Thirteen Hours

'Thank you, Captain, first of all, for taking the time to call. Is there any news?' The voice was polite and American, making the situation feel unreal to Griessel, like a TV drama.

'We have a police helicopter searching the area where she was last seen, and we have more than ten patrol units looking for her in the streets, with more coming. But so far, we have not located her.'

There was a silence over the phone, not just the usual static of a local call.

'Captain, this is a difficult thing for me to ask, but when Rachel spoke to me over the telephone, she said that she could not go to the police ... I hope you understand, as a parent, I am very concerned. Do you know why she said this?'

Griessel took a deep breath. It was the question he had been afraid of. 'Air Anderson, we have been thinking about this ... matter ...' Those were not the right words.'... this question, I mean. It could mean different things, and I am investigating all the possibilities.' It didn't seem enough. 'I want to tell you, I have a daughter the same age as Rachel. My daughter is in London at the moment. I know how you feel, Mr Anderson. I know this must be very ... difficult for you. Our children are all we have.' He knew it sounded odd, not quite right.

'Yes, Captain, that is exactly what I have been thinking these past few hours .. .That is why I am so concerned. Tell me, Captain - can I trust you?'

'Yes, Mr Anderson. You can trust me.'

'Then I will do that. I will trust you with my daughter's life.'

Don't say that, thought Griessel. He had to find her first. 'I will do everything I possibly can,' he said.

'Is there anything we can do from here. I... anything ...?'

'I am going to give you my cell phone number, Mr Anderson. You can call me any time you like. If Rachel calls you again, please give her my number, and tell her I will come to her, just me, if she is worried ... And I promise you, I will call you if there is any news.'

'We were thinking ... We want to fly out there ...'

He didn't know how to respond to that. 'I.. .You can, of course ... Let me find her, Mr Anderson. Let me find her first.'

'Will you, Captain?' There was a desperate note in his voice, grabbing at a lifeline.

'I will not rest until I have.'

Bill Anderson put the phone down carefully and sank back into his chair. He put his hands over his face. His wife stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder.

'It's all right to cry,' she said to him in a barely audible whisper. He didn't reply.

'I will be strong now, so you can cry.'

He slowly dropped his hands. He looked at the long rows of books on the shelves. So much knowledge, he thought. And so useless now.

He dropped his head. His shoulders shook. 'I heard him,' said Jess Anderson. 'He will find her. I could hear that in his voice.'

Captain Benny Griessel sat with his elbows on the director's desk and his chin in his hand.

He shouldn't have said it. He didn't want to make promises. He should have stuck to: 'I will do everything I possibly can.' Or he should have said: 'In the circumstances I don't want to make predictions.' But Rachel Anderson's father had pleaded with him.

'Will you, Captain?'

And he had said he would not rest until he found her.

Where the fuck did he begin?

He dropped his arms and tried to concentrate. There were too many things happening at once.

The helicopter and patrols were not going to find her. She was hiding, afraid of the police. And he didn't know why.

The solution was to find out who was hunting her. Vusi's plan looked better and better. He must check on their progress.

Griessel stood up and reached for his cell phone. But then it rang loudly in the silent office, startling him.

'Griessel.'

'This is Inspector Mbali Kaleni of the South African Police Service, Benny.' Her Zulu accent was strong, but every Afrikaans word was enunciated with care. 'We traced a Land Rover Defender that fits the number. It belongs to a man in Parklands, a Mr J. M. de Klerk. I am on my way.'

'Very good work, but the Commissioner asked if you would help with another case. Fransman Dekker's investigation ...'

'Fransman Dekker?'

Griessel ignored the disdain in her voice. 'Can I give you his number? He's in the city ...'

'I have his number.'

'Call him, please.'

'I don't like it,' said The Flower, 'but I will call him.'

'On the eleventh of January we electronically transferred an amount of fifty thousand rand into an ABSA account, on Adam's instructions,' said the accountant of AfriSound, Wouter Steenkamp, with modulated precision.

He was comfortably ensconced behind a large fiat-screen computer monitor, elbows on the desk and fingers steepled in front of his chest. He was a short man in his early thirties with an angular face and heavy eyebrows. He clearly took trouble with his appearance - the thick-rimmed glasses and short hair were equally fashionable, there was a careful, deliberate two-day growth of black stubble on his chin, and dark chest hair was just visible at the open collar of his light-blue sports shirt with narrow white stripes. Chunky sports watch, tanned arms. No lack of self- confidence.

'Who was it paid to?' Dekker asked from his chair opposite.

Steenkamp consulted his screen without untwining his fingers. 'According to Adam's note the account holder was "Bluegrass". The bank branch code was an ABSA branch in the Bloemfontein city centre. The transaction was successful.'

'Did Mr Barnard say what the payment was for?'

'In his email he asked me to put it under "sundry expenses".'

'That's all?'

'That's all.'

'Was there also a payment of ten thousand?'

'Exactly?' Steenkamp's eyes scanned the spreadsheet on his screen.

'I believe so.'

'In the past week?'

'Yes.'

'Not on my records.'

Dekker leaned forward. 'Mr Steenkamp ...'

'Wouter, please.'

'According to my information, Adam Barnard used an agency to determine who was behind the Bluegrass account. At a fee of ten thousand rand.'

'Aah ...' said Steenkamp, sitting up straight and reaching for his neat in-tray. He lifted documents and pulled one out. 'Ten thousand exactly,' he said and offered it to Dekker. 'Jack Fischer and Associates.'

Dekker knew the company - former senior white police officers who had taken fat retirement packages five or six years ago and set up their own private investigation business. He took the document and examined it. It was an invoice. Client:AfriSound. Client contact person: Mr A. Barnard.

Under Item and Cost was printed: Administrative enquiries, R4, 500. Personal interview, R5,500.

'Personal interview?' he read aloud.

Steenkamp just shrugged.

'Is this Adam Barnard's signature here?'

'It is. I only pay if either he or Willie has signed it.'

'So you don't know what the account was for?'

'No. Adam didn't discuss it with me. He put it in his out-tray and Natasha put it in here. If it was signed by him—'

'Do you often use Jack Fischer?'

'Now and then.'

'You know they are private investigators?'

'Inspector, the music industry is not all moonlight and roses ... But Adam usually handled that sort of case.'

'Would Willie Mouton know?'

'You will have to ask him.'

'I will have to keep this account.'

'May I make a copy first?'

'Please.'

Inspector Vusi Ndabeni had never flown in a helicopter before.

The pilot passed a headset to him over his shoulder, someone closed the door, the engine made a mighty roar, the rotors turned and they lifted off. His stomach churned. He put on the earphones with trembling hands and watched De Waal Drive shrink below him.