Текст книги "Thirteen Hours"

Автор книги: Deon Meyer

Соавторы: Deon Meyer
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'Age?'

'A hundred and fifty.'

Dekker just looked at her, pen ready.

'Forty-six.'

'Profession?'

She gave an ironic snort and pushed her hair off her face again. Griessel saw confirmation of the maid's statement that she was a drinker – the trembling hands, the eyes, the characteristic colour and weathering of her face. But she reminded him of something else. He knew he had met her somewhere before.

'Excuse me?' said Dekker.

How do I know her, Griessel wondered. Where?

'I don't work.'

'Home-maker,' said Dekker and wrote that down.

She made the same little noise, loaded with meaning.

'Mrs Barnard, can you tell us about last night's events?'

She sank back slowly into her seat, put her elbow on the armrest and leaned her head on her hand. 'No.'

'Excuse me?'

'I don't know how long I can resist the temptation to say "you are excused".'

The muscles in Dekker's jaw worked as though he were grinding his teeth. Alexandra breathed in slowly and deliberately, as if steeling herself for a hard task. 'I am an alcoholic. I drink. From eleven in the morning. By six o'clock usually I am mercifully drunk. From half past eight on I don't remember much.' In that instant, perhaps because the deep, rich voice resonated somewhere in his memory, Benny Griessel remembered who she was. The word sprang to the tip of his tongue, he almost spoke it aloud, but stopped just in time: Soetwater. Sweet water.

She was the singer. Xandra. Lord, how old she looked.

Soetwater. The word activated a picture from memory, a television image of a woman in a tight-fitting black dress, just her and the microphone in the bright spotlight of a smoke-framed stage.

A small glass of sunlight,

A goblet of rain

A small sip of worship,

A mouthful of pain

Drink sweet water.

Mid-Eighties, somewhere around there. Griessel remembered her as she was, the incredibly sensual blonde singer with a voice like Dietrich and enough self-confidence not to take herself too seriously. He had only met her through the television screen and the cover of magazines, in the days before he started drinking. She had four or five hits, he remembered "n Donkiekar net vir twee',

'Tafelbaai se Wye Draii' and the big one, 'Soetwater'. Fuck, she had been this huge star and look at her now.

Benny Griessel felt pity for her, also loss, and empathy.

'So you don't remember what happened last night?'

'Not much.'

'Mrs Barnard,' said Dekker stiffly and formally. 'I get the impression that your husband's death hasn't upset you very much.'

He was mistaken, thought Griessel. He was misreading her; he was too tense, too hasty.

'No, Inspector, I am not in mourning. But if you bring me a gin and dry lemon, I will do my best.'

For an instant, Dekker was uncertain, but then he squared his shoulders and said, 'Can you remember anything about last night?'

'Enough to know it wasn't me.'

'Oh.'

'Come back this afternoon. Three o'clock is a good time. My best time of the day.'

'That is not an option.'

She made a gesture as if to say that was not her problem.

'I will have to test your blood for alcohol.'

'Carry on.'

Dekker stood up. 'I'll just get the technician.'

Griessel followed him. In the sitting room Thick and Thin were busy packing up.

'Can you just take a blood sample before you leave?'

'Sure, chief,' said Jimmy.

'Fransman,' said Griessel, aware that he must tread with care. 'You know I am an alcoholic?'

'Ah,' said Arnold, the fat one, 'detectives bonding. How sweet.'

'Fuck off,' said Griessel.

'I was just about to, anyway,' said Arnold.

'You still have to do the Mercedes in the street,' said Dekker.

'That's next on the list,' and Arnold left the room with his arms full of evidence and apparatus.

'So?' Dekker asked once they were alone.

'I know how she feels, Fransman ...'

'She feels nothing. Her husband is lying there and she feels nothing. She killed him, I'm telling you. The usual story.'

How do you explain to a non-drinker what she was feeling now? Alexandra Barnard's whole being craved alcohol. She was drowning in the terrible flood of that morning; drink was the only lifeline. 'Griessel knew.

'You're a good detective, Fransman. Your crime scene is perfectly managed, you do everything by the book and ten to one you're right. But if you want a confession ... give me a chance. One-to-one isn't so intimidating ...'

Griessel's cell phone rang. He watched Dekker while taking it out. The coloured man didn't look too keen about his suggestion.

'Griessel.'

'Benny, it's Vusi. I'm at the Metro CCTV room. Benny, there are two of them.'

'Two what?'

'Two girls, Benny. I'm standing here, watching five guys chasing two girls up Long Street.'

Chapter 7

'Oh fuck,' said Benny Griessel. 'They're chasing the girls, you say? In Long Street?'

'The time code says it was this morning at a quarter to two. Five men, coming from Wale Street towards the church.'

'That's what, four blocks?'

'Six blocks between Wale and the church. Half a kilometre.'

'Jissis, Vusi, you don't do that to steal a tourist's purse.'

'I know. The other thing is, the footage isn't great, but you can see – the guys chasing them are black and white, Benny.'

'Doesn't make sense.' In this country criminals didn't work together across the colour lines.

'I know ... I thought, maybe they are bouncers, maybe the girls made trouble in a club somewhere, but, you know ...'

'Bouncers don't cut the throats of foreign tourists.'

'Not yet,' said Vusi, and Griessel knew what he was alluding to. The clubs and bouncers were a hotbed of organised crime, a powder keg. 'In any case, I've put a bulletin out on the other girl.'

'Good work, Vusi.'

'I don't know if it will help much,' said Ndabeni and ended the call. Griessel saw Dekker waiting impatiently for him.

'Sorry about that, Fransman. It's Vusi's case ...'

'And this is my case.' His body language showed he was ready to argue.

Griessel hadn't expected this aggression, but he knew he was on thin ice. The territorial urges of detectives were strong, and he was just here as mentor.

'You're right,' he said and walked towards the door. 'But it might just help.'

Dekker stayed on the spot, frowning.

Just before Benny left the room he said: 'Wait...'

Griessel stopped.

'OK,' said Dekker finally. 'Talk to her.'

She could no longer hear them. Only the birdsong and cicadas and the hum of the city below. She lay in the cool shade of the rock overhang, but she was sweating as the temperature in the mountain bowl rose rapidly. She knew she could not stand up.

They would stop somewhere and try to spot her.

She considered staying there, all day, until darkness fell and she would .be invisible. She could do it even though she was thirsty, even though she had last eaten the previous evening. If she could rest, if she could sleep a little, she would have new strength tonight with which to seek help.

But they knew she was there, somewhere.

They would fetch the others and they would search for her. They would backtrack on the path and investigate every possibility and if anyone came close enough, they would see her. The hollow wasn't deep enough. She knew most of them, knew their lean bodies, their energy and focus, their skill and self-confidence. She also knew they could not afford to stop looking.

She would have to move.

She looked down the stream, down the narrow stony passage that twisted downhill between fynbos and rocks. She must get down there, crawling carefully so as to make no sound. The mountain was a poor choice, too deserted, too open. She must get down to where there were people; she had to get help. Somewhere someone must be prepared to listen and to help.

Reluctantly she lifted her head from the rucksack, pushed it ahead of her and slid carefully after it. She couldn't drag it; it would be too noisy. She rose to a crouch, swung the rucksack slowly onto her back and clipped the buckles. Then she crawled on hands and knees over the round stones. Slowly, disturbing nothing that would make a sound.

Griessel walked into the sitting room and whispered in Tinkie Kellerman's ear. Alexandra Barnard dragged on another cigarette; her eyes followed Tinkie as she rose and left the room. Griessel closed the door behind her and without speaking went to a large Victorian cupboard with leaded glass doors on top and dark wooden doors below. He opened a top door, took out a glass and a bottle of gin and took it across to the chair closest to Alexandra.

'My name is Benny Griessel and I am an alcoholic. It's been one hundred and fifty-six days since my last drink,' he said and broke the bottle's seal. Her eyes were fixed on the transparent fluid that he carefully poured into the glass, three thick fingers deep. He held it out to her. She took it, her hands shaking badly. She drank, an intense and thirsty gulp and closed her eyes.

Griessel went back to the liquor cabinet and put the bottle away. When he sat down he said, 'I won't be able to let you have more than that.'

She nodded.

He knew how she felt at this precise moment. He knew the alcohol would flow through her body like a gentle, soothing tide, healing the wounds and quietening the voices, leaving behind a smooth, silver beach of peace. He gave her time; it took four gulps, sometimes more; you had to give your body time to let the heavenly warmth through. He realised he was staring intently at the glass at her lips, smelling the alcohol, feeling his own body straining for it. He leaned back in the chair, took a deep breath, looked at the magazines on the coffee table, Visi and House & Garden, two years out of date, but unread and just for show, until she said: 'Thank you,' and he heard the voice had lost its edge.

She put the glass down slowly, the tremor almost gone, and offered him the pack of cigarettes.

'No, thank you,' he said.

'An alcoholic who doesn't smoke?'

'I'm trying to cut down.'

She lit one for herself. The ashtray beside her was full.

'My AA sponsor is a doctor,' he said by way of explanation.

'Get another sponsor,' she said in an attempt at humour, but it didn't work; her mouth pulled in the wrong direction and then Alexandra Barnard began to weep silently, just a painful grimace, tears rolling from her eyes. She put the cigarette down and held the palms of her hands over her face. Griessel reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief. He held it out but she didn't see it. Her shoulders shook, her head drooped and the long hair fell over her face again like a curtain. Griessel saw it was blonde and silver, a rare combination; most women dyed their hair. He wondered why she no longer cared. She had been a star, a major one. What had dragged her down to this?

He waited until her sobs subsided. 'My sponsor's name is Doctor Barkhuizen. He's seventy years old and he's an alcoholic with long hair in a plait. He said his children asked him why he smoked and he had all sorts of reasons – to help him with stress, because he enjoyed it. . .' He kept his tone of voice easy, he knew the story was unimportant, but that didn't matter, he just wanted to get a dialogue going. 'Then his daughter said in that case he wouldn't mind if she started smoking too. Then he knew he was lying to himself about the cigarettes. He stopped. So he's trying to get me to quit. I'm down to about three or four a day ...'

Eventually she looked up and saw the handkerchief. She took it from him. 'Was it hard?' Her voice was deeper than ever. She wiped her face and blew her nose.

'The drink was. Is. Still. The smoking too.'

'I couldn't.' She crumpled the hanky and picked up the glass again and drank from it. He didn't answer. He had to give her room to talk. He knew she would.

'Your hanky's ...'

'Keep it.'

'I'll have it washed.' She put the glass down. 'It wasn't me.'

Griessel nodded.

'We didn't talk any more,' she said and looked elsewhere in the room.

Griessel sat still.

'He comes home from the office at half past six. Then he comes to the library and stands and looks at me. To see how drunk I am. If I don't say anything then he goes and eats alone in the kitchen or he goes to his study. Or out again. Every night he puts me in bed. Every night. I have wondered, in the afternoon when I can still think, if that is why I drink. So that he would still do that one thing for me. Isn't that tragic? Doesn't it break your heart?' The tears began to fall again. They interfered with the rhythm of her speech, but she kept on. 'Sometimes, when he comes in, I try to provoke him. I was good at it ... Last night I ... I asked him whose turn it was now. You must understand ...We had ... it's a long story ...' and for the first time her sobs were audible, as if the full weight of her history had come to bear on her. Pity welled up in Benny Griessel, because he saw again the ghost of the singer she had once been.

Eventually she stubbed out the cigarette. 'He just said "Fuck you" – that's all he ever said – and he left again. I screamed after him, "Yes, leave me here", I don't think he heard me, I was drunk ...'

She blew her nose into the hanky again. 'That's all. That's all I know. He didn't put me to bed, he left me there and this morning, he was lying there ...' She picked up the glass.

'The last words he said to me. "Fuck you".' More tears.

She drained the last bit of alcohol from the glass and looked at Griessel with intense focus. 'Do you think it could have been me that shot him?'

The plump girl behind the reception desk of the Cat & Moose Youth Hostel and Backpackers Inn looked at the photograph the constable was holding out and asked:

'Why does she look so funny?'

'Because she's dead.'

'Oh, my God.' She put two and two together and asked: 'Was she the one this morning at the church here?'

'Yes. Do you recognise her?'

'Oh, my God, yes. They came in yesterday, two American girls. Wait ...' The plump girl opened the register and ran her finger down the column. 'Here they are, Rachel Anderson and Erin Russel, they are from ...' she bent down to read the small writing of the addresses. 'West Lafayette, Indiana. Oh, my God. Who killed her?'

'We don't know yet. Is this one Anderson?'

'I don't know.'

'And the other one, do you know where she is?'

'No, I work days, I ... Let's see, they are in room sixteen.' She shut the register and went ahead down the passage saying: 'Oh, my God.'

Through careful questioning he got information about the firearm from her. It was her husband's.

Adam Barnard kept it locked up in a safe in the room. He kept the key with him, probably afraid she would do something foolish with it in her drunken state. She said she had no idea how it landed up on the floor beside her. Maybe she did shoot him, she said; she had reason enough, enough anger and self-pity and hate. There were times she had wished him dead, but her true fantasy was to kill herself and then watch him. Watch him coming home at half past six, climbing the stairs and finding her dead. Watch him kneeling beside her body and begging forgiveness, weeping and broken. But, she said with irony, the two parts would never gel. You can't watch anything when you're dead.

Then she just sat there. Eventually he whispered 'Soetwater' but she didn't respond; she hid behind her hair for an eternity until she slowly held out the glass to him and he knew he would have to pour another if he wanted to hear the whole story.

08:13-09:03

Chapter 8

Benny Griessel listened to Alexandra Barnard's story.

'Alexa. Nobody calls me Alexandra or Xandra.'

Now, just as he was about to open the front door of Number 47 Brownlow Street to go and find Dekker, he felt a peculiar emotion pressing on his heart, a weightlessness in his head, a sort of separation from reality, as though he stood back a few millimetres from everything, a second or two out of step with the world.

So it took him a while to register that outside was chaos. The street, so peaceful when he arrived, was a mass of journalists and the inquisitive: a flock of photographers, a herd of reporters, a camera team from e.tv and the growing crowd of spectators their presence had attracted. The noise washed over Griessel, loud waves of sound that he could feel in his body, along with the knowledge that he had listened so acutely to Alexa's story that he had been oblivious to all this.

On the veranda a tense Dekker was exchanging fiery words with a bald man, both their voices raised in argument.

'Not before I've seen her,' said the man with a superior attitude and aggressive body language. His head was completely shaven, he was tall and sinewy, with large fleshy ears and one round silver earring. Black shirt, black trousers and the black basketball shoes that teenagers wear, although he seemed to be in his late forties. A middle-aged Zorro. His prominent Adam's apple bobbed up and down in time with his words. Dekker spotted Griessel. 'He insists on seeing her,' said Dekker, still tense. The man ignored Griessel. He snapped open a black leather holder at his belt and brought out a small black cell phone. 'I'm calling my lawyer; this behaviour is totally unacceptable.' He began to press keys on the phone. 'She's not a well woman.'

'He's the partner of the deceased. Willie Mouton,' said Dekker.

'Mr Mouton,' said Griessel reasonably. His voice sounded unfamiliar to his own ear.

'Fuck off,' said Mouton, 'I'm on the phone.' His voice had the penetration and tone of an industrial meat saw.

'Mr Mouton, I won't allow you to talk to a police officer like that,' Dekker said on a rising note. 'And if you wish to make personal calls, you will do it in the street...'

'It's a free country as far as I know.'

'...and not on my crime scene.'

'Your crime scene? Who the fuck do you think you are?' Then, into the phone:

'Sorry. Can I speak to Regardt, please ...?'

Dekker advanced in a threatening way, his temper beginning to get the better of him.

'Regardt, this is Willie, I'm standing on Adam's veranda with the Gestapo ...'

Griessel put a hand on Dekker's arm. 'There are cameras, Fransman.'

'I won't hit him,' said Dekker and jerked Mouton roughly off the veranda and pushed him towards the garden gate. Cameras flashed and clicked.

'They're assaulting me, Regardt,' said Mouton with somewhat less confidence.

'Morning, Nikita,' said Prof Phil Pagel, the state pathologist, from beyond the gate. He was amused.

'Morning, Prof,' said Benny, watching Dekker push Mouton through the gate onto the pavement. He told the uniform: 'Don't let him through here.'

'I'll sue your arse,' said Mouton. 'Regardt, I want you to sue their fucking arses. I want you here with a fucking interdict. Alexa's in there and God knows what these storm troopers are doing with her ...' His voice was deliberately loud enough for Dekker and the media to hear.

Pagel squeezed past Zorro and went up the stairs with his black case in hand. 'What a piece of work is man,' he said.

'Prof?' queried Griessel, and suddenly the sense of disconnectedness was gone; he was back in the present, head clear.

Pagel shook his hand. 'Hamlet. To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Just before he calls man "a quintessence of dust". I was at the show last night. I highly recommend it. Busy morning, Nikita?'

Pagel had been calling him 'Nikita' for the past twelve years. The first time he had met Griessel he had said: 'I am sure that's how the young Khrushchev looked'. Griessel had to think hard who Khrushchev was. Pagel was flamboyantly dressed, as usual – tall, fit and exceptionally handsome for his fifty-something years. There were some who said he looked like the star of one of the television soapies that Griessel had never watched.

'Things are hectic, as usual, Prof.'

'I understand you are mentoring the new generation of law enforcers, Nikita.'

'As you can see, Prof, I'm brilliant at my job,' Griessel grinned. Dekker came back up the veranda steps. 'Have you met Fransman yet?'

'Indeed, I have had the privilege. Inspector Dekker, I admire your forcefulness.'

Dekker had lost none of his tension. 'Morning, Prof.'

'Rumour has it that Adam Barnard is the victim?'

They both nodded, in synch.

'Take arms against a sea of troubles,' said Pagel.

The detectives looked at him without comprehension.

'I am abusing Hamlet to say that this means big trouble, gentlemen.'

'Aah,' said the detectives. They understood.

In the library they stood talking while Pagel knelt beside the body and opened his doctor's bag.

'It wasn't her, Fransman,' said Griessel.

'Are you one hundred per cent certain?'

Griessel shrugged. Nobody could be a hundred per cent certain. 'It's not just what she says, Fransman. It's how it fits in with the scene ...'

'She could have hired someone.'

Griessel had to concede that that argument had merit. Women hiring others to get rid of their husbands was the latest national sport. But he shook his head. 'I doubt it. You don't hire people to make it look like you did it.'

'Anything is possible in this country,' said Dekker.

'Amen,' said Pagel.

'Prof, the "sea of troubles"... Did you know Barnard?' Griessel asked.

'A little, Nikita. Mostly hearsay.'

'What's his story?' asked Dekker.

'Music,' said Pagel. 'And women.'

'That's what his wife says too,' said Griessel.

'As if she hasn't suffered enough,' said Pagel.

'What do you mean, Prof?' Dekker asked.

'You know she was a huge star?'

'No, really?' Stunned.

Pagel didn't look up while he spoke. His hands were deftly handling instruments and the body. 'Barnard "discovered" her, though I have never been very comfortable with that expression. But let me confess my ignorance, gentlemen. As you know, my real love is the classics. I know he was a lawyer who became involved with the pop music industry. Xandra was his first star ...'

'Xandra?'

'That was her stage name,' said Griessel.

'She was a singer?'

'Indeed. A very good one too,' said Pagel.

'How long ago was this, Prof?'

'Fifteen, twenty years?'

'Never heard of her.' Dekker shook his head.

'She disappeared off the scene. Rather suddenly.'

'She caught him with someone else,' said Griessel. 'That's when she started drinking.' 'That was the rumour. Gentlemen, unofficially and unconfirmed: I estimate the time of death at ...' Pagel checked his watch. '... between two and three this morning. As you have surely deduced, the cause of death is two shots by a small-calibre firearm. The position of the wounds and small amount of propellant residue indicates a shooting distance of two to four metres ... and a reasonably good shot: the wounds are less than three centimetres apart.'

'And he wasn't shot here,' said Dekker.

'Indeed.'

'Only two wounds?' asked Griessel.

The pathologist nodded.

'There were three rounds fired by his pistol...'

'Prof,' said Dekker, 'let's say she is an alcoholic. Say she was drunk last night. I had blood drawn, but will it help, eight or ten hours after the fact?'

'Ah, Fransman, nowadays we have ethyl glucuronide. It can track the residue of alcohol levels up to thirty-six hours afterwards. With a urine sample up to five days after intake.'

Dekker nodded, satisfied.

'How so, Prof?'

'Look at him, Fransman. He must be about one point nine metres tall. He's a little overweight; I estimate on the wrong side of a hundred and ten kilograms. You and I would battle to get his body up those stairs – and we are sober.' Pagel began to pack away his apparatus. 'Let's get him

'But I must throw my weight behind Nikita's theory. I don't believe it was her.'

 to the mortuary; I can't do much more.'

'Somebody went to a lot of trouble to get him here,' said Dekker.

'And therein lies the rub,' said Pagel.

'Women ...' Dekker speculated.

Pagel stood up. 'Don't write off the Afrikaans music industry as a potential source of conflict, Fransman.'

'Prof?'

'Do you follow the popular press, Fransman?'

Dekker shrugged.

'Ah, the life of the law enforcer – all work and no time to read the Sunday papers. There's money in the Afrikaans music industry, Fransman. Big money. But that's just the ears of the hippo, the tip of the iceberg. The intrigues are legion. Scandals like divorce, sexual harassment, paedophilia ... More long knives and apparent back-stabbing than in Julius Caesar. They fight over everything – back tracks, contracts, artistic credits, royalties, who is permitted to make a musical about which historical personality, who deserves what place in musical history ...'

'But why, Prof?' Griessel asked, deeply disappointed.

'People are people, Nikita. If there is wealth and fame at stake ... It's the usual game: cliques and camps, big egos, artistic temperaments, sensitive feelings, hate, jealousy, envy; there are people who haven't spoken to each other for years, new enmities ... the list is endless. Our Adam was in the thick of things. Would it be enough to inspire murder? As Fransman correctly pointed out, in this country, anything is possible.'

Jimmy and Arnold from Forensics came through the door. 'Oh, there's Prof, morning, Prof,' said Arnold, the fat one.

'Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are here. Morning, gentlemen.'

'Prof, can we ask you something?'

'Of course.'

'Prof, the thing is ...' said Arnold.

'Women ...' said Jimmy.

'Why are their breasts so big, Prof?'

'I mean, look at the animals ...'

'Much smaller, Prof...'

'Jissis,' said Fransman Dekker.

'I say it's revolution,' said Arnold.

'Evolution, you ape,' said Jimmy.

'Whatever,' said Arnold.

Pagel looked at them with the goodwill of a patient parent. 'Interesting question, colleagues. But we will have to continue this conversation elsewhere. Come and see me in Salt River.'

'We're not mortuary kind of guys, Prof...'

Dekker's cell phone rang. He checked the screen. 'It's Cloete,' he said.

'And let the kettle to the trumpet speak,' said Pagel on the way to the door, because Cloete was the SAPS media liaison officer. 'Goodbye, colleagues.'

They said goodbye and listened to Fransman Dekker give Cloete the relevant infamous details.

Griessel shook his head. Something big was brewing. Just a look outside would tell you that. His own phone rang. He answered: 'Griessel.'

'Benny,' said Vusi Ndabeni, 'I think you should come.'