Thirteen Hours

'OK. But the ex, Benny, it might have been him, this thing is a fucking circus. I'm going to phone Bloemfontein, see if they can find something. I'm going to let Josh and Melinda go ...'

'You can do that. Or you can let them wait in the conference room. Let them sweat a little until you hear from Bloemfontein. And talk to your sexy girlfriend at reception. Where was Barnard last night? Look at his diary, search his office, check his email...'

At first Dekker did not respond, then he said: 'OK.' But he wasn't happy.

'Sorry, Fransman, I'm taking over again.'

'I'm trying to chill, Benny. Trying to chill.'

Over the phone, Vusi Ndabeni said to Vaughn Cupido: 'Let me get their email address,' and he went over to the young man in the apron sitting on the veranda with his staff.

'Do you have email here? Our Organised Crime Unit will mail photos of people I want you to look at.'

'We do. The address is info at Carlucci's dot co-za. But it won't help much.'

'Why?'

'There's no electricity. The PC doesn't work.'

Vusi's shoulders sagged, but he told Cupido: 'Send it anyway, Vaughn, here's the address ...'

Fat Inspector Mbali Kaleni came to stand next to Vusi and asked the young man: 'Are you sure about the Land Rover's registration number?'

'I'm pretty sure it was CA and there was a four, a one, and a six.'

'They say there is no Land Rover Discovery with a CA, a four, one ...'

'It wasn't a Discovery.'

'It wasn't?'

'I told the guy it was a Defender. Long wheelbase. And new.'

'Men,' said Kaleni shaking her head.

'What do you mean?' asked the young man in the apron.

'Not you,' said Kaleni and took out her cell phone. 'The fools I have to work with.' She called the Caledon Square charge office and listened to it ring for a long time before someone picked up. She asked to talk to the Constable who had done the initial registration number search.

'It wasn't a Land Rover Discovery, it was a Defender. You will have to search again.'

'I can't,' said the Constable.

'Why not?'

'The power is down.'

Benny Griessel was panting and perspiring when he walked into John Afrika's office - from the heat of the day, from the four sets of stairs because the lifts wouldn't work without power and from the sense of urgency building inside him.

The Provincial Commissioner was seated opposite John Afrika. Both looked severe. 'Afternoon, Commissioner.' Griessel checked his watch, saw it was still twenty-five minutes to twelve; it felt like three o'clock already. 'Morning, Commissioner,' he corrected himself.

The little Xhosa stood up, very serious, and put out a hand to Griesseclass="underline" 'Congratulations, Captain Griessel.'

That caught him off guard. Griessel shook his hand and in confusion looked at John Afrika who winked at him and said: 'Congratulations, Benny.' 'Uh ...' Griessel said and wiped the sweat from his brow 'Uh ...' And then: 'Fuck it, Commissioner.' The Xhosa laughed and put a hand on Benny's shoulder. 'You had better sit down, Captain. I suspect you are going to earn your promotion today.'

In the garden of the Victorian house, beside the three prints of running shoes in the soft earth, tall, skinny Jimmy from Forensics held open the plastic bag of dental cement and watched as fat Arnold poured in a measured amount of water.

'She's so fat, when she weighs herself, the scale says "to be continued" ...' said Arnold.

'Hee hee,' chortled Jimmy.

'She's so fat, she's got her own postal code,' said Arnold. 'There you go, shake it up.'

'If only she wasn't so bloody bossy,' said Jimmy, zipping up the bag and shaking it. 'I mean, you're not exactly thin yourself, but at least you're not a bitch.'

'Is that supposed to make me feel good?'

'I'm just saying,' said Jimmy, and shook the bag with great concentration. 'All I want to know is what the heck she wants to do with these casts. They know they are the girl's footprints. This is just pissing in the wind.'

'That stuff is ready. Knead it.'

Jimmy kneaded the plastic bag of green goo between his hands:

'I'm not nearly as fat as she is.'

'You're just taller, that's the difference,' said Jimmy. 'Get the mould ready.'

Arnold took a long mould, adjusted it to fit over the footprint and carefully pressed it into the soil. He picked up a bottle of talcum powder and sprinkled it over the print. 'Pour,' he said.

Jimmy opened the bag and held it over the centre of the mould. The paste dribbled out.

'I've got a slow metabolism, that's my problem,' said Arnold. 'But she's quite the eater - I hear it's KFC, morning, noon and night...'

Inside the Victorian house, behind his net curtains and only ten metres from where Thick and Thin knelt, the old man could not hear their conversation. But he could see them. Just as he had seen the girl jump over the fence, the Land Rover driving past soon afterwards, those young men, searching. And the Constables who had run down Upper Orange Street with such purpose, and the black lady detective who had stopped in thought at the picket fence, and then investigated the flower bed.

He knew who they were looking for. And he knew where she was hiding.

Chapter 23

Captain Benny fucking Griessel. Could you believe that?

He sat there savouring the glow of his promotion, wishing he could go home to his flat and type an emaiclass="underline" My dear Carla, your father is a captain today. Tonight he would walk into Primi Piatti where Anna would be seated at a candlelit table and he would bend down to kiss her on the cheek and say: 'Captain Benny Griessel, pleased to meet you,' and she would look up at him in surprise and say 'Benny!' and kiss him on the mouth.

'How did Dekker take the news of Kaleni?' John Afrika broke through his reverie.

'I told him it was still his case, Commissioner,' said Griessel. 'He accepted it.'

Afrika looked sceptical, but merely nodded. 'Have you told her yet?'

He had forgotten. Totally. He would have to move his backside. 'I haven't had the chance yet.'

'Do you know what Mbali means?' the Provincial Commissioner asked. 'Flower. It means a flower in Zulu.'

Afrika grinned. 'She speaks five languages and has an IQ of a hundred and thirty-seven. Not bad for a flower.'

'She'll be sitting in my chair one day,' said the little Xhosa.

'She thinks she's sitting there already,' said Afrika, and the two officers laughed congenially. Griessel grinned, not sure whether it was proper for a Captain to laugh with them.

The Regional Commissioner suddenly went serious. 'Benny, there's a new development. Rachel Anderson's father said she can't go to the police. He thinks she means she can't trust us.'

'Can't trust us?' queried Griessel. The two senior officers nodded in unison and waited for him to come up with the solution for them.

'That's what she told them over the telephone?'

They nodded again.

'Wait a bit,' he said, leaning forward on the grey cushion of the steel-framed government chair. 'We are looking at this from the wrong angle, Commissioner. Vusi has a theory that she is a drugs mule, both she and the deceased. It would fit with a lot of things - the way they came into the country, the nightclub, the Russians, the rucksack that was cut away, the whole chase. It's not that she can't trust the police - it's because she's a criminal. She can't walk into a police station and say: "Help me, I've brought in a half a million worth of drugs and then cheated Demidov".'

He saw relief flood the faces of the two senior men. But then John Afrika frowned.

'We can hardly say that to the Consul General or her father. Not without proof.'

'We promised her father we would call him,' said the Provincial Commissioner, and when Benny didn't look very enthusiastic he added 'Captain' expressly.