Текст книги "Thirteen Hours"

Автор книги: Deon Meyer

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Chapter 41

They told Fransman Dekker he could not see Alexandra Barnard now. 'Doctor says she's on medication,' as if the burning bush itself had made the pronouncement. It irritated the living hell out of him. 'You are obsessed with Doctor, fuck Doctor' – that was what someone should tell them sometime, but he did not. Benny Griessel's words today had struck home.

They say you are ambitious, so let me tell you, I threw my fokken career away because I didn't have control...

It was the first time in his life that someone had spoken to him that way. It was the first time anyone had taken the trouble. He had been crapped out by the best, but that was different, usually no more than disapproval and criticism. With Griessel it was different.

'When will I be able to see her?' he asked the woman, under control now.

'Doctor says sometime after four, the medication should have worn off by then.' He checked his watch. Ten to three. He might just as well get something to eat; he was hollow inside, thirsty too. It would give him a chance to think – and what else could he do, he had let Josh and Melinda go home? 'I want to know if you leave the city,' he threatened and avoided the reproachful eyes. He had gone over to Natasha and said: 'Can you give me the contact details of all the staff?' and she gave him a look that said she knew why he wanted them.

He left the hospital feeling ravenous.

Vusi stood and listened at Oerson's door. He heard English spoken. But if they don't know what we're looking for, let's wait. Sooner or later they'll move the stuff. A long silence. Are we absolutely sure? A short, barking laugh, scornful. And then the words that stopped Vusumuzi Ndabeni's heart: Let's make sure, and then kill the bitch. Before she fucks up everything. But wait for me, I want to see...

Vusi's hand dropped to his service pistol, took hold of it and pulled it out. He lifted his left hand to open the door and saw how it was shaking, realised his heart was beating wildly and his breathing was shallow, almost panicky.

No, I'm fine. They have nothing, no proof Oerson, inside, so smug.

It gave Vusi pause, he froze. Because all he had were suspicions and a conversation overheard. He caught a glimpse of the coming minutes: he would burst in, Oerson would deny everything, he could arrest him and he would refuse to cooperate, demand a lawyer, it could take hours and the girl would die. Oerson's word against his.

I'm coming, Oerson had said in there. Wait for me.

Vusi Ndabeni whispered a prayer. What should he do?

He shoved the pistol back in the holster, turned and ran down the passage. He would have to follow Oerson. While he was contacting Benny.

Oh God, he must not let this man slip away.

There was no parking in Long Street. A SAPS patrol vehicle was already double-parked. Griessel pulled two wheels onto the broader pavement in front of the 'Travel Centre – Safari Tour Specialists' building beside the Cat & Moose, leapt out and, seeing the metre maid a hundred metres down the street, knew he was going to get a ticket. He muttered a curse, locked the car and jogged to the entrance of the building with its garish pink and orange colours. He sidestepped a young couple at the door conversing in a foreign language. The plump girl was behind the desk, in animated discussion with two uniformed men, one of the Caledon Square patrols. He ran up to them. She did not recognise him. He had to say: 'Benny Griessel, SAPS, I was here this morning. I hear you recognised one of the men.'

Her face changed in the blink of an eye from insecure receptionist to indignant witness. 'I've just been telling your colleagues, they just waltzed in here and said they were taking the luggage, can you believe it?'

'And you recognised one of them?'

'Tried to bluff their way past me, telling me they were her friends, do they think I am stupid?'

'But you knew one of them?'

'I don't know him, but I've seen him. So I just said: "Why don't you guys go talk to the SWAT team in there?" and they, like, stopped dead, and the next thing ...'

'A SWAT team?' Griessel asked.

'Yes, those buddies of yours guarding the luggage in there, and the next thing, they just waltzed right out again.'

'Miss, where have you seen this man?'

'Here ...' She waved her hand. Griessel wasn't sure what it was meant to include.

'In the hostel?'

'Well, he might have been in here, but I've seen him around, you know, he's in the industry, I'm sure.'

'What industry?'

'The tourist industry,' as though it went without saying.

'Look,' said Griessel, desperate that this not turn out to be a disappointment. 'A girl's life depends on the fact that we have to identify this guy, that you remember where you've seen him, so please ...'

'Really?' The responsibility came to rest on her, the indignation evaporated and enthusiasm took its place. 'Well, OK, look ... I, I know I've seen him at the cafe ...'

'What cafe?'

'The Long Street Cafe.'

'Does he work there?'

'No, he was, like, a customer ...' Deeply thoughtful, eyes squinting, the picture of concentration.

Griessel tried another tack. 'OK, can you describe him?'

'He's black. Tall. Handsome guy, you know, twenty-something ...' Then her face brightened. 'He's, like, skinny, you know, that look ... like all the guides, that's most likely where I saw him, in the cafe with the others ...'

But Benny Griessel wasn't listening to her because the elusive, slippery thing in his mind was rushing at him, he had to shut her up, he said: 'Wait, wait...'

'What?' she said, but he didn't hear her, his hand combed through his hair, and lingered on his neck. He scratched behind his ear, head bent, thoughts jumbled, he must get them in order. This morning ... Griessel looked to the right where they had talked to Oliver Sands this morning, that's what his head had been trying to tell him all fucking afternoon, it was that conversation. He tried to recall it, groping in the dark. Ollie had talked about the club, the girls in the club ...

No. Nothing. Wrong track.

He watched the girl behind the reception desk, looking disgruntled after being silenced. She'd said he's, like, skinny, you know, that look... like all the guides, that was the trigger. The guides. What had Sands said about that? Vusi had asked the questions this morning. He'd wanted to know who was with Sands and the girls at the club. Sands said a whole bunch. A group. And somewhere along the way he had said the guides were there too.

He whispered to himself. 'Jissis.' Because the thing was almost within his grasp, if he could only see it. He was unaware that he made a gesture of frustration, he was unaware of the two uniforms and the girl staring at him and looking vaguely concerned.

Griessel's phone began to ring. He ignored it. Not now. He tried to dredge up the words of that morning's conversation from his memory. He stood at the desk, put his palms flat on it and dipped his head. The girl stepped back half a pace.

Vusi Ndabeni, cell phone to his ear, listened to Griessel's number ringing while he watched Jeremy Oerson hurry out of the Metro building and go to his car.

'Answer me, Benny,' lie said and started to walk quickly towards his own car. Oerson climbed into a Nissan Sentra with the city police badge on the door.

The phone continued to ring.

'Please, Benny,' but the call diverted to Griessel's voice mail just as Vusi got his car unlocked and jumped in.

'Are you all right?' the Cat & Moose girl asked Griessel.

One of the uniforms realised what was going on and hushed her with a finger to his lips.

Benny stood still. He, Vusi and Oliver Sands. At the table. Sands telling them they came on the tour through Africa. They talked about last night. The club. The girls. The drink. Who was with them, Vusi had asked. A whole bunch. Do you know the names? Vusi had his notebook ready and Sands said ...

The answer came like a hammer blow. It made Griessel's body shudder. 'Fuck,' he said in triumph, loudly, startling the others. Oliver Sands had given them the names, the funny names, the funny pronunciation, that was the spectre that had been running through his head the whole goddamn afternoon, one name, he heard it now in Ollie's voice: Jason Dicklurk. Dicklurk. This morning Griessel had thought to himself, what a fucking funny name. Dick Lurk. But the redhead's pronunciation, that had been the problem. Jissis, he should have made the connection. Rachel's father calling him Ghree-zil, only the Afrikaners could say their own names. And one Zulu. Mbali Kaleni. She had phoned him while he was sitting in that office with the Commissioner. This is Inspector Mbali Kaleni of the South African Police Service, Benny. Zulu accent, but her pronunciation was flawless. We traced a Land Rover Defender that fits the number. It belongs to a man in Parklands, a Mr J. M. de Klerk.

Dicklurk was de Klerk. J. M. de Klerk. Jason de Klerk. One of the guides.

'The tour company,' he said to the girl. 'Which tour company were the girls with?'

'Tour company?' she asked, intimidated by Griessel's fervour.

'You know, the people who took them through Africa.'

'Oh.' For a second there was a frown, then her face brightened: 'African Overland Adventures. That's where he works, the

black guy, that's where I've seen him, they do all their Cape accommodation bookings with us, I sometimes go to see their—' 'Where are they?'

'Just one block down. My God, that's where—' 'Show me,' said Griessel and ran to the door. She came after him, stopped on the pavement, pointed to the right, across the street. 'On the corner.'

'Come, kerels,' said Benny Griessel to the uniforms as another insight lit up his head. A.O.A. African Overland Adventures. On the spur of the moment he kissed the plump girl on the cheek before he ran off.

She watched him speechlessly.

Chapter 42

Fransman Dekker took a bite of the toasted chicken mayonnaise sandwich in his left hand while he scribbled in his notebook with his right.

Alexa Barnard. That attitude this morning.

Inside knowledge.

A woman hiding in her house all day long. Alone. Lonely. Drinking. Lots of time to think about her husband, her life, her lot. A husband who was chronically unfaithful, a man who couldn't keep his hands off anything in a skirt. A man making big bucks while his wife rotted away at home.

Don't expect me to believe that she had never wondered what life would be like without the bastard, Fransman thought. Consider the national sport: hire a coloured to do your shooting. Or the stabbing. Three or four cases in the past year alone. It was a disease, a fucking epidemic.

Come on, Sylvia, come and have a chat with the madam, tell me where I can find someone to knock the master off.

Or: Sylvia, I see you're carrying off the silverware. So before I call the police, let's have a little talk.

Or: the master has a fat life insurance policy, my dear. What sort of share are we looking at if you find us a gunman?

Inside knowledge. Two women with all the inside knowledge in the world.

Only one little problem with that. You don't hire people to make it look as though you did it, in the exalted words of Captain Benny Griessel. But, oh Captain, my Captain, what if she read the papers and saw what mistakes those other girls made. And she thought: I won't fall into the same traps, I'm too clever, I'm a former pop star,

I'm not thick. I'll make it look like a frame-up, Captain. Suspicion one step removed. The music business is a war zone, they'll look at them before they look at me. And when they do look at me, hey, I'm an alky, how could I drag this man's big body up the stairs? What do you say to that, Captain?

In his dash to African Overland Adventures, weaving through pedestrians on the pavement, Griessel thought that was what Mbali Kaleni must have been trying to write. Jason.

How had she known? What made her go back to Upper Orange Street? What did she see that everyone else missed?

Just before he burst through the doors, his phone started ringing again. He wasn't going to answer it. He was going to get Jason de Klerk and then find Rachel Anderson. She had to live.

John Afrika sat with the receiver in his hand listening to Griessel's phone ringing.

Opposite him stood the Provincial Commissioner.

'If we are making a mistake ...'

'Benny is clean,' Afrika said.

'John, we're talking about my career.'

'This is Benny, leave a message,' over the phone. Afrika sighed and replaced the receiver. 'He's not answering.'

'They are going to clean up when Zuma gets in. They will use any excuse. You know how it is. Zulus in, Xhosas out.'

'Commissioner, I understand. But what am I supposed to do?' 'Is there no one else?'

John Afrika shook his head from side to side. 'Even if there were, it's too late now.'

He looked at the phone. 'Benny is clean.' He didn't sound so sure of himself any more.

Jeremy Oerson turned left into Ebenezer. Vusi gave him a gap, then pulled away himself, feeling tense: don't let the man get away.

The Metro Nissan was on the way to the Waterfront under the Western Boulevard Freeway. Vusi drove cautiously, not daring to get too close, or too far. He had to see where he turned off.

Oerson drove into the Harbour Road traffic circle and then out to the right.

He was heading for the N1.

Vusi relaxed fractionally. That would make it easier.

 Griessel banged open the double glass doors with the two Constables behind him. The lobby of African Overland Adventures was spacious – a long counter with two young women and a man behind it, a flat– screen TV against the wall, a few coffee tables and easy chairs. Nine young people standing or sitting, some drinking coffee. Everyone looked up, startled. Griessel pulled out his service pistol before he reached the desk. His cell phone was still ringing in his pocket.

'SAPS. Staan net stil dan het ons nie moeilikheid nie.'

'What did he say?' a voice asked from an easy chair.

He turned and saw the Constables had their pistols in their hands too. He nodded in approval. 'I said, just keep still and everything will be fine. Nobody's leaving and nobody is going to make a phone call.'

Everyone was quiet. Griessel's phone as well. The sound of the TV drew his attention. The big screen displayed images of an African adventure. On the walls were big posters with scenes of the continent, laughing young people with mountains, animals and lakes in the background. On the long desk were containers of brochures.

'Please turn off the TV.'

'Can we see some ID?' a girl asked from behind the desk, a sultry, stubborn beauty. He pulled out his identity card. Everyone watched TV nowadays, he thought, maybe he should start wearing it around his bloody neck like Kaleni.

The stubborn one inspected it. 'Is that for real?'

'What is your name?'

'Melissa,' It was a challenge.

'Please switch off that television, and then you call the police. Dial one zero triple one, and tell them Captain Benny Griessel needs back-up at African Overland Adventures. Tell them to call the Sergeant at Caledon Square.'

'I'll have to move,' said Melissa. 'The remote is under here ...'

'Then move,' said Griessel. She stretched and took out the remote control and aimed it at the TV. Griessel saw she had a tattoo of barbed wire on her upper arm. The room went quiet. 'Now call the police,' he said.

'It's OK. I believe you.'

'Call them.'

She walked reluctantly to the telephone and picked it up.

'Which one of you is Jason de Klerk?'

It was a while before the other desk girl answered. 'Jason isn't here.'

'They're not answering,' said Melissa.

'They will. Where is Jason de Klerk?'

'We don't know.'

'All the men, I want you to show us your IDs.' To the Constables he said: 'Check them.'

'Jason hasn't been in since yesterday,' said Melissa.

'So where can he be?'

'Your emergency number sucks. They're still not answering,' she said irritably.

Griessel exploded. He walked up to the counter and stretched over it, his face as close to her as he could reach. 'Now you listen to me, you little shit: Jason and his friends cut the throat of one of your clients last night, and they are going to kill again if I don't stop them. Right now, I'm thinking you don't know anything about it, but that can change very quickly, and you don't want that, take my word for it. So I am going to ask you one more time: where can I find him? And if you get clever with me again, you are going to be very fucking sorry, do you hear me loud and clear?'

She swallowed audibly. 'Yes,' she said. 'He might be at home. He might be at the offices or the warehouse, they are between trips, I just don't know.'

'The offices?'

'Second floor. You use the entrance next door.' 'And the warehouse?'

'Stanley Road in Observatory,' then the emergency number finally answered and she said: 'I've got an urgent message from a ... What was your name again?'

All three came back through the door. Rachel did not even look up.

'Hold her legs,' said Jason de Klerk and picked up the pruning shears from the floor where he had left them. The other two squatted down beside her and took hold of her legs.

'Rachel,' said de Klerk, but she did not respond. 'Rachel!'

'She's fucked, Jay,' one of the others said.

'We have to make sure.' He knelt at her foot. 'Rachel, listen to me. We have to make sure you're telling the truth about the video, OK? This is very important, it really is a matter of life or death, do you understand?'

No reaction.

He put the blade around the base of the middle toe of her right foot. 'So tell me again, where is it?'

'She's not even hearing you.'

'Please,' she said so they could barely hear. 'It's in the big bag.'

He cut the toe off. Her body jerked. 'Jesus,' said one of the men holding her legs.

'Are you sure?' Jason's voice was still calm. 'Are you very sure?'

'Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes ...' loud and hysterical, her body convulsing.

He held another toe. 'Exactly where is the bag?'

A primeval sound erupted from her.

'For fuck's sake, Jay, what more do you need?' the other young man asked, his face misshapen with abhorrence.

Jason, furious, hit him with the back of his hand. 'Do you know what's at stake here, arsehole? You want to spend the rest of your life in prison?'

Vusi Ndabeni followed Jeremy Oerson as he took the right-hand lane on the Nl's Eastern Boulevard and then the off-ramp to the N2. He kept his distance, just over four hundred metres, with seven cars between them. He picked up his cell phone and called Benny Griessel again.

The 'offices' of African Overland Adventures on the second floor were behind a steel security door. Griessel pressed the intercom button. A woman's voice said: 'Yes?' He said: 'Police. Open up.'

The locks clicked and the door opened. He immediately looked to see if there was another exit. But he saw none, only three women, desks, computers, filing cabinets. He kept his ID card handy. 'Come with me, please, downstairs.'

'Why?' they were worried about the pistol in his hand.

'I'm looking for a Jason de Klerk?'

'He's not here.'

'I know. Come.' He gestured with his pistol. They walked meekly ahead of him, to the stairs.

His cell phone rang. Who the hell wanted him so badly? He pulled it out. VUSI.

'Vusi, this is a bad time.'

'Benny, I'm sorry, but things happened, I think I'm following someone who is on his way to Rachel.'

Griessel froze. There was something about Vusi's rapid-fire voice, the flood of words, desperation. 'Jissis.'

'Benny, you'll never believe it. Jeremy Oerson. I overheard him. He's involved, how, I don't know.'

Jeremy Oerson? What the fuck?

'Where are you?'

'On the N-two, just before Groote Schuur. He's just taken the off-ramp to Main Road.' Observatory. The warehouse. 'Vusi, I think he's going to Stanley Street, there's a warehouse, African Overland Adventures. Stay with him, Vusi, I'm on my way,' and Griessel's feet clattered down the stairs, making the three middle– aged women look back, fearful.

'Benny!' said Vusi. Afraid he would ring off.

'I'm here.'

'They're going to kill her, Benny. As soon as Oerson gets there.'

15:12-16:14

                                                                                                                                                                      Chapter 43                                                                                                                                                                                          

Griessel told the Constables to let no one out of the adventure shop; they didn't know who was involved. Once reinforcements arrived, they were to seal off the offices upstairs, no records were to leave the place, no calls were to be made, to let the phone ring, nobody was to answer it. Anyone who came in must stay.

They nodded keenly.

Out through the door, into the busy normality of Long Street. He pushed the pistol back into his holster, ran fifty metres and stopped suddenly. The traffic. In the police sedan with no siren or lights. He turned back, sidestepping people on the pavement, and banged open the glass doors again. Every eye in the place was on him. Do you have a patrol vehicle with a functioning siren?

Yes, Captain. The Constable rummaged in his trouser pocket, took out his keys and flung them in an arc to Griessel. He missed them. Melissa made a scornful noise but he ignored her, picked up the keys, jerked open the doors and ran.

There was only one vehicle between Vusi Ndabeni and Jeremy Oerson when they stopped at the traffic lights where Browning joined Main Road.

Vusi pulled the sun visor down and sat as high in his seat as he could to hide his face. Oerson's indicator light was on, ready to turn right.

Where was Stanley Street?

African Overland Adventures? And the Metro police? He couldn't see any connection. The light changed to green. Vusi gave him a lead, a hundred metres, then he pulled away intending to turn right as well, but a car approached from the front and he had to wait.

When he did turn into Main Road he couldn't see Oerson's Sentra.

Impossible.

Vusi accelerated, tense again. Where could he have gone? He drove past Polo Road leading off to the left, looked down it and saw nothing. He looked right, there were no options, only the Muslim Graveyard and the hospital. He passed the Scott Road turn-off on the left. He saw the Sentra, in the distance, a long way down Scott.

Vusi braked – too late – he was past the turn. He slammed the car into reverse and looked back. Traffic was coming down Main Road. He had no choice. He reversed quickly. Two minibus taxis rocketed down on him, one leaning hard and continuously on his hooter. It swerved in behind the other and barely missed Vusi. But he had reversed far enough and turned left down Scott, just in time to see Oerson turn right half a kilometre away.

Was it really him?

De Waal Drive would be the quickest. Griessel flipped the switches for the siren and blue lights and pulled away with screeching tyres. The traffic opened up in front of him, past St Martini, the Lutheran Church where everything had begun that morning. It felt like a week ago, what a fucking day. The light was red at the Buitensingel crossing, he drove only marginally slower, the motorists saw him coming. Then he turned left, fighting with the steering wheel, into Upper Orange, more traffic.

The Upper Orange crossroad was also red. It took precious seconds to get across carefully and then he put his foot down, over the bridge at the Gardens Centre. The bends of De Waal lay ahead, he picked up his cell phone from the seat, he must call Vusi, he must get reinforcements. The task force, SWAT, the plump girl had called them. No, that would take too long, even if they mobilised within the theoretical fifteen minutes, it would be too late.

He and Vusi would find out what was going on first.

Vusi answered on the second ring. 'Benny.'

'Where are you?'

His black colleague said something inaudible.

'I can't hear you.'

'Stanley Street, Benny, I don't want to talk too loud. I can see the warehouse. Their trucks are parked there. African Overland Adventures.'

'Tell me how to get there, Vusi, I haven't got a map.'

'It's easy, Benny. Take the Groote Schuur off-ramp, right into Main ...'

'I'm coming down De Waal, Vusi, that's not going to help me.'

Vusi said something in Xhosa, a cry for help, then he asked: 'Will you find Main Road in Observatory?'

'Yes.'

'Then turn down Scott ... eastwards. Then all the way down over Lower Main, then first right and you will see them.'

'I'm coming.'

'Oerson has gone in, Benny, hurry.'

Jeremy Oerson pushed the big sliding door only wide enough for him to enter. He took off his dark glasses and put them in his breast pocket and closed the door behind him.

The big warehouse was quiet: tents, sleeping bags, water cans, tools, petrol drums, sand shovels, car jacks all in tidy piles. On one side was a new white Land Rover Defender.

'Halloo,' he said.

To the left and right two men stood up from behind piles of goods, each with a Stechkin APS pistol aimed at him.

'Christ,' he said and lifted his hands high. 'It's me.'

They slowly lowered the weapons. Jason de Klerk came out from behind the Land Rover. 'I tried to call you, Jeremy.'

'I'm a senior fucking police officer, I can't answer my cell when I'm driving.'

'You're a fucking traffic cop.'

He ignored the remark. 'Where is she?'

'Mr B wants to know: can you get to the luggage?'

Oerson walked deeper into the warehouse and looked about. Behind a pile of tents sat another one, sulky, with blood on his upper lip. 'Not now,' he said. 'So what happened to him? Did she get rough?'

'I didn't mean now, Jerry,' said Jason irritably. 'But you can get it, right?'

'Don't worry, as long as they don't know what they're looking for, we're fine. They'll take it to an evidence room, and then it's easy.'

'How easy?'

'I'll grease a few palms, and get some dumb fuck to go in and take it. Little video tape, slip it in your pocket, easy-peasy. Tomorrow, next week, this will be old news, girl's gone, pressure's off. Relax. Where is she?'

'You're absolutely sure?'

'Of course I'm fucking sure. For a thousand bucks they'll be standing in line to do it.'

'OK,' said Jason and took out his cell phone.

'She's alive, isn't she?' Oerson asked. 'Because you guys owe me a favour.'

When the Roodebloem turn-off flashed past, Griessel realised he should have taken it. He cut through to the Eastern Boulevard and the same route as Vusi, but it was too fucking late. The only alternative was Liesbeeck Park, then down Station Road, but it was going to take a minute or two, three, longer.

The van's wheels squealed around the last turn before De Waal joined Hospital corner. Traffic was dense, there was no time to think. What was Jeremy Oerson's connection with the whole affair? He nearly drove into a pharmacy delivery motorcycle and had to swerve out in front of another car. Horns blared, couldn't the idiots hear the siren? Then he was around the bend on the N2 Settlers road and swung over into the left-hand lane. They gave way now and he stomped on the accelerator. Jeremy Oerson? Metro? African Adventures?

What the fuck?

He entered the Liesbeeck off-ramp too fast, the turn much sharper than he remembered, and the red traffic light was totally unexpected. Cars were crossing the road in front of him. Too late to brake. The van began to skid, he was going to hit someone. Then he was through between two cars, wrenching the wheel to get it under control, accelerated again. Out the other side.

He only turned off the siren when he turned onto Lower Main.

Benny was taking too long.

Vusi's car was parked halfway between Scott and Stanley on the pavement. He had his service pistol on his lap, ready cocked. He could see the warehouse through the windscreen – a long building, brick walls, galvanised zinc roof. Large white-painted sliding doors behind four trucks and four trailers, each bearing the legend African Overland Adventures. Big vehicles, the seating deck high with luggage space below. She was in there. Where was Benny? Perhaps he should go inside. But how many were there? Oerson and the person Oerson had spoken to over the phone. How many more?

He sat there, breathing fast, his heart thumping in his chest.

He pulled the car keys out of the ignition, got out, walked around, opened the boot and looked up. They wouldn't be able to see him. There were no windows on this side anyway. He put his pistol down in the boot, took off his jacket and picked up the Kevlar bulletproof vest. He put it on and picked up his pistol. He checked his watch. 15:22. Late.

He would have to do something.

He came to a decision; the girl's life was the main priority. He pulled back the pistol's slide and gently closed the boot.

He was going in.

Then he heard the squeal of rubber on tar behind him and looked back. A SAPS patrol van came around the corner, drove straight towards him and stopped in a cloud of dust on the pavement. A figure jumped out with unkempt hair and gun in his hand.

Benny Griessel had arrived.

'Hey!' said Jeremy Oerson, but she didn't look up. She just lay slumped against the pole, stark naked, he could see everything, the tits, the bush between her legs, the bleeding right foot and three toes lying in the dust like fat insect grubs.

He stood with his feet planted wide in black boots, the pistol in both hands aimed at her head.

'Get her to look at me,' he said to one of them.

'Just fucking get it over with.'

'No. I want to see her face. Hey, Yankee, look at me.'

Slowly she lifted her head. Hair hung over her forehead in strings. He saw the eye swollen shut, black and purple, dried blood on her temple. 'You guys really fucked her up,' he said.

Her head was raised, but the eyes were still somewhere else.

'Do it, Jerry.'

'Look at me,' he said to her, saw the eyes rise to meet his. He pressed the safety off with his thumb.