with a face that seemed very familiar to Griessel.

In a hurry and bothered, he said: 'Yes, but I can't talk to
you now.' He would have liked to add 'because they are fucking me around', but
he didn't. 'My colleague is still inside. Talk to him when he comes out,' and
he jogged down the stairs, across the grass to where his car was parked.

There was a parking ticket stuck to the windscreen, right in
the middle of the driver's window.

'Fuck,' he said, frustration surging over his dam wall of
self- control. More paperwork that he didn't need. Metro Police had time to
write fucking parking tickets, but don't ask them to help with anything else.
He left the ticket right where it was, climbed in, started the engine and
reversed out, grinding the gears as he drove away. He was going to ask the
Commissioner for a clear job description.

Benny Griessel, Great Mentor, just didn't work for him. He
had asked John Afrika last Thursday exactly what this job entailed. The answer:
'Benny, you're my safety net, my supervisor. Just keep an eye, check the crime
scene management, don't let them miss suspects.
Bliksem,
Benny, we train them until it's coming out of everybody's ears,
but the minute they stand on the scene, either it's stage fright or just plain
sloppiness, I don't know. Maybe we're pushing them too fast, but I have to meet
my targets, what else can I do? Look at the
bliksemse
Van der Vyver case; he's suing the Minister for millions; we
just can't let that happen. Look over shoulders, Benny, give a gentle nudge
where necessary.'

A fucking gentle nudge?

He had to brake suddenly for the traffic jam up ahead, two
rows of cars, ten deep. The power cut meant all the traffic lights were down.
Chaos.

'Jissis
,' he said aloud. At least Eskom was one state institution that
was worse than the SAPS.

He leaned back against the seat. It wouldn't help to get
angry.

But, fuck it, what were you supposed to do?

From one case to the next. First here, then there. That was a
recipe for a disaster.

If Josh Geyser wasn't the one who shot
Barnard ...

That guy inside, he remembered now who he was. Ivan Nell, the
star, he'd heard all his stuff on RSG; good, modulated rock, although he was
stingy with the bass. He was sorry he hadn't talked to him quickly, he could
have written to Carla about it tonight, but that's how it went, time for fuck
all except sitting in the traffic, cursing.

He was hungry too. Only coffee since last night, he would
have to do something about his blood sugar and suddenly he had a desire to
smoke. He opened the cubbyhole, scratched around and found a half-pack of
Chesterfield and a box of Lion matches. He lit one, wound the window down and
felt the heat rising up from the street surface and flowing into the window.

He drew on the cigarette, slowly blowing out the smoke. It
dammed up against the windscreen, then wafted out the window.

This morning Alexa Barnard had offered him a cigarette and he
had said no thank you. 'An alcoholic that doesn't smoke?' she had asked. He had
said he was trying to cut down because his AA sponsor was a doctor.

Then she said get another sponsor.

He liked her.

He should never have given her the alcohol.

And then he remembered that he wanted to atone for his
mistake. He felt in his pocket while moving one car-length forward, found
the
phone and pressed the keys with his thumb.

It rang for a long time, as usual.

'Benny!' said Doc Barkhuizen, always bloody upbeat. 'Are you
persevering?'

'Doc, you ever heard of the famous singer, Xandra Barnard?'

'They're taking a lot of interest in a house here,' said
Barry over the cell phone. He drove slowly down Upper Orange in his beat- up
red Toyota single-cab.

'What sort of interest?'

'There's a thousand uniformed Constables on the pavement, and
this fat woman detective standing in the garden with a geriatric guy.'

'So find out what it's about.'

Barry looked at the houses in the street. On the right, a
hundred metres down and opposite the Victorian house was a possibility. A long
tar driveway to a single garage. 'Yeah...' He saw the uniforms watching him.
'Maybe. But not right now, there are too many eyes. Let me give it ten minutes
or
so ...'

The hissing gas lamp that stood on the mixer bench threw an absurd
shadow of Melinda Geyser onto the opposite wall. She stood with her face only
centimetres from the glass, the recording booths behind her shaded in gloom.
Dekker leaned forward in a leather chair on wheels, his elbows on his knees,
because the leather back creaked loudly when he leaned back. He was perspiring.
Without air conditioning it was getting hotter.

'Sorry about the misunderstanding,' she said, folding her
arms under her breasts. Her figure was not without its attractions - the green
blouse, jeans with white leather belt and big silver buckle, white pumps with
wedge cork heels. But it bothered him, it wasn't what he expected from a gospel
artist, the clothes were just that little bit too tight. They made him think of
the kind of women who were most blatantly interested in him - late thirties,
early forties, looks just starting to fade, and wanting to make the most of the
last years of their sensual prime.

Maybe that was just how musicians were. 'Maybe I
overreacted,' he said, and the sincerity in his voice was a surprise to him.

'Do you know what the difference is between life and making a
CD?' she asked. She kept staring at the glass. He wondered if she was watching
her own reflection.

'No,' said Dekker.

'The difference is that in life there is only one take.'

Was she about to lecture him?

'Adam had never asked me to come on my own before .Yesterday
morning he phoned to say he
had
to see me.
Those were his words, as though he had no choice. As though I was in trouble.
"I have to see you. Just you." Like a headmaster sending for a
naughty child.'

Then she moved, unfolding her arms, and turning to face
Dekker. She took two steps and sat down on a two-seater leather couch opposite
him, with her right arm on the armrest and the left on the cushions. She looked
him in the eye and said: 'If you have done things in your life that might catch
up with you, then you don't argue. You lie to your beloved husband, Mr Dekker,
and you go to Adam Barnard's office and ask him what is going on.'

Mister.
Now I'm a Mister.

The usually jovial Adam Barnard was serious, she said.
Melinda sat dead still while she talked, not moving her hands or body, as if
she was on thin ice, over deep waters. There was a determination in her voice.

Barnard had pushed a slim DVD case across his desk to her,
the rewritable kind with the manufacturer's logo visible through the
transparent plastic. She had looked at him, questioning. He had said nothing.
She'd opened it. Inside someone had written on the white surface of the DVD in
permanent ink,
Melinda 1987.
She had known
right away what it was.

She took a deep breath, looked to the right at the glass, as
if to see herself one last time.

'You need to know about my background, Mr Dekker. We live in
a strange world, in a society that has to label things to accommodate them.'
Her use of language surprised him, more sophisticated than he had expected.

'But the process is neither logical nor fair. If you are a
person who by nature struggles to conform, you're called a rebel when you're
young. Later you're called other things. I was a so-called rebel. At school I
was ...
disobedient. I wanted to do everything my way.
I was inquisitive. About everything. I had a craving for excitement, for the
things a good little Afrikaans girl was not supposed to do. For many years I
picked men who represented a certain amount of risk. It was instinctive, not
conscious. Sometimes I wonder if it would have turned out differently if
that
had been my only weakness. But it isn't. From
an early age I had a need for recognition. An affirmation that I am not
ordinary. I wanted to stand out from the crowd. It's not necessarily a search
for fame, just a need for attention, I think. In the end it is this combination
that makes me who I am.'

She was not stupid, he thought. She was a woman who could
easily deceive people. 'I was never terribly pretty. Not that I'm ugly, I'm
grateful for that. If I use what I have I can attract attention, but I don't
take men's breath away. I knew I was smart enough to study, but there is no
degree in what I wanted to do. All I had left to me was my voice. And a stage
personality, but that I only discovered later. Then I crossed paths with Danny
Vlok. He can play anything from a violin to a trumpet. He had a music shop in
the city, in Bloemfontein, and a four-piece band for weddings and parties. I
saw his ad for a singer in the
Volksblad'
s
Classifieds. Danny dreamed of being a rock star. He tried to look like one. I
thought it was cool then, and he was ten years older than me. Worldly wise. He
tried to live like a rocker too. Drink and dagga. The problem was that Danny
could only sing other people's music. His own
was ...
not good. I went for an audition with his band and afterwards we went to his
flat in Park Road and had a
zol
and then sex.
Two months later we got married in the magistrate's court. Four years later we
were divorced.'

She was using the story to punish herself, thought Dekker. It
was her penance, this exposure. But she stopped and looked around. 'There's
usually some water here. It's
hot...'

'I'll ask Natasha,' he said and got to his feet. When he went
out of the door he saw Josh down the passage, looking restless and worried.

'Are you finished?'

'Not yet, Mr Geyser.'

The big man nodded and went back into the conference room.

Rachel Anderson heard the voices further off, but not the
words. They went on for so long that she grew increasingly convinced that there
were no tracks leading to her. The tension dissipated slowly from her body; her
heartbeat steadied.