Bill Anderson rushed down the stairs of his house to his study, with his wife, Jess, at his heels.
'They killed Erin?' she asked. Her voice heavy with fear and worry.
'Honey, we have to stay calm.'
'I am calm, but you have to tell me what's going on.'
Anderson stopped at the bottom where the stairs led into the hallway. He turned and put his hands on his wife's shoulders. 'I don't know what's going on,' he said slowly and calmly. 'Rachel says Erin was killed. She says she's still in Cape Town ... and that she's in danger ...'
'Oh, my God ...'
'If we want to help her at all, we have to stay calm.'
'But what can we do?'
The young man in the apron saw the two men who had chased the girl coming back through Carlucci's Quality Food Store. He shouted again: 'Hey!' and blocked the way to the front door. 'Stop!'
The one in front - white, taut and focused - scarcely looked at him as he raised both hands and shoved the young man in the chest, making him stagger and fall with his back against the counter near the door. Then they were past him, out in the street. He scrambled to his feet, saw them hesitate for a moment on the pavement.
'I'm calling the police,' he shouted, rubbing his back with his hand. They didn't respond, but looked down Upper Orange Street, said something to each other, ran to the Land Rover and jumped in.
The aproned young man turned to the counter, reached for the phone and dialled 10111. The Land Rover turned the corner of Belmont and Upper Orange with squealing tyres, forcing an old green Volkswagen Golf to brake sharply. He realised he should get the registration number. He slammed the phone down, ran outside and a short way down the street. He could see it was a CA number - he thought it was 412 and another four figures, but then the vehicle was too far off. He turned and hurried back to the shop.
On the slope of Devil's Peak, Barry's cell phone rang and he grabbed it. 'Yes!'
'Where did she go, Barry?'
'She went down Upper Orange. What happened?'
'Where is she now, for fuck's sake?'
'I don't know, I thought you could see her.'
'Aren't you fucking watching?'
'Of course I'm fucking watching, but I can't see the whole goddamn street from here ...'
'Jesus! She went down Upper Orange?'
'I saw her, for about ... sixty metres, then she went behind some trees ...'
'Fuck! Keep looking. Don't take your fucking eyes off this street.'
Bill Anderson sat in his study with his elbows on the old desk and the telephone to his ear. It was ringing in the home of his lawyer. His wife, Jess, stood behind him, crying softly, her arms wrapped around herself.
'Is he answering?' she asked.
'It's two o'clock in the morning. Even lawyers are asleep.'
A familiar voice answered at the other end, clearly befuddled with sleep. 'Connelly.'
'Mike, this is Bill. I am truly sorry to call you at this hour, but it's about Rachel. And Erin.'
'Then you don't have to be sorry at all.'
There were four uniformed members of the SAPS on duty at the charge office of the Caledon Square police station - a Captain, a Sergeant and two Constables. The Constable taking the call from Carlucci's Quality Food Store was unaware of Vusi Ndabeni's bulletin and the incident on Lion's Head.
He made notes while the young man described the incident in his shop, then he went over to the Sergeant in the radio control room and they contacted the station patrol vehicles. The Sergeant knew they were all near Parliament where a march was taking place that morning. He gave cursory details of the incident and asked one of the vehicles to investigate. He received a chorus of volunteers. The march was small, peaceful and boring. He chose the vehicle closest to Upper Orange Street. The Constable went back to the charge office desk.
He made sure all the paperwork relating to the call was in order.
Chapter 14
They sat outside a coffee shop on the corner of Shortmarket and Bree Street, five policemen around a table for four. Cloete sat a little apart, beyond the shade of the red umbrella, cigarette between his fingers, talking quietly on his cell phone, pleading for patience from some determined journalist. The rest had their elbows on the table and their heads together.
John Afrika's deep frown showed that his burden of responsibility was weighing heavily on him. 'Benny, it's your show,' he said.
Griessel had known that was coming, it always did. The men at the top wanted to do everything except make the decisions.
'Commissioner, it's important that we utilise the available manpower as efficiently as possible.' He listened to his own words. Why was he always so pompous when he spoke to important people?
Afrika nodded solemnly.
'Our main problem is that we don't know where the Barnard murder took place. We need forensics from the scene. There were exit wounds, there would have to be blood, bullets ... and then we need to place Greyling at the scene ...'
'Geyser,' said Fransman Dekker, still sullen.
He ought to have remembered that, Griessel thought. What was the matter with him today? 'Geyser', he burned it into his memory. 'I'll have them brought in to the station, the man and his wife. We need to talk to them separately. Meanwhile Fransman can go to AfriSound ...' He glanced at Dekker, uncertain whether he had the company name right. Dekker did not react. '... the record company. We need to know about Barnard's day. Where was he last night, and with whom? How late? Why? We have to build this case from the ground up.'
'Amen,' said Afrika. 'I want a rock-solid case.'
'We need a formal statement from Willie Mouton. Fransman?'
'I'll handle it.'
'Did anyone else see or hear Geyser yesterday? Who saw Geyser's wife when she went to Barnard's office?'
'The Big Bang,' said Cloete in disgust, his conversation over. Then his phone rang again. He sighed and turned away.
'As far as Vusi's case is concerned - he needs help, sir, someone to coordinate the stations, someone with authority, someone who can bring more people in from the southern suburbs, Milnerton or Table View ...'
'Table View?' said Dekker. 'That lot couldn't find their own arses with a hand mirror.'
'The chopper can help us in an hour's time. Benny, you'll have to coordinate. Who else is there?' said John Afrika, feeling uncomfortable.
Griessel's voice became quiet and serious. 'Commissioner, this is someone's child out there. They have been hunting her from the early hours of the morning ...'
Afrika avoided the intensity of Griessel's gaze. He knew where this was coming from, he knew the story of Benny's daughter and her abduction, six months ago.
'True,' he said.
'We need feet on the ground. Vehicles, patrols. Vusi, the photo the American boy took - the one of the missing girl - we need prints. Every policeman in the Peninsula ... the Metro people ...' and Griessel wondered what had come of the Field Marshal and his street search.
'The Metro people?' said Dekker. 'Fucking glorified traffic cops...'
John Afrika gave Dekker a stern look. Dekker gazed out at the street.
'It makes no difference,' said Griessel. 'We need all the eyes we can get. I thought we should bring Mat Joubert in to coordinate, sir. He's fairly free at the PT ...'
'No,' said Afrika firmly. He raised his eyebrows. 'You don't know about Joubert yet?' 'What about him?' Griessel's phone rang. He looked at the screen. The number was unfamiliar. 'Excuse me,' he said as he answered, 'Benny Griessel.'
'This is Willie Mouton.' The voice was self-important.
'Mr Mouton,' Griessel said deliberately, so the others would know.
John Afrika nodded. 'I gave him your number,' he said quietly.