Thirteen Hours

Chapter 22

When Vusi Ndabeni parked opposite Carlucci's the police helicopter was overhead, the wap-wap of its rotor blades deafening. He spotted Mbali Kaleni standing next to a patrol vehicle with a radio microphone in her hand, the wire looping through the open window. She had a map book of Cape Town open on the car's bonnet and her other hand keeping the pages open.

Vusi crossed the street to her and heard her saying loudly: 'This is the centre point, where I am standing. You must search from here. First, look at all the houses on this block. She wants to stay away from the street, so she must be in a back yard somewhere. Then you look at the parks, De Waal Park just down the road, there is also Leeuwenhof ... two, three, four blocks away, east. No, wait... west, can you see it?'

Vusi stopped beside her. She glanced at him, trying to hear what the helicopter pilot was saying.

'I can't hear you,' she said into the microphone.

'Where do you want us to go after we check the parks?'

'Search the area between this point and the city.'

'Roger.' The helicopter swung north towards De Waal Park. Kaleni stretched through the window to replace the microphone. She couldn't quite reach, she was too short and too wide. Vusi opened the door for her. She handed him the microphone, as though he was to blame. He replaced it, closed the door, the helicopter's racket fading.

'We will find her,' said Kaleni.

Forensics' white bus pulled up. Thick and Thin got out and walked over, carrying their cases.

'Where have you been?' Kaleni scolded them.

He was two hundred metres away from the corner of Riebeeck Street when Benny Griessel realised he would have to leave the car somewhere here in Bree Street and walk to Alfred Street. To get across Buitengracht in this traffic chaos would take at least forty minutes.

He found a parking space opposite a cycle shop, which made him wonder whether he ought to put his bike in the car every morning. The power cuts were as regular as the cannon on Signal Hill nowadays. A parking attendant approached with an air of official purpose, her card machine in hand.

'Police,' said Griessel and showed her his ID card, in a hurry to get away, John Afrika's urgent voice ringing in his mind.

'Makes no difference,' the woman said. 'How long do you want to stop?'

Perhaps he should just go. 'How much for two hours?'

'Fourteen rand.'

'Jissis,' said Griessel. He dug out his wallet, searched for change, passed it over, locked his car and jogged through the motionless traffic. It was only four blocks on foot; he could take Prestwich and get there faster. Meanwhile he could find out what was going on. On the way he took out his cell phone and phoned Vusi.

'Hello, Benny.' There was the sound of a helicopter in the background.

'Vusi, I'm on my way to the Commissioner; I just want to know what's happening. Where are you?'

'At Carlucci's.'

'Any news?'

'She's missing, Benny, but the helicopter is searching and we have nine vehicles now, another on the way, but the traffic jam ...'

'I know. Have you talked to Metro?'

'I haven't had time.'

'Leave it to me. We'll have to draw up a timetable, or we'll just be duplicating each other, but I'll call you as soon as I am finished with the Commissioner. Let me know if anything happens.'

'Benny, Organised Crime has photos of Demidov's people. I want the guy at the restaurant here to have a look at them.'

Griessel hesitated. Six months ago he had uncovered a nest of corruption at Organised Crime. They were not on good terms with him, even though there was a whole new team of people and they shared a building in Bellville South. But Vusi's plan did make sense.

'If you can manage it, Vusi. It can't do any harm.'

John Afrika's office, on the fourth floor of 24 Alfred Street in Green Point, was hot without the air conditioning. He was opening a window, when he heard the Provincial Commissioner's urgent steps approaching.

Afrika sighed. More trouble. He remained standing and waited for his boss to arrive. This time the little Xhosa did not knock; he was in too much of a hurry and too worried. 'They say she's afraid of the police,' he said, barely through the door. He walked up to the desk and pressed his hands on its edge like a man suddenly in need of support.

'Commissioner?' Afrika enquired, because he had no idea what he was talking about.

'The Consul General says Rachel Anderson told her father that she could not go to the police.'

'Not go to the police?'

'Her father said it sounded as though she didn't trust the police.' i

'Bliksem,' said John Afrika and sat down behind his desk.

'My sentiments exactly,' said the Provincial Commissioner.

Buitengracht was a nightmare. The traffic was gridlocked in all five lanes. Griessel darted between the cars, grateful to be on foot. His phone rang. Probably the Commissioner wanting to know where the hell he was. But the screen showed Dekker.

'Fransman?'

'Benny, this is a soap opera,' said Dekker and outlined Melinda's story for Griessel all the way to the corner of Prestwich and Alfred.

'Fuck,' said Griessel eventually. 'What did she say about where they were last night?'

'At the church until eleven. The Tabernacle in Parklands.

Then they went home. Melinda slept on the couch, Josh in the bedroom, but they were at home until this morning. Nor do they own a gun.'

'That's what he said too ...' Geyser might be lying about the firearm but he had had since last night to get rid of one. 'Fransman, tell Josh you want to search his house ...'

'I asked that they check the national register. There is no firearm ...'

'No, I'm not saying we must search it. Just gauge their reactions. Use the usual search warrant story ...'

'What search warrant story?'

'The one "we can get a search warrant, but if you give us permission that won't be necessary".'

'OK. But the ex, Benny, it might have been him, this thing is a fucking circus. I'm going to phone Bloemfontein, see if they can find something. I'm going to let Josh and Melinda go ...'

'You can do that. Or you can let them wait in the conference room. Let them sweat a little until you hear from Bloemfontein. And talk to your sexy girlfriend at reception. Where was Barnard last night? Look at his diary, search his office, check his email...'

At first Dekker did not respond, then he said: 'OK.' But he wasn't happy.

'Sorry, Fransman, I'm taking over again.'

'I'm trying to chill, Benny. Trying to chill.'

Over the phone, Vusi Ndabeni said to Vaughn Cupido: 'Let me get their email address,' and he went over to the young man in the apron sitting on the veranda with his staff.

'Do you have email here? Our Organised Crime Unit will mail photos of people I want you to look at.'

'We do. The address is info at Carlucci's dot co-za. But it won't help much.'

'Why?'

'There's no electricity. The PC doesn't work.'

Vusi's shoulders sagged, but he told Cupido: 'Send it anyway, Vaughn, here's the address ...'

Fat Inspector Mbali Kaleni came to stand next to Vusi and asked the young man: 'Are you sure about the Land Rover's registration number?'

'I'm pretty sure it was CA and there was a four, a one, and a six.'

'They say there is no Land Rover Discovery with a CA, a four, one ...'

'It wasn't a Discovery.'

'It wasn't?'

'I told the guy it was a Defender. Long wheelbase. And new.'

'Men,' said Kaleni shaking her head.

'What do you mean?' asked the young man in the apron.

'Not you,' said Kaleni and took out her cell phone. 'The fools I have to work with.' She called the Caledon Square charge office and listened to it ring for a long time before someone picked up. She asked to talk to the Constable who had done the initial registration number search.

'It wasn't a Land Rover Discovery, it was a Defender. You will have to search again.'

'I can't,' said the Constable.

'Why not?'

'The power is down.'

Benny Griessel was panting and perspiring when he walked into John Afrika's office - from the heat of the day, from the four sets of stairs because the lifts wouldn't work without power and from the sense of urgency building inside him.

The Provincial Commissioner was seated opposite John Afrika. Both looked severe. 'Afternoon, Commissioner.' Griessel checked his watch, saw it was still twenty-five minutes to twelve; it felt like three o'clock already. 'Morning, Commissioner,' he corrected himself.

The little Xhosa stood up, very serious, and put out a hand to Griessel: 'Congratulations, Captain Griessel.'

That caught him off guard. Griessel shook his hand and in confusion looked at John Afrika who winked at him and said: 'Congratulations, Benny.' 'Uh ...' Griessel said and wiped the sweat from his brow 'Uh ...' And then: 'Fuck it, Commissioner.' The Xhosa laughed and put a hand on Benny's shoulder. 'You had better sit down, Captain. I suspect you are going to earn your promotion today.'

In the garden of the Victorian house, beside the three prints of running shoes in the soft earth, tall, skinny Jimmy from Forensics held open the plastic bag of dental cement and watched as fat Arnold poured in a measured amount of water.

'She's so fat, when she weighs herself, the scale says "to be continued" ...' said Arnold.

'Hee hee,' chortled Jimmy.

'She's so fat, she's got her own postal code,' said Arnold. 'There you go, shake it up.'

'If only she wasn't so bloody bossy,' said Jimmy, zipping up the bag and shaking it. 'I mean, you're not exactly thin yourself, but at least you're not a bitch.'

'Is that supposed to make me feel good?'

'I'm just saying,' said Jimmy, and shook the bag with great concentration. 'All I want to know is what the heck she wants to do with these casts. They know they are the girl's footprints. This is just pissing in the wind.'

'That stuff is ready. Knead it.'

Jimmy kneaded the plastic bag of green goo between his hands:

'I'm not nearly as fat as she is.'

'You're just taller, that's the difference,' said Jimmy. 'Get the mould ready.'

Arnold took a long mould, adjusted it to fit over the footprint and carefully pressed it into the soil. He picked up a bottle of talcum powder and sprinkled it over the print. 'Pour,' he said.

Jimmy opened the bag and held it over the centre of the mould. The paste dribbled out.

'I've got a slow metabolism, that's my problem,' said Arnold. 'But she's quite the eater - I hear it's KFC, morning, noon and night...'

Inside the Victorian house, behind his net curtains and only ten metres from where Thick and Thin knelt, the old man could not hear their conversation. But he could see them. Just as he had seen the girl jump over the fence, the Land Rover driving past soon afterwards, those young men, searching. And the Constables who had run down Upper Orange Street with such purpose, and the black lady detective who had stopped in thought at the picket fence, and then investigated the flower bed.

He knew who they were looking for. And he knew where she was hiding.