Текст книги "Thirteen Hours"

Автор книги: Deon Meyer

Соавторы: Deon Meyer
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Chapter 44

'Take the back, Vusi, there must be a door. I'll give you time,' said Griessel as he ran. He saw the black detective swerve off towards the corner of the building.

He reached the big white sliding door and pressed his back against the wall, service pistol in both hands in front of him. His breath was racing. He had to get it under control, he counted, thousand-and-one, thousand-and-two, thousand-and-three, wanting to give Vusi twenty seconds. He prayed. Dear Father, let her be alive.

Thousand-and-seven. When had he prayed last? When Carla was in mortal danger, his prayer had only been partially answered. He would take that, anything, just so that he could please phone Bill Anderson and say: 'She's alive.' Thousand-and-twelve. He heard a shot, jumped, grabbed the door with his left hand, dragged it open, ducked and ran in. He saw a young man, tall and lean, directly in front of him with a silencer aimed at his heart. He knew in that instant that it was all over, his own pistol was degrees too far to the right.

The shot cracked and blew Benny Griessel off his feet. His back slammed into the door and pain exploded in his chest. He was fleetingly aware of the strangeness, of feeling first the bullet and then hearing the shot. He fell to the ground.

That unease he had had all day, that expectation of evil, here it was.

Oerson waited for her eyes. He wanted his to be the last face she would see. He wanted to know what mortal fear looked like, he wanted to see the light of life fade out of her. But above all he wanted to know how it felt, the power, they said the power was indescribable. He had wondered for so long what it felt like to take a life.

She looked into his eyes. He saw no fear. He wondered if they had drugged her. She looked absent.

Then he heard the shot. He looked around, at the door.

Another shot.

'Shit,' he said.

Vusi sprinted around the first corner, along the short side of the warehouse, then the next corner. High windows, two metres off the ground. A single steel door with a big padlock on it. Locked. He did not hesitate. He steadied against the wall, aimed and shot the padlock, one shot. The nine-mm projectile blew it to bits. He tugged the door open. It was gloomy inside, a smallish room, a kitchen, with dirty glasses and coffee mugs in the sink and another closed door.

He heard a shot, not loud, a small calibre, perhaps. Benny! He ran to the inner door and opened it. It was a large open space, equipment in piles. A beam of light shone from the front through the big sliding door. Someone was lying there dead still. Oh God, it was Benny. Movement, a young white man to the left of Vusi, a long weapon in his hand. 'Don't move!' No good, the young man swung around. Vusi fired. The man fell in slow motion. Vusi had never shot anyone before, uSimakade, what was this city doing to him? A bullet smacked into the wall beside Vusi. It came from the right. He dived behind drums and rolled to the right, stood up, pulled the trigger, once, twice, three times. The man staggered and fell on a stack of plastic cans. He had had no choice – it was survival. He had killed a man, he realised. He stood up slowly, eyes on the still figure, watching the blood run out of the body and over the white plastic of the cans in long trails. Life blood.

A shadow moved on his right, he came back to reality, too late, the pistol pressed against his head. 'Black cunt,' the voice said.

Awful pain in his chest, Griessel could not move, could not breathe. He was lying on the cement floor. Death would come, it was all over, he should have waited for the task force. At the periphery there was movement, on the other side, he tried to turn his head. Vusi. A thundering shot, someone fell, further to the right. Everything in slow motion, unreal, vague, detached. This was the beginning, the tumbling away from life, he would hear the scream of fear, the terrifying scream when you fell into the deep dark abyss. Why wasn't he afraid? Why this .. . peace, just an intense longing for his children, his wife, Anna. Now he knew he wanted her, wanted her back, now, too late. Movement. He could see. Not dead yet. Vusi fired again, three times. He watched his colleague. His breath came more easily now. Why? Benny's hand moved slowly to his chest and touched the gaping wound. Dry. No blood. He looked, and felt. A hole in his breast pocket. No blood. Why the pain? He felt the hard object, gripped it.

The Leatherman. The bullet had struck the Leatherman. Relief burned through him, a shooting consciousness. He had made an utter fool of himself, thinking he was going to die. He heard a voice. 'Black cunt.' He looked up. The one who had shot him stood there, with a long-muzzled gun to Vusi's head.

Griessel reached for his pistol on the floor, grasped it, raised it, no time to aim. Pulled the trigger, saw the man's arm jerk, saw Vusi fall, fired again, missed. The man just stood there. His silenced pistol had disappeared. Benny tried to stand, his whole ribcage on fire, pain burning white, Leatherman or not. He crawled first, got to his feet and stumbled closer.

Vusi moved.

Griessel aimed his service pistol at the man. 'Don't move,' he said. He saw the man was holding his arm. The elbow was shattered, lots of blood, a mess of tendons and fragmented bone.

Vusi stood up. 'Benny ...' His voice was faint, Griessel's ears were deafened by the shots.

'I've got him, Vusi.'

'I thought you were dead.'

'So did I,' said Griessel, almost embarrassed. He jerked the man by the collar. 'Lie down,' he said. The man sank slowly to his knees.

'Where is Rachel?'

The man looked around slowly, at the closed door behind him. 'There.'

'Is she alone?'

'No.'

'Is Jason in there, Jason de Klerk?'

No response. Griessel prodded him again with the pistol. 'Where is Jason?'

A moment of silence. 'I'm Jason.'

Rage swept over Griessel, frustration, relief. He grabbed de Klerk by the hair. 'You fucking rubbish,' he said, and felt a powerful desire to kill him, shoot him in the throat, for Erin Russel, for everything, his finger tightened around the trigger.

'Benny!'

There was a noise behind them, a door closing. Both detectives spun around and aimed.

'Don't shoot!' another young man stood there, hands in the air, looking scared, blood on his upper lip.

'On the floor,' said Vusi.

'Please,' he said and lay down immediately.

'Where is Rachel?' Benny asked.

'She's in there,' said the other one.

They looked at the door. 'Vusi, if he moves,' Griessel said, and strode towards the door.

'Look out,' said the man. 'Oerson is with her.'

She was aware of the gun pointed at her, of the man in his magnificent uniform towering above her. He spoke her name. Did he know her? She raised her eyes, trying to focus, why was the other one still standing here, the young one, one of those who had held her legs?

A shot cracked. Her eyes shut in reflex, she expected to feel it, coming from the weapon pointed at her.

But her eyes opened as the man in uniform swore. He had turned away from her and pointed his pistol at the door. The other man ducked and crept towards the wall.

Someone shot again in there, a softer bang.

'What the fuck?' the uniformed man whispered.

Another shot, deafening. He moved quickly to beside the door, and again it boomed in there, three times.

Then it struck her: the policeman. Griessel. He had found her. She wanted to sit up. She moved her legs and the pain in her foot was incredible, but she didn't care, she drew her heels back, found a grip. Another shot, one more. He was shooting them, Benny Griessel, he must kill them all. She braced herself against the cold pillar. If only she could stand up. The uniform and the young man were frozen, petrified. Another two shots. Silence.

'I'm going out,' said the young man and opened the door, and shut it immediately.

'Shit,' said the uniform.

Voices inside, indecipherable words. Then only the uniformed man's fast and shallow breathing.

'He's going to kill you,' she said to him, with hatred in her voice.

He moved suddenly, came to her, a boot left and right of her knees and pushed the gun into her cheek. 'Shut the fuck up,' he hissed. 'You're going with me.' Then he looked around at the door, wild-eyed.

She kicked him. She brought up her knee, her sore right foot's knee, and struck him between the legs with everything she had left. 'Now!' she shrieked. Her voice was a desperate command. The uniform shouted something and fell onto her. A booming noise as the door was kicked in, and then a single shot and the man fell away from her. She saw him standing in the doorway, a figure with a pistol in his hand, a hole in his shirt, hair needing a cut and strange Slavic eyes.

'Benny Griessel,' she said, with perfect pronunciation.

He lowered the weapon, moved towards her with deep compassion in his eyes. He grabbed her clothes off the floor and hastily covered her, put his arms around her and held her tight.

'Yes,' he said. 'I have found you.'

Chapter 45

Just after four, the nurse came out of the hospital room and said to Fransman Dekker: 'Fifteen minutes.' She held the door open so he could enter.

Alexa Barnard was sitting up against the cushions. He saw the bandage on her forearm, then the look of dawning disappointment.

'I was expecting the other detective,' she said slowly, words not well formed. The medication had not wholly worn off.

'Afternoon, ma'am,' he said neutrally, because he could use her drowsiness; he must avoid conflict and win her trust. He dragged a blue chair closer, nearly right up to the bed. He sat down with his elbows on the thin white bedspread. She stared at him with vague interest. She looked better than she had this morning – her hair was brushed and tied back in the nape of her neck, so that her unobscured face appeared stronger, the faded beauty like a fossil in a weathered rock bank.

'Captain Griessel is not on the case any more,' he said.

She nodded slowly.

'I understand better now,' he said quietly and sympathetically.

She lifted an eyebrow.

'He was ... not an easy man.'

She searched his face until she was convinced of his sincerity. Then she looked past him. He saw the moisture collect gradually in her eyes, her lower lip's involuntary tremble. With her healthy right arm she wiped the back of her hand over her cheek in slow motion.

Better than he'd hoped. 'You loved him very much.'

She looked somewhere beyond Dekker, nodded slightly, and wiped her cheek again.

'He hurt you so much. All those years. He kept on hurting you over and over.'

'Yes.' Barely a whisper. He wanted her to talk. He waited. She said nothing. The sound of a helicopter came through the closed curtains in front of the window, the wap-wap increasingly loud. He waited till it subsided.

'You blamed yourself. You thought it was your fault.'

Her gaze shifted to him. Still silent.

'But it wasn't. There are men like that,' he said. 'It's a disease. An addiction.' She nodded, agreeing, as though she wanted to hear more.

'It's a drug for the soul. I think they have an emptiness inside here, a hole that is never filled, it might help for a little while, then in a day or two it starts all over again. I think there's a reason, I think they don't like themselves, it's a way of...' His command of formal language left him stranded.

'Gaining acceptance,' she said. He waited, gave her time. But she gazed steadily at him, expectantly, pleading almost.

'Yes. Acceptance. Maybe more than that. There's something broken in here, they want to make it whole. A hurt that has come a long way, that never completely goes away, it just comes back every time, worse, but the medicine helps less and less, it's a ...' His wave of the hand sought a word, deliberately now.

'A vicious circle.'

'Yes ...'

She would not fill the silence that he had created. At first he wavered, then he said: 'He loved you, in his way, I think he loved you a lot, I think the problem was that he didn't want to do it, but every time he did he thought less of himself, because he knew he was hurting you, he knew he was doing damage. Then that became the reason he did it again, like an animal gnawing at itself. That can't stop. If a woman showed she wanted him, it meant he wasn't so bad, then he didn't think any more, he just felt, it was like a fever coming over him, you can't stop it. You want to, but you can't, however much you love your wife ...' He stopped suddenly, aware of the fundamental shift, and sat back slowly in his chair.

He watched her, wondering if she had caught on. He saw that she was somewhere else. Heard her say: 'I asked him to get help.'

He hoped. She looked at the little table beside her bed. Above the drawer was a slit where a tissue dangled. She pulled it out, wiped her eyes one by one and crumpled the paper in her right hand. 'I think there was a time when I tried to understand, when I thought I could see a little boy in him, a rejected, lonely boy. I don't know, he would never talk about it, I could never work out where it came from. But where does anything come from? Where does my alcoholism come from? My fear, my insecurity. My inferiority? I have looked for it in my childhood, that's the easy way out. Your father and mother's fault. They made mistakes, they weren't perfect, but that's not enough ... excuse. The problem is, it comes from inside me. It's part of my atoms, the way they vibrate, their frequency, their pitch, the key they sing in ...'

He had an idea where she was headed.

'Nobody can help ...' he encouraged her.

'Just yourself.'

'He couldn't change.'

She shook her head. No, Adam Barnard couldn't change. He wanted to prompt her: 'So you did something about it,' but he gave her the chance to say it herself.

She slowly sank back against the cushion, as though she were very tired.

'I don't know ...' A deep sigh.

'What?' he asked, a whispered invitation.

'Do we have the right? To change people? So that they suit us? So that they can protect us from ourselves? Aren't we shifting the responsibility? My weakness against his. If I were stronger ... Or he was. Our tragedy lay in the combination, each was the other's catalyst. We were ... an unfortunate chemical reaction ...'

His fifteen minutes expired. 'And something had to give,' he said. 'Someone had to do something.'

'No. It was too late to do anything. Our habits with each other were too set, the patterns had become part of us, we couldn't live any other way any more. Past a certain point there is nothing you can do.'

'Nothing?'

She shook her head again.

'There is always something you can do.'

'Such as what?'

'If the pain is bad enough, and the humiliation.' He needed more than this. He took a chance, gave her something to work with: 'When he starts cursing and threatening you. When he assaults you ...'

She turned her head slowly towards him. At first expressionless, so that he couldn't tell if it was going to work or not. Then the frown began, initially as though she was puzzled, but with increasing comprehension and a certain restrained regret. Eventually she looked .down at the tissue in her hand. 'I don't blame you.'

'What do you mean?' but he knew he had failed.

'You're just doing your job.'

He leaned forward, desperate, trying another tack. 'We know enough, Mrs Barnard,' he said still with empathy. 'It was someone with inside knowledge. Someone who knew where he kept his pistol. Someone who knew about your ... condition. Someone with enough motive. You qualify. You know that.'

She nodded thoughtfully.

'Who helped you?'

'It was Willie Mouton.'

'Willie Mouton?' He couldn't keep the astonishment out of his voice, not sure what she meant, though a light seemed to have gone on for her.

'That's why I asked the other detective ... Griessel to come.'

'Oh?'

'I must have been thinking like you. About the pistol. Only four of us knew where it was, and only Adam had the key.'

'What key?'

'To the gun safe in the top of his wardrobe. But Willie installed that. Four, five years ago. He's good at that sort of thing, he was always practical. In the old days he did stage work for the bands. Adam couldn't do anything with his hands, but he didn't want to bring outside people in, he didn't want anyone to know about the gun, he was afraid it would be stolen.

This morning . . . Willie was here, he and the lawyer, it was a strange conversation, I only realised once they left ...' She stopped suddenly, having second thoughts, the hand with the tissue halfway between bed and face.

When she stopped he couldn't stand the suspense. 'What did you realise?'

'Willie always wanted more. A bigger share, more money. Even though Adam was very good to him.'

'Ma'am, what are you trying to tell me?'

'Willie came and stood here at my bed. All he wanted to know was what I could remember. I last saw Willie more than a year ago. And then here he was this morning, as though he actually cared. He made all the right noises, he wanted to know how I was, he said he was so sorry about Adam, but then he wanted to know if I remembered anything. When I said I didn't know, I was confused, I couldn't understand ... he asked again: "Can you remember anything – anything?" Only when they left a while later ... I lay here, the medication . . . but I heard his words again. Why was he so keen to know? And why was his lawyer here? That's what I wanted to tell Griessel, that . . . it was strange.'

'Ma'am, you said he helped you.'

She looked at him in surprise. 'No, I never said that.'

'I asked you who helped you. And you said Willie Mouton.'

The door behind Dekker opened.

'No, no,' said Alexandra Barnard, totally confused, and Dekker wondered what was in the pills she had taken.

'Inspector,' said the nurse.

'Another five minutes,' he said.

'I'm sorry, that's not possible.'

'You misunderstood me,' said Alexa Barnard.

'Please,' said Dekker to the nurse.

'Inspector, if the doctor says fifteen minutes, that is all I can give you.'

'Fuck the doctor,' he said involuntarily.

'Out! Or I'll call security.'

He considered his options, knew he was so close, she was confused, he wouldn't get another chance, but the nurse was a witness to this statement.

He stood up. 'We'll talk again,' he said and walked out, down the passage to the lift. He pressed the button, angry, pressed it again and again. So close.

The door whispered open, the big lift was empty. He went in and saw the G-light on, folded his arms. Now she wanted to point at Willie Mouton. He wasn't going to fall for that.

The lift began to descend.

He would go and talk to the maid, Sylvia Buys. He had her address in his notebook. Athlone somewhere. He checked his watch. Nearly twenty past four. To Athlone in this traffic. Maybe she was still in the house in Tamboerskloof.

Willie Mouton? He recalled the chaos this morning in the street, the militant Mouton, the black knight, shaven-headed earring– wearer on his fucking phone. To his lawyer. Mouton, who was desperate for him to arrest Josh and Melinda.

The lift doors slid open. People were waiting to come in. He walked out slowly, thoughtfully. He stopped in the entrance hall.

The lawyer who had been with him all day, the spectre of a man, so grave. Mouton and Groenewald here, with Alexa. 'What can you remember?' Why?

Was the drunk woman lying?

Adam phoned me last night, some time after nine, to tell me about Ivan Nell's stories. His cell phone rang. He saw it was Griessel, who believed she was innocent.

'Benny?'

'Fransman, are you still at AfriSound?'

'No, I'm at City Park.'

'Where?'

'At the hospital. In the city.'

'No, I mean where in the hospital?'

'At the entrance. Why?'

'Stay there, I'll be with you in a minute. You're not going to believe this.'

Chapter 46

With the crooked pliers of the Leatherman that had saved his life, Benny Griessel cut Rachel Anderson's hands free. Then he went and fetched four sleeping bags, asked Vusi to call for backup and medical support, spread two sleeping bags on the floor for her to lie on and covered her shivering body with the other two.

'Don't leave me,' she said.

'I won't,' but he heard Oerson groan and went to find the Metro officer's pistol before sitting down with her, taking out his cell phone and calling John Afrika.

'Benny, where the fuck are you? I've been phoning ...'

'Commissioner, we got Rachel Anderson. I'm sitting with her now. We're in Observatory, but I just want to ask one thing: send us the chopper, she needs medical assistance, she's not bad, but I'm definitely not taking her to Groote Schuur. ‘There was a heartbeat of silence before Afrika said: 'Hallelujah! The chopper is on its way, just give me the address.'

'I'm sorry, Mr Burton, but I just don't believe you,' said Bill Anderson over his cell phone. 'There's a warning right here on the US consulate's website, stating that fourteen Americans have been robbed at gunpoint after landing at the OR Tambo International Airport in the past twelve months. I've just read that a South African government Minister has said police must kill criminal bastards, and not worry about regulations. I mean, it's the Wild West out there. Here's another one: "More police were killed in the years since the end of Apartheid than in the previous period in that country's history."

‘“Armed robberies at people's homes have increased by thirty per cent." And you are telling me we won't need protection?'

'It sounds worse than it is, I can assure you,' the American Consul reassured him.

'Mr Burton, we are flying out this afternoon. All I want you to do is to recommend someone to protect us.'

Dan Burton's sigh was audible. 'Well, we usually recommend Body Armour, a personal security company. You can call a Ms Jeanette Louw ...'

'Can you spell that for me?'

Just then the house phone on Anderson's desk began to ring and he said: 'Excuse me for one second,' picked up the receiver and said: 'Bill Anderson.'

'Daddy,' he heard the voice of his daughter.

'Rachel! Oh, God, where are you?'

'I'm with Captain Benny Griessel, Daddy ...' and then her voice broke.

Griessel sat with his back to the wall, both arms around her. She leaned heavily on him, her head on his shoulder, while she spoke to her father. When she was finished and passed the phone back to him, she looked up at him and said: 'Thank you.'

He didn't know how to answer her. He heard the sirens approaching, wondering how long it would take the helicopter to get here.

'Did you find the video?' she asked.

'What video?'

'The video of the murder. At Kariba.'

'No,' he said.

'That's why they killed Erin.'

'You don't have to tell me now,' he said.

'No, I have to.'

She and Erin had shared a tent the whole tour.

Erin had adjusted easily to the new time zones, slept well, got up with the sun, stretched pleasurably, yawned and said: 'Another perfect day in Africa.'

Initially Rachel struggled to fall asleep at night. After the first week it improved, but every night, somewhere between one and three, her body clock woke her. Later she would vaguely recall moments of consciousness while she reoriented herself and wondered at this astonishing adventure, this special privilege, of lying listening to the noises of this divine continent. And she would sink away, carefree and light as a feather, into cosy sleep.

At Lake Kariba the moonlight had taken her by surprise. Some time after two in the early hours, near wakening, she had become aware of the glow and opened her eyes. She thought someone had switched on a floodlight. Then truth dawned – full moon. She was enchanted by its brightness, its immensity, and was ready to drift back to her dreams. In her imagination she saw the moon over Kariba, the beauty of it. She realised she must capture it for her video journal. It could be the opening shot of the DVD she would make at home on Premiere Pro. Or the background of her title– sequence animation in After Effects, if she ever found enough time to unravel the secrets of that software.

Carefully, so as not to disturb Erin, she crawled out of her sleeping bag, took her Sony video camera and went out into the sultry summer night.

The camp was quiet. She walked between the tents to the edge of the lake. The view was as she had suspected, another breathtaking African show – the moon a jewel of tarnished silver sliding across the carpet of a billion stars, all duplicated in the mirror of the lake. She switched the camera on, folded out the small LCD screen and chose 'Sunset & Moon' on the panel. But the moon was too high. She could film either the reflection or the real thing, but not both in one frame. She looked around and spotted the rocks on the edge of the lake about a hundred metres away. An acacia tree was growing out of them. It would give her height, a reference point and perspective. From the top of the rocks she tried again. She experimented with the branches of the tree, until she heard the sounds, below, scarcely fifteen metres away.

She had turned to look. Two figures in the dark. A muffled argument. She sat down slowly, instinctively, and knew it was Jason de Klerk and Steven Chitsinga at one of the trailers.

She smiled to herself, aimed her camera at them and began to film. Her intention was mischievous. These were the chief teases, the head guides who mocked the European and American tourists about their love of comfort, their bickering, complaining, their inability to deal with Africa. Now she had evidence that they were not perfect either. She smiled, thinking she would reveal it at breakfast. Let them feel embarrassed for once.

Until Steven pulled open one of the large storage drawers under the trailer and bent to get something. He jerked roughly at it and suddenly the shape of another person stood between them, a smaller figure beside the lankiness of the two guides.

A man's voice called out one word. Steven grabbed the smaller figure from behind and put a hand over his mouth. Rachel Anderson looked up from the screen now, dumbstruck, she wanted to be certain the camera was not lying. She saw something shiny in Jason's hand, bright and deadly in the moonlight. She saw him drive it into the small figure's chest and how the man slumped in Steven's grip.

Jason picked up the feet, Steven took the hands and they dragged the figure away into the darkness.

She sat there a long time. At first she denied it, it could not be real, a dream, a complete fantasy. She turned off the sound of the video and played it back. The image quality was not great, the camera was not renowned for its results in the dark, but there was enough, until the truth struck home: she had witnessed a murder, committed by two people to whom she had entrusted her life.

The next day passed in a haze. She realised she was traumatised, but didn't know what to do. She withdrew. Again and again Erin asked her: 'What's wrong?' Later: 'Did I do something?' She just said: 'I'm not feeling well.'

Erin suspected the first symptoms of malaria. She cross– questioned her about symptoms and Rachel answered vaguely and evasively, until her friend gave up. She wanted to report the murder, but to whom? There were so many rumours about the police in Zimbabwe, so many stories of corruption and politics that she hesitated. After a visit to the Victoria Falls, they left the country and passed into Botswana. Then there was no more opportunity. Just the dismay she carried with her and the knowledge that the murder in Zimbabwe by Zimbabweans was not the concern of another country's police. Not on this continent.

In Cape Town they went with a few others to the Van Hunks nightclub, unaware that Jason would turn up later.

They had both been drinking, Erin with great fervour. She began to scold Rachel in an escalating flood of complaints – at the table, on the dance floor. At first just with words like razors, later with tears of drunken melancholy. About friendship, trust and betrayal.

The alcohol had weakened Rachel's resolve. It made her emotional, feel the urge to lighten the burden of her secret and deny the horrible accusations against her. Eventually, with their heads close together at the table, she told Erin everything. Erin calmed down. She said it couldn't be true, it must be a misunderstanding. Not Jason and Steven. Impossible. Rachel said she had watched the video many times over in the early morning hours. There was no mistake.

Let's ask them, let's clear this thing up. This was the reasoning of a fairly intoxicated, naive arch-optimist who never saw evil in anyone. No, no, no, Rachel had protested, promise me you won't say anything, never, let's go home, my father will know what to do.

Erin had promised. They danced. Erin went off somewhere, came back to the table. She said Jason and Steven were here, she had asked them about it, they said she was dreaming. Rachel looked up across the sea of faces and found Jason's eyes on her. He had a cell phone to his ear, and an expression of chilling determination. She had grabbed her rucksack and told Erin to come, they had to get out of there, now. Erin had argued, she didn't want to leave, what was Rachel's problem? Rachel had grabbed her arms and said, 'You come with me. Now!'

They were a few hundred metres from the club down Long Street when Jason and Steven emerged. They looked left and right, saw them and began to run. The other three had joined them from somewhere. Barry, Eben and Bobby.

She knew they were running for their lives.

In the Toyota bakkie, Steven Chitsinga and Barry Smith turned out of Scott into Speke Street and saw the police vehicles in front of the African Overland Adventures warehouse, a horde of blue lights flashing and uniforms everywhere.

Steven said a word in Shona; Barry was silent, braked sharply so that the big off-road tyres squealed. He jerked the gear lever into reverse, released the clutch, depressed the accelerator and shot backwards into something. In the mirror he could just see the roof of the vehicle, only once he turned his head in panic did he realise it was another SAPS patrol vehicle. With an ambulance behind that was blocking most of the road. He ground through the gears and shot forward. If he could go left into Stanley, and then left again in Grant...