Thirteen Hours

Drink sweet water.

Mid-Eighties, somewhere around there. Griessel remembered her as she was, the incredibly sensual blonde singer with a voice like Dietrich and enough self-confidence not to take herself too seriously. He had only met her through the television screen and the cover of magazines, in the days before he started drinking. She had four or five hits, he remembered "n Donkiekar net vir twee',

'Tafelbaai se Wye Draii' and the big one, 'Soetwater'. Fuck, she had been this huge star and look at her now.

Benny Griessel felt pity for her, also loss, and empathy.

'So you don't remember what happened last night?'

'Not much.'

'Mrs Barnard,' said Dekker stiffly and formally. 'I get the impression that your husband's death hasn't upset you very much.'

He was mistaken, thought Griessel. He was misreading her; he was too tense, too hasty.

'No, Inspector, I am not in mourning. But if you bring me a gin and dry lemon, I will do my best.'

For an instant, Dekker was uncertain, but then he squared his shoulders and said, 'Can you remember anything about last night?'

'Enough to know it wasn't me.'

'Oh.'

'Come back this afternoon. Three o'clock is a good time. My best time of the day.'

'That is not an option.'

She made a gesture as if to say that was not her problem.

'I will have to test your blood for alcohol.'

'Carry on.'

Dekker stood up. 'I'll just get the technician.'

Griessel followed him. In the sitting room Thick and Thin were busy packing up.

'Can you just take a blood sample before you leave?'

'Sure, chief,' said Jimmy.

'Fransman,' said Griessel, aware that he must tread with care. 'You know I am an alcoholic?'

'Ah,' said Arnold, the fat one, 'detectives bonding. How sweet.'

'Fuck off,' said Griessel.

'I was just about to, anyway,' said Arnold.

'You still have to do the Mercedes in the street,' said Dekker.

'That's next on the list,' and Arnold left the room with his arms full of evidence and apparatus.

'So?' Dekker asked once they were alone.

'I know how she feels, Fransman ...'

'She feels nothing. Her husband is lying there and she feels nothing. She killed him, I'm telling you. The usual story.'

How do you explain to a non-drinker what she was feeling now? Alexandra Barnard's whole being craved alcohol. She was drowning in the terrible flood of that morning; drink was the only lifeline. 'Griessel knew.

'You're a good detective, Fransman. Your crime scene is perfectly managed, you do everything by the book and ten to one you're right. But if you want a confession ... give me a chance. One-to-one isn't so intimidating ...'

Griessel's cell phone rang. He watched Dekker while taking it out. The coloured man didn't look too keen about his suggestion.

'Griessel.'

'Benny, it's Vusi. I'm at the Metro CCTV room. Benny, there are two of them.'

'Two what?'

'Two girls, Benny. I'm standing here, watching five guys chasing two girls up Long Street.'

Chapter 7

'Oh fuck,' said Benny Griessel. 'They're chasing the girls, you say? In Long Street?'

'The time code says it was this morning at a quarter to two. Five men, coming from Wale Street towards the church.'

'That's what, four blocks?'

'Six blocks between Wale and the church. Half a kilometre.'

'Jissis, Vusi, you don't do that to steal a tourist's purse.'

'I know. The other thing is, the footage isn't great, but you can see - the guys chasing them are black and white, Benny.'

'Doesn't make sense.' In this country criminals didn't work together across the colour lines.

'I know ... I thought, maybe they are bouncers, maybe the girls made trouble in a club somewhere, but, you know ...'

'Bouncers don't cut the throats of foreign tourists.'

'Not yet,' said Vusi, and Griessel knew what he was alluding to. The clubs and bouncers were a hotbed of organised crime, a powder keg. 'In any case, I've put a bulletin out on the other girl.'

'Good work, Vusi.'

'I don't know if it will help much,' said Ndabeni and ended the call. Griessel saw Dekker waiting impatiently for him.

'Sorry about that, Fransman. It's Vusi's case ...'

'And this is my case.' His body language showed he was ready to argue.

Griessel hadn't expected this aggression, but he knew he was on thin ice. The territorial urges of detectives were strong, and he was just here as mentor.

'You're right,' he said and walked towards the door. 'But it might just help.'

Dekker stayed on the spot, frowning.

Just before Benny left the room he said: 'Wait...'

Griessel stopped.

'OK,' said Dekker finally. 'Talk to her.'

She could no longer hear them. Only the birdsong and cicadas and the hum of the city below. She lay in the cool shade of the rock overhang, but she was sweating as the temperature in the mountain bowl rose rapidly. She knew she could not stand up.

They would stop somewhere and try to spot her.

She considered staying there, all day, until darkness fell and she would .be invisible. She could do it even though she was thirsty, even though she had last eaten the previous evening. If she could rest, if she could sleep a little, she would have new strength tonight with which to seek help.

But they knew she was there, somewhere.

They would fetch the others and they would search for her. They would backtrack on the path and investigate every possibility and if anyone came close enough, they would see her. The hollow wasn't deep enough. She knew most of them, knew their lean bodies, their energy and focus, their skill and self-confidence. She also knew they could not afford to stop looking.

She would have to move.

She looked down the stream, down the narrow stony passage that twisted downhill between fynbos and rocks. She must get down there, crawling carefully so as to make no sound. The mountain was a poor choice, too deserted, too open. She must get down to where there were people; she had to get help. Somewhere someone must be prepared to listen and to help.

Reluctantly she lifted her head from the rucksack, pushed it ahead of her and slid carefully after it. She couldn't drag it; it would be too noisy. She rose to a crouch, swung the rucksack slowly onto her back and clipped the buckles. Then she crawled on hands and knees over the round stones. Slowly, disturbing nothing that would make a sound.

Griessel walked into the sitting room and whispered in Tinkie Kellerman's ear. Alexandra Barnard dragged on another cigarette; her eyes followed Tinkie as she rose and left the room. Griessel closed the door behind her and without speaking went to a large Victorian cupboard with leaded glass doors on top and dark wooden doors below. He opened a top door, took out a glass and a bottle of gin and took it across to the chair closest to Alexandra.

'My name is Benny Griessel and I am an alcoholic. It's been one hundred and fifty-six days since my last drink,' he said and broke the bottle's seal. Her eyes were fixed on the transparent fluid that he carefully poured into the glass, three thick fingers deep. He held it out to her. She took it, her hands shaking badly. She drank, an intense and thirsty gulp and closed her eyes.

Griessel went back to the liquor cabinet and put the bottle away. When he sat down he said, 'I won't be able to let you have more than that.'

She nodded.

He knew how she felt at this precise moment. He knew the alcohol would flow through her body like a gentle, soothing tide, healing the wounds and quietening the voices, leaving behind a smooth, silver beach of peace. He gave her time; it took four gulps, sometimes more; you had to give your body time to let the heavenly warmth through. He realised he was staring intently at the glass at her lips, smelling the alcohol, feeling his own body straining for it. He leaned back in the chair, took a deep breath, looked at the magazines on the coffee table, Visi and House & Garden, two years out of date, but unread and just for show, until she said: 'Thank you,' and he heard the voice had lost its edge.