Thirteen Hours

'Of course.'

Benny Griessel was not good at sitting and waiting. So he left the radio room, walked through the busy charge office and the security doors out onto Buitenkant Street. His brain was busy and his courage was low. They were not going to find her. He had fourteen patrol vehicles driving in a grid pattern, and one was parked in Long Street with the men waiting at the Cat & Moose. He had ten foot patrols, two of them searching the Company Gardens. The helicopter had returned from Table View and covered the entire bloody city. There was no sign of her.

Where could she be?

He walked to his car, unlocked it and took out the Chesterfields from the cubbyhole, locked the door again and stood on the pavement, holding the pack of cigarettes. What was he missing?

Was there something in the chaos of the morning that he had missed? It was a familiar feeling. On the day a crime took place, there was so much information, his head would be overflowing, the pieces unconnected and crowding each other out. It took time, a night's sleep sometimes, for the subconscious to sort and file, like a slow secretary working at her own unhurried tempo.

He took out a cigarette and put it between his lips.

He was missing something ...

He slid the box of matches open.

The Field Marshal. Jeremy Oerson and the search for the rucksack.

He began to walk hastily back along the pavement, putting the matches in his trouser pocket, and the cigarettes back in the pack. He went into the police station. Was that the only item knocking at the door of his consciousness?

In the radio room he asked a uniformed policeman where he could get a telephone directory.

'Charge office.'

Griessel fetched one, paging through it as he walked back. The local government numbers were all right at the back. He found Metro and put the book on the old government-issue table of dark wood, next to his maps, notebook, pen and cell phone. He kept a finger on the number and phoned. Two rings and a woman's voice said: 'Cape Town Metropolitan Police, good afternoon, goeimiddag.'

'Jeremy Oerson, please.'

'Please hold,' she said and put him through. It rang for a long time. A man answered.

'Metro.'

'Jeremy Oerson?'

'Jeremy is not here.'

'This is Insp ... Captain Benny Griessel, SAPS. Where can I get hold of him, it's quite urgent?'

'Hold on ...' A hand was held over the receiver and muffled words exchanged. 'He should be back soon. Do you want his cell phone number?'

'Please.' Griessel reached for his pen and book.

The man recited the number and Griessel wrote it down. He rang off and phoned it. Oerson answered instantly.

'Jeremy.'

'Benny Griessel, SAPS. We talked this morning in Long Street.'

'Yes.' A total lack of enthusiasm.

'Did you find anything?' 'Where?'

'In the city. The girl's rucksack. You were supposed to be looking ...'

'Oh. Yes. No, there was nothing.'

Griessel was not impressed by his attitude. 'Can you tell me exactly where you searched?'

'I'll have to check. I didn't do it myself. We do have work, you know ...'

'I thought that was your work, fighting crime?'

'Your case isn't the only one we are working on.'

No, indeed, they had parking tickets to write, but he limited himself to the subject at hand: 'And you are absolutely sure you found nothing?'

'Nothing that belonged to the girl.'

'So you did find something?'

'The streets are full of stuff. There's a bag of junk in my office, but there is no passport or a purse or anything that would belong to an American woman.'

'How do you know?'

'Do you think I'm stupid?'

Jissis. Griessel breathed deeply and slowly. 'No, I don't think you're stupid. Where is the bag?'

Oerson waited before he answered. 'Where are you now?'

'No, tell me where your office is and I'll have it fetched.'

Natasha Abader unlocked Adam Barnard's office and said: 'I will have to give you the password if you want to check his laptop.'

She went in and Dekker followed. There were large framed photographs on the walls, Barnard and stars, one after the other, the men with an arm around Barnard's shoulder, the women with an arm around Barnard's waist. Every photo had a signature and a message in thick black marker. 'Thank you, Adam!' 'Adam for president!!!' 'With love and thanks.' 'The star in my heaven.' 'You are my darling.' Hearts, crosses to represent kisses, music notes.

He looked at the desk on which, according to her personal testimony, Melinda Geyser had been screwed. Apart from the laptop there was nothing else on it. His imagination ran riot, Melinda lying on her back on the wide wooden surface, stark naked, legs hooked over the shoulders of the standing Barnard, her mouth open in ecstasy as Adam fucked her, the sounds audible through the thin walls.

Dekker looked at Natasha guiltily. Her attention was on the laptop, eyebrows raised in query.

'What?'

'Adam left his laptop on.'

Dekker walked around the desk and stood beside her. He could smell her perfume. Subtle. Sexy. 'So?'

'He wouldn't usually do that. I switch it on when I come in, so he ...'

The screensaver was on, the AfriSound logo like a small flag fluttering. She moved the mouse, the screensaver disappeared, replaced by a request for a password. Natasha bent down to type it in, her long nails clicking on the keys and her neckline gaping. Dekker's view was good; he could not look away. Her breasts were small, firm and perfect.

She stood up suddenly. His eyes slid away to the screen. There were no programs open.

'I will have to look at his emails.'

She nodded and bent down again to work the mouse. Why couldn't she sit down? Did she know he was looking?

'Where is his diary?'

'He used Outlook. Let me show you,' and she shifted the mouse, clicking here and there. 'You can use Alt and Tab to change between email and calendar,' she said, and then she moved away so he could sit down in the large comfortable chair.

'Thanks,' he said. 'Can I ask you a few questions?'

She went over to the door. At first he thought she was ignoring him, but she shut the door, came back and sat down opposite him. She looked him full in the eyes.

'I know what you want to ask.'

'What?'

'You want to know whether Adam and I... you know . ..' 'Why would I want to ask that?'

She shrugged dismissively. It was a sensual gesture, but he suspected she was unconscious of that. She had a subdued air about her, sad. 'You're going to interview everyone,' she said.

Now he did want to know, but for another reason. 'Did you?' His head was screaming, Fransman what are you doing? But he knew what he was doing - looking for trouble and he could not stop himself.

'Yes.' She dropped her eyes.

'Here?' He gestured at the desk.

'Yes.'

Why had she given herself to a white man, a middle-aged white man, when she was lovely enough for the cover of a magazine? He wanted to know if that meant she was easy, accessible. To him.

'This morning I'm glad that I did,' she said.

'Because he's dead?'

'Yes.'

'There are stories about him ... and women.'

She did not respond.

'Did he force women?'

'No.' With an attitude that said she objected to the question.

'Did you hear, yesterday? When Melinda was here?'

'Yes, I did.' Without blushing or averting her eyes.

'Do you know why he sent for her?'

'No. I only saw in the diary that she was coming.'

'But usually Josh is with her.'

Again the shrug.

'This is what I don't understand: there are three of you who heard him ... "nailing her",' his fingers made quotation marks around the words, 'a gospel artist in his office, and nobody thought it was strange. What kind of place is this?'