Thirteen Hours (3 page)

She dropped to her knees, the backpack against the wall. Her
head drooped in utter weariness, her eyes closed. Then she slid down further
until she was seated flat on the ground. She knew the damp in the bricks and
the decaying leaf mould would stain her blue denim shorts, but she didn't care.
She just wanted to rest.

The scene imprinted on her brain more than six hours ago
suddenly played unbidden through her mind. Her body trembled with shock and her
eyes flew open. She dared not think of that now. It was too ... just too much.
Through the curtain of dark green foliage and big bright red flowers she could
see a car in the car port. She focused on that. It had an unusual shape, sleek
and elegant and not new. What make was it? She tried to distract herself from
the terror in her head with this thought. Her breathing calmed, but not her
heart. Exhaustion was a great weight pressing on her, but she resisted; it was
a luxury she could not afford.

At 06:27 she heard running steps in the street: more than one
person, from the same direction she had come, and her heart raced again.

She heard them calling to each other in the street, in a
language she did not understand. The footsteps slowed, went quiet. She shifted
slightly forward, looking for a gap in the foliage, and stared at the open
gate. One of them was standing there, barely visible, the pieces of the mosaic
showing he was black.

She kept dead still.

The mosaic moved. He walked in through the gate, silent on
his rubber soles. She knew he would look for hiding places, the house, the car
in the car port.

The vague shape halved. Was he bending down? To look under
the car?

The pieces of him doubled, the outline enlarged. He was
approaching. Could he see her, right at the back?

'Hey!'

She was shocked by the voice, a hammer blow to her chest. She
could not tell if she moved in that second.

The dark figure moved away, but without
haste.      

'What do you want?' The voice came from the house, up above.
Someone was talking to the black man.

'Nothing.'

'Get the fuck off my property.'

No answer. He stood still, then moved, slowly, reluctantly,
until his broken shape disappeared through the leaves.

The two detectives searched the church grounds from the
southern side. Vusi began at the front, along the Long Street border with the
spiked baroque railings. Griessel began at the back, along the high brick wall.
He walked slowly, one step at a time, his head down and eyes moving back and
forth. He battled to concentrate, there was a sense of discomfort in him, an
elusive feeling, vague and formless. He had to focus here now, on the bare
ground, the grass tufts around the base of the trees, the stretches of tarred
pathway. He bent every now and then to pick up something and hold it in his
fingers - the top of a beer bottle, two rings from cold drink cans, a rusty
metal washer, an empty white plastic bag.

He worked his way around behind the church, where the street
noise was suddenly muted. He glanced up at the steeple. There was a cross at
the top. How many times had he driven past and never really looked? The church
building was lovely, an architectural style he could not name. The garden was
well cared for, with big palms, pines and oleanders, planted who knows how many
years ago? He went around behind the small office building, where the sounds of
the street returned. In the northern corner of the grounds he stopped and stood
looking up and down Long Street. This was still the old Cape here, the
buildings semi-Victorian, most only two storeys high, some painted now in bright
colours, probably to appeal to the young. What was this vague unease he felt in
him? It had nothing to do with last night. Nor was it the other issue that he
had been avoiding for two, three weeks - about Anna and moving back in and
whether it would ever work.

Was it the mentoring? To be at the scene of a murder, able to
look but not touch? He would find it hard, he knew that now.

Maybe he should just get something to eat.

He looked south, towards the Orange Street crossing. Just
before seven on a Tuesday morning and the street was busy - cars, buses, taxis,
scooters, pedestrians. The energetic bustle of mid-January, schools reopening,
holidays over, forgotten. On the pavement the murder audience had grown to a
small crowd. Two press photographers had also arrived, camera bags over
shoulders, long lenses held like weapons in front of them. He knew one of them,
a bar-room buddy from his drinking days who had worked for the
Cape Times
for years and was now chasing sensation
for a tabloid. One night in the Fireman's Arms he had said that if you were to
lock up the press and the police on Robben Island for a week, the liquor
industry in Cape Town would collapse.

He saw a cyclist weaving skilfully through the traffic on a
racing bike, those incredibly thin wheels, the rider in tight black shorts,
vivid shirt, shoes, crash helmet, the fucker was even wearing gloves. His gaze
followed the cycle to the Orange Street traffic lights, knowing that he never
wanted to look that silly. He felt stupid enough with the piss-pot helmet on
his head. He wouldn't even have worn it if he hadn't got it for free, with the
bicycle.

Doc Barkhuizen, his sponsor at Alcoholics Anonymous, had
started the whole thing. Frustrated, Griessel had told Doc that the pull of the
bottle was not diminishing. The first three months were long over, the
so-called crisis period, and yet his desire was as great as it was on the first
day. Doc had recited the 'one day at a time' rhyme, but Griessel said he needed
more than that. Doc said 'You need a distraction, what do you do in the
evenings?'

Evenings? Policemen had no 'evenings'. When he did get home
early, wonder of wonders, he would write to his daughter Carla, or play one of
his four CDs on the computer and pick up the bass guitar to play along.

Tm busy in the evenings, Doc.'

'And mornings?'

'Sometimes I walk in the park. Up near the reservoir.'

'How often?'

'1 don't know. Now and then. Once a week, perhaps less ...'

The trouble with Doc was that he was eloquent. And
enthusiastic. About everything. One of those 'the glass is half full' positive
guys who would not rest until he had inspired you. 'About five years ugo I
started cycling, Benny. My knees can't take jogging, but the bicycle is soft on
an old man's limbs. I started slowly, five or six kilos a day. Then the bug
began to bite, because it's fun. The fresh air, the scents, the sun. You feel
the heat and the cold, you see things from a new perspective, because you move
at your own tempo, it feels as though your world is at peace. You have time to think
...'

After Doc's third speech he was swept up by his enthusiasm
and at the end of October he went looking for a bicycle, in his usual way -
Benny Griessel, Bargain Hunter, as his son Fritz gently teased him. First he researched
the price of new ones at the shops and realised two things - they were
ridiculously expensive, and he preferred the chunky mountain bikes to the
skinny, sissyboy racing ones. He did the rounds of the pawnshops, but all their
stock was worn out, cheap Makro stuff, junk even when they were new. Then he
studied the
Cape Ads
and found the fucking
advert - a flowery description of a Giant Alias, twenty-seven gear, super-
light aluminium frame, Shimano shifter and disc brakes, a free saddlebag with
tools, free helmet and 'just one month old, original price R7,500, upgrading to
DH', which the owner later explained to him meant 'Downhill', as though he
would understand what that meant. But he thought, what the fuck, R3,500 was one
hell of a bargain, and what had he bought for himself in the past six months
since his wife kicked him out of the house? Not a thing. Just the lounge suite
from Mohammed 'Love Lips' Faizal's pawnshop in Maitland. And the fridge. And
the bass guitar he meant to give Fritz for Christmas, another Faizal bargain
that he had stumbled on in September. That was all. Essential items. You
couldn't count the laptop. How else would he keep in touch with Carla?

Then he thought about Christmas and all the expenses still to
come. He argued the bicycle owner down another two hundred and then he went and
drew the money and bought the thing and began riding every morning. He would
wear his old rugby shorts, T-shirt and sandals and that ridiculous little
helmet.

He soon realised that he did not live in the ideal
neighbourhood for cycling. His flat was a quarter of the way up the slopes of
Table Mountain. If you went down towards the sea, you had to ride back up the
mountain eventually. You could head uphill first, towards Kloof Nek, in order
to enjoy the ride home, but you would suffer going up. He almost gave up after
a week. But then Doc Barkhuizen gave him the 'five-minute' tip.

'This is what I do, Benny. If I'm not in the mood, I tell
myself "just five minutes, and if I don't feel like going on, I'll turn
around and go home".'

He tried it - and never once did he turn around. Once you
were going, you went on. Towards the end of November, it suddenly became a
pleasure. He found a route that he enjoyed. Just after six in the morning he
would ride down St John's Street, illegally cutting through the Company Gardens
before the zealous security guards were on duty. Then he would turn into
Adderley and wave at the flower sellers offloading stock from the bakkies at
the Golden Acre and then to the bottom of Duncan Street to the harbour, see
what ships had docked today. Then he would ride down the Waterkant, to Green
Point - and all along the sea as far as the Sea Point swimming pool. He would
look at the mountain and out over the sea and at the people, the pretty young
women out jogging with long, tanned legs and bobbing breasts, pensioners
walking with purpose, mothers with babies in pushchairs, other cyclists
greeting him despite his primitive apparel. Then he would turn and ride back,
sixteen kilometres in total and it made him feel good. About himself. And about
the city - whose underbelly was all that he had seen for a very long time.

And about his smart purchase. Until his son came around two
weeks before Christmas and said he'd decided bass was not for him any more.
'Lead guitar, Dad,
jissie,
Dad, we saw
Zinkplaat on Friday and there's this lead, Basson Laubscher, awesome, Dad.
Effortless. Genius. That's my dream.'

Zinkplaat.

He hadn't even known such a band existed.

Griessel had been hiding the bass guitar from Fritz for
nearly two months. It was his Christmas present. So he had to go and see Hot
Lips Faizal again and at such short notice he only had one guitar available, a
fucking Fender, practically new and horribly expensive. Plus, what he gave to Fritz
had to be matched by a gift to Carla in London. So he was financially stuffed,
because Anna made him pay maintenance as though they were divorced. The way she
made her calculations was a mystery to him and he had a strong feeling he was
being milked, he was being sucked dry while she was earning good money as an
assistant to the attorneys. But when he had something to say she would reply,
'You had money for booze, Benny, that was never a problem ...'

The moral high ground. She had it and he did not. So he must
pay. It was part of his punishment.

But that was not the thing churning in his guts.

Griessel sighed and walked back to the murder scene. As his
mind focused on the growing crowd of onlookers who would need to be controlled,
he recognised the new unease he was feeling.

It had nothing to do with his sex life, his finances, or
hunger. It was a premonition. As if the day brought evil with it.

He shook his head. He had never allowed himself to be
bothered by such tripe.

The Metro policemen were helping a young coloured woman over
the railings with eager hands. She picked up her briefcase, nodded in thanks
and came across to Griessel and Ndabeni. A new face to them.

'Tiffany October,' she said, holding out a small hand to Benny.
He saw it trembling slightly. She was wearing glasses with narrow black rims.
Traces of acne under the make-up. She was slim, slight under the white coat.

'Benny Griessel,' he said and gestured at the detective
alongside him. 'This is Inspector Vusumuzi Ndabeni. This is his scene.'

'Call me Vusi.'

'Pleased to meet you,' she said and shook the black
detective's hand.

They looked at her enquiringly. It took her a second to
realise. 'I'm the pathologist.'

'You're new?' Vusi asked, after
an uncomfortable silence.

'This is my first solo.' Tiffany October smiled nervously.
Thick and Thin from Forensics came closer, curious to meet her. She shook each
politely by the hand.

'Are you done?' Griessel asked them impatiently.

'We still have to do the path and the wall,' said Jimmy, the
thin one. He gave his shorter colleague a look. 'Benny's not a morning person.'

Griessel ignored them. Always some chirp.

Tiffany October looked down at the body.

'Ai,'
she said.