by Deon Meyer
Chapter 10
In the breakfast room of the Cat & Moose Youth Hostel and Backpackers Inn, nineteen-year-old Oliver 'Ollie' Sands sat with his head in his hands. A bit overweight, he had red hair and pale skin that had seen too much sun. His angular black-rimmed glasses lay on the table in front of him. Opposite him, close to the door, sat Inspectors Vusumuzi Ndabeni and Benny Griessel.
'Mr Sands has identified the victim as Miss Erin Russel,' said Vusi, with the photo of the victim and his notebook in front of him.
'Jeez,' said Sands, shaking his head behind his hands.
'He's been travelling through Africa with Miss Russel and her friend, Rachel Anderson. He does not know where Miss Anderson is. The last time he saw them was last night in Van Hunks, the nightclub. In Castle Street. ‘Vusi looked to Sands for confirmation.
'Jeez,' the young man repeated, lowering his hands and pulling his glasses closer. Griessel could see his eyes were red.
'Mr Sands, you arrived in Cape Town yesterday?'
'Yes, sir. From Namibia.' The accent was unmistakably American, the voice quavering, emotional. Sands placed the glasses on his nose and blinked, as if seeing Vusi for the first time.
'Just the three of you?' Griessel asked.
'No, sir. There were twenty-one of us. Twenty-three actually, when we left Nairobi on the tour. But a guy and a girl from the Netherlands pulled out in Dar. They ... didn't like it.'
'A tour?' Griessel asked.
'The African Adventure Tour. Overland, by truck.'
'And you and the two girls were together?'
'No, sir, I met them in Nairobi. They're from Indiana; I'm from Phoenix, Arizona.'
'But you were with the girls last night?' Vusi asked.
'A whole bunch of us went to the club.'
'How many?'
'I don't... Maybe ten, I'm not sure.'
'But the two girls were part of the group?'
'Yes, sir.'
'What' happened at the club?'
'We had a good time. You know ...' Sands took off his glasses again, and rubbed a hand over his eyes '... we had a few drinks, we danced a little ...' He replaced his glasses.
The gesture made Griessel suspicious.
'At what time did you leave?' Vusi asked.
'I... I was a little tired. I came back at about eleven.'
'And the girls?'
'I don't know, sir.'
'They were still at the club when you left?'
'Yes, sir.'
'So, the last time you saw Miss Russel alive was at the club.' Sands's face twisted. He just nodded, as though not trusting his voice.
'And they were drinking and dancing?'
'Yes, sir.'
'They were still with the group?'
'Yes.'
'Could you give us the names of the people they were with?'
'I guess ... Jason was there. And Steven, Sven, Kathy ...'
'Do you know their surnames?' Vusi pulled his notebook closer.
'Not all of them. It's Jason Dicklurk, and Steven Cheatsinger...' 'Could you spell that for us?'
'Well Jason, you know. J.A.S.O.N. And ... I'm not sure about spelling his surname ... Can I...'
'Is it Steven with a P.H. Or a V?' Vusi's pen hovered over his notes.
'I don't know.'
'Steven's surname?'
'Wait ... Is it OK if I get the list? All the names are there, the guides and everybody.'
'Please do.'
Sands stood up and walked towards the door. He stopped. 'I have pics. Of Rachel and Erin.'
'Photographs?'
'Yes.'
'Could you get them?'
'They're on my camera, but I can show you ...'
'That would be good.'
Ollie Sands walked out through the door.
'If we can get a photo of the missing girl...' said Vusi.
'He's hiding something,' said Griessel. 'Something to do with last night.'
'Do you think so, Benny?'
'Just now, when he took off his glasses ... he started lying.'
'He was crying before you came. Maybe it was ...'
'He's hiding something, Vusi. People who wear specs ... they have a way ... There is ...' Griessel hesitated. He had learned with Dekker to put his mentoring boots down carefully. 'Vusi, you learn things over the years, with interrogation ...'
'You know I want to learn, Benny.'
Griessel got up. 'Come and sit here, Vusi. The person you are interviewing must always have his back to the door.' He shifted the chairs around and sat on one. Vusi sat down next to him. 'You'll notice if they have something to hide ... Let's say he was sitting here, at an angle, then he'd have his legs pointing towards the door. Then the signs won't be so obvious. But with the door behind him, he feels trapped. The signs become clearer, he will sweat, keep pulling at his collar, a leg or foot will jump, he will put a hand over his eyes or, if he wears glasses, he will take them off. This one did that when he started talking about coming back early last night.'
Ndabeni had hung on every word. 'Thanks, Benny. I'll ask him about that.'
'Is he the only one here, from the group?' 'Yes. Some of them flew home last night. The rest are somewhere else, a wine tour. Or up the mountain.'
'And this one was here?'
'He was still in bed.'
'Now why would that be?'
'Good question.'
'Do you know how to watch his eyes, Vusi?'
The black detective shook his head.
'First you must get him to write something down, so you know whether he is left- or right-handed. Then you look for eye movement when he answers ...'
Griessel's cell phone rang and he saw the name on the screen. AFRIKA. 'It's the Commissioner,' he said before answering. Vusi raised his eyebrows.
He took the call, 'Griessel.'
'Benny, what the hell is going on?' the District Commissioner: Detective Services and Criminal Intelligence asked, so loudly that even Vusi could hear it.
'Sir?'
'Some lawyer is phoning me, Groenewoud or Groenewald or something, lecturing me like a missionary saying you all made a big cock-up with Adrian Barnard's wife ...'
'Adam Bar—'
'I don't give a damn,' said John Afrika. 'Now the woman has committed suicide because you intimidated her and she has nothing to do with the whole bloody thing ...'
A hand clenched his heart. 'She's dead?'
'No, she's not bloody dead, but you are there to mentor, Benny, that's why I brought you in. Just imagine what the press are going to make of this, I hear Barnard is a bloody celebrity ...'
'Sir, nobody—'
'Meet me at the hospital, you and Fransman Dekker. He can't curb his bloody ambition and if I try to cover for him they say it's because he's a fucking hotnot just like me, and I only look after my own people, where the fuck are you, anyway?'
'With Vusi, Commissioner. The church murder ...'
'And now I hear that's an American tourist, jissis, Benny, only on a Tuesday. At the hospital, I'll meet you there, five minutes.' The line went dead. Benny considered the fact that he had given Alexa Barnard the alcohol and that the Commissioner had not said which hospital and then Oliver 'Ollie' Sands walked in with the camera, crying as he stared at the screen on the back. He held it up so that the detectives could see. As Benny Griessel looked he felt that ghostly hand squeeze his heart, that familiar oppression. Rachel Anderson and Erin Russel stood laughing, lovely and carefree, with Kilimanjaro in the background. Young and effervescent, just like his daughter Carla, part of the Great Adventure.
Rachel Anderson lay on her belly behind the heap of pine logs in the cool of the garage and tried to control her breathing.
She thought they must have seen her, because she heard footsteps and voices approaching.
'... more people,' said one of them.
'Maybe. But if the Big Guy comes through, we'll have more than enough.'
She knew their voices.
They
stopped right in front of the garage.
'I just hope to God she's still out there.'
'Fucking mountain. It's huge. But if she moves, Barry will spot her. And our cops will have the streets covered, we'll get the bitch. I'm telling you, sooner or later we'll get her and this whole fuck-up will go away.'
She lay listening to the voices and footsteps that faded away uphill. And our cops will have the streets covered. These were the words that echoed in her mind, that killed the last vestige of hope.
Benny Griessel said in Afrikaans: 'He will talk, Vusi. Just give him a fright. Tell him you'll lock him up. Take him down to the cells, even. I have to go.'
'OK, Benny.' So Griessel left and, outside, on the way to his car, he phoned Dekker.
'Is she still alive, Fransman?'
'Yes, she's alive. Tinkie was with her all the time, but she fucked off into the bathroom and locked the door and cut her wrists with a broken gin bottle ...'
The one he had poured her drinks from? How did she get it into the bathroom?
'Is she going to make it?'
'I think so. We were quick. She lost a lot of blood, but she should be all right.'
'Where are you?'
'City Park. Did the Commissioner call you?'
'He's the moer in.'
'Benny, it's nobody's fault. It's that fucking Mouton who made a huge scene. When he saw the blood, he just lost it...'
'We can handle it, Fransman. I'll be there now.' He climbed into his car and wondered if he had missed something in his conversation with Alexa Barnard. Had there been a sign?
Inspector Vusi Ndabeni said: 'I'm your friend. You can tell me anything,' and he saw Oliver Sands reach for his glasses and take them off.
'I know.' Sands began cleaning the glasses on his T-shirt, now with his back to the door.
'So what really happened last night?' Vusi watched for the signs Benny had talked about.
'I told you,' the voice was too controlled.
Vusi allowed the silence to stretch out. He stared unblinking at Sands, but the eyes evaded him. He waited until Sands put the glasses back on, then he leaned forward. 'I don't think you've told me everything.'
'I did, honest to God.' Again the hands went to the glasses and adjusted them. Benny had told him to give Sands a fright. He didn't know if he could be convincing. He took a set of handcuffs out of his jacket pocket and put them on the table.
'Police cells are not nice places.'
Sands stared at the handcuffs. 'Please,' he said.
'I want to help you.' 'You can't.'
'Why?'
'Jeez ...'
'Mr Sands, please stand up and put your hands behind your back.'
'Oh, God,' said Oliver Sands and stood up slowly. 'Are you going to talk to me?'
Sands looked at Vusi and his whole body shivered once and he slowly sat down again.
'Yes.'
09:04-10:09
Chapter 11
Griessel drove down Loop Street towards the harbour. He should have taken Bree Street as there was heavy traffic, slow vehicles, and pedestrians just wandering across the road, all the local chancers. And the Gauteng tourists. They were unmistakable. This was the second wave: the first were the December school holiday brigade, smug motherfuckers who thought they were God's gift to Cape Town. They were usually families with moody, cell-phone-obsessed teenagers, Moms fiercely shopping, Dads unfamiliar with the streets, getting in everyone's way. The second wave would arrive in January, the arrogant fat cats who had stayed behind to make their Christmas killing in Sandton and then come here for their annual spending frenzy.
He saw small groups of foreign tourists, Europeans, so painfully law-abiding, only crossing the road at the traffic lights, noses stuck in guidebooks, wanting to photograph everything. He stopped with the lights showing red as far ahead as he could see. Why couldn't the fucking Metro Police get off their backsides and synchronise them?
That reminded him he ought to call the Field Marshal. Oerson. Perhaps they had found something. No, better to remind Vusi. This was Vusi's case. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, realised it was the rhythm of 'Soetwater' and could no longer ignore his conscience. Alexa Barnard. He should have seen it coming.
She had told him she had a suicide fantasy. 'I wanted Adam to come home at half past six and climb the stairs and find me dead. Then he would kneel down beside me and say, "You're the only one I ever loved." But being dead, of course, I would never see Adam plead with me; those dreams could never be reconciled.'
He shook his head. How the hell could he have missed that? That's what happened when you got up too early, an hour earlier than usual. He still wasn't quite with it today. And he had given her alcohol as well. Benny the great mentor who 'had forgotten more than others had to learn.'
He sought some excuse in the way she had said it, the story she went on to tell. It had distracted him, created a false impression of a woman who was somehow still under control. She had manipulated him. When he whispered 'Soetwater', and she held her glass out for more, a fee for her story.
He had fixated on her thirst; that was the real problem. He had poured her two tots and she had pushed the hair back from her face and said, 'I was such a terribly insecure little thing.' And then her history had led his thoughts away from suicide; it had fascinated him. He had heard only her words, the heavy irony, the self-mockery, as though the story was some kind of parody, as if it didn't really belong to her.
She was an only child. Her father worked for a bank and her mother was a housewife. Every four or five years the family relocated as her father was transferred or promoted - Parys, Potchefstoom, Port Elizabeth, and eventually Bellville, which had finally broken the P-sequence. She left half-formed friendships behind with every move, had to start over as an outsider at every school, knowing that it would only be temporary. More and more she began to live in her own world, mostly behind the closed door of her bedroom. She kept a painfully personal diary, she read and fantasised - and in her final years at high school she dreamed of becoming a singer, of packed halls and standing ovations, of magazine covers and intimate sundowners with other celebrities, and being courted by princes.
The source of this dream, and the only constant throughout her youth was her paternal grandmother. She spent every Christmas holiday with her in the summer heat of Kirkwood and the Sunday's River Valley. Ouma Hettie was a music teacher all her life, an energetic, disciplined woman with a beautiful garden, a spotless house and a baby grand in the sitting room. It was a house of scent and sound: marmalade and apricot jam simmering on the stove, rusks or leg of mutton in the oven, her grandma's voice singing or talking, and at night the sweet notes of the piano issuing from the open windows of the small blue house, across the wide verandas, the dense garden and the neighbouring orange orchards, to the rugged ridges of Addo and the changing hue of the horizon.
At first Alexa would sit beside her grandmother and just listen. Later she learned the words and melodies by heart and often sang along.
Duma Hettie loved Schubert and the Beethoven sonatas, but her true joy was the brothers Gershwin. Between songs she would nostalgically relate the stories of Ira and George. 'Rialto Ripples' and 'Swanee' were magically coaxed from the keys, 'Lady Be Good' and 'Oh, Kay!' were sung. She told Alexa how that song was inspired by George Gershwin's great love, the composer Kay Swift, but that hadn't prevented him from also having an affair with the beautiful actress Paulette Goddard.
On a sweltering evening in her fifteenth year, Ouma Hettie suddenly stopped playing and told Alexa, 'Stand there.' Meekly, she took her place beside the piano.
'Now sing!'
She did, in full voice for the first time. 'Of Thee I Sing', and the old lady closed her eyes, only a little smile betraying her rapture. As the last note faded in the sultry evening air, Hettie Brink looked at her granddaughter and, after a long silence, she said, 'My dear, you have perfect pitch, and you have an extraordinary voice. You are goin
g to be a star.' She fetched Ella Fitzgerald's Gershwin Songbook from her stack of LPs.
That was how the dream began. And Ouma Hettie's offical tuition.
Her parents were not impressed. A career in singing was not what they had had in mind for their only child. They wanted her to train as a teacher, get a qualification, something practical 'to fall back on'. 'What kind of man wants to marry a singer?' Her mother's words echoed ironically.
In her Matric year there was conflict, long and bitter arguments in the sitting room of the bank manager's house in Bellville. With the verbal ammunition provided by her grandma, Alexa fell back to her last line of defence: 'It's my life. Mine' A week before her finals she went for an audition with the Dave Burmeister Band.
Stage fright nearly got the better of her that day. It was nothing new. She had already experienced it at eisteddfods and the occasional performance at a wedding or with obscure bands in small clubs. It became a sort of ritual, a demon that began systematically to attack her four days before an appearance, so that, with a wildly beating heart, perspiring palms and an overwhelming conviction that she was about to make a total fool of herself, she could only complete the trip from dressing room to microphone with a supreme effort of will.
But as soon as she began to sing, with the first note uttered from her constricted throat, the demon melted away as though it had never existed.
At her first performance with Burmeister in a Johannesburg club, her grandma had been there to hold her hand and give her courage. 'This is what you were born for, my dear. Go out there and knock them dead.'
And she had. The reviews in The Star were still beside Ouma Hettie's bed when she passed away quietly in her sleep two months later. 'Alexandra Brink, in shimmering black, is so easy on the eye - young, blonde and beautiful. But once she starts to sing, her smoky, sensual voice, complete mastery of classical material, and innovative interpretations indicate a rare maturity and an acute musical intelligence. Her range encompasses Gershwin, Nat King Cole, Ma Rainey, Bessie Smith and Bobby Darin, with Dave Burmeister's arrangements fitting her style and personality perfectly.'
Oliver Sands of Phoenix, Arizona, told Inspector Vusi Ndabeni he had fallen in love with Rachel Anderson on Day Eight of the African Overland Adventure. In Zanzibar. Over a plate of seafood that he had been eating with great concentration.
