by Deon Meyer
'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.
Chapter 40
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 t
he conversation: 'It must be lonely at home,' and beforethe 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.
FRITZ. His son. His feelings about tonight descended on him again, the date with Anna at seven o'clock made him instinctively look at his watch. A quarter to three; another four hours. Should he phone and say tonight was going to be difficult?
'Fritz?' he said wondering whether his son knew anything about Anna's intentions.
'Dad, I'm done with school.'
'What do you mean?'
'Dad, we got this fat gig ...'
'We?'
'The band, Dad. Wet en Orde, that's our name, but you don't spell the "en", it's just that "and" sign, you know, that looks like an "s", Pa.'
'An ampersand.'
'Whatever. Wet en Orde, like your job, Law and Order, it was my idea, Pa. Don't you think that's cool?'
'And now you're leaving school?'
'Yes. Dad, this gig, we're opening for Gian Groen and Zinkplaat on a tour, Dad, they are talking about twenty-five thousand for a month, that's more than six thousand per guy.'
'And?'
'I don't need school any more, Pa.'
The call came through at 14:48 to the office of the Provincial Commissioner: Western Cape. The little Xhosa answered, forewarned by his secretary. It was Dan Burton, the American Consul.
'Mr Burton?'
'Commissioner, could you please tell me what's going on?'
The Commissioner drew himself up behind his desk. 'Yes, sir, I can tell you what is going on. We have every available police officer in Cape Town looking for the girl. We have what we believe is the best detective in the Peninsula leading the task force, and they are doing everything in their power, at this very moment, to try and find the young lady in question.'
'I understand that, sir, but I've just had a call from her parents, and they are very, very worried. Apparently, she was safe, she called this Captain Ghree-zil, but he took his sweet time to get there, only to find her gone.'
'That's not the information I have, sir ...'
'Do you know what's going on? Do you know who these people are? Why are they hunting her like an animal?'
'No, we don't know that. All I can tell you is that we are doing everything we can to find her.'
'Apparently, sir, that is not enough. I am really sorry, but I will have to call the Minister. Something has to be done.'
The Commissioner stood up from his desk. 'Well, sir, you are most welcome to call the Minister. But I am not sure what else we can do.' He put the phone down and walked out, down the passage to John Afrika's office. On the way he said one word in his mother tongue; the click of the word echoed off the walls.
She did not hear them arguing on the other side of the wooden door. She sat with her naked back against the pillar, dreadful pain in her foot, blood still running from the two stumps and the severed toes lying on the cement floor. Her head drooped andshe wept, tears and mucus streaming from her nose, mouth and eyes.
She had nothing left.
Nothing.
They told Vusi Ndabeni that Senior Inspector Jeremy Oerson was out. He could reach him on his cell phone. They had the same sullen, 'it's-not-my-problem' attitude and thinly disguised superiority that he could not fathom. It had been like this the whole day - the ponytail at the club, the Russian woman, the man at the pound, the woman at Administration: nobody cared, he thought. In this city it was everyone for himself. He suppressed his escalating unease, the frustration. He must try to understand these people - that was the only way to deal with it. He took the number but before he could phone they said: 'Here he is now.'
Vusi turned, recognised the man; he was the one who had been at the church this morning - dreadful uniform, not quite so neat now, face shiny with perspiration.
'Inspector Oerson?' he asked.
'What?' Hurried, irritated.
'I am Inspector Vusumuzi Ndabeni of the SAPS. I am here about a vehicle that was booked out of the pound at twelve thirty- four, a Peugeot Boxer panel van, CA four-oh-nine, three-four- one ...'
'So?' Oerson kept on walking towards his office. Vusi followed, amazed by his attitude.
'They say you signed the form.'
'Do you know how many forms I sign?' Oerson stood at a closed office door.
Vusi took a deep breath. 'Inspector, you were at the scene this morning, the American girl...'
'So?'
'The vehicle was used to abduct her friend. It is our only clue. She is in great danger.'
'I can't help you, I just signed the form,' said Oerson, shrugging and placing a hand on the door handle. 'Every day they come running in here, those girls down there, wanting someone to sign. I only check that everything is in order.'
Behind the door a telephone began to ring. 'My phone,' said Oerson and opened the door.
'Was everything in order with that vehicle?'
'I wouldn't have signed it if it wasn't.'
The phone continued to ring.
'But they say there is no receipt or anything.'
'Everything was correct when I signed it,' said Oerson, going into the office and closing the door.
Vusi stood there.
How could people be like that?
He pressed a hand on the closed door's frame. He must ignore them; he had a job to do. What he should do is investigate the whole process from the beginning. Where would you begin if you wanted to retrieve a vehicle from the pound? Who took your particulars; did anyone ask for an ID?
He sighed, ready to turn away, when he heard Oerson's voice say something inside that sounded familiar ... Cat and Moose ... Wait, hold on .. .
Vusi stood spellbound.
The door opened suddenly; Oerson's face accused him. 'What are you still doing here?'
'Nothing,' said Vusi and left. Halfway down the passage he looked back. Oerson was leaning on the door to monitor his progress. Vusi kept on walking. He heard the door shut. He stopped at the stairs.
The Cat & Moose? What did Oerson have to do with that?
Coincidence?
Oerson had been there this morning, very early. A Senior Inspector from Metro.
He was the one who had found the rucksack. He was the one who had walked up with it, full of bravado; he was the one who had rummaged in it before handing it over. In the club, Benny Griessel had talked to Fransman Dekker, he had told Dekker to call Oerson about the bag of stuff they had picked up.
Oerson had signed the form. His attitude, arrogance, the sweat on his brow. Cat & Moose. Snake in the grass.
Vusi wondered whether he ought to phone Griessel first. He decided against it. Benny had a thousand things to think of. He turned and went back to Oerson's closed door.
Chapter 41
They told Fransman Dekker he could not see Alexandra Barnard now. 'Doctor says she's on medication,' as if the burning bush itself had made the pronouncement. It irritated the living hell out of him. 'You are obsessed with Doctor, fuck Doctor' - that was what someone should tell them sometime, but he did not. Benny Griessel's words today had struck home.
They say you are ambitious, so let me tell you, I threw my fokken career away because I didn't have control...
It wa
s the first time in his life that someone had spoken to him that way. It was the first time anyone had taken the trouble. He had been crapped out by the best, but that was different, usually no more than disapproval and criticism. With Griessel it was different.
'When will I be able to see her?' he asked the woman, under control now.
'Doctor says sometime after four, the medication should have worn off by then.' He checked his watch. Ten to three. He might just as well get something to eat; he was hollow inside, thirsty too. It would give him a chance to think - and what else could he do, he had let Josh and Melinda go home? 'I want to know if you leave the city,' he threatened and avoided the reproachful eyes. He had gone over to Natasha and said: 'Can you give me the contact details of all the staff?' and she gave him a look that said she knew why he wanted them.
He left the hospital feeling ravenous.
Vusi stood and listened at Oerson's door. He heard English spoken. But if they don't know what we're looking for, let's wait. Sooner or later they'll move the stuff. A long silence. Are we absolutely sure? A short, barking laugh, scornful. And then the words that stopped Vusumuzi Ndabeni's heart: Let's make sure, and then kill the bitch. Before she fucks up everything. But wait for me, I want to see...
Vusi's hand dropped to his service pistol, took hold of it and pulled it out. He lifted his left hand to open the door and saw how it was shaking, realised his heart was beating wildly and his breathing was shallow, almost panicky.
No, I'm fine. They have nothing, no proof Oerson, inside, so smug.
It gave Vusi pause, he froze. Because all he had were suspicions and a conversation overheard. He caught a glimpse of the coming minutes: he would burst in, Oerson would deny everything, he could arrest him and he would refuse to cooperate, demand a lawyer, it could take hours and the girl would die. Oerson's word against his.
I'm coming, Oerson had said in there. Wait for me.
Vusi Ndabeni whispered a prayer. What should he do?
He shoved the pistol back in the holster, turned and ran down the passage. He would have to follow Oerson. While he was contacting Benny.
Oh God, he must not let this man slip away.
There was no parking in Long Street. A SAPS patrol vehicle was already double-parked. Griessel pulled two wheels onto the broader pavement in front of the 'Travel Centre - Safari Tour Specialists' building beside the Cat & Moose, leapt out and, seeing the metre maid a hundred metres down the street, knew he was going to get a ticket. He muttered a curse, locked the car and jogged to the entrance of the building with its garish pink and orange colours. He sidestepped a young couple at the door conversing in a foreign language. The plump girl was behind the desk, in animated discussion with two uniformed men, one of the Caledon Square patrols. He ran up to them. She did not recognise him. He had to say: 'Benny Griessel, SAPS, I was here this morning. I hear you recognised one of the men.'
