?Can I go in??
Ngubane opened the door. Griessel looked in. It was not a big room. Untidy. A man sat on a cardboard box. Thick black hair, drooping black mustache, white shirt unbuttoned, the breast pocket seemed torn. A red bruise on the cheekbone.
began Ngubane deliberately in Afrikaans so that Sangrenegra would not understand and took a small notebook from his trouser pocket. ?Carlos San . . . gre . . . ne . . . gra,? he carefully enunciated the syllables.
?Fuck you,? said Sangrenegra with venom.
?Did someone beat him up?? Griessel spoke Afrikaans.
?The mother. Of the little girl. He?s a Colombian. His visa . . . expired long ago.?
?What happened, Tim??
?Come in. I don?t want to leave the cunt alone.?
?You curse very prettily in Afrikaans.?
Ngubane moved into the room ahead of Griessel. ?I?m well coached.? He closed the door behind him. It looked as if it was meant to be a study. Shelves against the wall, dark glowing wood, but empty. Boxes on the floor.
?What?s in the boxes?? Griessel asked.
?Look,? said Ngubane and sat down on the single chair, an expensive piece of office furniture with a high back and brown leather.
Griessel opened one of the boxes. There were books in it. He took one out.
was printed in gold lettering on the spine of the book.
?Look inside.?
He opened it. There were no pages?just a plastic filler with sides that looked like paper.
?Not a great reader are you, Carlos?? said Griessel.
?Fuck you.?
?A woman phoned Caledon Square about eight o?clock.? Ngubane continued in Afrikaans. ?She was crying. She said her child had been abducted and she knew who it was. They sent a team to the flat in Belle Ombre Street and found the lady. She was confused and bleeding from the head and she said a man had assaulted her and taken her child. She was . . .? he searched for the Afrikaans word.
?Unconscious.?
Ngubane nodded. ?She gave the man?s name and this address and she said he had raped her too. She said she knew him and he liked children . . . you know? And then she told us he?s a drug lord.?
Griessel nodded and turned to look at Sangrenegra. The brown eyes smoldered. He was a lean man, veins prominent on his forearms, dressed in blue denim and trainers. His hands were cuffed behind his back.
?The uniforms phoned the station commander and the SC phoned us and I was on call and talked to Joubert and got the task force. Then we were all here and the task force arrived by helicopter and the works. We found five men here. Carlos and those four downstairs. They found the drugs in the basement and the girl?s clothes in this one?s room. Then they found blood in his BMW and a dog, one of those stuffed toys, but no child and this cunt won?t talk. He says he knows nothing.?
?The child. It?s a little girl??
?Three years old. Three.?
Griessel felt a red flood of revulsion. ?Where is she?? he asked Carlos.
?Fuck you.?
He jumped up and grabbed the man by the hair, jerked his head back and kept pulling the dark locks. He shoved his face close up to Sangrenegra. ?Where is she, you piece of shit??
?I don?t know!?
Griessel jerked his hair. Sangrenegra winced. ?She lie. The whore, she lie. I know nothing.?
?How did the girl?s clothes get in your room, you cunt?? He jerked again as hard as he could as frustration gnawed at him.
?She put it there. She is a whore. She was
whore.?
?Jissis,? said Griessel with disgust and gave the hair one last pull before he left him. His hand felt greasy. He wiped it off on Sangrenegra?s shirt. ?You lie. You cunt.?
?I?ve been through that process,? said Ngubane behind him in a calm voice, as if nothing had happened.
?Ask my men,? said Sangrenegra.
Griessel laughed without humor. ?Who gave you this?? he asked and shoved a finger hard onto the bruise on Carlos?s cheek.
The Colombian spat at him. Griessel drew his hand back to slap him.
?He said he visited the complainant today,? Ngubane said. ?He says she is a prostitute. She invited him to her flat. The child wasn?t there. Then she hit him for no reason. So he hit her back.?
