Thirteen Hours (45 page)

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.

'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.

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
before
the 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.