by Deon Meyer
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Cellular: N/A
Address and contact details: Next of kin: N/A
There was a hurried signature underneath a declaration that he accepted the rules and regulations of the complex.
'Does he drive a Land Rover Defender?'
'I don't know.'
Vusi pushed the file back towards her. 'Thank you very much,' he said and then hopefully: 'Do you have a key to his place?'
'I do.'
'Could you open up for us, please?'
'The regulations state I must have a search warrant on file.'
Benny Griessel sat in the radio room of the Caledon Square stat ion with a map of the city on the table, his notebook and pen on top. He listened to the young sergeant talk to every patrol vehicle about the streets they had covered. He made hurried notes, trying to form an image of where she might be, where she might be going, what they ought to do. He struggled to get his head around it all - too many permutations and uncertainties.
His phone rang. He motioned the sergeant to keep the radio quiet for a moment, quickly checked the screen and answered.
'Vusi?'
'Benny, we need a warrant to get into the house.'
'Isn't he there?' 'I don't think so. We are going to knock, but the caretaker has a key ...' A woman's voice spoke in the background. 'The administrator,' said Vusi. 'She has a key.'
'We don't have enough for a warrant, Vusi. Three numbers of a registration ...'
'I thought so. OK. I'll call again ...'
Griessel put down the phone, picked up his pen and motioned the sergeant to carry on. He studied the map, moving the tip of the pen towards the Company Gardens. That was where she was.
His instinct told him she was there, because he knew De Waal Park, he knew Upper Orange, it was his home, his territory, his cycling route. Upper Orange Street, Government Avenue, the Gardens. If he were in her shoes, if he had to run from there, afraid and unsure, roughly aiming for Long Street, he would run that way.
'I want two teams in the Gardens,' he told the sergeant. 'But first they must come and collect photos.'
Piet van der Lingen heard sobbing inside. He stood slightly stooped outside the bathroom door with his hand lifted to knock softly. He didn't want to frighten her.
'Rachel,' he said softly.
The sobs stopped abruptly.
'Rachel?'
'How do you know my name?'
'The policewoman told me. You are Rachel Anderson, from Lafayette in Indiana.' There was a long silence before the door slowly opened and he saw her with tears on her cheeks.
'West Lafayette, actually,' she said.
He smiled with great kindness. 'Come, my dear. The food is almost ready.'
Fransman Dekker told fat Inspector Mbali Kaleni about the money that had been paid to Jack Fischer and Associates, to the sum of ten thousand rand. At that moment he realised with brilliant clarity and insight how he could solve a whole number of problems. He planned his strategy while he briefed her. He must be careful how he held out the carrot. She was known for her ability to smell a rat.
'The Bloemfontein affair is the key,' he said, careful to keep his voice neutral. 'But Fischer and Co. are clever. Are you up to it?' He had chosen the words with great care.
She made a derisive noise in her throat. 'Clever?' She rose to her feet. 'They're just men,' she said, already heading for the door.
He felt relieved but gave nothing away. 'They're old hands,' he said.
She opened the door. 'Just leave Bloemfontein to me.'
After Vusi had tried knocking on the front door and the back door, he sent the uniformed police to ask the neighbours if anyone knew de Klerk. He stayed behind on the back patio, trying, from beside the large barbecue drum on wheels, to peer through the only gap in the curtains.
He saw an open-plan room with a small kitchen right at the back and an empty beer bottle on a cupboard. There was a sofa of dark material and, right ahead of him, the corner of a huge flat-screen TV.
No carpet on the tile floor. The beer bottle might have been there for weeks. There was ash in the braai, equally uninformative.
He stood in the shade of the small balcony, looking at the scrap of lawn, and waited for the policemen to return.
The 'administrator of the body corporate' told him these townhouses, with two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, a large living area, open-plan kitchen and guest toilet downstairs, cost a fraction under a million rand apiece last year. A new Land Rover was more than three hundred thousand. Big new TV. How could a twenty-six year old afford all this?
Drugs, thought Vusi.
He saw the policemen returning. He could tell from the way they walked they had nothing to report. Suddenly he was in a hurry and went to meet them. He wanted to get back to the city, to Van Hunks, because that was where the key to this puzzle lay.
It felt surreal, the old man in his impeccably white shirt pulling out a chair for her. The delicious aroma of fried bacon made her hunger flare up, an awakening animal. The table was neatly laid for two. The drops of condensation running down the big glass jug of orange juice made her crave its sweet, cold taste.
He walked over to the stove, asked whether she would like cheese and bacon on her omelette. 'Yes, please,' she said. He encouraged her to have some orange juice. She poured with a slightly trembling hand and brought the glass to her lips, trying to control the raging thirst.
Could he make her two slices of toast?
'Please.'
He busied himself, greasing a pan, adding the whisked egg yolks to the white he had already beaten stiff, pouring the mixture into the pan. There were fried bacon bits on a plate with grated cheese. He put the frying pan on the gas plate.
He always set for two, he said, ever since his wife died. He had started the habit even before then, actually, when she was sick. It made him feel less alone. It was a great privilege to have someone at the table, now. She must excuse him, he was going to talk far too much, as he didn't get much company. Just the books; they were his companions now. When had she last eaten?
She had to think about it. 'Yesterday,' she said, and remembered the big burgers they had had around four in a place with an American Sixties atmosphere, almost. 'A hole in the wall,' Erin had said, and then she shut down her memory bank, because she didn't want to remember.
He sprinkled bacon and cheese on the omelette and opened the oven. Took the pan off the gas flame, put it in the stove and closed the oven door. He turned to face her. It fell flat so easily, he said, if you weren't careful. He saw her glass was empty. He came to the table and refilled it. She thanked him with a small, genuine smile. There was silence, but a comfortable one.
'The books,' she said, half a question, to make conversation, to be polite, to say thank you.
'I used to be a historian,' he said. 'Now I'm just an old man with too much time on my hands and a doctor son in Canada who emails me and tells me to keep busy, as I still have a lot to give.'
He bent at the oven and had a look. 'Nearly ready,' he said. 'I'm writing a book. I promised myself it is my last. It's about the rebuilding of South Africa after the Boer War. I'm writing it for my people, the Afrikaners, so they can see they have been through the same thing as the black people are going through now. They were also oppressed, they were also very poor, landless, beaten down. But through affirmative action they got up again. Also economic empowerment. There are very great parallels. The English also complained about service delivery at the municipalities which was suddenly not as good any more, because incompetent Afrikaners had taken over...' He picked up pot-holders and opened the oven. The omelette had risen high in the pan, melted the cheese and the aroma wafted her way, making the saliva gush in her mouth. He picked up a spatula and slid the omelette out onto a snow-white plate, adeptly folded it and brought it to her.
'Catsup?' he asked, a mischievous twinkle in the eyes behind the big gold-rimmed spectacles. 'I believe that's what you call it.'
>
'No thanks, this looks lovely.'
He shifted the salt and pepper closer and said he had learned not to use salt, doctor's orders from his son, and anyway his capacity to taste wasn't what it used to be. Consequently the omelette might need some more salt.
'The trouble with omelettes is that I can only make one at a time. Go ahead and eat yours while I do mine.'
He went back to the stove again. She picked up her knife and fork, cut through the puffed egg and brought it to her mouth. She was incredibly hungry and the flavour was heavenly.
'But the book is also for our black people,' he said. 'The Afrikaners rose up again, an amazing achievement. Then their power corrupted them. The signs are there that the black government is going the same way. I am afraid they will make the same mistakes. It would be such a pity. We are a country of potential, of wonderful, good people who all want only one thing: a future for our children. Here. Not in Canada.' He put the pan in the oven again. He said he was a cheese fanatic and his son said dairy was not good for him. At seventy-nine he reckoned it didn't matter so much any more and he smiled again, showing those even white false teeth. The toast! He clean forgot... He clicked his tongue and took two slices of bread out of a plastic bag and put them in the toaster.
'This is delicious,' she said, because it was. Already she had eaten half the omelette. 'Can I brew us some good coffee? There is an exceptional beanery in the Bo-Kaap. They do their own roasting, but I grind it myself.'
'That would be wonderful,' She felt like getting up and hugging him. The grief was huge and heavy inside her, held at bay by his enthusiasm and hospitality.
He opened the kitchen cupboard and took out a big silver tin. He said he mustn't forget about his omelette in the oven; that was the trouble with age: the forgetfulness. He really could multi-task in his young days, but now that was all he remembered - his young days. He measured coffee beans into a grinder and pressed the button. The blades made a sharp noise as they chopped up the beans. He murmured something; she could just see his lips moving. He finished the grinding, opened the filter of the coffee machine and poured the coffee into it. He picked up his pot-holders and opened the oven.
'A mixture of cheddar and Gruyere, it always smells better than it tastes. That is one thing about old age. Your sense of smell lasts longer than taste.'
The toaster popped the two slices up. He took a small plate, put the toast on it and brought it to her. 'Some green fig preserve? I have a really good Camembert to go with it, rich and creamy, made by a small cheesery near Stellenbosch.' He opened the fridge and took it out anyway before she could reply.
He was back at the stove, sliding the omelette onto his plate. He brought it to the table, sat down and took a mouthful. 'I often add feta as well, to this particular mixture, but it might be too salty for a young woman ... the coffee!' He jumped up again with surprising energy, to put water in the coffee-maker. He spilled some on the counter and wiped it up with the white dishcloth before turning on the machine and sitting down again.
'West Lafayette. You're a long way from home, my dear.'
Chapter 28
On the sixteenth floor of the apartment block, the man with the trimmed grey beard stood etched against the bright city panorama, his hands behind his back.
In front of him were the six young men. They looked at him, not intimidated, expectant. Three black, three white, united by their youth, leanness and fearlessness.
'Mistakes have been made,' the man said in English, but with a distinctive accent.
'Learn from them. I am taking charge now. This is not a vote of no confidence. See it as an opportunity to learn.'
One or two nodded slightly; they knew he didn't like emotional display.
'Time is our enemy. So I shall keep it short. Our friend in Metro will provide a suitable vehicle, a panel van that has been unclaimed in the pound in Green Point for four months. Go and get it; Oerson is waiting at the gate. Leave the bus in the parkade of the Victoria Junction Hotel.'
He picked up a shiny metal case from the floor and put it on the table in front of him.
He looked at one of the young men. 'The Taurus?'
'Underwater in the harbour.'
'Good.' The greybeard undipped the case and swivelled it around for all to see. 'Four Stechkin APSs, the APB model. The B stands for Bes-shumniy, the Russian word for "quiet", because the barrel is bored out for low velocity and, as you can see, they come with a silencer. These weapons are thirty- five years old, but they are the most reliable automatic pistols on the planet. Nine millimetre, twenty in the magazine; the ammunition is less than six months old. The silencers don't mean that the weapon is completely silent. It makes a sound equal to an unsilenced point-two-two pistol; enough to attract attention, which we do not want. Only use it in an emergency. Is that clear?'
Everyone nodded this time, greedy eyes on the guns.
'Much more stopping power than the Taurus. Remember that. The numbers have been filed off; they cannot be traced to us. Make sure you wear gloves, and get rid of them if necessary.'
He waited another second to make sure there were no questions. 'Very well. This is how we're going to do it.'
Inspector Fransman Dekker was on his way over to where Natasha was sitting when the tall white man intercepted him.
'Are you from the police?'
'I am,' said Dekker. The face seemed familiar.
'I'm Ivan Nell,' he said with an inflection of the powerful voice that said the name meant something.
'Weren't you on that TV show?'
'I was one of the mentors on Superstars ...'
'You sing ...'
'That's right.'
'My wife watched Superstars. Pleased to meet you. You must excuse me - we're a little busy here this morning,' said Dekker and began moving again.
'That's why I'm here,' said Nell. 'Because of Adam.'
Dekker stopped reluctantly. 'Yes?'
'I think I was the last person to see him alive.'
'Last night?' The singer had his full attention now.
Nell nodded. 'We were eating at Bizerca Bistro down near Pier Place until ten o'clock.'
'And then?'
'Then I went home.'
'I see.' Dekker thought for a while. 'And Barnard?'
'I don't know where Adam went. But this morning when I heard on the radio ...' Nell looked around at the people who were sitting too close for his liking, at Natasha who had got up and come closer. 'Is there somewhere we could talk?'
'What about?'
Nell came up close and spoke quietly: 'I think his death has something to do with our conversation last night, I don't know ...'
'What did you talk about, Mr Nell?'
He looked uneasy. 'Can we talk somewhere else?' It was an urgent whisper.
Dekker suppressed the impulse to sigh. 'Can you just give me two minutes, please?'
'Of course. I just don't want you to think, you know ...'
'No, Mr Nell, I don't know,' said Fransman Dekker. He looked at Natasha who was waiting patiently only steps away from them, then back at Nell. 'Just give me a moment.'
'Of course.'
Benny Griessel was not good at sitting and waiting. So he left the radio room, walked through the busy charge office and the security doors out onto Buitenkant Street. His brain was busy and his courage was low. They were not going to find her. He had fourteen patrol vehicles driving in a grid pattern, and one was parked in Long Street with the men waiting at the Cat & Moose. He had ten foot patrols, two of them searching the Company Gardens. The helicopter had returned from Table View and covered the entire bloody city. There was no sign of her.
Where could she be?
He walked to his car, unlocked it and took out the Chesterfields from the cubbyhole, locked the door again and stood on the pavement, holding the pack of cigarettes. What was he missing?
Was there something in the chaos of the morning that he had missed? It was a familiar feeling. On the day a crime took pla
ce, there was so much information, his head would be overflowing, the pieces unconnected and crowding each other out. It took time, a night's sleep sometimes, for the subconscious to sort and file, like a slow secretary working at her own unhurried tempo.
He took out a cigarette and put it between his lips.
He was missing something ...
He slid the box of matches open.
The Field Marshal. Jeremy Oerson and the search for the rucksack.
He began to walk hastily back along the pavement, putting the matches in his trouser pocket, and the cigarettes back in the pack. He went into the police station. Was that the only item knocking at the door of his consciousness?
In the radio room he asked a uniformed policeman where he could get a telephone directory.
'Charge office.'
Griessel fetched one, paging through it as he walked back. The local government numbers were all right at the back. He found Metro and put the book on the old government-issue table of dark wood, next to his maps, notebook, pen and cell phone. He kept a finger on the number and phoned. Two rings and a woman's voice said: 'Cape Town Metropolitan Police, good afternoon, goeimiddag.'
'Jeremy Oerson, please.'
'Please hold,' she said and put him through. It rang for a long time. A man answered.
'Metro.'
'Jeremy Oerson?'
'Jeremy is not here.'
'This is Insp ... Captain Benny Griessel, SAPS. Where can I get hold of him, it's quite urgent?'
'Hold on ...' A hand was held over the receiver and muffled words exchanged. 'He should be back soon. Do you want his cell phone number?'
'Please.' Griessel reached for his pen and book.
The man recited the number and Griessel wrote it down. He rang off and phoned it. Oerson answered instantly.
'Jeremy.'
'Benny Griessel, SAPS. We talked this morning in Long Street.'
'Yes.' A total lack of enthusiasm.
'Did you find anything?' 'Where?'
'In the city. The girl's rucksack. You were supposed to be looking ...'
'Oh. Yes. No, there was nothing.'
Griessel was not impressed by his attitude. 'Can you tell me exactly where you searched?'
