Thirteen Hours

Josh Geyser told Griessel he had just let go of Pokkel's hands, right there in the sitting room, because from then on he was like a man possessed. He got into his BMW M3 and drove here from Milnerton Ridge and he could remember nothing of that trip, that's how bad it was. He pulled up halfway onto the pavement because there was never any parking here and he rushed in, ready to break Adam Barnard's neck, he couldn't deny it. If he had found Adam here he would have done something the Lord would have punished him for.

'You admit that you went into Willie Mouton's office and threatened to kill Adam Barnard?'

'I had already told Natasha that out front. I was cursing. I apologised to her, just now. She understands. She knows about the devil.'

'And you went to Mouton?'

'I went into Adam's office first. I thought they were lying to me. But he wasn't there. Then I went to Willie's.'

'And then?'

'I asked him if he knew and he said "no" and then I told him I was going to kill Adam. But Adam wasn't there. What could I do?'

'What did you do?'

'I went looking for him.'

'Where?'

'Cafe Zanne and the Bizerca Bistro.'

'Why there?'

'That's where he hangs out. Lunchtimes.'

'Did you find him?'

'No, thank the Lord.'

'And then?'

'Then the devil left me.'

Griessel raised his brows.

'It was the traffic,' said Josh Geyser. 'When I wanted to go home, I got stuck in the traffic. An hour and a half. That's when the devil left me.' He looked at the wall again and said: 'I sat at the robots in Paardeneiland and cried, because the devil had tested me and I let the Lord down. And Melinda, Melinda ...'

'Josh, did you go straight home?'

Geyser just nodded.

'Do you own a firearm?'

He shook his head. No.

'We will have to search your house, Josh. We have instruments that can tell if there were guns or ammunition, even if they are not there any more.'

'I don't have a gun.'

'Where were you from midnight last night?' 'With Melinda.'

'Where were you?'

'We went to church last night.'

'Which church?'

'The Tabernacle, in Parklands.'

'Until what time?'

'I don't know ... I suppose, half past ten.'

'At church?'

'After the service we went to see the pastor. For counselling.'

'Until half past ten?'

'Thereabouts.'

'And then?'

'Then we went home.' He looked at Griessel and saw it was not enough. He interlaced his thick fingers on the table and stared at them with great concentration. 'It was ... hard. She ... Melinda ... She wanted me to hold her ... I ...' He went quiet again.

'Josh, did you leave the house last night?'

'No.'

'Not at all?'

'I only went out again this morning. When Willie phoned.'

Griessel looked at Geyser intently. He recognised the simplicity of this giant, the childish honesty. He thought of the tears, his absolute brokenness over his wife's unfaithfulness. He didn't know if he could believe him. Then he thought of the damage Adam Barnard had done, to Alexa, to Josh, to how many others. Then he remembered his own infidelity last night and he got up in a hurry and said: 'You will have to wait here, Josh, if you don't mind.'

Fransman Dekker asked Melinda Geyser to sit on one of the chairs at the big sound desk in the recording studio, but when he closed the soundproof door and turned around she was still standing, like someone who had something pressing to say. 'Sit, please,' he said.

'I can't...' Uneasy, tense.

'Ma'am, this will take a while. It's better if you sit.'

'You don't understand ...' 'What don't I understand?' He sat down in an office chair on wheels.

'I ... You must forgive me ... I'm still old fashioned ...' She gestured with her hand to try to explain.

Dekker looked at her in query.

'I don't... I can't talk to you about yesterday ...'

The way she said it made him suspicious.

'To me?' His voice cut like a knife.

She couldn't look at him, confirming his suspicion.

'Is it because I'm coloured?'

'No, no, I can't talk ... to a man.'

Dekker heard the way she said it, like someone who had been caught out. He saw the flicker in her eyes. 'You're lying,' the anger flaring quickly in him, like a switch turned on.

'Please, this is hard enough.'

He rose from the chair, startling her into a backwards step.

'Your kind . ..' he said, losing control for a moment, other words welling up behind the rage, his fists opening and closing, but somehow he found control. He made a noise somewhere between disbelief and disgust.

'Please ...' she said.

He despised her. He walked out of the door, trying to slam it. Outside, Benny Griessel was in the passage with his phone to his ear saying: 'Vusi, I trust the guys from Organised Crime as far as I can throw them.'

Barry sat on the veranda of Carlucci's and listened to the sirens approaching through the city below. He saw a young man in an apron who heard them too, and came outside.

The patrol vehicles raced up Upper Orange, blue lights revolving. Four of them stopped in front of the restaurant with a screech of tyres, doors flung open, blue uniforms tumbling out. From one passenger door, a short, fat, black woman got out with a large handbag over her shoulder and a pistol on her hip.

She came quickly across the street, with the horde of blue uniforms following in her wake.

Around him at the other tables, the restaurant clientele watched the procession with astonishment.

The young man in the apron waited for them on the veranda.

'Are you the man who called in about the girl?' Barry heard the black woman ask with authority.

'I am.'

'Then tell me everything.' She heard shuffling behind her and turned around to see the amused grins on the policemen's faces. Their smiles disappeared under her angry glare.

'You can't all stand in here. Go wait outside.'

Chapter 19

At seventeen minutes to four, American Eastern Standard Time - five hours behind Greenwich Mean Time and seven hours behind Cape Town, Bill Anderson sat at the laptop on his desk reading Internet articles about South Africa. His wife, Jess, sat on the leather couch behind him, her legs drawn up and covered with a blanket. She jumped when the phone rang shrilly.

He grabbed it. 'Bill Anderson,' he said, the concern discernible in his voice.

'Mr Anderson, my name is Dan Burton. I am the US Consul General in Cape Town.' The voice rang as clear as crystal despite the great distance. 'I know what a difficult time this must be for you.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Who is it?' Jess Anderson asked, coming to stand close to her husband. He held a hand over the receiver and whispered: 'The Consul General in Cape Town.' Then he held the phone so she could also hear.

'I can tell you that I've just got off the phone with both the National and Provincial Commissioners of the South African Police Services, and although they have not found Rachel yet...'

Jess Anderson made a small noise and her husband put his arm around her shoulders while they listened.

'...they have assured me they will leave no stone unturned until they have done so. They are allocating every available resource to the search as we speak, and they think it is only a matter of time ..

'Thank you, sir ...'

'Now, the only reason why the Ambassador himself is not calling you, is because he is away on official matters up north in Limpopo Province, but it is my job to coordinate all functions of the US Government in the Cape Town consular district, where I maintain contact with senior South African officials, both provincial and national...'

'Mr Burton ...'