The observation point with the best view of the city bowl is a hundred metres below Mount Prospect on the northern flank of Devil's Peak, just before the path turns sharply east.
The young man was sitting just above the path, on a rock in the shade of a now flowerless protea bush. He was in his late twenties, white, lean and tanned. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, a bleached blue shirt with a green collar, long khaki shorts and old worn Rocky sandals with deep tread soles. He held a pair of binoculars to his face and scanned the ground slowly from left to right, west to east. Below him the Cape was breathtaking - from the cable car sliding, seemingly weightless, past Table Mountain's rugged cliffs to the top, past the sensuous curves of Lion's Head and Signal Hill, over the blue bay, a glittering jewel that stretched to the horizon, to below him where the city nestled comfortably, like a contented child in the mountain's embrace. He saw none of this, because his attention was focused only on the city's edge.
Beside him on the flat rock was a map book of Cape Town. It was open at Oranjezicht, the suburb directly below him. The mountain breeze gently flipped the pages so that every now and then he had to put out an absent-minded hand to flatten them.
Rachel Anderson stood up slowly, like a sleepwalker. She walked around the long stack of logs and looked towards the mountain. She could not see anyone. She walked out of the shadow of the garage and turned right in the direction of the city, across the cement slab and stone paving, then across the tar of Bosch Avenue to where it turned into Rugby Road ten metres further on. She was drained, she could no longer run, she would go and phone her father, just walk slowly and go and phone her father.
The young man with the binoculars spotted her instantly, his lenses sliding over her, a tiny, lonely figure. The denim shorts, the powder-blue T-shirt and the small rucksack - it was her.
'Jesus Christ,' he said out loud.
He pulled the binoculars back, focused on her to make absolutely sure, then took out a cell phone from his shirt pocket and searched for a number. He called and brought the binoculars back to his eyes with one hand.
'Yeah?' he heard over the cell phone.
'I see her. She just fuckin' walked out of nowhere.'
'Where is she?'
'Right there, in the road, she's turning right...'
'Which road, Barry?'
'For fuck's sake,' said Barry, putting the binoculars down on the rock and picking up the map. The wind had turned the page again. Hurriedly, he turned the page back and ran his finger over the map, looking for the right place.
'It's right there, first road below ...'
'Barry, what fuckin' street?'
'I'm working on it,' said Barry hoarsely.
'Just relax. Give us a street name.'
'OK, OK ... It's Rugby Road ... Hang on ...' He grabbed the binoculars again.
'Rugby Road runs all along the mountain, you fucking idiot.'
'I know, but she's turning left into ...' He put the binoculars down again, searched the map feverishly. 'Braemar. That's it ...' Barry lifted up the binoculars again. 'Braemar ...' He searched for her, spotted her in the lenses for a moment. She was walking calmly, in no hurry. Then she began to disappear, as though the suburb was swallowing her feet first. 'Shit, she's ... she's gone, she just fucking disappeared.'
'Not possible.'
'I think she went down an embankment or something.'
'You'll have to do better than that.'
Barry trembled as he searched the map again. 'Stairs. She's taking the stairway to Strathcona Road.' He pointed the binoculars again. 'Ja. That's it. That's exactly where she is.'
Griessel stood outside on the pavement with Dekker and Cloete. Through the glass doors they watched John Afrika pacify Willie Mouton and his soberly dressed lawyer. 'Sorry, Fransman,' said Griessel.
Dekker didn't reply; he just stared at the three men inside.
'It happens,' said Cloete philosophically. He drew deeply on a cigarette and looked at his cell phone, which was receiving complaining texts from the press, one after another. He sighed. 'It's not Benny's fault.'
'I know,' said Dekker. 'But we're wasting time. Josh Geyser could be in fucking Timbuktu by now.'
'The Josh Geyser?' asked Cloete.
'Who?' asked Griessel.
'The gospel guy. Barnard pumped his wife yesterday in his office and she went and confessed the whole thing.'
'Barnard's wife?' asked Griessel.
'No. Geyser's.' 'Melinda?' asked Cloete urgently.
'That's right.'
'No!' Cloete was shocked.
'Hang on ...' said Griessel.
'I've got all their CDs,' said Cloete. 'I can't fucking believe it. Is that what Mouton is going around saying?'
'Are you a gospel fan?' Dekker asked.
Cloete nodded only fleetingly and flicked his cigarette butt in an arc down the street. 'He's lying, I'm telling you. Melinda is a sweet thing. And besides, she and Josh are born-again - she would never do a thing like that.'
'Born-again or not, that's what Mouton says.'
'Fransman, wait. Explain this to me,' said Griessel.
'Apparently, yesterday Barnard fucked Melinda Geyser in his office. So her husband, Josh, pitches up yesterday afternoon saying he knows all about it and he's going to beat Barnard to death, but Barnard wasn't there.'
'Can't be,' said Cloete, but as a policeman he knew people were capable of anything and he was already considering whether it might be true. Then his face fell. 'Oh man, the press ...'
'Ja,' said Griessel.
'Benny!' All three turned when they heard Vusi Ndabeni's voice. The black detective came jogging down the pavement and reached them, out of breath. 'Where is the Commissioner?'
As one, all three pointed accusing fingers through the glass doors where a doctor had now joined the Mouton conference.
'The other girl - she's still alive, Benny. But they're hunting her down, somewhere in this city. The Commissioner will have to organise more people.'
Without haste, she walked down Marmion Road in the direction of the city. There was an absence in her, an acceptance of her fate. Ahead she saw a car reversing out of a driveway, a small black Peugeot. The driver was a woman. Rachel did not increase her pace, continued to walk towards her, unthreatening. The woman drove to the edge of the street and stopped. She looked left for traffic, then right. She saw Rachel and for an instant made eye contact, then looked away.
'Hi,' said Rachel calmly, but the woman didn't hear her. She stepped forward and softly knocked on the window with the knuckle of her middle finger. The woman turned her head, irritably. Her mouth had a peculiar shape, the corners pulled down strongly. She turned the window down a few centimetres.
'May I use your telephone, please,' said Rachel, without emotion, as though she knew what the answer would be.
The woman looked her up and down, saw the dirty clothes, the grazed chin, hands and knees. 'There's a public telephone at Carlucci's. On Montrose.'
'I'm in real trouble.'
'It's just around the corner,' and the woman looked again for traffic in Marmion Road. 'Just turn right at the next street, and walk two blocks.'
She wound up the window and reversed. As she turned left to drive away she looked once more at Rachel, suspicion and aversion in her face.
Barry studied the map on the hood of the vehicle and said over his phone: 'Look, she could have gone left into Chesterfield, or she could have taken Marmion, but I can't see her. The angle's not good from here.'
'Which one goes down into the city?' The voice was out of breath.
'Marmion.'
'Then keep your focus on Marmion. We're two minutes from the Landy, but you will have to tell us where she is. It's going to take ten minutes to get the cops there. And by then she could be anywhere ...'