Thirteen Hours (8 page)

'Ma'am, let me take those bags off your hands,' said Jimmy
jovially to Alexandra Barnard, a hunched figure in a white dressing gown. She
sat on the edge of a large four-seater couch, elbows on her knees, head hung
low, and unwashed grey and blonde hair hiding her face. She held out her hands
without looking up. Jimmy loosened the brown paper bags.

'I just have to press these discs on your hands. They are
sticky, but that's all ...' He broke the seal on the SEM box and took out the
round metal discs. Griessel saw Alexandra Barnard's hands trembling, but her
face was still hidden behind her long hair.

He and Dekker each picked a chair. Dekker opened his
notebook.

Jimmy worked quickly and surely, first the right hand and
then the left. 'There you go, thank you, madam.' He gave the detectives a look
that said 'Here's an interesting one', and then he packed away his things.

'Mrs Barnard ...' said Dekker.

Tinkie Kellerman shook her head slightly, as if to say the
suspect was not communicative. Jimmy walked out rolling his eyes.

'Mrs Barnard,' said Dekker, this time louder and more
businesslike.

'I didn't do it,' she said without moving, in a surprisingly
deep voice.

'Mrs Barnard, you have the right to legal representation. You
have the right to remain silent. But if you choose to answer our questions,
anything you say may be used in court.'

'I didn't do it.'

'Do you want to contact your lawyer?'

'No,' and slowly she raised her head and pushed the hair back
on either side of her face, revealing bloodshot blue eyes and skin an unhealthy
hue. Griessel saw the regular features, hints of former beauty under the tracks
of abuse. He knew her, he knew a version of this face, but he couldn't quite
place it, not yet. She looked at Dekker, then at Griessel. Her only expression
was one of total weariness. She stretched out a hand to a small table beside
her and picked up a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She struggled to open the
pack and take out a cigarette.

'Mrs Barnard, I am Inspector Fransman Dekker. This is
Inspector Benny Griessel. Are you ready to answer some questions?' His voice
was louder than necessary, the way you would talk to someone who was a bit
deaf.

She nodded slightly, with difficulty, and lit the cigarette.
She inhaled the smoke deeply, as if it would give her strength.

'The deceased was your husband, Mr Adam Barnard?'

She nodded.

'What is his full name?'

'Adam Johannes.'

'Age?'

'Fifty-two.'

Dekker wrote. 'And his profession?'

She turned her tired eyes on Dekker. 'AfriSound.'

'Excuse me?'

'AfriSound. It's his.'

'AfriSound?'

'It's a record company.'

'And he owns this record company?'

She nodded.

'Your full name?'

'Alexandra.'

'Age?'

'A hundred and fifty.'

Dekker just looked at her, pen ready.

'Forty-six.'

'Profession?'

She gave an ironic snort and pushed her hair off her face
again. Griessel saw confirmation of the maid's statement that she was a drinker
- the trembling hands, the eyes, the characteristic colour and weathering of
her face. But she reminded him of something else. He knew he had met her
somewhere before.

'Excuse me?' said Dekker.

How do I know her, Griessel wondered. Where?

'I don't work.'

'Home-maker,' said Dekker and wrote that down.

She made the same little noise, loaded with meaning.

'Mrs Barnard, can you tell us about last night's events?'

She sank back slowly into her seat, put her elbow on the
armrest and leaned her head on her hand. 'No.'

'Excuse me?'

'I don't know how long I can resist the temptation to say
"you are excused".'

The muscles in Dekker's jaw worked as though he were grinding
his teeth. Alexandra breathed in slowly and deliberately, as if steeling herself
for a hard task. 'I am an alcoholic. I drink. From eleven in the morning. By
six o'clock usually I am mercifully drunk. From half past eight on I don't
remember much.' In that instant, perhaps because the deep, rich voice resonated
somewhere in his memory, Benny Griessel remembered who she was. The word sprang
to the tip of his tongue, he almost spoke it aloud, but stopped just in time:
Soetwater.
Sweet water.

She was the singer. Xandra. Lord, how old she looked.

Soetwater.
The word activated a picture from memory, a television image
of a woman in a tight-fitting black dress, just her and the microphone in the
bright spotlight of a smoke-framed stage.

A small glass of
sunlight,

A goblet of rain

A small sip of
worship,

A mouthful of
pain

Drink sweet
water.

Mid-Eighties, somewhere around there. Griessel remembered her
as she was, the incredibly sensual blonde singer with a voice like Dietrich and
enough self-confidence not to take herself too seriously. He had only met her
through the television screen and the cover of magazines, in the days before he
started drinking. She had four or five hits, he remembered
"n Donkiekar net vir twee',

'Tafelbaai se Wye Draii'
and the big
one, '
Soetwater
'. Fuck, she had been this
huge star and look at her now.

Benny Griessel felt pity for her, also loss, and empathy.

'So you don't remember what happened last night?'

'Not much.'

'Mrs Barnard,' said Dekker stiffly and formally. 'I get the
impression that your husband's death hasn't upset you very much.'

He was mistaken, thought Griessel. He was misreading her; he
was too tense, too hasty.

'No, Inspector, I am not in mourning. But if you bring me a
gin and dry lemon, I will do my best.'

For an instant, Dekker was uncertain, but then he squared his
shoulders and said, 'Can you remember anything about last night?'

'Enough to know it wasn't me.'

'Oh.'

'Come back this afternoon. Three o'clock is a good time. My
best time of the day.'

'That is not an option.'

She made a gesture as if to say that was not her problem.

'I will have to test your blood for alcohol.'

'Carry on.'

Dekker stood up. 'I'll just get the technician.'

Griessel followed him. In the sitting room Thick and Thin
were busy packing up.

'Can you just take a blood sample before you leave?'

'Sure, chief,' said Jimmy.

'Fransman,' said Griessel, aware that he must tread with
care. 'You know I am an alcoholic?'

'Ah,' said Arnold, the fat one, 'detectives bonding. How
sweet.'

'Fuck off,' said Griessel.

'I was just about to, anyway,' said Arnold.

'You still have to do the Mercedes in the street,' said
Dekker.

'That's next on the list,' and Arnold left the room with his
arms full of evidence and apparatus.

'So?' Dekker asked once they were alone.

'I know how she feels, Fransman ...'

'She feels nothing. Her husband is lying there and she feels
nothing. She killed him, I'm telling you. The usual story.'

How do you explain to a non-drinker what she was feeling now?
Alexandra Barnard's whole being craved alcohol. She was drowning in the terrible
flood of that morning; drink was the only lifeline. 'Griessel knew.

'You're a good detective, Fransman. Your crime scene is
perfectly managed, you do everything by the book and ten to one you're right.
But if you want a confession ... give me a chance. One-to-one isn't so
intimidating ...'

Griessel's cell phone rang. He watched Dekker while taking it
out. The coloured man didn't look too keen about his suggestion.

'Griessel.'

'Benny, it's Vusi. I'm at the Metro CCTV room. Benny, there
are two of them.'

'Two what?'

'Two girls, Benny. I'm standing here, watching five guys
chasing two girls up Long Street.'

'Oh fuck,' said Benny Griessel. 'They're
chasing
the girls, you say? In Long
Street?'

'The time code says it was this morning at a quarter to two.
Five men, coming from Wale Street towards the church.'

'That's what, four blocks?'

'Six blocks between Wale and the church. Half a kilometre.'

'Jissis,
Vusi, you don't do that to steal a tourist's purse.'

'I know. The other thing is, the footage isn't great, but you
can see - the guys chasing them are black and white, Benny.'

'Doesn't make sense.' In this country criminals didn't work
together across the colour lines.

'I know ... I thought, maybe they are bouncers, maybe the
girls made trouble in a club somewhere, but, you know ...'

'Bouncers don't cut the throats of foreign tourists.'

'Not yet,' said Vusi, and Griessel knew what he was alluding
to. The clubs and bouncers were a hotbed of organised crime, a powder keg. 'In
any case, I've put a bulletin out on the other girl.'

'Good work, Vusi.'

'I don't know if it will help much,' said Ndabeni and ended
the call. Griessel saw Dekker waiting impatiently for him.

'Sorry about that, Fransman. It's Vusi's case ...'

'And this is
my
case.' His
body language showed he was ready to argue.

Griessel hadn't expected this aggression, but he knew he was
on thin ice. The territorial urges of detectives were strong, and he was just
here as mentor.

'You're right,' he said and walked towards the door. 'But it
might just help.'

Dekker stayed on the spot, frowning.

Just before Benny left the room he said: 'Wait...'

Griessel stopped.

'OK,' said Dekker finally. 'Talk to her.'

She could no longer hear them. Only the birdsong and cicadas
and the hum of the city below. She lay in the cool shade of the rock overhang,
but she was sweating as the temperature in the mountain bowl rose rapidly. She
knew she could not stand up.

They would stop somewhere and try to spot her.

She considered staying there, all day, until darkness fell
and she would .be invisible. She could do it even though she was thirsty, even
though she had last eaten the previous evening. If she could rest, if she could
sleep a little, she would have new strength tonight with which to seek help.

But they knew she was there, somewhere.

They would fetch the others and they would search for her.
They would backtrack on the path and investigate every possibility and if
anyone came close enough, they would see her. The hollow wasn't deep enough.
She knew most of them, knew their lean bodies, their energy and focus, their
skill and self-confidence. She also knew they could not afford to stop looking.

She would have to move.

She looked down the stream, down the narrow stony passage
that twisted downhill between
fynbos
and
rocks. She must get down there, crawling carefully so as to make no sound. The
mountain was a poor choice, too deserted, too open. She must get down to where
there were people; she had to get help. Somewhere someone must be prepared to
listen and to help.

Reluctantly she lifted her head from the rucksack, pushed it
ahead of her and slid carefully after it. She couldn't drag it; it would be too
noisy. She rose to a crouch, swung the rucksack slowly onto her back and
clipped the buckles. Then she crawled on hands and knees over the round stones.
Slowly, disturbing nothing that would make a sound.

Griessel walked into the sitting room and whispered in Tinkie
Kellerman's ear. Alexandra Barnard dragged on another cigarette; her eyes
followed Tinkie as she rose and left the room. Griessel closed the door behind
her and without speaking went to a large Victorian cupboard with leaded glass
doors on top and dark wooden doors below. He opened a top door, took out a
glass and a bottle of gin and took it across to the chair closest to Alexandra.

'My name is Benny Griessel and I am an alcoholic. It's been
one hundred and fifty-six days since my last drink,' he said and broke the
bottle's seal. Her eyes were fixed on the transparent fluid that he carefully
poured into the glass, three thick fingers deep. He held it out to her. She
took it, her hands shaking badly. She drank, an intense and thirsty gulp and
closed her eyes.