Griessel crossed over to the three senior officers. They stopped arguing when he approached. ?Superintendent,? he said to Joubert, ?the helicopter has found the van on Signal Hill. We think we have a good chance of getting fingerprints. He wasn?t wearing gloves. I want to take Forensics immediately . . .?
He could see from the three faces that it was coming now.
?Benny,? said John Afrika, quietly so that only the four of them could hear. ?You will understand if Superintendent Joubert takes over now??
He fucking well deserved it, but it hurt and he didn?t want to show that. He said: ?I understand, Commissioner.?
?You are still part of the team, Benny,? said Matt.
?I . . .? he began, but didn?t know what to say.
?Take Forensics, Benny. Call if you find something.?
They found nothing.
The assegai man had wiped the steering wheel and gear lever and the door catch with a cloth or something. Then Griessel recalled he had taken stuff out of the back and the forensic examiner sprayed his spray and dusted with his brush and said: ?We have something here.?
Griessel came around to look. Against the outer panel of the rear door a fingerprint showed up clearly against the white paint.
?It?s not necessarily his,? said the man from Forensics.
Griessel said nothing.
He sat at the breakfast counter of his flat and ate some of the thinly carved roast leg of lamb from Charmaine Watson-Smith?s dish. But his mind was on the bottle of Klipdrift in the cupboard above.
Why not? He couldn?t think of a single good answer to his question.
He had no appetite, but ate because he knew he must.
Last night he had had big theories about why he drank. Griessel the philosopher. It was
and it was
and everything but the truth. And the truth was: he was a fuck-up. That?s all. Whore-fucking, wife-beating, drunken sot fuck-up.
Where was that jovial fellow who used to play the bass guitar? That?s where he had been last night and now he knew. That guy was already a fuck-up, he just didn?t know it. You can fool some of the people some of the time . . . But you can?t fool life, pappa. Life will fucking catch you out.
He stood up. So weary. He scraped the last of the food into the bin. He washed and dried the dish. He didn?t feel like taking it to the old girl now. He would leave it at her door in the morning with a note.
You can?t fool life.
His cell phone rang in his pocket.
Let the fucking thing ring.
He took it out and checked the screen.
ANNA.
What did she want? Can you fetch the kids on Sunday? Are you sober? Did she really care whether he was sober or not? Really? She didn?t believe he had it in him in any case. And she was right. She knew him better than anyone. She had watched the whole process, lived through it. She was witness number one. Life had caught him out and she had had a ringside seat. She knew in six months? time she would phone an attorney and say let us put an end to this marriage with my alcoholic husband who still drinks. The six months were just to show the children she wasn?t heartless.
Let her call. Let her go to hell.
1 MISSED CALL.
1 MISSED LIFE.
The phone rang again. It was the number from work. What did they want?
?Griessel.?
?We?ve got him, Benny,? said Matt Joubert.
40.
They were all in the task team room at SVC when he walked in. He could feel the excitement, saw it in their faces, heard it in their voices.
Joubert sat beside Helena Louw where she was working on the computer. Bezuidenhout and his night team were there too. Keyter stood talking to a constable; the fucking camera he had borrowed was still hanging from his neck, zoom lens protruding.
Griessel sat down at one of the small tables.
Joubert looked up and saw him, beckoned him closer. He got up and went over. ?Sit here with me, Benny.?
He sat. Joubert stood up. ?May I have your attention, please??
The room quieted.
