Thirteen Hours (47 page)

'The tourist industry,' as though it went without
saying.

'Look,' said Griessel, desperate that this not turn
out to be a disappointment. 'A girl's life depends on the fact that we have to
identify this guy, that you remember where you've seen him, so please ...'

'Really?' The responsibility came to rest on her, the
indignation evaporated and enthusiasm took its place. 'Well, OK, look ... I, I
know I've seen him at the cafe ...'

'What cafe?'

'The Long Street Cafe.'

'Does he work there?'

'No, he was, like, a customer ...' Deeply thoughtful,
eyes squinting, the picture of concentration.

Griessel tried another tack. 'OK, can you describe
him?'

'He's black. Tall. Handsome guy, you know, twenty-something
...' Then her face brightened. 'He's, like, skinny, you know, that
look ... like all the guides, that's most likely where I saw
him, in the cafe with the others ...'

But Benny Griessel wasn't listening to her because the
elusive, slippery thing in his mind was rushing at him, he had to shut her up,
he said: 'Wait, wait...'

'What?' she said, but he didn't hear her, his hand
combed through his hair, and lingered on his neck. He scratched behind his ear,
head bent, thoughts jumbled, he must get them in order. This morning ...
Griessel looked to the right where they had talked to Oliver Sands this
morning, that's what his head had been trying to tell him all fucking
afternoon, it was that conversation. He tried to recall it, groping in the dark.
Ollie had talked about the club, the girls in the club ...

No. Nothing. Wrong track.

He watched the girl behind the reception desk, looking
disgruntled after being silenced. She'd said he's,
like, skinny, you know,
that look... like all the guides,
that was the trigger. The guides. What had Sands said
about that? Vusi had asked the questions this morning. He'd wanted to know who
was with Sands and the girls at the club. Sands said a whole bunch. A group.
And somewhere along the way he had said the guides were there too.

He whispered to himself. '
Jissis
.' Because the thing was almost
within his grasp, if he could only see it. He was unaware that he made a
gesture of frustration, he was unaware of the two uniforms and the girl staring
at him and looking vaguely concerned.

Griessel's phone began to ring. He ignored it. Not
now. He tried to dredge up the words of that morning's conversation from his
memory. He stood at the desk, put his palms flat on it and dipped his head. The
girl stepped back half a pace.

Vusi Ndabeni, cell phone to his ear, listened to Griessel's
number ringing while he watched Jeremy Oerson hurry out of the Metro building
and go to his car.

'Answer me, Benny,' lie said and started to walk
quickly towards his own car. Oerson climbed into a Nissan Sentra with the city
police badge on the door.

The phone continued to ring.

'Please, Benny,' but the call diverted to Griessel's
voice mail just as Vusi got his car unlocked and jumped in.

'Are you all right?' the Cat & Moose girl asked
Griessel.

One of the uniforms realised what was going on and
hushed her with a finger to his lips.

Benny stood still. He, Vusi and Oliver Sands. At the
table. Sands telling them they came on the tour through Africa. They talked
about last night. The club. The girls. The drink. Who was with them, Vusi had
asked. A whole bunch. Do you know the names? Vusi had his notebook ready and
Sands said ...

The answer came like a hammer blow. It made Griessel's
body shudder. 'Fuck,' he said in triumph, loudly, startling the others. Oliver
Sands had given them the names, the funny names, the funny pronunciation, that
was the spectre that had been running through his head the whole goddamn
afternoon, one name, he heard it now in Ollie's voice: Jason Dicklurk.
Dicklurk.
This morning Griessel had
thought to himself, what a fucking funny name. Dick Lurk. But the redhead's
pronunciation, that had been the problem.
Jissis,
he should have made the
connection. Rachel's father calling him
Ghree-zil,
only the Afrikaners could say
their own names. And one Zulu. Mbali Kaleni. She had phoned him while he was
sitting in that office with the Commissioner.
This is Inspector Mbali
Kaleni of the South African Police Service, Benny.
Zulu accent, but her
pronunciation was flawless.
We traced a Land Rover Defender that fits the number.
It belongs to a man in Parklands, a Mr J. M. de Klerk.

Dicklurk was de Klerk. J. M. de Klerk. Jason de Klerk.
One of the guides.

'The tour company,' he said to the girl. 'Which tour
company were the girls with?'

'Tour company?' she asked, intimidated by Griessel's
fervour.

'You know, the people who took them through Africa.'

'Oh.' For a second there was a frown, then her face
brightened: 'African Overland Adventures. That's where he works, the

black guy, that's where I've seen him, they do all
their Cape accommodation bookings with us, I sometimes go to see their—' 'Where
are they?'

'Just one block down. My God, that's where—' 'Show
me,' said Griessel and ran to the door. She came after him, stopped on the
pavement, pointed to the right, across the street. 'On the corner.'

'Come,
kerels
,' said Benny Griessel to the uniforms as another
insight lit up his head. A.O.A.
African Overland Adventures.
On the spur of the moment he
kissed the plump girl on the cheek before he ran off.

She watched him speechlessly.

Fransman Dekker took a bite of the toasted chicken
mayonnaise sandwich in his left hand while he scribbled in his notebook with
his right.

Alexa Barnard. That attitude this morning.

Inside knowledge.

A woman hiding in her house all day long. Alone.
Lonely. Drinking. Lots of time to think about her husband, her life, her lot. A
husband who was chronically unfaithful, a man who couldn't keep his hands off
anything in a skirt. A man making big bucks while his wife rotted away at home.

Don't expect me to believe that she had never wondered
what life would be like without the bastard, Fransman thought. Consider the
national sport: hire a coloured to do your shooting. Or the stabbing. Three or
four cases in the past year alone. It was a disease, a fucking epidemic.

Come on, Sylvia, come and have a chat with the madam,
tell me where I can find someone to knock the master off.

Or: Sylvia, I see you're carrying off the silverware.
So before I call the police, let's have a little talk.

Or: the master has a fat life insurance policy, my
dear. What sort of share are we looking at if you find us a gunman?

Inside knowledge. Two women with all the inside
knowledge in the world.

Only one little problem with that.
You don't hire people to
make it look as though you did it,
in the exalted words of Captain Benny Griessel. But,
oh Captain, my Captain, what if she read the papers and saw what mistakes those
other girls made. And she thought: I won't fall into the same traps, I'm too
clever, I'm a former pop star,

I'm not thick. I'll make it look like a frame-up,
Captain. Suspicion one step removed. The music business is a war zone, they'll
look at them before they look at me. And when they do look at me, hey, I'm an
alky, how could I drag this man's big body up the stairs? What do you say to
that, Captain?

In his dash to African Overland Adventures, weaving
through pedestrians on the pavement, Griessel thought that was what Mbali
Kaleni must have been trying to write.
Jason.

How had she known? What made her go back to Upper
Orange Street? What did she see that everyone else missed?

Just before he burst through the doors, his phone
started ringing again. He wasn't going to answer it. He was going to get Jason
de Klerk and then find Rachel Anderson. She had to live.

John Afrika sat with the receiver in his hand
listening to Griessel's phone ringing.

Opposite him stood the Provincial Commissioner.

'If we are making a mistake ...'

'Benny is clean,' Afrika said.

'John, we're talking about my career.'

'This is Benny, leave a message,' over the phone.
Afrika sighed and replaced the receiver. 'He's not answering.'

'They are going to clean up when Zuma gets in. They
will use any excuse. You know how it is. Zulus in, Xhosas out.'

'Commissioner, I understand. But what am I supposed to
do?' 'Is there no one else?'

John Afrika shook his head from side to side. 'Even if
there were, it's too late now.'

He looked at the phone. 'Benny is clean.' He didn't
sound so sure
of himself any
more.

Jeremy Oerson turned left into Ebenezer. Vusi gave
him
a gap, then pulled away
himself, feeling tense: don't let the man get away.

The Metro Nissan was on the way to the Waterfront
under the Western Boulevard Freeway. Vusi drove cautiously, not daring to get
too close, or too far. He had to see where he turned off.

Oerson drove into the Harbour Road traffic circle and
then out to the right.

He was heading for the N1.

Vusi relaxed fractionally. That would make it easier.

 Griessel banged open the double glass doors with
the two Constables behind him. The lobby of African Overland Adventures was
spacious - a long counter with two young women and a man behind it, a flat-
screen TV against the wall, a few coffee tables and easy chairs. Nine young
people standing or sitting, some drinking coffee. Everyone looked up, startled.
Griessel pulled out his service pistol before he reached the desk. His cell
phone was still ringing in his pocket.

'SAPS.
Staan net stil dan het ons nie moeilikheid nie.'

'What did he say?' a voice asked from an easy chair.

He turned and saw the Constables had their pistols in
their hands too. He nodded in approval. 'I said, just keep still and everything
will be fine. Nobody's leaving and nobody is going to make a phone call.'

Everyone was quiet. Griessel's phone as well. The
sound of the TV drew his attention. The big screen displayed images of an
African adventure. On the walls were big posters with scenes of the continent,
laughing young people with mountains, animals and lakes in the background. On
the long desk were containers of brochures.

'Please turn off the TV.'

'Can we see some ID?' a girl asked from behind the
desk, a sultry, stubborn beauty. He pulled out his identity card. Everyone
watched TV nowadays, he thought, maybe he should start wearing it around his
bloody neck like Kaleni.

The stubborn one inspected it. 'Is that for real?'

'What is your name?'

'Melissa,' It was a challenge.

'Please switch off that television, and then you call
the police. Dial one zero triple one, and tell them Captain Benny Griessel
needs back-up at African Overland Adventures. Tell them to call the Sergeant at
Caledon Square.'

'I'll have to move,' said Melissa. 'The remote is
under here ...'

'Then move,' said Griessel. She stretched and took out
the remote control and aimed it at the TV. Griessel saw she had a tattoo of
barbed wire on her upper arm. The room went quiet. 'Now call the police,' he
said.

'It's OK. I believe you.'