Thirteen Hours

'Is that your police ID?'

'Yes.'

'When did this happen?'

'About forty minutes ago. Can you please come and look at your garden? You did not see her?'

'No. But I heard her ..

Rachel Anderson's heart went cold.

'You did?'

'Yes,' said the man. 'I heard footsteps, around the corner of the house ...'

'Here?'

'Yes, just here. But I heard her run to the wall there, I think she jumped over, to the next house. By the time I looked through the window, she was gone.'

'Take a look at the tracks,' said the policewoman.

There was a moment of relief as the voices faded, but her pulse accelerated again because she didn't know where her tracks led. Then she remembered falling in the flower bed when she jumped over the wall. Was that all? Did the tracks lead here? She had stepped in damp ground; mud might have stuck to the grass or the slate of the path.

She heard the woman's footsteps on the path again. She kept dead still and closed her eyes.

Benny Griessel opened the big door of the AfriSound recording studio angrily. John Afrika had told him to hurry; they were waiting for him. The room was pitch dark, as it had no windows. The shaft of light from the open door illuminated Melinda; she stood with big, frightened eyes, hands folded across her breast, Bambi In Danger. He said, 'The power is off,' and she dropped her hands. Had she thought the darkened room was a police ploy?

He went up to her and said with all the patience he could muster: 'Madam, you will have to talk to Inspector Dekker. With or without your lawyer. That is your choice. You can request that a female officer be present, but you are not a victim; it's his discretion.'

'A female officer?' she was confused.

'A female member of the police.'

She thought for a moment. Then she said: 'He misunderstood me.'

'Oh?'

'After yesterday's events, I only meant it would be easier to talk to a woman about it.'

A meek little lamb without guile.

'So what do you want to do?'

'I just want to be sure it's confidential.'

He explained to her that if she or Josh were charged, nothing could be confidential.

'But we didn't do anything.'

'Then it will all be confidential.' So she agreed and he had to ask bloody Mouton where Fransman could question Melinda, because the studio was too dark. Natasha brought in a gas lamp and put it near Melinda in the recording studio.

Griessel and Dekker watched Natasha walk away. When she disappeared around the corner, Benny pulled his colleague by the arm as far as Adam Barnard's empty office. He had received a message from the Commissioner that he needed to pass on to Dekker. He knew what his reaction would be. There was only one way to do it: 'John Afrika says I must bring Mbali Kaleni in to help you.'

Fransman Dekker exploded. Not straight away, as if the implications mounted up in him first. Then he stood up straight, his eyes wild, his mouth opening and closing once, then the jaw muscles clamped shut, twitching as it all burst out and he hammered his fist against Adam Barnard's door:' Jirre-jissis!' He spun around, aimed for the door again, but Griessel had him, gripped his arm.

'Fransman!'

Dekker struggled to hold the arm. 'It stays your case.'

The coloured detective stopped, eyes staring, arms still up in the air. Griessel felt the strength in the shoulders as he pulled against them.

'I've got a son in Matric,' said Griessel. 'He's always telling me "Pa you must chill" and I think that is what you must do now, Fransman.'

Dekker's jaw began to work again. He jerked his arm out of Griessel's grasp and glared angrily at the door.

'You let everything wind you up, Fransman. It doesn't help shit.'

'You would never understand.'

'Try me.'

'How can I? You're white.'

'What is that supposed to mean?'

'It means you're not coloured,' he said, an angry finger pointed at Griessel's face.

'Fransman, I have no fucking idea ...'

'Did you see, Benny? Last week, with the Commissioner? How many coloureds were there?'

'You were the only one.'

'Yes, just me. Because they push the darkies. That's why they are sending Kaleni. They must be pushed in everywhere. I'm just a fucking statistic, Benny, I'm just there to fill their fucking quota. Did you watch the Commissioner on Thursday? He only had eyes for the bloody Xhosas, he didn't even see me. Eight per cent Coloureds. Eight fucking per cent. That's how many of us they want. Who decided that? How? Do you know how many brown people that has ruined. Thousands, I'm telling you. Not black enough, sorry, brother, off you go, get a job with Coin Security, go and drive a fucking cash van. But not me, Benny, I'm not going anywhere.' Fransman Dekker's zeal drove him to the words and rhythms of his Atlantis childhood. 'It's my fokken life. I was just so big, I said to my ma I'm gonna be a policeman. She skivvied her gat af so I could get Matric and go to the polieste. Not drive a fokken cash van ...'

He wiped spit from his lips. Griessel said: 'I do understand, Fransman, but...'

'You think so? Have you been marginalised all your life? Now that you whiteys have affirmative action at your backs, now you think you understand? You understand fokkol, I'm telling you. You were either Baas or Klaas, we were fokkol, always, we weren't white enough then, we're not black enough now; it never ends, stuck in the fucking middle of the colour palette. Now this white Christian lady says no, she's not talking to a man, but she doesn't know I can read her like I can read all the whiteys.'

'Can you read me, Fransman?' Griessel was growing angry too.

Dekker didn't reply, but turned away breathing heavily.

Griessel walked around him, so he could talk to his face. 'They say you've got ambition. Now listen to me, I threw my fokken career away because I didn't have control, because I let the shit get to me. That's why I'm standing here now. I didn't have any more options. Do you want options, Fransman? Or do you want to still be an Inspector at forty-four, with a job description that says "mentor" because they don't know what the fuck to do with you? Do you know how that feels? They look you up and down and think, what kak did you get up to that you're just a fucking Inspector with all that grey hair? Is that what you want? Do you want to be more than a bloody race statistic in the Service? Do you want to be the best policeman you can be? Then drop the shit and take the case and solve it, never mind what they say or how they talk to you or who John Afrika sends to help you. You have rights, just like Melinda Geyser. There are rules. Use them. In any case, you can do what you want, it won't change. I have been a policeman for over twenty-five years, Fransman, and I'm telling you now, they will always treat you like a dog, the people, the press, the bosses, politicians, regardless of whether you are black, white or brown. Unless they're phoning you in the middle of the night saying "there's someone at the window" - then you're the fucking hero. But tomorrow when the sun shines, you're nothing again. The question is: can you take it? Ask yourself that. If you can't, drop it, get another job. Or put up with it, Fransman, because it's never going to stop.'

Dekker stood still, breathing heavily.

Griessel wanted to say more, but he decided against it. He stepped away from Dekker, his brain at work, shifting his focus.

'I don't believe it was Josh Geyser. If he's lying, he deserves a fucking Oscar. Melinda is the only alibi he has, and there's something about her ... she doesn't know what he said, let her talk, get her to give you more detail about yesterday, exactly what happened, then phone me and we can compare their stories. I have to go and see the Commissioner.'