Thirteen Hours

Chapter 12

Rachel Anderson lay on her stomach behind the stacked pine logs, powerless and gutted.

Something pressed uncomfortably against her belly, but she did not move. She couldn't hold back the self-pity any longer; it overwhelmed and paralysed her. She did not cry; it was as though her tear ducts had dried up. Her breathing fast and shallow, mouth gasping, she stared at the grain of the sawn wood, but saw nothing.

Her thoughts had stalled, trapped by a lack of alternatives, the door to all escape routes slammed shut, except this single option, to lie in this shade, a gasping, helpless fish on dry land.

She couldn't hear the voices any more. They had walked uphill. Maybe they would see her footprints and follow them here. They would look at the unfinished garage and realise it offered a hiding place and then they would look behind the pine logs and one would grab her hair with an iron grip and slash open her throat. She didn't even think she would bleed, there was nothing left. Nothing. Not even the terror of that chunky blade; it did not release the flood of adrenaline in her guts any more.

Oh, to be home.

It was a vague longing that slowly overcame her - a ghostly vision emerging from the haze, the safe haven, her father's voice, far off and faint. 'Don't you worry, honey, just don't you worry.'

Oh, to be held by him, to curl up on his lap with her head under his chin and close her eyes. The safest place in the world.

Her breathing steadied and the image in her mind was clearer.

The idea took shape, instinctive and irrational, to get up and phone her father.

He would save her.

If there was a murder or armed robbery in his area at night, the SAPS members of Caledon Square had instructions to call the station commander at home. But the more mundane affairs of the previous night had to wait until he was at his desk in the morning and could scan the notes in the register from the charge office. The SC was a black Superintendent with twenty-five years' service to his name. He knew there was only one way to tackle this job, slowly and objectively. Otherwise the nature and extent of that list could undo you. So he ran his pen down the list with professional distance, over the domestic violence, public drunkenness, the theft of cell phones and cars, drug sales, disturbance of the peace, burglaries, assault, indecent exposure and various false alarms.

At first his pen slid over the Lion's Head incident on page seven of the register, but it hovered back. He read through it again more carefully. The reluctant woman who had seen a young girl on the mountain. Then he reached for the bulletin that lay to his left on the corner of the scarred wooden surface. A Constable had brought it in only minutes before. He had scanned it quickly. Now he gave it his full attention.

He saw the connection. At the bottom was Inspector Vusumuzi Ndabeni's name and phone number.

He picked up the phone.

Vusi was walking down Long Street towards the harbour, on his way to the Van Hunks nightclub, when his phone rang. He answered without stopping.

'Inspector Ndabeni.'

'Vusi, it's Goodwill,' said the Caledon Square SC in Xhosa. 'I think I have something for you.'

Benny Griessel stood with his colleagues in one of the examination rooms of the City Park Hospital Casualty Department. He had a strong sense of deja vu.

Space was limited, so they were quite an intimate little group behind the closed door. While Fransman Dekker talked with his habitual frown, Griessel observed the people around him: John Afrika, District Commissioner: Detective Services and Criminal Intelligence, in full impressive uniform, his epaulettes weighed down with symbols of rank. Afrika was shorter than Dekker, but he had presence, an energy that made him the dominant force in the room. Beside Afrika was the fragile Tinkie Kellerman, her delicate features overshadowed by her huge eyes revealing how intimidated she was by this gathering. Then there was the broad- shouldered Dekker with his crew cut and angular face; serious, focused, voice deep and intense as he talked. They said he made women weak at the knees but Griessel couldn't see how. They said Dekker had a beautiful coloured wife in a senior position at Sanlam, and that's how he could afford to live in an expensive house somewhere on the Tygerberg. They also said that he sometimes played away from home.

And Cloete, beside him, the liaison officer with tobacco stains on his fingers and permanent shadows under his eyes. Cloete, with his endless patience and calm, the man in the middle, between the devil of the media and the deep blue of the police. How many times had he been through this, Griessel wondered, in this kind of emergency meeting, the one who had to make sure all the bases were covered, so that explanations higher up in the SAPS food chain would be consistent. The difference now was that he, too, like Cloete, was caught in a no-man's-land, his created by the mentorship that he didn't think was going to work.

Dekker concluded his explanation and Griessel drew an unobtrusive breath, preparing for the predictable conclusion.

'Are you sure?' Afrika asked and looked at Griessel.

'Absolutely, Commissioner,' he said. Everyone but Cloete nodded.

'So why is the doos carrying on like this?' The Commissioner glared guiltily at Tinkie Kellerman after the expletive and said: 'Sorry, but that is what he is.'

Tinkie merely nodded. She had heard everything by now.

'He was trouble from the start,' said Fransman Dekker. 'He gave the Constable trouble at the gate, insisted on coming in. It was a crime scene, sir, and I do things by the book.'

'Fair enough,' said John Afrika and dipped his head thoughtfully with a hand over his mouth. Then he looked up. 'The press ...' he looked at Cloete enquiringly.

'It's a major story,' said Cloete, on the defensive as usual, as if he was implicated in the blood lust of the media. 'Barnard is a celebrity of sorts ...'

'That's the problem,' said John Afrika, and thought some more.

When he looked up and focused on Dekker with an apologetic slant to his mouth, Griessel knew what was coming.

'Fransman, you're not going to like this ...'

'Commissioner, maybe ...' Griessel said, because he had been the one who had control taken away from him before, and he knew how it felt.

Afrika held up a hand. 'They will tear us apart, Benny, if Mouton puts the blame on us. You see, we were there, in her room . . .You know what the papers are like. Tomorrow they will say it's because we put inexperienced people on the case ...'

Dekker got it now. 'No, Commissioner ...' he said.

'Fransman, don't let us misunderstand each other; it happened on your watch,' Afrika said sternly. Then more gently: 'I'm not saying it's your fault; I want to protect you.'

'Protect?'

'You have to understand. These are difficult times ...'

They knew he was referring to the recent investigational failures that the newspapers and politicians had pounced on like predators.

Dekker tried one last time, 'But, sir, if I crack this, tomorrow they will write ...'

'Djy wiet dissie soe maklikie!' You know it's not that simple.

Griessel wondered why Cape Coloureds only spoke Cape Flats Afrikaans with each other. It always made him feel excluded.

Dekker wanted to say more, his mouth opened, but John Afrika lifted a warning finger. Dekker's mouth closed, his jaw clenched, eyes fierce.

'Benny, you take charge of this one,' the Commissioner said. 'As of now, Fransman, you work closely with Benny. Lat hy die pressure vat. Lat hy die Moutons van die lewe handle! Let him take the pressure, let him handle the Moutons of this world. And then, almost as an afterthought: 'You're a team, if you crack this .. .'

Griessel's phone rang.

'... then you can share the honours.'

Benny took the phone out of his pocket and checked the screen.

'It's Vusi,' he said meaningfully.

'Jissis,' said Afrika shaking his head. 'It never rains ...'

Griessel answered with a 'Vusi?'

'Is the Commissioner still there with you, Benny?'

'He's here.'

'Keep him there, please, just keep him there.'

Tafelberg Road is tarred, and follows the contour of the mountain, starting at 360 metres above sea level. It runs past the cable car station with its long queues of tourists, but just beyond Platteklipstroom ravine a concrete barrier keeps cars out, so only cyclists and pedestrians can continue. From there on it rises and falls between 380 and 460 metres for four kilometres or more around Devil's Peak before it becomes an increasingly rough dirt track, eventually connecting with the Kings Battery hiking trail.

The observation point with the best view of the city bowl is a hundred metres below Mount Prospect on the northern flank of Devil's Peak, just before the path turns sharply east.

The young man was sitting just above the path, on a rock in the shade of a now flowerless protea bush. He was in his late twenties, white, lean and tanned. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, a bleached blue shirt with a green collar, long khaki shorts and old worn Rocky sandals with deep tread soles. He held a pair of binoculars to his face and scanned the ground slowly from left to right, west to east. Below him the Cape was breathtaking - from the cable car sliding, seemingly weightless, past Table Mountain's rugged cliffs to the top, past the sensuous curves of Lion's Head and Signal Hill, over the blue bay, a glittering jewel that stretched to the horizon, to below him where the city nestled comfortably, like a contented child in the mountain's embrace. He saw none of this, because his attention was focused only on the city's edge.

Beside him on the flat rock was a map book of Cape Town. It was open at Oranjezicht, the suburb directly below him. The mountain breeze gently flipped the pages so that every now and then he had to put out an absent-minded hand to flatten them.

Rachel Anderson stood up slowly, like a sleepwalker. She walked around the long stack of logs and looked towards the mountain. She could not see anyone. She walked out of the shadow of the garage and turned right in the direction of the city, across the cement slab and stone paving, then across the tar of Bosch Avenue to where it turned into Rugby Road ten metres further on. She was drained, she could no longer run, she would go and phone her father, just walk slowly and go and phone her father.

The young man with the binoculars spotted her instantly, his lenses sliding over her, a tiny, lonely figure. The denim shorts, the powder-blue T-shirt and the small rucksack - it was her.

'Jesus Christ,' he said out loud.

He pulled the binoculars back, focused on her to make absolutely sure, then took out a cell phone from his shirt pocket and searched for a number. He called and brought the binoculars back to his eyes with one hand.

'Yeah?' he heard over the cell phone.

'I see her. She just fuckin' walked out of nowhere.'

'Where is she?'

'Right there, in the road, she's turning right...'

'Which road, Barry?'

'For fuck's sake,' said Barry, putting the binoculars down on the rock and picking up the map. The wind had turned the page again. Hurriedly, he turned the page back and ran his finger over the map, looking for the right place.

'It's right there, first road below ...'

'Barry, what fuckin' street?'

'I'm working on it,' said Barry hoarsely.

'Just relax. Give us a street name.'

'OK, OK ... It's Rugby Road ... Hang on ...' He grabbed the binoculars again.

'Rugby Road runs all along the mountain, you fucking idiot.'

'I know, but she's turning left into ...' He put the binoculars down again, searched the map feverishly. 'Braemar. That's it ...' Barry lifted up the binoculars again. 'Braemar ...' He searched for her, spotted her in the lenses for a moment. She was walking calmly, in no hurry. Then she began to disappear, as though the suburb was swallowing her feet first. 'Shit, she's ... she's gone, she just fucking disappeared.'

'Not possible.'

'I think she went down an embankment or something.'

'You'll have to do better than that.'

Barry trembled as he searched the map again. 'Stairs. She's taking the stairway to Strathcona Road.' He pointed the binoculars again. 'Ja. That's it. That's exactly where she is.'

Griessel stood outside on the pavement with Dekker and Cloete. Through the glass doors they watched John Afrika pacify Willie Mouton and his soberly dressed lawyer. 'Sorry, Fransman,' said Griessel.

Dekker didn't reply; he just stared at the three men inside.

'It happens,' said Cloete philosophically. He drew deeply on a cigarette and looked at his cell phone, which was receiving complaining texts from the press, one after another. He sighed. 'It's not Benny's fault.'

'I know,' said Dekker. 'But we're wasting time. Josh Geyser could be in fucking Timbuktu by now.'

'The Josh Geyser?' asked Cloete.

'Who?' asked Griessel.

'The gospel guy. Barnard pumped his wife yesterday in his office and she went and confessed the whole thing.'

'Barnard's wife?' asked Griessel.

'No. Geyser's.' 'Melinda?' asked Cloete urgently.

'That's right.'

'No!' Cloete was shocked.

'Hang on ...' said Griessel.

'I've got all their CDs,' said Cloete. 'I can't fucking believe it. Is that what Mouton is going around saying?'

'Are you a gospel fan?' Dekker asked.

Cloete nodded only fleetingly and flicked his cigarette butt in an arc down the street. 'He's lying, I'm telling you. Melinda is a sweet thing. And besides, she and Josh are born-again - she would never do a thing like that.'

'Born-again or not, that's what Mouton says.'

'Fransman, wait. Explain this to me,' said Griessel.

'Apparently, yesterday Barnard fucked Melinda Geyser in his office. So her husband, Josh, pitches up yesterday afternoon saying he knows all about it and he's going to beat Barnard to death, but Barnard wasn't there.'

'Can't be,' said Cloete, but as a policeman he knew people were capable of anything and he was already considering whether it might be true. Then his face fell. 'Oh man, the press ...'

'Ja,' said Griessel.

'Benny!' All three turned when they heard Vusi Ndabeni's voice. The black detective came jogging down the pavement and reached them, out of breath. 'Where is the Commissioner?'

As one, all three pointed accusing fingers through the glass doors where a doctor had now joined the Mouton conference.

'The other girl - she's still alive, Benny. But they're hunting her down, somewhere in this city. The Commissioner will have to organise more people.'

Without haste, she walked down Marmion Road in the direction of the city. There was an absence in her, an acceptance of her fate. Ahead she saw a car reversing out of a driveway, a small black Peugeot. The driver was a woman. Rachel did not increase her pace, continued to walk towards her, unthreatening. The woman drove to the edge of the street and stopped. She looked left for traffic, then right. She saw Rachel and for an instant made eye contact, then looked away.

'Hi,' said Rachel calmly, but the woman didn't hear her. She stepped forward and softly knocked on the window with the knuckle of her middle finger. The woman turned her head, irritably. Her mouth had a peculiar shape, the corners pulled down strongly. She turned the window down a few centimetres.

'May I use your telephone, please,' said Rachel, without emotion, as though she knew what the answer would be.

The woman looked her up and down, saw the dirty clothes, the grazed chin, hands and knees. 'There's a public telephone at Carlucci's. On Montrose.'

'I'm in real trouble.'

'It's just around the corner,' and the woman looked again for traffic in Marmion Road. 'Just turn right at the next street, and walk two blocks.'

She wound up the window and reversed. As she turned left to drive away she looked once more at Rachel, suspicion and aversion in her face.

Barry studied the map on the hood of the vehicle and said over his phone: 'Look, she could have gone left into Chesterfield, or she could have taken Marmion, but I can't see her. The angle's not good from here.'

'Which one goes down into the city?' The voice was out of breath.

'Marmion.'

'Then keep your focus on Marmion. We're two minutes from the Landy, but you will have to tell us where she is. It's going to take ten minutes to get the cops there. And by then she could be anywhere ...'

Barry took the binoculars and held them to his eyes again. 'Hang on ...'

He followed Strathcona to where it led into Marmion, which was thickly lined with trees. The binoculars stripped the image of perspective, there were too many double storeys and it was too overgrown; only here and there could he see the western pavement and parts of the street surface. He followed the trajectory north towards the city, glanced swiftly at the map. Marmion ended in ... Montrose. She ought to turn left there, if she wanted to reach the city.

Binoculars again. He found Montrose, broad and more visible from here. He followed it west. Nothing. Would she have turned right? East?

'Barry?'

'Yeah?'

'We're at the Landy. We're going to Marmion.'

'OK,' he said, still looking through the binoculars.

He saw her, far and tiny in the lenses, but unmistakable. She crossed the intersection.

'I have her. She's in Montrose ...' He looked down at the map. 'She just crossed Forest, heading east.'

'OK. We're in Glencoe. Now just don't lose her.'