Doc Barkhuizen, his sponsor at Alcoholics Anonymous, had started the whole thing. Frustrated, Griessel had told Doc that the pull of the bottle was not diminishing. The first three months were long over, the so-called crisis period, and yet his desire was as great as it was on the first day. Doc had recited the 'one day at a time' rhyme, but Griessel said he needed more than that. Doc said 'You need a distraction, what do you do in the evenings?'
Evenings? Policemen had no 'evenings'. When he did get home early, wonder of wonders, he would write to his daughter Carla, or play one of his four CDs on the computer and pick up the bass guitar to play along.
Tm busy in the evenings, Doc.'
'And mornings?'
'Sometimes I walk in the park. Up near the reservoir.'
'How often?'
'1 don't know. Now and then. Once a week, perhaps less ...'
The trouble with Doc was that he was eloquent. And enthusiastic. About everything. One of those 'the glass is half full' positive guys who would not rest until he had inspired you. 'About five years ugo I started cycling, Benny. My knees can't take jogging, but the bicycle is soft on an old man's limbs. I started slowly, five or six kilos a day. Then the bug began to bite, because it's fun. The fresh air, the scents, the sun. You feel the heat and the cold, you see things from a new perspective, because you move at your own tempo, it feels as though your world is at peace. You have time to think ...'
After Doc's third speech he was swept up by his enthusiasm and at the end of October he went looking for a bicycle, in his usual way - Benny Griessel, Bargain Hunter, as his son Fritz gently teased him. First he researched the price of new ones at the shops and realised two things - they were ridiculously expensive, and he preferred the chunky mountain bikes to the skinny, sissyboy racing ones. He did the rounds of the pawnshops, but all their stock was worn out, cheap Makro stuff, junk even when they were new. Then he studied the Cape Ads and found the fucking advert - a flowery description of a Giant Alias, twenty-seven gear, super- light aluminium frame, Shimano shifter and disc brakes, a free saddlebag with tools, free helmet and 'just one month old, original price R7,500, upgrading to DH', which the owner later explained to him meant 'Downhill', as though he would understand what that meant. But he thought, what the fuck, R3,500 was one hell of a bargain, and what had he bought for himself in the past six months since his wife kicked him out of the house? Not a thing. Just the lounge suite from Mohammed 'Love Lips' Faizal's pawnshop in Maitland. And the fridge. And the bass guitar he meant to give Fritz for Christmas, another Faizal bargain that he had stumbled on in September. That was all. Essential items. You couldn't count the laptop. How else would he keep in touch with Carla?
Then he thought about Christmas and all the expenses still to come. He argued the bicycle owner down another two hundred and then he went and drew the money and bought the thing and began riding every morning. He would wear his old rugby shorts, T-shirt and sandals and that ridiculous little helmet.
He soon realised that he did not live in the ideal neighbourhood for cycling. His flat was a quarter of the way up the slopes of Table Mountain. If you went down towards the sea, you had to ride back up the mountain eventually. You could head uphill first, towards Kloof Nek, in order to enjoy the ride home, but you would suffer going up. He almost gave up after a week. But then Doc Barkhuizen gave him the 'five-minute' tip.
'This is what I do, Benny. If I'm not in the mood, I tell myself "just five minutes, and if I don't feel like going on, I'll turn around and go home".'
He tried it - and never once did he turn around. Once you were going, you went on. Towards the end of November, it suddenly became a pleasure. He found a route that he enjoyed. Just after six in the morning he would ride down St John's Street, illegally cutting through the Company Gardens before the zealous security guards were on duty. Then he would turn into Adderley and wave at the flower sellers offloading stock from the bakkies at the Golden Acre and then to the bottom of Duncan Street to the harbour, see what ships had docked today. Then he would ride down the Waterkant, to Green Point - and all along the sea as far as the Sea Point swimming pool. He would look at the mountain and out over the sea and at the people, the pretty young women out jogging with long, tanned legs and bobbing breasts, pensioners walking with purpose, mothers with babies in pushchairs, other cyclists greeting him despite his primitive apparel. Then he would turn and ride back, sixteen kilometres in total and it made him feel good. About himself. And about the city - whose underbelly was all that he had seen for a very long time.
And about his smart purchase. Until his son came around two weeks before Christmas and said he'd decided bass was not for him any more. 'Lead guitar, Dad, jissie, Dad, we saw Zinkplaat on Friday and there's this lead, Basson Laubscher, awesome, Dad. Effortless. Genius. That's my dream.'
Zinkplaat.
He hadn't even known such a band existed.
Griessel had been hiding the bass guitar from Fritz for nearly two months. It was his Christmas present. So he had to go and see Hot Lips Faizal again and at such short notice he only had one guitar available, a fucking Fender, practically new and horribly expensive. Plus, what he gave to Fritz had to be matched by a gift to Carla in London. So he was financially stuffed, because Anna made him pay maintenance as though they were divorced. The way she made her calculations was a mystery to him and he had a strong feeling he was being milked, he was being sucked dry while she was earning good money as an assistant to the attorneys. But when he had something to say she would reply, 'You had money for booze, Benny, that was never a problem ...'
The moral high ground. She had it and he did not. So he must pay. It was part of his punishment.
But that was not the thing churning in his guts.
Griessel sighed and walked back to the murder scene. As his mind focused on the growing crowd of onlookers who would need to be controlled, he recognised the new unease he was feeling.
It had nothing to do with his sex life, his finances, or hunger. It was a premonition. As if the day brought evil with it.
He shook his head. He had never allowed himself to be bothered by such tripe.
The Metro policemen were helping a young coloured woman over the railings with eager hands. She picked up her briefcase, nodded in thanks and came across to Griessel and Ndabeni. A new face to them.
'Tiffany October,' she said, holding out a small hand to Benny. He saw it trembling slightly. She was wearing glasses with narrow black rims. Traces of acne under the make-up. She was slim, slight under the white coat.
'Benny Griessel,' he said and gestured at the detective alongside him. 'This is Inspector Vusumuzi Ndabeni. This is his scene.'
'Call me Vusi.'
'Pleased to meet you,' she said and shook the black detective's hand.
They looked at her enquiringly. It took her a second to realise. 'I'm the pathologist.'
'You're new?' Vusi asked, after an uncomfortable silence.
'This is my first solo.' Tiffany October smiled nervously. Thick and Thin from Forensics came closer, curious to meet her. She shook each politely by the hand.
'Are you done?' Griessel asked them impatiently.
'We still have to do the path and the wall,' said Jimmy, the thin one. He gave his shorter colleague a look. 'Benny's not a morning person.'
Griessel ignored them. Always some chirp.
Tiffany October looked down at the body.
'Ai,' she said.
The detectives were quiet. They watched her open her case, take out gloves and kneel beside the girl.
Vusi came closer. 'Benny, I asked the photographer to take pictures that ... don't show the damage. Pictures of her face. I want to show them around here in Long Street. We have to identify her. Maybe give them to the media as well.'