'And what is your share of that?'
'That also depends on whether I sold it myself at a concert or if you bought it in a shop.'
Dekker sighed. 'Ivan, I'm trying to get my head around the music business. Give me a ball-park figure of what you earn with a CD. Nowadays.'
Nell sat up slowly, still uncomfortable with the subject. 'Let's say about seven hundred and fifty, over three to four years.'
'Seven hundred and fifty thousand?'
'Yes.'
'Fuck,' said Dekker and made a note in his book. 'Now how did they cheat you?'
'It may sound like a lot of money, Inspector, but that is before tax, and there are a lot of expenses ...'
'How did they cheat you?'
'I don't know. That's why I want to bring in an auditor.'
'Surely you must have a theory?'
'Well, last year, I did three songs for compilation albums - one for Sean Else's rugby CD and two for Jeremy Taylor, a country album and Christmas album. Sean and Jeremy are independents, and when I got the rugby CD money, I started wondering, because it was a shitioad of money, proportionately much more
than I was getting from Adam and them. When the country CD payment came, it was the same story. So I looked carefully at the statements, at the deductions and sales and royalties, and the more I looked, the less sense it made. You must remember, on a compilation album you are one of ten or more artists; so you would be getting roughly ten per cent, say, of the royalties you would usually receive. I wasn't expecting much. In the end it was good money. Then I started getting suspicious.'
'And you spoke to Adam Barnard?'
'I phoned him about a week ago, and said I wanted to come and see him. I didn't say why; I just said I wanted to talk about my contract. He said let's go and have a relaxed dinner.'
'And that was last night?'
'That's right.'
'What was his reaction?'
'He said that as far as he knew, they had nothing to hide. When I said I wanted to bring my own auditor, he said "no problem".'
'And then?'
'He offered me a new contract. I said "no thank you". And that was that. So we talked about other things. Adam ... He was great company, as always. His stories ... The thing is, usually Adam will party to twelve or one o'clock, he never tires. But last night, at about half past nine, he said he had to make a quick phone call, and he went and stood outside to phone, and when he came in he said he had to leave. We got the bill and we left about ten o'clock.'
Dekker looked at Barnard's diary. Alongside 19:00 was written Ivan Nell - Bizerca but there were no further entries for later that night. He made a note in his notebook: Cell phone 21:30?? and wondered what had happened to Adam Barnard's cell phone, because it wasn't on the scene that morning.
'You have no idea who he called?'
'No. But he wasn't the sort of guy who would leave the table to phone. He would just sit with you and talk, never mind who it was. When I heard this morning he had been shot, once I was over the worst shock, I started to wonder.'
She stood with one foot in the hot foam bath and considered surrendering herself to the luxury, longing to wash her hair and scrub her body, then just lying back and letting the pain and the fatigue melt away.
She couldn't. She had to phone her father; they would be insane with worry. But she wanted to bath quickly first. In the kitchen just now, she had seen a way out for the first time since last night, a prospect of safety. If she phoned her father, he could get someone to fetch her, someone from the embassy, maybe, and they could question her and she would tell them everything. It would be a long process, long discussions over everything that had happened. That meant it would be hours before she could wash off the blood and sweat and dust. She must take the opportunity to clean herself quickly now.
She got into the bath and sat down. The hot water stung the scratches and cuts, but the satisfaction was immense. She slowly lay back until her breasts slipped under the foam.
Hurry.
She sat up fast, with great self-discipline, stood up, picked up the soap and washcloth and began to scrub her youthful body.
12:57-14:01
Chapter 31
A waitress, two waiters and a barman remembered Erin Russel and Rachel Anderson. Griessel had them sit at a separate table with Vusi. He took a seat with his back to the bar so he couldn't see the bloody bottles, but there was nothing he could do about the smell.
'The rest can go home,' Galina Federova ordered.
'No, I still need them.' The Carlucci's man still had to see if he recognised any of them.
'For what?'
She was starting to get on Griessel's nerves. He wanted to tell her it was none of her fucking business, he didn't like her attitude, but his urgency to gain any available information made him hold back. 'Let them wait ten minutes,' he said, curtly, so she'd get the message, stop messing them around.
She said something in Russian, shook her head and walked out. Griessel watched her leave. Then he slowly turned back, trying to clear his head as he asked the young people around the table. 'Who would like to start?'
'They were sitting right here,' said one of the waiters, pointing at a table close by and fiddling self-consciously with a necklace of wooden beads around his neck. And then all the waiters suddenly looked up at the door behind Griessel. He turned as well. Mat Joubert stood there, a bag of takeaways in each hand.
'Carry on,' said Joubert, 'I'm with Captain Griessel.' He approached the table, put down the bags, took out boxes and pushed them towards Vusi and Benny. The aroma of chips made Griessel's belly stir.
'Thanks, Mat.'
'Thanks, Sup,' said Ndabeni.
Joubert just nodded in acknowledgement, pulled up a chair and joined them at the table.
'This is Senior Superintendent Mat Joubert of the Provincial Task Force,' Griessel told the waiters, as he saw they were intimidated by the size of his colleague. 'He's not a patient man,' he lied, for good measure. He looked at the waiter who had spoken first. 'Where were we?'
The waiter looked at Griessel and then respectfully at Joubert, his voice suddenly sincere. 'Those two in the photo were sitting alone at first. I served them. They were drinking Brutal Fruit. This one, the blondie, she was partying hard. The other one only had four or five, the whole evening. A bit strange.'
'Why?' asked Griessel. He tore open the sachet of Steers salt and sprinkled it over his chips.
'The backpackers ... usually they booze it up.'
Griessel suppressed the impulse to look at the rows of bottles behind the bar. 'How did you know they were backpackers?' he asked, using the plastic fork to spear a few chips and pop them into his salivating mouth.
The waiter's face gained a sincere frown. 'I have been working here for two years now ...'
With his mouth full of potato, Griessel could only nod, motioning with his fork for the young man to elaborate.
'You get to know them. The tan, the clothes, the accents ... and they don't tip much.'
'When did they arrive?'
'Um, let's see ... before my first smoke break, about nine, say.'
Griessel speared more chips. 'And they were sitting on their own at first?'
'For a while. Then the place filled up. I do eight tables - I can't say precisely. They were dancing; lots of guys asked them. At one time there were five at the table - friends, it seemed.'