A black man got out. Big. Blue overalls.
Griessel picked up the radio. ?Stand by, everyone.?
The man walked around to the back of the panel van and took out pipes, nets and other paraphernalia.
?That?s their sign on the wall,? said Cupido, binoculars to eyes.
?What??
?On the wall of Carlos?s house. There, beside the garage door. ?Swimming-pool care by First Aid for Pools.? And a number.?
The swimming-pool man approached the front door. He pressed the intercom and waited.
?The number is four eight seven double-o, double-o.?
Griessel called it and waited.
The door across the street opened. They could see Carlos. He held the door open. The black man picked up all his things and went in.
?The number you have dialed does not exist,? said the woman?s voice in his ear. ?Fuck,? he said. ?Are you sure of that number??
?Four eight seven double-o, double-o.?
?That?s what I . . .? He realized he hadn?t added the Cape Town code and he swore and pressed
21 and then the number again. At the fourth ring a woman answered.
?First Aid for Pools, good afternoon. This is Ruby speaking. How may I help you??
?This is Detective Inspector Benny Griessel here from Serious and Violent Crimes. Can you tell me whether you have a Sangrenegra on your books? Forty-five Shanklin Crescent in Camps Bay.? He tried to communicate urgency in his voice so she wouldn?t fuck around.
?I?m sorry, sir, we cannot give you that information over the telephone . . .?
He stayed calm with effort and said: ?Ruby, this is a police emergency and I do not have the time to . . .? He wanted to say ?fuck around? and had to think of other words. ?. . . Please, Ruby, I?m asking you really nicely here.?
She was quiet at the other end and perhaps it was the desperation in his voice, because eventually she said: ?What was that name again??
?Sangrenegra.? He spelt it out for her. Across the street the front door was still shut.
He faintly heard Ruby tapping her keyboard. ?We have no Sangrenegra on our records, sir.?
?Are you sure??
?Yes, sir, I am. Our computer doesn?t lie.? Sharply.
?Okay. Now we have to be sure here. Do you have a forty-five Shanklin Crescent in Camps Bay??
?One moment.?
?Postman,? said Cupido, pointing down the street. A man in uniform was riding a bicycle from postbox to postbox. At Carlos?s house all was quiet.
?Sir??
?I?m here,? said Griessel.
?We do have a forty-five Shanklin Crescent, Camps Bay on our books . . .?
He felt extremely relieved.
?The client is a company, it seems.?
?Yes.?
?The Colombian Coffee Company.?
?Okay,? said Griessel. The tension began to ebb.
?Here he comes,? said Cupido. The big black man exited the front door. He was holding only a white plastic pipe.
?They seem to be good clients. All paid up,? said Ruby.
?He must be fetching something from the van,? said Cupido.
Griessel?s eyes followed the black man in the blue overalls. The clothes looked a bit tight on him. The man opened the driver?s side door.
?We service them . . .?
The man tossed the swimming-pool pipe into the front of the van.
?. . . on Fridays,? said Ruby.
The man got into the van.
?What?? said Griessel.
?Something?s not right,? said Cupido. ?He?s leaving . . .?
?We service them on Fridays.?
