Текст книги "Thirteen Hours"

Автор книги: Deon Meyer

Соавторы: Deon Meyer
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She came quickly across the street, with the horde of blue uniforms following in her wake.

Around him at the other tables, the restaurant clientele watched the procession with astonishment.

The young man in the apron waited for them on the veranda.

'Are you the man who called in about the girl?' Barry heard the black woman ask with authority.

'I am.'

'Then tell me everything.' She heard shuffling behind her and turned around to see the amused grins on the policemen's faces. Their smiles disappeared under her angry glare.

'You can't all stand in here. Go wait outside.'

Chapter 19

At seventeen minutes to four, American Eastern Standard Time – five hours behind Greenwich Mean Time and seven hours behind Cape Town, Bill Anderson sat at the laptop on his desk reading Internet articles about South Africa. His wife, Jess, sat on the leather couch behind him, her legs drawn up and covered with a blanket. She jumped when the phone rang shrilly.

He grabbed it. 'Bill Anderson,' he said, the concern discernible in his voice.

'Mr Anderson, my name is Dan Burton. I am the US Consul General in Cape Town.' The voice rang as clear as crystal despite the great distance. 'I know what a difficult time this must be for you.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Who is it?' Jess Anderson asked, coming to stand close to her husband. He held a hand over the receiver and whispered: 'The Consul General in Cape Town.' Then he held the phone so she could also hear.

'I can tell you that I've just got off the phone with both the National and Provincial Commissioners of the South African Police Services, and although they have not found Rachel yet...'

Jess Anderson made a small noise and her husband put his arm around her shoulders while they listened.

'...they have assured me they will leave no stone unturned until they have done so. They are allocating every available resource to the search as we speak, and they think it is only a matter of time ..

'Thank you, sir ...'

'Now, the only reason why the Ambassador himself is not calling you, is because he is away on official matters up north in Limpopo Province, but it is my job to coordinate all functions of the US Government in the Cape Town consular district, where I maintain contact with senior South African officials, both provincial and national...'

'Mr Burton ...'

'Please call me Dan ...'

'Our biggest concern is that Rachel said something about the police when she called.'

'Oh?'

'She said that she could not even go to the police.'

The Consul General was quiet for a moment. 'Did she say why?'

'No, she did not have time. She was very distressed, she said "they're here", and then I just heard noises ...'

'She said the police were there?'

'No ... I don't know ... She said "they're here, please help me" ... But the way she spoke about the police ... I don't know, it was my impression that she could not trust them. And I've been doing some reading on the Internet. It says here the man in charge of the whole police force over there is being charged with corruption and defeating the ends of justice....'

'Oh, my God,' said Jess, looking at the computer screen.

'Well ...' the Consul General seemed to need time to digest this information. 'I know how it looks, Mr Anderson, but I have every reason to believe the law enforcement people in Cape Town are highly competent and trustworthy. I will certainly call the Commissioner right away to get some answers ... In the meantime, I've taken the liberty of giving your phone number to the authorities. The Commissioner has assured me the officer in charge of the investigation will call you as soon as he can, and he will keep you updated on all developments. His name is ... Ghreezil, an Inspector Benny Ghreezil...'

'Ask about Erin,' whispered Jess Anderson.

'Mr Burton, Erin Russel... Is there any news about Erin?'

'It is with great sadness that I have to tell you that Miss Russel was killed last night, Mr Anderson ...' His wife let the blanket slip from her shoulders, put her hands on her husband's shoulders, pressed her face into his neck and wept.

Inspector Mbali Kaleni told the uniformed policemen that Carlucci's Restaurant was to be treated as a crime scene. She had the whole area cordoned off with yellow tape. Then she cleared the restaurant and had the employees and clients wait at the patio tables while two Constables took their names, addresses and statements.

She ordered a Sergeant to call Forensics to test the back and outside doors for fingerprints. She asked the young man in the apron, the one that had seen everything happen, to go with a Constable in a SAPS vehicle to the Caledon Square police station to help compile an Identikit image of the attackers. The young man said he couldn't; he was in charge of the shop. She asked him if there was someone he could call to replace him. He said he would try.

'Hurry up,' she said in her commanding way. 'We don't have time.'

'Did you check the number?' he asked her.

'What number?'

'The Land Rover's registration number. I got part of it. I gave it to the guys who were here.'

'I will check.'

Before the young man could walk away, she asked him to confirm in what direction the girl and her assailants had run. He pointed, but she held up a chubby hand and said, 'No, come show me.'

She put on her sporty Adidas dark glasses and led the way out of the restaurant, to the corner of Upper Orange and Belmont. The young man pointed towards the city centre. 'I want to make sure. You saw her run that way?'

'No, I told you, I didn't see her run in any other direction, so she must have gone down Upper Orange. The guys came back through the shop, shoved me, ran down to the corner, and the next thing, they came back for the Land Rover. Then they went that way too.'

'They were young?'

'Yes.'

'What is young?'

'I dunno, early twenties ...'

'Fit and strong?'

'Yes.'

She nodded and gestured that he could go. She called the Sergeant who had come to take the statement. He confirmed that he had radioed in the Land Rover's number.

'Call them. Ask them what they have found.'

He nodded and went over to a patrol car.

She looked at the street again.

Why would they come back for the Land Rover? Two young men, chasing a girl from two o'clock that morning. She must be exhausted, but they didn't run after her, they came back for a vehicle? Made no sense.

She wiped perspiration from her forehead, adjusted the strap of the big black handbag over her shoulder and put her hands on her hips. She was oblivious to the uniformed men watching her, sniggering and whispering behind their cupped hands.

She turned around slowly, looking down every street. She wiped her forehead again. They couldn't see her any more; that was the thing. The two attackers would have pursued her on foot if they could see her. She had disappeared; that was why they fetched the vehicle.

Kaleni called two young Constables who were leaning against a police van. 'You, and you,' she pointed, 'come here.'

They came, laughing self-consciously. She told them to go out the back of the restaurant as far as the wooden door, which was still bolted shut.

'But don't touch anything.'

'Yes, Inspector.'

'And when I say "go", you run back through the shop, out through the front door, until you get to me. Ask that guy with the apron exactly where they ran, then you follow the same route. You understand?'

'Yes, Inspector.'

'OK. Ngokushesha!'

Kaleni walked around the outside to the wooden door. She waited– until she could hear the Constables' footsteps in the alleyway on the other side of the door.

'Are you right next to the door?'

'Yes.'

'Don't touch anything.' She checked her watch, waited until the second hand was close to the twelve o'clock mark.

'Are you ready?'

'Yes.'

'When I say go ...' She counted down from five to one, then barked 'Go!' She heard them take off, feet echoing off the restaurant wall. She watched the second hand travel five, ten, fifteen, twenty, then the two Constables came around the corner. Twenty-four seconds to reach her.

'OK. Now, I want you to start from this door, and run down the street, as fast as you can.'

They looked at her, out of breath, but willing. They took off.

'No, wait!'

They stopped and turned back. They weren't smiling now.

'I will say "go" again,' she said, her eyes on the watch. She Waited for the twelve mark again, counting down, and shouted 'Go!' They sprinted away and she kept an eye on them and the watch. The young man had said the attackers had pushed him over. Add one second for that, maybe two. They might have run outside and, not knowing in which direction she had gone, stopped and looked up Upper Orange and to the right down Belmont. Another two or three seconds.

She marked the Constables' progress at twenty-four and thirty seconds, then yelled at them, 'OK!', but they were out of earshot and kept on running, two blue uniforms in full flight down the long hill.

'Hey!' she tried again, to no avail.

'Isidomu,' she muttered and began to walk down the street herself, keeping her eyes on the thirty-second mark.

Rachel Anderson heard the sirens racing up the street only twenty metres from where she lay in the bougainvillea bush. She knew they were for her because the man in the restaurant would surely have called the police. And she could hear how the wailing stopped nearby, just up on the corner.

She lay still. All the thorns were out now, only the stinging of her wounds remained, Her breathing was normal, the sweat dried in the deep cool shade. They wouldn't be able to see her, even if they walked past down the street, even if they came into the garden.

She would wait until they stopped looking. Until they went away. Then she would decide what to do.

Mbali Kaleni walked to the corner of Upper Orange and Alexandra Avenue – more or less the twenty-four second mark. She walked slowly across the road to the opposite pavement.

The girl must have turned left here into Alexandra. That was why the men couldn't see her.

Something wasn't right.

She stared up Alexandra Avenue. The slope. A very tired girl. This morning early, before six, someone saw her high up on Lion's Head. Just after ten she was down here in Oranjezicht. She had come a long way, but she was on her way down, to the city. So would she get here and choose a street that led away from her destination? It was uphill, steep; it would be hell' on tired legs.

But if you are afraid and your pursuers right behind ...

Deep in thought, Kaleni rested her hand on the white picket fence of the single-storey Victorian house on her left. She looked for the two running uniformed idiots. Yes, there they were, walking back, chatting happily.

A block further on was the Molteno Reservoir. But that was more than forty seconds from Carlucci's, even if Rachel Anderson could run as fast as two fresh, fit constables. No, she had to have turned this corner. Or ...

Kaleni considered the Victorian house, looked at the fence. It was the only house in this part of the street without high walls or fences – the only alternative.

That's when she saw the damage to the flower bed. The ground cover was scraped away in a broad swathe. She took off her dark glasses. The palm prints were there, the footprints beyond, three of them before the edge of the lawn. She judged by sight the distance between the fence and the damage. Could someone climb over here? And land there?

She walked on, looking for the garden gate, and found it. She jogged over to it, an odd, hurried figure with a handbag over her shoulder, pistol on her hip and dark glasses in her hand.

'I'm not white enough for her,' Fransman Dekker said when Griessel concluded his call with Vusi.

'What?' said Griessel, his attention still on the phone. 'Sorry, Fransman, I have four more messages ...' He put it to his ear again. 'Melinda?' he asked.

'I can't talk to a man ...' Dekker said, in falsetto sarcasm.

'I'll be finished soon ...' Griessel listened. 'It's John Afrika ...'

Dekker took two steps down the passage and turned. 'But it's because I'm a hotnot. Fucking hypocritical gospel singers ...' he said and shook his head.

'John Afrika again ...' Griessel shook his head.

'Such a great Christian,' said Dekker.

'I have to phone the Commissioner back,' Griessel said apologetically. 'The girl... She phoned her father. In America .. . Commissioner, it's Benny ...'

Dekker stopped at the studio door, pressed a palm against it, leaned on it and bent his head.

Griessel said 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir' over the phone, until at last: 'I'm on my way, I'll be there now.' He switched off the phone again.

'She won't talk to you because you're coloured?' he asked Dekker.

'That's not what she says, but it's what she means.'

'Fuck that. She can get a lawyer, and she can ask for a woman to be present, those are her choices ...'

'You tell her.'

'That's exactly what I'm going to do,' said Griessel. And then the lights went out.

Chapter 20

Ndabeni was restless. He drank the last of the tea, put the cup on the tray and pushed it away. How long would it be before the people arrived, before Petr had his staff awake and on the go? What was Mbali Kaleni doing with his case up at the restaurant? That was where the action was; there was nothing going on here. Perhaps he would wait another ten minutes. If no one had arrived by then ...

Then the big room went dark, everything eerily quiet, even the air conditioning off. Another power cut. Yesterday it had lasted for three hours.

Pitch black, he could see nothing.

He had to get out. He felt for his cell phone, pressed a key to light up the screen and turned it so the light shone over the table, picked up his notebook and pen and got up. He walked carefully between the tables and chairs, down the passage. A faint yellow band of light shone out of Galina Federova's office. He walked over to it, saw she had lit a candle and was busy pushing another into the neck of an empty beer bottle.

'Hi,' he said.

She jumped, said something that sounded like 'Bogh' and nearly dropped the beer bottle.

'I'm sorry ..

'Eskom,' she shrugged.

'What can you do?' he asked, rhetorically.

She lit the second candle as well, sat down behind her desk and took out a cigarette.

'I can do nothing.' She lit the cigarette from the candle.

Perhaps Russians were not into rhetorical questions. 'I'm sorry, but I will have to go.' 'I can bring you a candle.'

'No. The girl... she was seen.'

'Oh?' The pencil-drawn eyebrows were raised high. He didn't know how to read that. Vusi took a business card out of his pocket and put it down in front of her. 'Please, would you call me when the people from last night arrive?'

Federova picked up the card in her long nails. 'OK.'

'Thank you,' said Vusi. Using his cell phone as a torch, he walked back the way he had come in, through the kitchen, where Ponytail was counting booze bottles by the light coming in from the back door.

'What you do about the power? What the police do?'

He considered explaining carefully to the man that the police had nothing to do with the electricity supply. But he just said: 'We call Eskom.'

Vusi walked out of the back door into the alley, where the sunlight was blinding. He heard Ponytail call: 'Funny. I love funny cop,' but he was in a hurry and his car was up in Long Street, more than ten minutes' walk. He wanted to talk to Kaleni at the restaurant, he wanted ... Vusi stopped just where the alley opened into Strand Street. There was something he could do, even if Benny Griessel said he didn't want Organised Crime involved. He chose Vaughn Cupido's number and called him.

'Speak to me,' Cupido answered immediately.

'Do you have photos of Demidov's people?'

Cupido didn't answer.

'Vaughn, are you there?'

'Why do you ask?' suspiciously.

'Do you, Vaughn?'

'I cannot confirm or deny.'

'What does that mean?'

'It means I'm just an Inspector. You will have to ask higher up.'

'Ask who?'

'The Senior Sup.'

'Vaughn, we have a man who saw two of the attackers in Oranjezicht just now. If he can ID Demidov's people ... It could save the girl's life.'

It was quiet again.

'Vaughn?'

'Let me get back to you ...'

Rachel Anderson heard the click-click of a woman's shoes on the garden path just metres away from her, and another sound, the rhythmic whisper of fabric on fabric. The noise stopped abruptly, then she heard a sigh and someone knocking loudly. Rachel kept her breathing shallow; she turned her head slowly so she could see her feet. Was she deep enough into the bushes?

Again someone hammered on the door. 'Hello, anybody home?' in an African accent, a woman, urgent.

What did it mean?

'Hey, guys!' the same voice barked, authoritarian. 'I called you back, but you did not hear.'

A man's voice answered from the street, then the same African woman: 'No, stay on the pavement, this might be a crime scene. Just go and tell them at the restaurant I need Forensics. Shoe imprints, I want them cast and identified.'

There was the sound of a door opening and a man's voice: 'Can I help you?'

'How are you?'

'That is not an appropriate question. Why are you hammering on my door?' The man's voice answered calm, timid.

'Because your doorbell is broken.'

'It's not broken. There is a power failure.'

'What? Again?'

'Yes. Can I help you?'

'I am Inspector Mbali Kaleni of the SAPS. We are looking for a girl who is running away from assailants, and I think she was in your garden. I want to know if you saw her.'

'I didn't see her ...'

'Over there. Can you come and take a look?'

'Is that your police ID?'

'Yes.'

'When did this happen?'

'About forty minutes ago. Can you please come and look at your garden? You did not see her?'

'No. But I heard her ..

Rachel Anderson's heart went cold.

'You did?'

'Yes,' said the man. 'I heard footsteps, around the corner of the house ...'

'Here?'

'Yes, just here. But I heard her run to the wall there, I think she jumped over, to the next house. By the time I looked through the window, she was gone.'

'Take a look at the tracks,' said the policewoman.

There was a moment of relief as the voices faded, but her pulse accelerated again because she didn't know where her tracks led. Then she remembered falling in the flower bed when she jumped over the wall. Was that all? Did the tracks lead here? She had stepped in damp ground; mud might have stuck to the grass or the slate of the path.

She heard the woman's footsteps on the path again. She kept dead still and closed her eyes.

Benny Griessel opened the big door of the AfriSound recording studio angrily. John Afrika had told him to hurry; they were waiting for him. The room was pitch dark, as it had no windows. The shaft of light from the open door illuminated Melinda; she stood with big, frightened eyes, hands folded across her breast, Bambi In Danger. He said, 'The power is off,' and she dropped her hands. Had she thought the darkened room was a police ploy?

He went up to her and said with all the patience he could muster: 'Madam, you will have to talk to Inspector Dekker. With or without your lawyer. That is your choice. You can request that a female officer be present, but you are not a victim; it's his discretion.'

'A female officer?' she was confused.

'A female member of the police.'

She thought for a moment. Then she said: 'He misunderstood me.'

'Oh?'

'After yesterday's events, I only meant it would be easier to talk to a woman about it.'

A meek little lamb without guile.

'So what do you want to do?'

'I just want to be sure it's confidential.'

He explained to her that if she or Josh were charged, nothing could be confidential.

'But we didn't do anything.'

'Then it will all be confidential.' So she agreed and he had to ask bloody Mouton where Fransman could question Melinda, because the studio was too dark. Natasha brought in a gas lamp and put it near Melinda in the recording studio.

Griessel and Dekker watched Natasha walk away. When she disappeared around the corner, Benny pulled his colleague by the arm as far as Adam Barnard's empty office. He had received a message from the Commissioner that he needed to pass on to Dekker. He knew what his reaction would be. There was only one way to do it: 'John Afrika says I must bring Mbali Kaleni in to help you.'

Fransman Dekker exploded. Not straight away, as if the implications mounted up in him first. Then he stood up straight, his eyes wild, his mouth opening and closing once, then the jaw muscles clamped shut, twitching as it all burst out and he hammered his fist against Adam Barnard's door:' Jirre-jissis!' He spun around, aimed for the door again, but Griessel had him, gripped his arm.

'Fransman!'

Dekker struggled to hold the arm. 'It stays your case.'

The coloured detective stopped, eyes staring, arms still up in the air. Griessel felt the strength in the shoulders as he pulled against them.

'I've got a son in Matric,' said Griessel. 'He's always telling me "Pa you must chill" and I think that is what you must do now, Fransman.'

Dekker's jaw began to work again. He jerked his arm out of Griessel's grasp and glared angrily at the door.

'You let everything wind you up, Fransman. It doesn't help shit.'

'You would never understand.'

'Try me.'

'How can I? You're white.'

'What is that supposed to mean?'

'It means you're not coloured,' he said, an angry finger pointed at Griessel's face.

'Fransman, I have no fucking idea ...'

'Did you see, Benny? Last week, with the Commissioner? How many coloureds were there?'

'You were the only one.'

'Yes, just me. Because they push the darkies. That's why they are sending Kaleni. They must be pushed in everywhere. I'm just a fucking statistic, Benny, I'm just there to fill their fucking quota. Did you watch the Commissioner on Thursday? He only had eyes for the bloody Xhosas, he didn't even see me. Eight per cent Coloureds. Eight fucking per cent. That's how many of us they want. Who decided that? How? Do you know how many brown people that has ruined. Thousands, I'm telling you. Not black enough, sorry, brother, off you go, get a job with Coin Security, go and drive a fucking cash van. But not me, Benny, I'm not going anywhere.' Fransman Dekker's zeal drove him to the words and rhythms of his Atlantis childhood. 'It's my fokken life. I was just so big, I said to my ma I'm gonna be a policeman. She skivvied her gat af so I could get Matric and go to the polieste. Not drive a fokken cash van ...'

He wiped spit from his lips. Griessel said: 'I do understand, Fransman, but...'

'You think so? Have you been marginalised all your life? Now that you whiteys have affirmative action at your backs, now you think you understand? You understand fokkol, I'm telling you. You were either Baas or Klaas, we were fokkol, always, we weren't white enough then, we're not black enough now; it never ends, stuck in the fucking middle of the colour palette. Now this white Christian lady says no, she's not talking to a man, but she doesn't know I can read her like I can read all the whiteys.'

'Can you read me, Fransman?' Griessel was growing angry too.

Dekker didn't reply, but turned away breathing heavily.

Griessel walked around him, so he could talk to his face. 'They say you've got ambition. Now listen to me, I threw my fokken career away because I didn't have control, because I let the shit get to me. That's why I'm standing here now. I didn't have any more options. Do you want options, Fransman? Or do you want to still be an Inspector at forty-four, with a job description that says "mentor" because they don't know what the fuck to do with you? Do you know how that feels? They look you up and down and think, what kak did you get up to that you're just a fucking Inspector with all that grey hair? Is that what you want? Do you want to be more than a bloody race statistic in the Service? Do you want to be the best policeman you can be? Then drop the shit and take the case and solve it, never mind what they say or how they talk to you or who John Afrika sends to help you. You have rights, just like Melinda Geyser. There are rules. Use them. In any case, you can do what you want, it won't change. I have been a policeman for over twenty-five years, Fransman, and I'm telling you now, they will always treat you like a dog, the people, the press, the bosses, politicians, regardless of whether you are black, white or brown. Unless they're phoning you in the middle of the night saying "there's someone at the window" – then you're the fucking hero. But tomorrow when the sun shines, you're nothing again. The question is: can you take it? Ask yourself that. If you can't, drop it, get another job. Or put up with it, Fransman, because it's never going to stop.'

Dekker stood still, breathing heavily.

Griessel wanted to say more, but he decided against it. He stepped away from Dekker, his brain at work, shifting his focus.

'I don't believe it was Josh Geyser. If he's lying, he deserves a fucking Oscar. Melinda is the only alibi he has, and there's something about her ... she doesn't know what he said, let her talk, get her to give you more detail about yesterday, exactly what happened, then phone me and we can compare their stories. I have to go and see the Commissioner.'

Dekker didn't look at him. Griessel walked away down the passage.

'Benny,' said Dekker when he was almost in the reception area. Griessel turned.

'Thank you,' with reluctant frankness.

Griessel gestured with his hand and left.

One of the men in the lounge got up from an ostrich leather couch and tried to intercept him. Benny tried to avoid eye contact, but the man was too quick for him. 'Are you from the police?' He was tall, just over thirty, with a face that seemed very familiar to Griessel.

In a hurry and bothered, he said: 'Yes, but I can't talk to you now.' He would have liked to add 'because they are fucking me around', but he didn't. 'My colleague is still inside. Talk to him when he comes out,' and he jogged down the stairs, across the grass to where his car was parked.

There was a parking ticket stuck to the windscreen, right in the middle of the driver's window.

'Fuck,' he said, frustration surging over his dam wall of self– control. More paperwork that he didn't need. Metro Police had time to write fucking parking tickets, but don't ask them to help with anything else. He left the ticket right where it was, climbed in, started the engine and reversed out, grinding the gears as he drove away. He was going to ask the Commissioner for a clear job description.

Benny Griessel, Great Mentor, just didn't work for him. He had asked John Afrika last Thursday exactly what this job entailed. The answer: 'Benny, you're my safety net, my supervisor. Just keep an eye, check the crime scene management, don't let them miss suspects. Bliksem, Benny, we train them until it's coming out of everybody's ears, but the minute they stand on the scene, either it's stage fright or just plain sloppiness, I don't know. Maybe we're pushing them too fast, but I have to meet my targets, what else can I do? Look at the bliksemse Van der Vyver case; he's suing the Minister for millions; we just can't let that happen. Look over shoulders, Benny, give a gentle nudge where necessary.'

A fucking gentle nudge?

He had to brake suddenly for the traffic jam up ahead, two rows of cars, ten deep. The power cut meant all the traffic lights were down. Chaos.

'Jissis,' he said aloud. At least Eskom was one state institution that was worse than the SAPS.

He leaned back against the seat. It wouldn't help to get angry.

But, fuck it, what were you supposed to do?

From one case to the next. First here, then there. That was a recipe for a disaster.

If Josh Geyser wasn't the one who shot Barnard ...

That guy inside, he remembered now who he was. Ivan Nell, the star, he'd heard all his stuff on RSG; good, modulated rock, although he was stingy with the bass. He was sorry he hadn't talked to him quickly, he could have written to Carla about it tonight, but that's how it went, time for fuck all except sitting in the traffic, cursing.

He was hungry too. Only coffee since last night, he would have to do something about his blood sugar and suddenly he had a desire to smoke. He opened the cubbyhole, scratched around and found a half-pack of Chesterfield and a box of Lion matches. He lit one, wound the window down and felt the heat rising up from the street surface and flowing into the window.

He drew on the cigarette, slowly blowing out the smoke. It dammed up against the windscreen, then wafted out the window.

This morning Alexa Barnard had offered him a cigarette and he had said no thank you. 'An alcoholic that doesn't smoke?' she had asked. He had said he was trying to cut down because his AA sponsor was a doctor.

Then she said get another sponsor.

He liked her.

He should never have given her the alcohol.

And then he remembered that he wanted to atone for his mistake. He felt in his pocket while moving one car-length forward, found the phone and pressed the keys with his thumb.

It rang for a long time, as usual.

'Benny!' said Doc Barkhuizen, always bloody upbeat. 'Are you persevering?'

'Doc, you ever heard of the famous singer, Xandra Barnard?'

'They're taking a lot of interest in a house here,' said Barry over the cell phone. He drove slowly down Upper Orange in his beat– up red Toyota single-cab.

'What sort of interest?'

'There's a thousand uniformed Constables on the pavement, and this fat woman detective standing in the garden with a geriatric guy.'

'So find out what it's about.'

Barry looked at the houses in the street. On the right, a hundred metres down and opposite the Victorian house was a possibility. A long tar driveway to a single garage. 'Yeah...' He saw the uniforms watching him. 'Maybe. But not right now, there are too many eyes. Let me give it ten minutes or so ...'