Thirteen Hours

Petr sighed deeply on the other end to emphasise his annoyance. 'It will take a lot of time.'

'We don't have time, sir. One of the girls is still alive and if we don't find her, she will be dead too.'

Vusi's mobile began to ring.

'One hour,' said Petr.

'Ask them to come to the club,' said Vusi, and passed the receiver back to Federova. He answered his cell phone. 'This is Vusi.'

'She's still alive, Vusi,' said John Afrika. 'She phoned her father in America, half an hour ago. But I can't get hold of Benny.'

Rachel Anderson sprinted down Upper Orange Street. Her eyes searched desperately back and forth for an escape route, but the houses on both sides were impregnable - high walls, electrified fences, security railing and gates. She knew she had no time, they would come back through the shop, she had maybe a hundred- metre start on them. Her father's voice had given her new urgency, a desire to live, to see her parents again. How horribly worried her mother must be now, her dear, scatterbrained mother.

She saw one house just a block from the shop on the corner to the left, a single-storey Victorian dwelling with a low white picket fence and a pretty garden. She knew it was her only chance. She hurdled the hip-height fence but the tip of her shoe hooked and sent her sprawling into the flower bed beyond, her hands trying in vain to break her fall, her belly skidding across the slippery surface, winding her, the damp garden soil leaving a wide muddy stripe on her blue T-shirt.

She scrambled up quickly, meaning to run around the house, across the front to the back, away from the street before they saw her. Over the grass, a paved path, more flower beds in cheerful white, yellow and blue. Her mouth was gaping to get enough air. Past the furthest corner of the house there were bougainvilleas, big and dense, the purple flowers tumbling over an arbour. A hiding place. She hesitated for only an instant to estimate the size of the bushes, not realising they had thorns. She dived inside, to the deepest shadow at the back. The sharp points pierced her, scratched long bloody tracks on her arms and legs. She cried out softly at the pain, and lay gasping on her stomach behind the screen of leaves. 'Please, God,' she murmured and turned her face to the street. She could see nothing, only the thick curtain of green, and the tiny white flowers in each purple cup.

If they hadn't seen her, she was safe. For now. She shifted her hand down her limbs, to try and pull the thorns out.

'Let me go and phone the American Consul,' the Provincial Commissioner said to John Afrika as he rose. 'I'm going to tell him we are doing everything in our power to track her down. John, you must make sure that that is true. Get Benny Griessel to take full control.'

'Right. But the stations are reluctant to allocate people ..

'Leave that to me,' said the Provincial Commissioner. He walked to the door and stopped.

'Isn't Griessel up for promotion?'

'It's been approved; I think he'll be notified today.'

'Tell him. Tell the whole team.'

'Good idea.' Afrika's phone rang. The Provincial Commissioner waited, in the hope that there would be news.

'John Afrika.'

'Commissioner, this is Inspector Mbali Kaleni. I am at Caledon Square, but they say they don't have a place for me.'

'Mbali, I want you to go to the station commander's office, because he is going to get a call right now.'

'Yes, sir,' she said.

'The missing girl ... She's alive. She called home half an hour ago.'

'Where is she?'

'She did not have enough time to say. We need to find her. Quickly.'

'I will find her, Commissioner.' So self-assured. John Afrika put down the phone. 'Caledon Square,' he told the Provincial Commissioner. 'They don't want to cooperate.'

'Wait,' said the little Xhosa in his impeccable uniform. 'Let me call him too.'

'Would you like to tell me what happened yesterday?' Griessel sat down on the other side of the oval table, with his face towards the door. The big man was sitting down now, elbows on the table, one hand nervously touching the drooping blonde moustache. 'It wasn't me.' He didn't look at Griessel. 'Mr Geyser, let's start at the beginning. Apparently there was an incident yesterday ...'

'What would you do if a son of Satan messed with your woman? What would you do?'

'Mr Geyser, how did you find out that Adam Barnard and your wife ...'

'We're all sinners. But he had no remorse. Never. He never stopped. Idols. Mammon. Whoring.' He gave Griessel an ominous look and said: 'He believed in evolution.' 'Mr Geyser ...'

'He's a son of Satan. Today he burns in hell...'

'Mr Geyser, how did you find out?' With infinite patience.

He shrugged as though he needed to steel himself. 'Yesterday when she came home, she didn't look well, so I asked what was wrong ...' He leaned his forehead on his hand and looked down at the table. 'First she said "nothing". But I knew something was ... So I said: "Pokkel, you're not okay, what is it?" Then she sat down and she couldn't look me in the eye. That's when I knew something was very wrong ...' He went quiet, clearly unwilling to relive the events.

'What time was that?'

'Three o'clock, round about.'

'And then?'

'Then I sat next to her and held her hands. And she started crying. Then she said: "Beertjie, let us pray, Beertjie".  And she held my hands tight and prayed and she said: "Lord, forgive me because Satan ..."' Geyser opened and closed his fists, his face contorted with feeling.' "... because Satan got into my life today." So I said: "Pokkel, what happened?" But she just kept her eyes shut...' The big man shielded his face with his hands.

'Mr Geyser, I know this is hard.'

Geyser shook his head, still hiding his face. 'My Melinda ...' he said and his voice cracked. 'My Pokkel.'

Griessel waited.

'Then she asked God to forgive her, because she was weak, so I asked her if she had stolen something, but she said, Lord, One John One verse eight, she said it over and over until I said stop, what did she do? Then she opened her eyes and said she had sinned in Adam Barnard's office, because she wasn't as strong as I think, she couldn't stop the devil, and I said what kind of sin, and she said: "of the flesh, Beertjie, the big sin of the flesh ..."' Geyser's voice broke down and he stopped, with both hands over his face.

Benny Griessel sat there suppressing the urge to get up and put his hand on the massive shoulder, to console, to say something. In twenty-five years he had learned to be sceptical, not to believe anything until all the evidence was in. He had learned that when the sword of righteousness hung over your head, you were capable of anything - heart-rending, tearful denial, the pained indignation at being falsely accused, strong protest, deep remorse or pathetic self-pity. People could lie with astonishing skill; sometimes it led to total self-deception, so that they clung with absolute conviction to an imaginary innocence.

So he did nothing. He just waited for Josh Geyser to finish crying.

Galia Federova pressed a switch and neon lights flickered on near the roof of the club, just enough to cloak the large space in twilight.

'You can wait here,' she said to Vusi and pointed at the table and chairs around the dance floor. 'Would you like something to drink?'

'Do you have tea?'

He fancied she smiled before she said: 'I will tell them.' Then she was gone.

He walked between the tables that hadn't yet been set out since the previous night.

He stopped at one, took down the chairs and sat down. He put his notebook, pen and cell phone on the table and looked around in amazement. On the right against the wall was the long bar counter made from rough, thick wooden beams. On the walls were artificial shipwreck ornaments from the era of sailing ships, between modern neon curlicues in piratical designs. On the left, right at the back, was a bank of turntables and electronic equipment, with a dance floor in front. Four dance towers stood metres above the dance floor. High up against the ceiling hung bunches of lasers and spotlights, all dark now. Giant speakers were mounted on every wall.