Thirteen Hours (36 page)

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 ...'

A moment of silence on the line. 'We're running out of time.'

It was the first time Barry had heard a tinge of concern in
the man's voice. But then he was back in control: 'Call me when it's clear. I
want to know exactly when they go in.'

'OK, Mr B.'

His moustache was as big as his ego, thought Mbali
Kaleni.

She was sitting with Jack Fischer at a round table in
his luxurious office. On one side was the expansive dark wood desk, on the other
a bookshelf covering the whole wall with what looked like legal reference
books. On each of the two remaining walls was a single large oil painting,
landscapes of the Bushveld and the Boland respectively. Behind the desk, deep
red, heavy curtains hung at the window. On the floor was a Persian carpet, new
and beautiful.

Fischer was approaching sixty with a full head of hair
painstakingly combed into a side parting. Greying temples framed the weathered
hawkish face, with the fine wrinkles of a lifelong smoker. And that wide,
extravagant moustache. She suspected the dark-blue suit was tailor-made, the
fit was too good.

She did not like him. His heartiness was false and
slightly condescending, the kind of attitude towards black people that was
typical of many Afrikaner men of a certain age. He had risen from his desk with
a blue folder in one hand and asked her to take a seat at the round table. He
opened the conversation with 'How can we help you?'
We.
And when she explained, he
smiled beneath his moustache. 'I see.' And: 'I would offer you refreshments but
I understand you brought your own.'

She did not react.

'You realise I am not obliged to release the
information without a warrant.'

She settled herself in the expensive chair and nodded.

'Nonetheless, we
are
former members of the Force.'

It was the 'nonetheless' that spurred her to show him
a thing or two about language.

'Nowadays we prefer to refer to the SAPS as "the
Service",' she told him. 'I was relying on the fact that former members
would appreciate the significance and urgency of a murder investigation.'

Once more he deployed that superior smile under his
moustache. 'We understand only too well. You will have my full cooperation.'

He opened the file. On the inside cover was the word 'AfriSound'
and a code number. She wondered whether the record company's accountant had
phoned him to let him know the police were on their way. That in itself would
be interesting.

'We simply tracked the AfriSound payment of fifty
thousand rand to the account of one Mr Daniel Lodewikus Vlok, and subsequently
contacted a subcontractor in Bloemfontein to go and talk to Mr Vlok. The
purpose of that conversation was merely to make sure Mr Vlok was aware of the
payment and the circumstances leading thereto. We did not want to point out an
innocent man to our client.'

'So the subcontractor assaulted him.' «

'Absolutely not.' Indignant.

She looked at him with an expression that said, she
might be a woman in a man's world, but that didn't mean he should think she was
stupid.

'Inspector Kaleni,' he said with that fake courtesy,
'we are the private investigation company with the fastest-growing turnover in
the country - because we are ethical and effective. Why would I put our future
in jeopardy by illegal activities?'

That was the moment she made the link between the ego
and moustache. 'The name and contact details of the subcontractor?'

He was reluctant to supply them. At first he just
gazed at one of his paintings, his body language expressing an inaudible sigh.
Then slowly he stood up to take the address book out of one of the drawers of
his giant desk.

Mat Joubert said he had to get going, because he could
see they were busy. Griessel walked with him to the door. Once they were out of
earshot of the others, the big detective said: 'Benny, I'm going to join Jack
Fischer's company.'

'Jissis
, Mat,' said Griessel.

Joubert shrugged his massive shoulders. 'I've thought
about it for a long time, Benny. It was a difficult decision. You know: I'm a
policeman.'

'Then why are you buggering off? For the money?' He
was angry with Joubert, now he was practically the last white man left in the
SAPS, and they had come a long way together.

'You know I wouldn't leave just for the money.'

Griessel looked away to where Vusi was sitting with
Oliver Sands. He knew Joubert was telling the truth, because Mat's wife
Margaret was financially very comfortable after a big inheritance. 'Why leave
then?'

'Because I'm not enjoying it any more, Benny. With SVC
I could contribute, but now ...'

Joubert had been commanding officer of the former
Serious and Violent Crimes Unit and he was good, the best boss Griessel had
ever worked for. So he nodded now with some understanding.

'I've been with the Provincial Task Force for four
months now, and I still don't have a portfolio,' said Joubert. 'No people, no
job description. They don't know what to do with me. John Afrika has told me I
have to accept that I will not be promoted - that is simply the way it is now.
That wouldn't bother me so much, but just sitting around ... I'm also getting
too old for all the shit, Benny, the National Commissioner's monkey business,
the disbanding of the Scorpions, the racial quotas that change every year;
everything is politicised. And if Zuma becomes President, the Xhosas will be
out and the Zulus will be in and everything will change again - a new
hierarchy, new agenda, new troubles.'

And where does that leave me, Griessel wanted to ask,
with growing apprehension, but he just kept looking at Joubert.

'I've done my bit, Benny. Everything I could for the
new country. What are my options at this age? I'll be fifty in July. There's a
man recruiting police for Australia, he came to see me, but why would I want to
go there? This is my country, I love this place ...'

'OK,' said Benny Griessel, because he could see how
serious Joubert was. He suppressed his own frustrations.

'I just wanted to let you know.'

'Thanks, Mat.. .When are you leaving?'

'End of the month.'

'Isn't Jack Fischer a bastard?'

Joubert smiled. Only Benny would say it like that.
'How many bastards have we worked for, Benny?'

Griessel grinned back. 'A lot.'

'Jack and I were together in the old Murder and
Robbery. He was a good detective, honest, even though he stopped at every
available mirror to comb his hair and moustache.'

Bill Anderson hurried down the stairs at nine minutes
past six in the West Lafayette morning. His lawyer, Connelly, and the city
Police Chief, Dombowski, were waiting in the hallway with his wife.

'Sorry to keep you waiting, Chief,' said Anderson. 'I
had to get dressed.'

The Police Chief, a big, middle-aged man with the nose
of an old boxer, put out his hand. 'I'm really sorry for the situation, Bill.'

'Thanks, Chief.'

'Shall we go?' asked Connelly.

The other two men nodded. Anderson took his wife's
hands in his. 'Jess, if she calls, just stay calm and find out as much as you
can.'

'I will.'

'And give her the number of the Captain. Ghree-zil,
she
must
call
him ...'

'Would you rather stay, Bill?' asked Connelly.

'No, Mike, I have to be there. I owe it to Erin and
her folks.' He opened the front door. The cold seeped in and his wife pulled
her dressing gown more tightly around her body. 'I've got my cell. You'll
call,' he said to her.

'Right away.'

They walked out on the porch. Anderson closed the door
behind him. Deep in thought, Jess returned slowly to the study.

The phone rang.

She started, with her hand to her heart in fright and
an audible intake of breath. Then she ran back to the front door, pulled it
open and saw the men getting into the police car.