Thirteen Hours

'Boys or girls?'

'Ah ... both ... Listen, you have to understand ...' He looked specifically at Mat Joubert,'... it's chaos here when the place is full. I remember the girls, because they were pretty, but that's about all.'

'So you don't remember the men who sat with them?'

'No.'

'Would you recognise them if you saw them again?'

'Maybe.'

Griessel popped open the tab on the can of cold drink. 'And you?' he addressed the rest.

'I just saw them dancing,' said the waitress. 'My tables are over there. They were dancing together a lot, which isn't that strange, but they looked as though they were arguing, you know, they were standing there arguing and dancing. But that's all I can tell you.'

With a mouth full of Dagwood burger, Griessel nodded in the direction of the barman. 'This one ...' he said, identifying Erin Russel with a finger tapping on the photo, 'she ... My post is the top end of the bar. Two guys were standing there drinking, and she came up there at one stage and talked to them. I remember her because I thought that's the ten ass of the evening, she talked to these two ...'

'The ten what?'

'It's a game we barmen have. We give points for the best legs and ass and ... so on. Out of ten. And ...'

'You're sick,' said the waitress.

'What about you girls? The other day when that guy from

Idols..'

Mat Joubert leaned his arms slowly on the table, making his broad shoulders appear even broader. The barman bit off his words and looked guiltily at Joubert. 'In any case, she had a ten ass. The rest wasn't bad either. Definitely nine legs and I reckon an eight...'

'Tell me about the men,' Griessel said impatiently.

'The one ... I sort of remember his face, he's been here before ... the other one, I don't know ... Two friends, I think, they were drinking together, not dancing, just standing at the bar and chatting.'

'And then?' 'I told the other barmen we had a ten butt at the bend. There, where the bar counter turns to the wall. But when I looked back, she was gone. And the men left suddenly too.'

'Wait, wait, wait. She stood and talked with them? What about? Could you hear?'

'No, I wasn't... paying attention.'

'You were looking at her bum,' said the waitress crossly.

The barman ignored her.

'And then she left?'

'I didn't actually see her leave.'

'How long was she with them?'

He thought about that. 'Look, I didn't see her arrive, we're always on the go, there are never enough barmen here. All I know is that I saw her standing there. I had a quick look, and then I went to get more drinks, and when I had a chance to have a decent look, I noticed her butt. I went to tell Andy and them, but when I wanted to show them, she was gone. She might have been there for five minutes. Or ten ...'

'When they left, were they in a hurry?'

'Absolutely.'

'What time was that?'

'Round about... Well, it was late, I can't say exactly, sometime after one o'clock?'

Griessel and Vusi looked at each other. This was getting interesting. 'You have seen one of them here before?'

'I think so. He seemed slightly familiar.'

'Describe him to me.'

'Tallish guy ...' His words dried up.

'Old? Young? Black? White?'

'No, a white guy about my age, early twenties, short darkish hair, very tanned ...'

'And the other one?'

'Black guy, also early twenties ...'

The waiter with the wooden beads suddenly pointed a finger at the door behind Griessel's back and said excitedly: 'That oke was at their table last night.'

The detectives turned quickly. Against the wall, waiting patiently, were three SAPS men in blue uniforms. One had a large, transparent rubbish bag on the floor beside him. Between them stood Oliver Sands and a young man Griessel hadn't seen before. 'Yes, we know,' said Griessel.

'The other man is the guy from Carlucci's,' said Vusi, and stood up. Griessel followed him.

'Is that the bag for me from Metro?' Griessel asked one of the uniforms.

'Yes, Inspector.'

'It's Captain now,' said Mat Joubert from the table.

'Genuine, Benny?' asked Vusi, and there was real happiness in his voice.

Before leaving Adam Barnard's office, Fransman Dekker phoned Forensics.

'Jimmy here,' said the thin one.

'Jimmy, it's Fransman Dekker. I just wanted to know - about the Barnard case - have you found his cell phone anywhere?'

It took Jimmy a while to put two and two together. 'Just hold on ...'

Dekker heard him say faintly: 'Arnie, that music ou who was shot, did we find a cell phone?' and then to Dekker: 'No, Fransman, we found fokkol!

'Not in his car either?'

'Fokkol.'

'Thanks, Jimmy.' Dekker stood still for a second in thought, opened the office door and walked over to Natasha Abader's desk. She was on the phone, but when he approached she held a hand over the receiver and raised her eyebrows at him. 'Adam Barnard's cell phone number?'

She kept her hand over the phone as she recited the number. He keyed it in. 'Thanks.' He walked away while it rang. He walked down the passage - perhaps Barnard's phone was in his office, in which case he would hear it. But the only ringing was in his ear. It went on and on. Just when he expected it to go over to voice mail, a familiar voice said: 'Hello?' 'Who is this?' Fransman Dekker asked in surprise.

'This is Captain Benny Griessel of the SAPS,' said the voice.

'Captain?' said Dekker, completely bewildered.

Griessel and Vusi were hoping that the young man from Carlucci's would identify one of the Van Hunks personnel, when a cell phone began ringing shrilly, with the triiing-triiing of an antique farm telephone. A lot of people checked their phones, until a policeman said: 'It's in the bag.'

Griessel ripped open the refuse bag and began scratching around frantically. He grabbed something, fished the phone out of it. He stared at it in disbelief for a second before answering. The conversation was surreal - talking to someone who apparently knew him - until the puzzle was solved. 'Benny, it's Fransman Dekker talking. I have just dialled Adam Barnard's number.'

'You're joking.'

'No.'

'You will never fucking believe where this phone was. Inside a black shoe, in a bag of stuff Metro picked up this morning in the streets around the churchyard murder scene.'

'A shoe? Did you see what size it was?'

Griessel picked up the shoe, looked inside but saw nothing. He turned it over. The numbers were worn down. 'It's a ten and a half.'

'Fucking unbelievable.'

'Where did they find it?'

'I don't know; you'll have to ask Jeremy Oerson at Metro. He's a Field Marshal or something there.'

'What's a Field Marshal?'

'I mean he's some or other fucking fancy rank. Wait, I'll give you his number ...' He began looking it up on his own cell phone.

'And you're a Captain now?' Griessel heard how Dekker tried to keep the envy out of his voice. Then he said: 'Can you look up his call history for me?'

'Hold on.' It took a while because he wasn't familiar with the make of phone.

'I think he called someone last night, just before ten,' said Dekker.

Eventually Griessel found the right icon. NO RECORDS, read the screen.

'There's nothing here,' he told Dekker.

While Barry answered his phone, his eyes were on the delivery vehicle parked on the corner in front of Carlucci's.

'Barry here.'

'Why haven't they gone in yet?' said the man with the grey beard.

'They can't. There's a delivery truck at the shop up the street, parked in Upper Orange, and the driver is looking right down the street.'

'How long?'

'Well, they've been unloading for a while now, so it shouldn't be long ...'