Thirteen Hours (4 page)

The detectives were quiet. They watched her open her case,
take out gloves and kneel beside the girl.

Vusi came closer. 'Benny, I asked the photographer to take
pictures that ... don't show the damage. Pictures of her face. I want to show
them around here in Long Street. We have to identify her. Maybe give them to
the media as well.'

Griessel nodded. 'Good idea. But you will have to put
pressure on the photographer. They're slow ...'

'I will.' Ndabeni bent down to the pathologist. 'Doctor, if
you could give me an idea of how long she has been dead ...'

Tiffany October didn't look up. 'It's too soon ...'

Griessel wondered where Prof Phil Pagel, the chief
pathologist, was this morning. Pagel would have sat there and given them a
calculated guess that would have been within thirty minutes of the actual time
of death. He would have dipped a finger in the pool of blood, prodded the
corpse here and there, saying it was the small muscles that displayed rigor
mortis first, and he thought she had been dead for approximately so many hours,
which he would later confirm. But Tiffany October did not have Pagel's
experience.

'Give us a guess,' said Griessel.

'Really, I can't.'

She's afraid of getting it wrong, Griessel thought. He moved
toward Vusi and spoke softly, close to his ear, so that she would not hear.
'She's been lying there a while, Vusi. The blood is black already.'

'How long?'

'Don't know. Four hours ... maybe more. Five.'

'OK. So we'll have to get moving.'

Griessel nodded. 'Get those photos quickly. And talk to the
Metro people, Vusi. They have video cameras monitoring the streets - in Long
Street as well. Let's hope the stuff was working last night. The control centre
is in Wale Street. There just might be something ...'

'Thanks, Benny.'

She fell asleep, against the wall, behind the shrubbery.

She had wanted to rest for just a moment. She shut her eyes
and sank back with her backpack against the wall and her legs stretched out in
front of her, trying to escape the exhaustion and the tension for a little
while. The events of the night were demons in her mind. To escape that, she had
thought about her parents, what time it would be at home, but the calculation
of time zones was too much for her. If it had been early morning in Lafayette
her father would be sitting with the paper, the
Journal & Courier,
shaking his head over the comments of Joe Tiller,
the Perdue football coach. Her mother would be late, as always, her heels
clattering down the stairs, in too much of a hurry, the battered brown leather
briefcase over her shoulder, 'I'm late, I'm late, how can I be late again?' and
father and daughter would share their ritual smile over the kitchen table. This
routine, this haven, the safety of her family home overwhelmed her with
terrible longing and she wanted to phone them, right now, hear their voices,
tell them how much she loved them. She carried on this imaginary conversation,
with her father answering gently and calmly, until sleep crept up and overcame
her.

Dr Tiffany October called them: 'Inspector ...'

'Yes?'

'I could speculate a little ...'

Griessel wondered if she had overheard him talking.

'Anything could help ...'

'I think she died here, at the scene. The blood pattern shows
that he cut her throat while she lay here. I think he held her flat on the
ground, on her stomach, and then he cut her. There are no splash marks to show
that she was standing.'

'Oh ...' He had already worked all that out.

'And these two cuts ...' She pointed at the two cuts on the
girl's shoulder blades.

'Yes?'

'It seems as if they were inflicted post mortem.'

He nodded.

'These look like fibres here ...' Dr October used a small
pair of tweezers carefully around the wound. 'Synthetic material, a dark
colour, totally different from her clothing ...'

Ndabeni looked at the forensic team, now walking bent over
along the pathway, heads together, eyes searching, mouths never still. 'Jimmy,'
he called, 'here's something for you ...' Then he crouched down with the
pathologist.

She said: 'I think he cut something off her back. Something
like a backpack, you know, the two shoulder straps ...'

Jimmy knelt beside her. Tiffany October showed him the
fibres. 'I'll wait until you've collected them.'

'OK,' said Jimmy. He and his partner took out instruments to
collect the fibres. They continued an earlier conversation, as though there had
been no interruption: 'I'm telling you it's Amore.'

'It's not Amore, it's Amor,' said fat Arnold and took a thin
transparent plastic bag out of his bag. He kept it ready.

'What are you talking about?' asked Vusi.

'Joost's wife.'

'Joost who?'

'Van der Westhuizen.'

'Who's that?'

'The rugby player.'

'He was Springbok captain, Vusi.'

'I'm more of a soccer guy.'

'Anyway, she has this pair of ...' Arnold used his hands to
indicate big breasts. Tiffany October looked away, offended. 'I'm just stating
a fact,' said Arnold defensively.

Carefully Jimmy pulled the fibres out of the wound with
tweezers. 'Her name is Amore,' he said.

'It's Amor, I'm telling you. So this
ou
climbs on the stage with her and ...'

'What
ou?
asked Vusi.

'I don't know. Some
ou
that
went to see one of her shows. So he grabs the microphone and says "you've
got the best tits in the business", he says to Amor and Joost was the
moer in,
heavily upset.'

'What was she doing on the stage?' asked Griessel.

'Jeez, Benny, don't you read the
You
magazine? She's a singer.'

'So Joost grabs him after the show and says, "You can't
talk to my wife like that", and the
ou
says to Joost, "But she
has
got nice
tits" ...' Arnold laughed uproariously.

Jimmy hee-heed along. Tiffany October walked off towards the
wall, clearly annoyed.

'What?' said the short one innocently after her. 'It's a true
story ...'

'You should say "bosom",' said Jimmy.

'But it's what the
ou
said.'

'Now why didn't
Joost just
klap
him?'
'That's what
I'd like to know. He tackled Jonah Lomu till his teeth rattled ...'

'Jonah who?' asked Vusi.

'Jeez, Vusi, that huge New Zealand winger. Anyway, Joost
breaks booms at security gates when he's the hell-in, he's hell on wheels on
the rugby field, but he won't smack a guy that talks about his wife's
t...
uh, bosoms.'

'Let's be reasonable, how is he going to get that past the
magistrate? The guy's lawyer just has to whip out a stack of
You
magazines and say "Your Honour, check this
out, in every photo her exhibits are displayed, from Tittendale down to Naval
Hill". What can you expect, the guys
will
talk about your wife's assets like they belong to them.'

'That's true. But I'm telling you, it's Amor.'

'Never.'

'You're thinking of Amore Bekker, the DJ.'

'Nuh-uh. But let me tell you one thing: I wouldn't let my
wife walk around like that.'

'Your wife doesn't have the best tits in the business. If
you've got it, flaunt it...'

'Are you finished?' asked Benny.

'We have to finish the path and do the wall,' said Jimmy and
got to his feet. Vusi called the photographer over. 'How soon can I get my
pictures of the face?' The photographer, young, curly-haired, shrugged. 'I'll
see what I can do.'

Tell him not a damn, thought Griessel. Vusi just nodded.

'No,' said Griessel. 'We need them before eight. It's not
negotiable.'

The photographer walked away to the wall, not bothering to
hide his attitude. Griessel looked after him with disgust. 'Thanks, Benny,'
said Vusi quietly.

'Don't be too nice, Vusi.'

'I know ...'

After an uncomfortable silence, he asked: 'Benny, what am I
missing?'

Griessel kept his voice gentle, counselling. 'The backpack.
It must have been robbery, Vusi. Her money, passport, cell phone ...'

Ndabeni caught on quickly. 'You think they dumped the
backpack somewhere.' Griessel couldn't stand around like this any more. He
looked about him, at the pavement where the spectators were getting out of
hand. 'I'll handle that, Vusi, let's give the Metro guys something to do.' He
went up to the wall and called to the uniforms. 'Who's in charge here?'

They just looked at each other.

'This pavement is ours,' said a coloured Metro policeman in
an impressive uniform, emblems of rank all over it. Field Marshal at the very
least, Griessel mused.

'Yours?'

'That's right.'

He felt the anger rise. He had an issue with the whole
concept of the city police, fucking traffic cops that didn't do their jobs,
total absence of law enforcement on the roads. He restrained himself and
pointed a finger at a SAPS Constable: 'I want you to seal off this pavement,
from down there to up to here. If people want to stand around they can do it on
the other side of the street.'

The Constable shook his head. 'We don't have any tape.'

'Then go and get some.'

The SAPS man did not like to be the one singled out, but he
turned and went off through the crowd. From his left-hand side an ambulance
approached with some difficulty through the crowd.

'This is our pavement,' said the heavily ranked Metro
policeman stubbornly.

'Are you the chief in charge here?' Benny asked him.

'Yes.'

'What is your name?'

'Jeremy Oerson.'

'And the pavements are under your jurisdiction?'

'Yes.'

'Perfect,' said Griessel. 'Make sure that the ambulance parks
here. Right here. And then I want you to inspect every pavement and alley
within six blocks of here, livery dustbin, every nook and cranny, got that?'

The man gave him a long look. Probably weighing up the
implications should he refuse. Then he nodded, sourly, and began barking orders
at his men.

Griessel turned back to Vusi.

'You need to look at this,' the pathologist called from where
she was crouched by the body.

They went over to her. With a pair of tweezers, she held up a
clothing label, the one from the back of the girl's T-shirt.

'Broad Ripple Vintage, Indianapolis,' she said and gave them
a meaningful look.

'What does that mean?' asked Vusi Ndabeni.

'I think she's American,' she said.

'Oh fuck,' said Benny Griessel. 'Are you sure?'

Tiffany October's eyes widened somewhat at his language and
her tone of voice confirmed it: 'Pretty sure.'

'Trouble,' said Ndabeni. 'Big trouble.'

In the library of the big house in Brownlow Street,
Tamboerskloof, the shrill, terrified screams of the maid shocked Alexandra Barnard
from her sleep.

It was a surreal moment. She had no idea where she was, her
limbs felt peculiar, stiff and unwieldy, and her thoughts were as sluggish as
molasses. She lifted her head and tried to focus. She saw the plump woman at
the door, mouth twisted in what she at first recognised as revulsion. Then the
noise penetrated to the marrow.

Alexandra realised she was lying on her back on the Persian
rug and wondered how she had come to be there. As she became aware of the
horrible taste in her mouth and the fact that she had spent the night on the
floor in a drunken stupor, she followed the gaze of Sylvia Buys: someone was
lying beside the large brown leather armchair opposite her. She pushed herself
up on her arms, wishing Sylvia would stop screaming. She couldn't recall anyone
drinking with her last night. Who could it be? She sat upright, and with better
perspective, recognised the figure. Adam. Her husband. He was wearing only one
shoe, the other foot wore a drooping sock, as if he had been in the process of
taking it off. Black trousers, and a white shirt smeared with black on the
chest.

Then, as if someone had eventually focused the camera's lens,
she realised that Adam was wounded. The black on the shirt was blood, the shirt
itself was torn. She pressed her hands on the carpet to get up. She was
confused, stunned. She saw the bottle and glass on the wooden table beside her.
Her fingers touched something and she looked down and saw the firearm lying
next to her. She recognised it, Adam's pistol. What was it doing here?