Thirteen Hours

Chapter 25

Benny Griessel jogged down Buitengracht again. The traffic jam had cleared as though it had never existed. His mind was on the fugitive Rachel Anderson. Where was she heading? The only possibility was the Cat & Moose Youth Hostel; that was where her luggage was, and her friend Oliver Sands. Where else could she go?

He phoned Caledon Square and asked the radio operator to send a unit to Long Street. 'But they must not park in front of the Cat & Moose. Tell them to wait inside. If she does come, she mustn't see them.'

That was all he could do. According to Vusi, the eyewitness at Carlucci's had looked at the covert photos of Demidov's troops, shaken his head and said no, it was none of them.

That really meant fuck all, because Organised Crime might not have sent all the pictures. Or the pictures could be out of date. Or they didn't have photos of all of Demidov's people.

Either he or Vusi would have to go back to Van Hunks again. But first he would see what the house in Table View produced. He had to give the whole search some direction. He would use Caledon Square as the base; it was central, that was where the radio connection with the patrol cars was.

He ran the last two hundred metres to his car, aware of the heat now smothering the city like a blanket.

'I don't know what it was for,' said Willie Mouton, and passed the Jack Fischer invoice back across the desk to Dekker. 'I don't think they will tell you.'

'Oh?' 'It's sensitive. Client privilege.'

'What is?'

'No, Willie,' said Groenewald, the lawyer.

'Of course it is. They guarantee confidentiality. That's why we use them.'

'Privilege only counts for doctors, psychologists and legal practitioners, Willie. If the police have a warrant, they can get the information.'

'What is the use of their guarantee then?' The Adam's apple bobbed.

'Is there anyone specific that you deal with at Jack Fischer?' Dekker asked.

'We work with Jack himself. But you're barking up the wrong tree, I'm telling you.'

Rachel Anderson could no longer hear the helicopter.

At first the silence was eerie, but gradually it became reassuring. In spite of her tracks in the flower bed, even though a black policewoman had been only two steps from her hiding place, she had evaded them.

She made up her mind. She would stay here until dark.

She checked her watch. It was eleven minutes to twelve. Another eight hours before the sun went down. A long time. But let them look for her in other places; let them forget about this garden.

The pain from the scratches and bruises was a dull constant in her body. She would have to make herself comfortable if she were going to lie here that long.

Slowly she sat upright and pressed the thick, thorny branches to one side. She didn't want to make any noise, or show movement. She didn't know whether there were eyes trained on these plants.

The rucksack would have to come off. She could use it as a pillow.

She loosened the clips, pulled the straps off her shoulders and lowered the rucksack. It snagged on the branches and thorns, awkward, behind her. With care she untangled it and put it on the ground. She turned on her back slowly and let her head rest on the bag.

The ground underneath her was not too uncomfortable. The dense shade would protect her from dehydration. She knew her blood sugar was low, but she would survive until night fell. She would have to find a telephone; somewhere someone would allow her to phone, they must, she would beg. She had to tell her father where she was.

She drew a deep breath and looked up through the dense leaf cover to where patches of sky shone through. Her eyes closed.

Then she heard the front door of the house open.

Barry drove up in his Toyota bakkie from the city side. Upper Orange was quiet now, the police vehicles and uniforms gone. Only a white microbus with a SAPS emblem still remained up on the corner.

He wondered if it would be worthwhile to watch the Victorian house.

He looked for the driveway that he had noted earlier, turned up it and drove to the back against the garage door. He picked up the binoculars that lay beside him on the worn seat cover. He realised he couldn't see the house from here. The wall on the left was too high.

He climbed onto the load bed of the Toyota and leaned back against the cab with the binoculars to his eyes. It was barely a hundred metres to the Victorian house. He let the binocular lenses sweep across the house.

It was dead still.

He checked the garden. Back to the house.

A waste of time.

Then the front door opened. A man appeared. Barry focused on him and waited. An old man stood in the front door. Dead still.

Josh and Melinda Geyser were sitting close together at the big oval table in the conference room when Dekker opened the door. They looked at him expectantly, but said nothing until he was seated - one chair away from Josh.

'Inspector Griessel and I don't believe you are suspects in the case at this stage ...'

'At this stage?'

'Madam, the investigation has only just begun. We—'

'We didn't do it,' Josh said emphatically.

'Then help us to take you off our list.'

'Who else is on the list?' asked Melinda.

Dekker wanted to shut her up. 'We are trying to trace a parcel.' He saw the fright on her face.

'What parcel?' asked Josh.

'I am not at liberty to tell you, Mr Geyser, but I am asking you again: help us.'

'How?'

'Give us permission to search your house, so we can make sure there is nothing that connects you with Barnard's death.'

'Such as?'

'A firearm. You can refuse, and we would have to obtain a search warrant. But if you give permission ...'

Josh looked at Melinda. She nodded. 'Go ahead. There isn't anything.'

Dekker looked at her intently. He saw only the decisiveness. 'Wait here, please. I will be back as soon as possible.'

When Mbali Kaleni walked through the double ground-floor doors of AfriSound there were four white people standing in front of the black receptionist, in animated conversation.

'Excuse me,' said Kaleni and held up her identity card. 'Police.'

All four turned to her. One had a camera slung around the neck.

'Are you here about the Barnard case?' a young woman with very short blonde hair asked.

'Are you from the newspapers?' asked Kaleni.

'Die Burger,' the woman said. 'Is it true that Josh and Melinda Geyser are being questioned in there?'

'I don't talk to the media,' she said and directed herself towards the receptionist.

'Inspector Dekker. Ngaphakathi?' 'Yes, he's inside.'

'Please,' another journalist called out, 'are the Geysers here?'

Kaleni just shook her head as she climbed the stairs.

'Izidingidwane.'

Rachel Anderson lay stock still, but she couldn't hear anything.

Had he just opened and closed the front door?

She barely breathed.

There were footsteps, scarcely audible: one, two, three, four.

Then silence.

'The policewoman told me you are an American girl,' said the same voice she had heard earlier. She was startled by the abruptness and then she tensed as she realised he was speaking to her.

'I saw you when you jumped over the fence. I saw how scared you were. And then, the men in the Land Rover ...' There was great compassion in the voice, but the fear that he knew she was there paralysed her.

'The policewoman told me those men are hunting you, that they want to hurt you.'

She breathed through her mouth, silently.

'You must be very frightened, and very tired. I suppose you don't know who to trust. I will leave the door unlocked. If you want to come inside, you are most welcome. I am alone. My wife died last year. There is food and drink inside, and you have my word that no one will ever know you were here.'

Emotion welled up in her. Self-pity, gratitude, the impulse to leap up.

No!

'I can help you.'

She heard feet shuffling.

'I will be inside and the door is unlocked.'

It was quiet for a moment before she heard his footsteps moving away again. The door opened and shut.

Then there was the roar of a cannon and her whole body jerked in alarm.