Thirteen Hours (33 page)

'Don't "sister" me.'

He waited for an explanation, but she just sat there.

'Did Adam say anything about a DVD last week? Something that
came in his post?'

'No.'

'Do you know who shot him?'

It took a while for the answer to come, reluctantly, more of
a question: 'Josh Geyser?'

'Maybe not.'

She looked surprised, brushing long hair back over her
shoulder in a practised motion.

'Why do you think it was Josh?'

'I saw him yesterday. He was angry enough. And he's ...
weird.'

'Weird?'

The shrug again, which conspired to make her breasts move
oddly under the tight, thin material. 'Gladiator turned gospel singer. Don't
you think that's weird? Look at him ...'

'I can't lock him up because of the way he looks. Who else
was angry with Adam Barnard?'

She made a wry noise. 'This is the music business.'

'And that means ...'

'Everyone is angry with everyone sometimes.'

'And everyone screws everyone else.'

She was indignant again.

'Who else was angry enough to shoot him?'

'I really don't know.'

He asked the question that fascinated him: 'Why were ... the
women so crazy about him? He was over fifty ...'

She stood up, crossed her arms over her breasts, cold and
angry. 'He would have been fifty-two. In February.'

He waited for an answer but none was forthcoming. He egged
her on: 'Why?'

'It's not about age, it's about aura.'

'Aura?'

'Yes.'

'What aura?'

'There's more than one kind.'

'What was his aura?' 'You wouldn't understand.'

'Educate me.'

'He had an aura of power. Very strong. 'Then she looked into his
eyes with a challenge and said: 'Women like the power of money, and he had
that. And for many women he was the gateway to the stars. He could introduce
them to the celebrities with money. But there is another power that is totally
irresistible - the power to empower.'

'Now you've lost me.'

'Second prize is to have a powerful man in your life. First
prize is to have the power yourself so you don't need a man. That was the kind
of power Adam Barnard could give.'

'To the artists? He could give them fame and fortune?'

'Yes.'

He nodded slowly. She hesitated, then turned and walked to
the door.

'But you're not a singer,' he said.

With one hand on the doorknob, without looking around, she
said: 'Second prize is not so bad.'

She opened the door and went out.

'Send the Nell
ou
in,
please,' he called after her, but he couldn't tell if she had heard him.

Alexa Barnard became aware of someone beside her bed.

She opened heavy eyelids and felt the dull ache in her
forearm, the weight of her body and the peculiar odour of the hospital ward. On
the right of her bed she saw large eyes behind thick spectacles. She tried to
focus, but closed her eyes again.

'My name is Victor Barkhuizen, and I am an alcoholic,' said a
voice very quietly and sympathetically.

She opened her eyes again. He was an old guy.

'Benny Griessel asked me to look in on you. The detective. I
am his AA sponsor. I just want you to know you are not alone.'

Her mouth was very dry. She wondered if it was the
medication, the stuff that made her sleep.

'The doctor?' she asked, but her tongue stuck to her palate,
her lips were stiff and the words wouldn't form.

'You don't have to speak. I'm just going to sit here with you
a while and I will leave my number with the ward sister. I will come again
tonight.'

She turned her head towards him with effort and managed to
open her eyes. He was short and stooped, bald and bespectacled, and the hair
that he still had around his head hung down his back in a long plait. She
slowly put out her right hand. He took it and held it tight.

'You're the doctor,' she tried to say.

'For my sins.'

'I smoke,' she said.

'And you don't even have a fever.'

She didn't know if the smile registered on her face. 'Thank
you,' she said and closed her eyes again.

'No problem.'

Then she remembered, somewhere through the haze she had had a
thought, a message. Without opening her eyes she said: 'The detective ...'

'Benny Griessel.'

'Yes. I need to tell him something.'

'I can send him a message.'

'Tell him to come. About Adam ...'

'I'll tell him.'

She wanted to add something, something that evaded her now,
like silver fish slipping from her grasp into dark water. She sighed and felt
Victor Barkhuizen's hand and pressed it slowly to make sure it was still there.

'I'd like to call my dad. I'll pay, of course,' said Rachel
Anderson as she helped him carry the plates to the sink, in spite of his
protests.

'No need for that,' he said. 'The phone is on the table,
where I work.'

Then he laughed. 'If you can find it. Go, I will clear the
dishes.'

'No,' she said. 'The least I can do is to wash up.'

'Under no circumstances.'

'Please, I insist. I love washing up.'

'You lie with such grace, my dear.'

'It's true! At home I do it all the time.'

'Then we'll do it together,' he said as he squirted
dish-washing liquid over the plates and opened the taps. 'You do the washing,
I'll dry and put them away. Do you still live with your parents?'

'Oh, yes, I just finished high school last year. This is supposed
to be a gap year, before I go to college.'

'Here, you can wear these gloves .. . And where would you go
for your studies?'

'Purdue. My parents work there.'

'They're academics?'

'My dad has tenure at English Lit. My mom's at the School of
Aeronautics and Astronautics, on the Astrodynamics and Space Applications
research team.' 'Good grief.'

'She's a real scientist, the most scatterbrained person I
know. I love her to death, she's brilliant, she does spacecraft dynamics, orbit
mechanics, it's about satellite control, how their orbits decay, how they
re-enter the earth's atmosphere, and it's like a rhyme, I can say it, but I
don't understand anything she does, I think I take after my dad, and I'm
talking too much, right now.'

He put a hand on her upper arm. 'And I'm enjoying every
minute, so talk all you like.'

'I miss them very much.'

'I'm sure you do.'

'No, it's more like ... I left home almost two months ago,
I've been away from them for so long, it makes you ... I didn't know how
dreadful I was, such a teenager ...'

'We all were. It's the way life works.'

'I know, but it took a really bad thing ...' Her hands
stopped moving, her head drooped onto her chest and she stood still.

He said nothing at first, just watched her with immense compassion.
He saw the tears rolling silently down her face. 'Would you like to talk about
it?'

She shook her head, fighting for control. It came slowly. 'I
can't. I shouldn't...'

'You're almost done. Go and call your father.'

'Thank you.' She hesitated. 'You've been so very kind ...
I...'

'I have done very little.'

'Would it be rude if
I...?'

'I don't think you have a rude bone in your body, my dear.
Please, just ask.'

'I'm dying for a bath, I don't think I've ever been this
dirty, I'll be quick, I promise ...'

'Good heavens, of course, and take all the time you need.
Would you like a bubble bath? The grandchildren gave me some for my birthday,
but I never use
it...'

There was no parking in Castle Street. Griessel had to park a
block away from the Van Hunks club in Long Street, and the parking attendant
descended on him like a vulture. He paid for two hours and walked hastily
towards the nightclub, surprised to find Vusi waiting at the front door.

'I thought you were still on your way?'

'Those Table View guys are crazy. Sirens all the way. This
door is locked. We have to go round the back.'

'I sent for the eyewitness from Carlucci's, Vusi. And Oliver
Sands from the hostel,' Griessel said as they walked side by side.

'OK, Benny.'

They turned into the service alley. Griessel's cell phone
rang: the screen said MAT JOUBERT.

'Hey,' said Benny, answering.

'Is that
Captain
Benny
Griessel?' Joubert asked.

'Can you fucking believe it?'

'Congratulations, Benny. It's high time. Where are you?'

'Nightclub in Castle Street. Van Hunks.'

'I'm just around the corner. Would you like some Steers?'

'Jissis
, that would be great.' He had last eaten the previous night.
'A Dagwood burger, chips and Coke; I'll pay you back.' His belly rumbled in
expectation. 'Wait, let me ask Vusi if he wants something too ...'

On the third floor of a recently restored office building in
St George's Mall, the lift doors opened to release the fat woman.

She hitched the handbag over her shoulder, shifted the pistol
on her belt and walked purposefully across the thick, light brown carpet to
where a middle-aged coloured receptionist sat behind a dark wood desk. She took
the SAPS identity card hanging around her neck between her thumb and forefinger
and aimed it at the receptionist, looking up at the words
Jack Fischer and Associates,
which were displayed
on a dark wooden panel, every letter cut from gleaming copper and individually
mounted.

'Inspector Mbali Kaleni, SAPS. I need to talk to Jack
Fischer.'

The coloured woman was unimpressed. 'I doubt he is available,'
she said, putting a reluctant hand out to the telephone.

'Is he here?'

The receptionist ignored her. She typed in a four-figure
number and said in an undertone: 'Marli, there is a woman from the police who
wants to talk to Jack ...'

'Is Jack here?' Kaleni asked again.

'I see,' said the coloured woman into the telephone with an
air of satisfaction. 'Thank you, Marli.' She replaced the phone and
sniff-sniffed with a slight frown. 'What
is
that smell?'

'I asked you if Jack Fischer is here.'

'Mr Fischer's diary is full. He can only see you after six.'

'But he is here?'

The woman nodded unenthusiastically.

'Tell him it is in connection with the murder of his client,
Adam Barnard. I want to talk to him within the next fifteen minutes.'

The receptionist opened her mouth to respond, but she saw
Kaleni turn and waddle to one of the large easy chairs against the wall. She
sat down and made herself comfortable, placed her handbag on her lap and took
out a white plastic bag with the letters KFC and the logo of an old bearded,
bespectacled man on it.

The receptionist's frown deepened as Kaleni put her chubby
hand into the plastic bag and took out a little red and white carton and a tin
of Fanta Grape. She watched the policewoman put her handbag on the ground and
the Fanta on the table beside her, opening the carton with absolute
concentration.

'You can't sit there and eat,' she said with more
astonishment than authority.

Mbali Kaleni lifted a chicken drumstick out of the packet. 'I
can,' she said, and took a bite.

The receptionist shook her head and made a little noise of
disbelief and despair. She picked up the phone, without taking her eyes off the
munching policewoman.

Galina Federova walked down the passage with Vusi and
Griessel behind her. Benny smelled the alcohol even before they entered the big
nightclub - that familiar, musty old smell of drinking holes where alcohol has
been poured, drunk and spilt, the smell that for more than ten years had
offered him a refuge. His stomach
contracted in fear and
anticipation. As he went through the door and the club opened out before him,
his eyes sought out the shelves of bottles against the wall, long rows glinting
like jewels side by side in the bright lights.

He heard the Russian woman say: 'This is the night
shift,' but he continued staring at the liquor, his head full of memories. He
felt a powerful wave of nostalgia for days and nights of drinking with
forgotten booze buddies. And for the atmosphere of these twilight places, that
feeling of total submission, clasping a glass with the knowledge that a refill
was only a nod away.