'I'm not taking my eyes off the place.'
The ringing of the phone woke Bill Anderson in his house in West Lafayette, Indiana. With his first attempt he knocked off the receiver, so he had to sit up and swing his feet off the bed to reach it.
'What is it?' his wife asked beside him, confused.
'Daddy?' he heard as he picked up the receiver. He lifted it to his ear.
'Baby?'
'Daddy!' said his daughter, Rachel, thirty thousand kilometres away, and she began to cry.
Bill Anderson's guts contracted; suddenly he was wide awake. 'Honey, what's wrong?'
'Erin is dead, Daddy.'
'Oh, my God, baby, what happened?'
'Daddy, you have to help me. They want to kill me too.'
To her left was a large window looking out on Montrose Avenue; in front of her was the deli counter, where three coloured people exchanged looks when they heard her words.
'Honey, are you sure?' her father asked, his voice so terribly near.
'They cut her throat last night, Daddy. I saw it ...' Her voice caught.
'Oh, my God,' said Bill Anderson. 'Where are you?'
'I don't have much time, Daddy. I'm in Cape Town . . . the police, I can't even go to the police ...' She heard the screech of tyres on the road outside. She looked up and out. A new white Land Rover Defender stopped outside. She knew the occupants.
'They're here, Daddy, please help me ...'
'Who's there? Who killed Erin?' her father asked urgently, but she had seen the two men leap out of the Land Rover and run to the main door of the shop. She threw the receiver down and fled through the shop, past the dumbstruck women behind the deli counter, to a white wooden door at the back. She shoved it violently open. As she ran out she heard the man in the apron shout: 'Hey!' She was in a long narrow passage between the building and a high white wall. Along the top of the wall was a long row of broken glass. The only way out was at the end of the passage to the right - another wooden door. She sprinted, the awful terror upon her again.
If that door was locked ...
The soles of her running shoes slapped loudly in the narrow space. She pulled at the door. It wouldn't open. Behind her she heard the deli door open. She looked back. They saw her. She focused on the door in front of her. There was a Yale lock. She turned it. A small, anxious sound exploded from her lips. She jerked the door open. They were too close. She went out and slammed it shut behind her. She saw the street before her, realised the door had a bolt on this side, turned and her fingers worked in haste, it wouldn't budge, she heard them at the lock on the other side. She banged the bolt with the palm of her hand; pain shot up her arm. The bolt slid and the door was barred. They jerked at it from the other side.
'Bitch!' one of them shouted.
She raced down four concrete steps. She was in the street, kept running, left, down the long slope of Upper Orange Street, her eyes searching for a way out, because they were too close, even if they went back through the shop, they were as close as they had been last night, just before they caught Erin.
Bill Anderson rushed down the stairs of his house to his study, with his wife, Jess, at his heels.
'They killed Erin?' she asked. Her voice heavy with fear and worry.
'Honey, we have to stay calm.'
'I am calm, but you have to tell me what's going on.'
Anderson stopped at the bottom where the stairs led into the hallway. He turned and put his hands on his wife's shoulders. 'I don't know what's going on,' he said slowly and calmly. 'Rachel says Erin was killed. She says she's still in Cape Town ... and that she's in danger ...'
'Oh, my God ...'
'If we want to help her at all, we have to stay calm.'
'But what can we do?'
The young man in the apron saw the two men who had chased the girl coming back through Carlucci's Quality Food Store. He shouted again: 'Hey!' and blocked the way to the front door. 'Stop!'
The one in front - white, taut and focused - scarcely looked at him as he raised both hands and shoved the young man in the chest, making him stagger and fall with his back against the counter near the door. Then they were past him, out in the street. He scrambled to his feet, saw them hesitate for a moment on the pavement.
'I'm calling the police,' he shouted, rubbing his back with his hand. They didn't respond, but looked down Upper Orange Street, said something to each other, ran to the Land Rover and jumped in.
The aproned young man turned to the counter, reached for the phone and dialled 10111. The Land Rover turned the corner of Belmont and Upper Orange with squealing tyres, forcing an old green Volkswagen Golf to brake sharply. He realised he should get the registration number. He slammed the phone down, ran outside and a short way down the street. He could see it was a CA number - he thought it was 412 and another four figures, but then the vehicle was too far off. He turned and hurried back to the shop.
On the slope of Devil's Peak, Barry's cell phone rang and he grabbed it. 'Yes!'
'Where did she go, Barry?'
'She went down Upper Orange. What happened?'
'Where is she now, for fuck's sake?'
'I don't know, I thought you could see her.'
'Aren't you fucking watching?'
'Of course I'm fucking watching, but I can't see the whole goddamn street from here ...'
'Jesus! She went down Upper Orange?'
'I saw her, for about ... sixty metres, then she went behind some trees ...'
'Fuck! Keep looking. Don't take your fucking eyes off this street.'
Bill Anderson sat in his study with his elbows on the old desk and the telephone to his ear. It was ringing in the home of his lawyer. His wife, Jess, stood behind him, crying softly, her arms wrapped around herself.
'Is he answering?' she asked.
'It's two o'clock in the morning. Even lawyers are asleep.'
A familiar voice answered at the other end, clearly befuddled with sleep. 'Connelly.'
'Mike, this is Bill. I am truly sorry to call you at this hour, but it's about Rachel. And Erin.'
'Then you don't have to be sorry at all.'
There were four uniformed members of the SAPS on duty at the charge office of the Caledon Square police station - a Captain, a Sergeant and two Constables. The Constable taking the call from Carlucci's Quality Food Store was unaware of Vusi Ndabeni's bulletin and the incident on Lion's Head.
He made notes while the young man described the incident in his shop, then he went over to the Sergeant in the radio control room and they contacted the station patrol vehicles. The Sergeant knew they were all near Parliament where a march was taking place that morning. He gave cursory details of the incident and asked one of the vehicles to investigate. He received a chorus of volunteers. The march was small, peaceful and boring. He chose the vehicle closest to Upper Orange Street. The Constable went back to the charge office desk.
He made sure all the paperwork relating to the call was in order.
Chapter 14
They sat outside a coffee shop on the corner of Shortmarket and Bree Street, five policemen around a table for four. Cloete sat a little apart, beyond the shade of the red umbrella, cigarette between his fingers, talking quietly on his cell phone, pleading for patience from some determined journalist. The rest had their elbows on the table and their heads together.
John Afrika's deep frown showed that his burden of responsibility was weighing heavily on him. 'Benny, it's your show,' he said.
Griessel had known that was coming, it always did. The men at the top wanted to do everything except make
