Thirteen Hours

The spit-sprayer's face was right up against hers, grimacing, his voice crazed. She closed her eyes and went limp.

'It's not in here,' said Steve up front.

'Jesus,' said Jay.

'Mr B, it's not in the bag ... Yes, I'm positive.' A long silence, then the sound of the vehicle slowing to a more regular speed, smoother. Then: 'There was no time, and then this fucking fat cop turned up, but Jay shot her, she's a goner ... No, I'm telling you, there was no time ... OK ... OK ...' The sound of a cell phone snapping shut. 'The Big Guy says to take her to the warehouse.'

Once he had managed to get the last member of the press out of the door and locked it, Fransman Dekker heard a voice behind him: 'Fuck this, you'll have to do something, it can't go on like this.'

Mouton stood on the stairs, hands on his hips, looking very displeased. 'I'll phone now, our PR people will come and help,' said Dekker.

'PR?'

'Public Relations.'

'But when will you be finished?'

'When I have asked all my questions,' said Dekker, and climbed the stairs, past Mouton, who turned and followed him.

'How many questions do you still want to ask? And you're talking to my employees without a lawyer being present. It can't go on like this - who do you want to talk to now?'

'Steenkamp.'

'But you talked to him already.'

They walked through the spacious seating area. Dekker stopped in his tracks and shoved his face close to Mouton's. 'I want to talk to him again, Willie. And I have the right to talk to every fucking member of your staff without your lawyer sitting in. I'm not doing this little two-step with you again.'

Mouton's skin flooded with crimson from the neck up, his Adam's apple bobbing as though words were dammed up beneath it. 'What did Ivan Nell say to you?'

Dekker stalked off down the corridor. Mouton followed him again, two steps behind. 'He's not one of our artists any more; he has no say here.' Dekker ignored him, went to Steenkamp's door and opened it without knocking. He wanted to shut it before Mouton came through, but then he saw that fucking legal undertaker sitting across from the accountant.

'Please, take a seat, Inspector,' Groenewald said in his dispassionate voice.

The paramedics ran from the front door with the stretcher. Griessel held the garden gate open for them, then jogged after them. 'Will she make it?'

'Don't know,' said the front one, holding out the bag of plasma to Griessel. 'Hold that while we load, just keep it high.'

'And the old man?' Griessel took the plastic bag of transparent fluid. Vusi held one ambulance door to prevent the wind blowing it shut.

'I think so,' the paramedic said. They lifted the old man up in the stretcher and pushed him in beside Mbali Kaleni, two figures lying still under light-blue blankets. One paramedic ran around to the driver's door, opened it and jumped in. The other one jumped in the back. 'Close the doors,' he said and Griessel and Ndabeni each took a door and slammed. The ambulance sirens began to wail as it pulled away in Upper Orange, made a U-turn and passed them, just as the first of a convoy of patrol vehicles appeared over the hump of the hill.

'Vusi,' Griessel said, loud enough to be heard over the noise of the sirens, 'get them to seal off the streets and keep everyone away. I don't want to see a uniform closer than the pavement.'

'OK, Benny.'

Griessel took out his cell phone. 'We will have to get Forensics as well.' He stood and surveyed the scene - Mbali's car, the strewn bullet casings, the front door open, its glass shattered. The old man had been shot inside there and somewhere they had grabbed Rachel Anderson ... It would take hours to process everything. Hours that he did not have. The hunters have caught their prey. How long would they let her live? Why hadn't they killed her here, like Erin Russel? Why hadn't he and Vusi found her body here? That was the big question.

One thing he did know, he needed help, he needed to make up time. Between Vusi and himself they didn't have enough manpower.

He called Mat Joubert's number. He knew it would piss off John Afrika. But in the big picture, that was a minor issue.

'Benny,' Joubert recognised his number.

'Mat, I need you.'

'Then I'll come.'

Wouter Steenkamp, the accountant, laughed, and Willie Mouton, leaning his long skinny body against the wall, gave a snort of derision. The lawyer Groenewald shook his head ruefully, as though now he had heard everything.

'Why is that so funny?' Fransman Dekker asked.

Steenkamp leaned back in his throne behind the PC and steepled his fingers. 'Do you really believe Ivan Nell is the first artist who believes he is being fleeced?'

Dekker shrugged. How would he know?

'It's the same old story,' said Willie Mouton. 'Every time.'

'Every time,' mused Steenkamp, and laced the tips of his fingers together, turned the palms outward and stretched until his knuckles cracked. He laid his head back on the back of the chair. 'As soon as they start making good money.'

'In the beginning, with the first cheque, they come in here and it's "thanks, guys, jislaaik, I've never seen this much money".' Mouton's voice was affected, mimicking Nell. 'Then we're the heroes and they are so pathetically grateful ...'

'But it doesn't last,' said Steenkamp.

'They're not doing it for aaaart any more.'

'Money talks.'

'The more they get, they more they want.'

'It's a flash car and a big house and everything that opens and shuts. Then it's the beach house and the sound equipment bus with a huge photo of you on it and everything has to be biggerand better than Kurt or Dozi or Patricia's. To sustain all that costs a shitload of money.'

Groenewald nodded slowly in agreement. Steenkamp laughed again: 'Two years, pappie, you can set your fucking calendar to it, then they start coming in here saying: "What is that deduction and why is this so little?" and suddenly we've gone from hero to zero, and they have forgotten how poor they were when we signed them.' His hands were on his lap now, his right hand twirling his wedding ring.

'Nell says—' Dekker began.

'Do you know what his name was?' Mouton asked, suddenly pushing himself off the wall and heading for the door. 'Sakkie Nell. Isak, that's where the I in Ivan comes from. And please don't forget the accent on the "a".' Mouton opened the door. 'I'm going to get myself a chair.'

'Ivan Nell says he compared your figures with the amounts he made from compilations with independents.'

This time even the lawyer sang in the choir of indignation. Steenkamp leaned forward, ready to speak, but Mouton said: 'Wait, Wouter, hold onto your point, I don't want to miss the joke,' and he walked out into the passage.

Benny Griessel stood in the hallway, the urgency hot in him. He didn't want to get too involved with this part of the investigation, he had to focus on Rachel and how to get her back.

He pulled on rubber gloves and looked fleetingly at the blood on the pretty blue and silver carpet where the old man had been shot, the shards of stained glass on the floor. He would have to phone her father.

How the hell had they found her? How did they know she was here? She had phoned from this house. My name is Rachel Anderson. My dad said I should call you. She had talked to her father and then with him. How long had it taken him to get here? Ten minutes? Nine, eight? Twelve at the very most. How could they have driven here, shot Mbali and the old man and carried Rachel off in twelve minutes?

How was he going to explain this to Rachel's father? The man who had asked him: Tell me, Captain: Can I trust you?

And he had said: 'Yes, Mr Anderson. You can trust me.'

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