Текст книги "Thirteen Hours"

Автор книги: Deon Meyer

Соавторы: Deon Meyer
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12:57-14:01

Chapter 31

 

A waitress, two waiters and a barman remembered Erin Russel and Rachel Anderson. Griessel had them sit at a separate table with Vusi. He took a seat with his back to the bar so he couldn't see the bloody bottles, but there was nothing he could do about the smell.

'The rest can go home,' Galina Federova ordered.

'No, I still need them.' The Carlucci's man still had to see if he recognised any of them.

'For what?'

She was starting to get on Griessel's nerves. He wanted to tell her it was none of her fucking business, he didn't like her attitude, but his urgency to gain any available information made him hold back. 'Let them wait ten minutes,' he said, curtly, so she'd get the message, stop messing them around.

She said something in Russian, shook her head and walked out. Griessel watched her leave. Then he slowly turned back, trying to clear his head as he asked the young people around the table. 'Who would like to start?'

'They were sitting right here,' said one of the waiters, pointing at a table close by and fiddling self-consciously with a necklace of wooden beads around his neck. And then all the waiters suddenly looked up at the door behind Griessel. He turned as well. Mat Joubert stood there, a bag of takeaways in each hand.

'Carry on,' said Joubert, 'I'm with Captain Griessel.' He approached the table, put down the bags, took out boxes and pushed them towards Vusi and Benny. The aroma of chips made Griessel's belly stir.

'Thanks, Mat.'

'Thanks, Sup,' said Ndabeni.

Joubert just nodded in acknowledgement, pulled up a chair and joined them at the table.

'This is Senior Superintendent Mat Joubert of the Provincial Task Force,' Griessel told the waiters, as he saw they were intimidated by the size of his colleague. 'He's not a patient man,' he lied, for good measure. He looked at the waiter who had spoken first. 'Where were we?'

The waiter looked at Griessel and then respectfully at Joubert, his voice suddenly sincere. 'Those two in the photo were sitting alone at first. I served them. They were drinking Brutal Fruit. This one, the blondie, she was partying hard. The other one only had four or five, the whole evening. A bit strange.'

'Why?' asked Griessel. He tore open the sachet of Steers salt and sprinkled it over his chips.

'The backpackers ... usually they booze it up.'

Griessel suppressed the impulse to look at the rows of bottles behind the bar. 'How did you know they were backpackers?' he asked, using the plastic fork to spear a few chips and pop them into his salivating mouth.

The waiter's face gained a sincere frown. 'I have been working here for two years now ...'

With his mouth full of potato, Griessel could only nod, motioning with his fork for the young man to elaborate.

'You get to know them. The tan, the clothes, the accents ... and they don't tip much.'

'When did they arrive?'

'Um, let's see ... before my first smoke break, about nine, say.'

Griessel speared more chips. 'And they were sitting on their own at first?'

'For a while. Then the place filled up. I do eight tables – I can't say precisely. They were dancing; lots of guys asked them. At one time there were five at the table – friends, it seemed.'

'Boys or girls?'

'Ah ... both ... Listen, you have to understand ...' He looked specifically at Mat Joubert,'... it's chaos here when the place is full. I remember the girls, because they were pretty, but that's about all.'

'So you don't remember the men who sat with them?'

'No.'

'Would you recognise them if you saw them again?'

'Maybe.'

Griessel popped open the tab on the can of cold drink. 'And you?' he addressed the rest.

'I just saw them dancing,' said the waitress. 'My tables are over there. They were dancing together a lot, which isn't that strange, but they looked as though they were arguing, you know, they were standing there arguing and dancing. But that's all I can tell you.'

With a mouth full of Dagwood burger, Griessel nodded in the direction of the barman. 'This one ...' he said, identifying Erin Russel with a finger tapping on the photo, 'she ... My post is the top end of the bar. Two guys were standing there drinking, and she came up there at one stage and talked to them. I remember her because I thought that's the ten ass of the evening, she talked to these two ...'

'The ten what?'

'It's a game we barmen have. We give points for the best legs and ass and ... so on. Out of ten. And ...'

'You're sick,' said the waitress.

'What about you girls? The other day when that guy from

Idols..'

Mat Joubert leaned his arms slowly on the table, making his broad shoulders appear even broader. The barman bit off his words and looked guiltily at Joubert. 'In any case, she had a ten ass. The rest wasn't bad either. Definitely nine legs and I reckon an eight...'

'Tell me about the men,' Griessel said impatiently.

'The one ... I sort of remember his face, he's been here before ... the other one, I don't know ... Two friends, I think, they were drinking together, not dancing, just standing at the bar and chatting.'

'And then?' 'I told the other barmen we had a ten butt at the bend. There, where the bar counter turns to the wall. But when I looked back, she was gone. And the men left suddenly too.'

'Wait, wait, wait. She stood and talked with them? What about? Could you hear?'

'No, I wasn't... paying attention.'

'You were looking at her bum,' said the waitress crossly.

The barman ignored her.

'And then she left?'

'I didn't actually see her leave.'

'How long was she with them?'

He thought about that. 'Look, I didn't see her arrive, we're always on the go, there are never enough barmen here. All I know is that I saw her standing there. I had a quick look, and then I went to get more drinks, and when I had a chance to have a decent look, I noticed her butt. I went to tell Andy and them, but when I wanted to show them, she was gone. She might have been there for five minutes. Or ten ...'

'When they left, were they in a hurry?'

'Absolutely.'

'What time was that?'

'Round about... Well, it was late, I can't say exactly, sometime after one o'clock?'

Griessel and Vusi looked at each other. This was getting interesting. 'You have seen one of them here before?'

'I think so. He seemed slightly familiar.'

'Describe him to me.'

'Tallish guy ...' His words dried up.

'Old? Young? Black? White?'

'No, a white guy about my age, early twenties, short darkish hair, very tanned ...'

'And the other one?'

'Black guy, also early twenties ...'

The waiter with the wooden beads suddenly pointed a finger at the door behind Griessel's back and said excitedly: 'That oke was at their table last night.'

The detectives turned quickly. Against the wall, waiting patiently, were three SAPS men in blue uniforms. One had a large, transparent rubbish bag on the floor beside him. Between them stood Oliver Sands and a young man Griessel hadn't seen before. 'Yes, we know,' said Griessel.

'The other man is the guy from Carlucci's,' said Vusi, and stood up. Griessel followed him.

'Is that the bag for me from Metro?' Griessel asked one of the uniforms.

'Yes, Inspector.'

'It's Captain now,' said Mat Joubert from the table.

'Genuine, Benny?' asked Vusi, and there was real happiness in his voice.

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.'

Chapter 32

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.

'Bill!' she shouted, her voice shrill and frightened.

He came running and she hurried to the phone.

Rachel Anderson sat at the table where Piet van der Lingen's laptop and a myriad reference books and papers were strewn across the table. In her ear the phone kept ringing on another continent – far too long, she thought, what was her father doing?

'Rachel?' Her mother said suddenly, anxious and out of breath.

'Mom!' Rachel was caught off guard, expecting her father's calm.

'Oh, my God, Rachel, where are you, are you all right?' She could hear the underlying hysteria and fear.

'Mom, I'm fine, I'm with a very kind man, I'm safe for now ...'

'Oh, thank God, thank God. We've spoken to the police over there, we've spoken to the Ambassador and the Congressman, it's going to be all right, Rachel. Everything's going to be ... Bill, she's safe, she's with somebody, a kind man, Rachel, this is such wonderful news, I love you honey, do you hear me, I love you so very much.'

'I love you too, Mom ...'

'Now, I'm going to put your father on, listen very carefully, he's going to give you a number to call. Promise me you will do exactly what he says, Rachel, please.'

'I promise, Mom. I'm OK, I know this must have been really tough for you ...'

'Don't you worry about us, we are going to take care of all this, honey, it's so great to hear your voice, I can't believe it, here's your father, I love you, you hear, I love you very much.'

'Love you too,' said Rachel Anderson, and smiled through the sudden tears of longing and gratitude. Her father came on the line: 'Honey? You're OK?'

'Yes, Dad, I'm OK, I'm with a very kind gentleman, I'm sitting in his house, I'm perfectly safe.'

'I can't begin to tell you what a great relief that is, honey, that's really great news.' Her father's voice was calm. 'We've been pretty busy on this side, trying to get you help, I've spoken to the Consul General in Cape Town, they are standing by, I'm going to give you their number, but first, I'm going to give you the number of a police Captain. Now, I know you said something about the police when you last called, but this man was recommended by their top structure, and I spoke to him personally. He's in charge of your case, and he gave me his word that he'll make sure you are safe, OK?'

'Are you sure?'

    'Absolutely, even their Secretary of ... their Police Minister knows about you, the Consul General is talking to them, so this is very high level, nothing can happen to you. So can you take down the numbers?'

She looked across the desk and spotted the end of a yellow pencil under a printed document, pulled it out and turned over one of the typed sheets.

'I'm ready,' she said with determination and inexpressible relief. The nightmare was nearly over.

Mbali Kaleni parked on the Parade. In bright sunlight she walked down the alley of flower sellers, past the old post office, between stalls selling anything from shoes to packets of nuts. For a second she contemplated buying some candy-coated cashews, but reconsidered, she wanted to get to Upper Orange quickly. She just wanted to go back to that house ...

She walked faster, swinging her big, black handbag with every stride.

'Just explain one thing to me,' said Griessel to Oliver Sands. He was standing: Oliver sat at the table wide-eyed, as though the attention was too much for him to handle.

'Why did the girls bring backpacks with them to the club?'

'Those bags ...' Sands said. 'They never went anywhere without them. It's a girl thing, I think. You know, make-up and stuff...'

Griessel considered the bag that Oerson had brought. Small and compact. That made sense. He would have to sort through the plastic refuse bag, but not here. He would have to go back to Caledon Square.

'Jeremy speaking,' Oerson answered his phone and Fransman Dekker could tell he was a coloured man, and he was probably in a car.

'Bro', my name Fransman Dekker, I'm SAPS, howzit that side?' he said, because Griessel had warned him the Metro officer was a 'difficult character'.

'No, things going with springs, and you?'

'Just so, bro', listen, there was a helluva surprise in that bag of stuff your people found, a shoe, number ten and a half, if I can just find out where it was picked up.'

'No idea, bro', but I'll get the men to come in and tell me.'

'Many thanks, it's a murder case, I have to run, you know how it goes.'

'I know. Give me ten minutes, I'm sort of tied up at the moment.'

'Will you call me?'

'Daatlik, bro'.'

Dekker rang off and knocked on the door of the accountant, Wouter Steenkamp. There was no answer so he opened the door. Steenkamp was on the phone, saying:'... fucking police will have to help, or I'll have to make another plan.' He saw Dekker and said over the phone 'Hold on,' then to Dekker: 'The press are blocking reception. You'll have to help control them.'

'OK.'

'They'll help,' he said into the phone. 'Right, bye.' He looked at Dekker expectantly.

'I will go and tell them to wait outside. It would be best to lock the front door.'

'What a mess,' said Steenkamp.

'Just wait here, we need to talk some more,' said Dekker.

'Now what?'

'New information,' said Dekker before leaving to go and manage the media. 'There are some who say you are cheating them.'

'Your people can go,' Vusi said to Galina Federova.

'So, you will not arrest anybody.' She was sarcastic, cigarette between her fingers.

'No. They've been a big help.'

Griessel thought Vusi was too polite; he should tell the fucking foreigner he would throw her ass in jail if she wanted to be funny. He realised his patience was worn thin. He had to get out of here, away from the smell of alcohol and the sight of bottles. The fucking thirst was just below the surface. He had absolutely no idea what he was going to do next. They knew the girls had been here, they knew there had been discussions and arguments. They knew two men had left shortly after the girls and they knew there had been a chase down Long Street, but all of that helped fuck all, because it could not tell them where she was. And then his cell phone rang and he plucked it out angrily and said: 'Benny Griessel.'

'I've been to see Alexa Barnard, Benny,' Doc Barkhuizen said.

'Is she OK, Doc?'

'She's pumped full of medication, but you know what lies ahead for her. She's a strong woman, Benny. Beautiful too. I can see why you're so concerned about her.'

'Fuck off, Doc.' As Doc Barkhuizen chuckled on the other end, he heard the beep of another incoming call.

'She said when you have a chance, she would like to talk to you. Something to do with her husband.'

'Doc, I've got another call, it's a bit crazy right now, thanks for going to see her. We'll talk later,' he said and accepted the other call.

Griessel said his name and a woman with an American accent asked: 'Is that Captain Benny Ghree-zil?' He thought, wasn't that what I just fucking said, but he answered civilly: 'Yes.'

'My name is Rachel Anderson. My dad said I should call you.'

The name burned right through him, through the disappointment over Mat Joubert, through the frustrations of the day and the desire to drink, jolting his body as he said: 'Jissis.' Then 'Yes, yes, are you safe, where are you?' Adrenaline and relief washed through him, he took two steps to Vusi's shoulder and put an urgent hand on it. His black colleague looked around and he said: 'Rachel Anderson,' and pointed at the phone. Vusi's whole face lit up.

'Yes, I'm with a Mr Pete van der Liengen, the address is ...' Griessel heard a man speaking in the background. Then Rachel's voice again:'... Number six Upper Orange Street... In Orainisiegh?'

'Yes, yes, Oranjezicht, Six Upper Orange, just stay there, I'm on my way, don't open the door for anybody, I will call when I get there, please, Miss Anderson,' he pleaded. Dear God, this was good news. Griessel gestured to Vusi that they must go, jogged out the door and headed for the alley, faster and faster, hearing Vusi's shoes on the floor behind him.

'I'm not going anywhere,' said Rachel Anderson, and her voice sounded cheerful, as if she was looking forward to his arrival and Benny was out the back door, into the alley and running as fast as he could.

Barry stood on the back of his bakkie and watched the driver of the delivery vehicle get in and start the engine. He looked to the right where the upright, bold silver Peugeot Boxer panel van stood waiting. His phone was ready in his sweaty hand. He pressed the call button and held it up to his ear.

'Yes?' said the man with the grey beard.

'The truck is leaving.'

'Good. Can you see the panel van?'

Barry looked at the dirty, dusty Peugeot. 'Yes, they're moving.'

'Jay is going to call Eben, they will cover the back door. Then he'll turn the van around and come back to the front gate in Upper Orange, so the nose is pointing towards the city. When they get out and go through the front gate, you tell me.'

'Right. Stand by.'