Thirteen Hours (18 page)

'May I speak to Commissioner Afrika, please?' said Vusi. He
whispered to the photographer. 'I just want to hear if the Commissioner will be
angry if the girl is dead tomorrow.'

'When you hear the signal it will be ...'

'What girl?' asked the photographer.

Oliver Sands looked from one to the other, bewildered.

'Ten seven ... and fifty seconds.'

'The one in the photo. She is out there somewhere, around
Camps Bay, and there are people who want to kill her. If we only get the
photographs tomorrow ...'

'When you hear the signal...' 'Hang on ...' said the
photographer.

'I will hold for the Commissioner,' Vusi said into the phone
while the woman's voice said, 'Ten eight exactly.'

'I didn't know,' said the photographer.

Vusi raised his eyebrows expectantly.

The photographer looked at his watch. 'Twelve o'clock, that's
the best I can do.'

Vusi looked at his phone and ended the call. 'OK. Take the
prints to Caledon Square and give them to Mbali Kaleni ...' and right then his
phone rang.

'Detective Inspector Vusi Ndabeni.'

'Sawubona,
V
usi,' said Mbali Kaleni in Zulu.

'Molo
, Mbali,' said Vusi in Xhosa.

'Unjani'
she asked in Zulu.

'Ntwengephi
,' he said in Xhosa to make his
point and then switched to English.

'Where are you?'

'On the Nl, coming from Bellville. Where are you?'

'I'm in Long Street, but I need you to go to Caledon Square.'

'No, brother, I must come to you. I can't take over the case
if I don't know what's going on.'

'What?'

'The commissioner said I must take over the case.'

Vusi closed his eyes slowly. 'Can I call you back?'

'I'm waiting.'

Griessel walked into the arcade entrance at 16 Buiten Street.
The building was built around an inner garden with paved pathways between
flower beds, a fishpond and a birdbath. On the wall of the south wing was the
huge logo of AfriSound, the word drawn in stalky letters that were probably
meant to look African. The logo was a boastful bird with a black breast, yellow
throat and eyebrows, singing with a gaping beak against an orange sun. Griessel
had no idea what sort of bird it was. He crossed to the double glass doors. His
cell phone rang. He knew this number by now.

'Vusi?' he said as he answered.

'Benny, I think we have a misunderstanding.'

The Metro patrol vehicle stopped beside the two young men in
the Land Rover Defender on the corner of Prince and Breda Streets. Jeremy
Oerson sat in the passenger seat of the Metro car. He wound the window down and
asked the young white man behind the steering wheel of the Land Rover. 'Do you
know what she's wearing, Jay?'

The young man nodded. 'Blue denim shorts, light-blue T-shirt.
And a backpack.'

'OK,' said Jeremy Oerson and reached for his radio. He nodded
to the driver. 'Let's go,' he said.

'Thank you, sir,' said Benny Griessel over the cell phone,
turned it off and stood shaking his head for a second in front of the glass
doors of AfriSound.

He wasn't a mentor, he was a fucking fireman, all he did was
beat out fires.

Griessel sighed, opened the door and walked inside.

There were framed gold and platinum CDs and posters of
artists' performances on the blood-red and sky-blue walls. Griessel recognised
some of the names. Behind a modern desk of light wood sat a middle- aged black
woman, who looked up when he came in. Her eyes were red, as though she had been
crying, but her smile was brave.

'May I help you?'

'I'm here for Willie Mouton.'

'You must be Inspector Griessel.' Her pronunciation of his
surname was perfect.

'I am.'

'Such a terrible thing, Mr Barnard ...' She nodded in the
direction of the stairs.

'They're waiting for you on the first floor.'

'Thank you.'

Griessel climbed the wooden stairs. The railing was chrome
and there were more framed CDs on the wall, with the name of the artist or band
on a bronze plaque underneath each one.

The first floor opened up before him. The colour scheme was
bright and multicoloured, but the atmosphere was sombre. No music, just the
quiet whisper of the air conditioning and the hushed voices of five or six
people sitting around a big, flat, chrome coffee table on couches and chairs in
brightly coloured ostrich leather - blue, green, red.

They became aware of him and stopped talking, turning to look
at him. Griessel saw an older woman crying; everyone looked distressed, but
there was no sign of Mouton. Some of the faces studying him were familiar - he
guessed they were singers or musicians. Was Josh Geyser one of them? For a
second he hoped Lize Beekman or Theuns Jordaan was there, or Schalk Joubert.
But what would he say to them, here, under these circumstances?

There was no shame in hoping.

To his left, near the window, a coloured woman stood up from
a desk. She was young and beautiful with high cheekbones, a full mouth and long
black hair. She walked around the desk. Elegant close-fitting clothes,
high-heeled shoes, a slim figure. 'Inspector?' The same subdued friendliness as
the receptionist below.

'Benny Griessel,' he said, putting out a hand.

'Natasha Abader.' Her hand was small. 'I am Mr Mouton's PA.
Please come with me.'

'Thank you,' said Griessel and followed her down the
corridor. He looked at Natasha Abader's pert, perfect bottom and he couldn't
help wondering if Adam Barnard had fucked her in his office too. He looked away
deliberately, at the framed CD covers on the wall, more posters. There were
plaques beside the doors.
AfriSound Promo.
Production. Finance & Administration. Recording Studio. AfriSound On-line.
And almost at the back, to the right,
Willie Mouton.
Director.

To the left, another closed door.
Adam Barnard. Managing Director.

Natasha knocked on Mouton's door and opened it. She put her
head in. 'Inspector Griessel is here.' She stood back so that Griessel could
enter.

'Thanks,' said Griessel. She nodded and walked back to her
desk. Griessel went in. Mouton and his lawyer, Groenewald, sat stretched out
like two magnates on either side of a large desk.

'Come in,' said Mouton.

The lawyer, still seated, put out a half-hearted hand to
Griessel. 'Regardt Groenewald.'

'Benny Griessel. Is that Geyser out front?'

'No, they are in the conference room.' Mouton gestured with
his head towards the far end of the corridor. There was a solemn air about him;
the aggression had disappeared.

'They?'

'He brought Melinda along.'

Griessel could not mask his annoyance. Mouton saw it. 'I
couldn't help it - I didn't tell him to bring her,' as if speaking to an
inferior.

He knew Mouton's kind, self-important in their own little
world, used to calling the shots. Now that he had had the ear of the Regional
Commissioner, he would think he could keep on interfering. 'We want to question
them separately,' Griessel said and took out his cell phone. 'My colleague
thought she would be at home. I have to call him.'

He found Dekker's number and called.

'How much does Geyser know?' he asked while it rang.

'Nothing yet. Natasha just told him to wait in the conference
room, but you can see he's guilty. Sweating like a pig.'

'Benny,' said Dekker over the phone.

'Things have changed,' said Griessel.

Vusi Ndabeni was walking quickly down Long Street when
John Afrika phoned him back.

'It's sorted out, Vusi. Inspector Kaleni's commanding officer
misunderstood me.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'She's gone to Caledon Square, she will talk to the stations
in the meantime.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'She will be a great help to you, Vusi. She's a smart woman.'

'Thank you, sir.'

More than 1,300 kilometres to the north, in the Wachthuis
building, part of the Thibault Arcade in Pretorius Street, Pretoria, the
telephone of the Acting National Police Commissioner made a single growling
noise. He picked it up. 'The Deputy Minister wants to talk to you,' said his
secretary.

'Thank you.' He hesitated for a second before pushing the
white 'Line 1' button. He knew it would not be good news. The Deputy Minister
only phoned when there was bad news about the currently-on-long-leave National
Commissioner and his approaching corruption trial.

'Good morning, Minister,' he said.

'Morning, Commissioner,' she said, and he could hear she
wasn't overjoyed. 'I just had a call from the US Consul General in Cape Town.'

The front door of Van Hunks was in Castle Street. There was a
neon sign with the name and motto:
Smokin'.
Inspector

Vusumuzi Ndabeni pushed and tugged on the handle but it was
locked.

'Ai,' he said, and walked around the corner to the entrance
of the shop next door, a company that sold lights. He found a coloured woman at
the checkout and asked if she knew whether there would be anyone at the club.

'Try the back door,' she said, and went to show him the
service alley at the back. He thanked her and walked past men unloading crates
of beer from a lorry and carrying them into the club, into the kitchen of Van
Hunks. A white man with a short black ponytail and small eyes was supervising
the unloading. He spotted Vusi.

'Hey!' he said. 'What do you want?' Aggressive, with a slight
accent.

Vusi took out his SAPS identity card. He held it out for the
man to read. 'I would like to speak to the manager,' he said politely.

Ponytail, a head taller than Vusi, pulled up his nose at the card
and the detective.

'Why?'

'Are you the manager?' asked Vusi, still civil.

'No.'

'I would prefer to speak to him.'

'Her. She is busy.' With a faint accent. Foreign.

'Could you take me to her, please?'

'Have you got the warrant?'

'I don't need a warrant,' he explained patiently. 'I am
investigating a murder, and the victim was in this club last night. I just need
information.'

While Ponytail weighed him up, Vusi noticed that his eyes
were too close together. He had heard that in white people it was a sign of
stupidity. That would explain the man's behaviour.

'You wait, because they steal my beer.' Ponytail pointed at
the black labourers carrying the beer crates. 'What will the police do about
this?'

'Did you report it?'

'Why?'

'So the police can investigate,' said Vusi slowly and
clearly. 'You have to go to the charge office and report the crime.'

Ponytail rolled his eyes. Vusi didn't know what he meant by
that; surely he could not have put it more plainly? 'Look, my investigation is
very urgent. I need to speak to the manager immediately.'

More hesitation. Then the man said: 'Down the passage. Third
door right.'

'Thank you,' said Vusi, and walked out of the room.

Willie Mouton held the door to the conference room open for
Griessel. The Geysers were seated at the long oval table. They were holding
hands. Benny had imagined two young bubbly angelic faces, with that exaggerated
joy of the newly converted. But the Geysers were on the wrong side of forty,
she maybe older than him. They were tense and grim. Josh was a big man with
white-blonde hair and a styled crew cut. There were deep etched lines on his
face, a droopy blonde moustache trimmed carefully to his chin. Wide shoulders,
big arms, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. Beside him Melinda looked
tiny, like a doll, with her round face and red-blonde hair in a cascade of
tight curls, a milky-white skin and long lashes. She had a heavy hand with the
make-up, the beauty of another era. There was something about her mouth and eyes
that would have marked her as an 'easy girl' in the Parow of Griessel's youth.

'Willie,' said Josh Geyser getting to his feet. 'What's going
on?'

'This is Sergeant Benny Griessel of the police, Josh. We
would like to talk to you.'

Griessel put out a hand. 'Inspector,' he said.

Geyser ignored Griessel's hand. 'Why?' he demanded with an
authoritarian scowl.

'Adam is dead, Josh.'