Thirteen Hours

on her case?'

'What Somali woman, Mbali?'

'The one whose body has been lying at Salt River mortuary for the last two weeks, but the pathologists say it's not high priority, it could just be natural causes. Natural causes? Because it was a wound that went septic, because she died in a little shack of cardboard and planks, with nothing? Nobody is prepared to help, not Home Affairs, not Missing Persons, not even the stations, even after I sent them each a photo asking them to put it up on the board. When I get there they all just shrug - they don't even know what happened to the bulletin. But let an American disappear, everyone is suddenly jumping through burning hoops.' She folded her arms across her chest. 'Not me.'

'You're right,' Cliffie Mketsu said patiently. His theory was that Kaleni was her father's child. In a country where most fathers were absent, she had grown up with two strong parents - her mother was a nurse and her learned father was a school headmaster in KwaZulu, a leader in the community, who had equipped his only child carefully and deliberately with her own perspective, with good judgement, and the self-confidence to express it, loud and clear. So he had to give her the opportunity. 'I know.'

'The Commissioner specifically asked for you.'

She gave an angry snort.

'It's in the national interest.'

'National interest?'

'Tourism, Mbali. It's our lifeblood. Foreign exchange. Job opportunities. It's our biggest industry and our greatest leverage for upliftment.'

He knew she was melting; her arms dropped from her chest. 'They need you, Mbali, to take charge of the case.'

'But what about all the other women?'

'It's an imperfect world,' he said gently.

'It doesn't have to be,' she said and stood up.

At ten past three in the morning, Bill Anderson sat on the old two- seater leather couch in his study, his right arm around his sobbing wife and a coffee mug in his left hand. Despite his apparent calm, he could hear his own heart beating in the quiet of North Salisbury Street. His thoughts were sometimes with his daughter - and the parents of her friend, Erin Russel. Who would pass on the dreadful news? Should he call them? Or wait for official confirmation? And what could he do? Because he wanted to, he had to do something to help his daughter, to protect her; but where did he begin, he didn't even know where she was right now.

'They should never have gone,' said his wife. 'How many times did I tell them? Why couldn't they have gone to Europe?'

Anderson had no answer for her. He hugged her tighter.

The phone rang, shrill in the early hours. Anderson spilled some of the coffee from his mug in his haste to get up. He answered.

'Bill, it's Mike. I'm sorry, it took a while to track down the Congressman, he's up in Monticello with his family. I just got off the phone with him, and he's going to get things moving right away. First off, he says his thoughts are with you and your family ...'

'Thanks, Mike, thank him for us.'

'I will. I gave him your number, and he will call us as soon as he's got more information. He's going to call both the US

Ambassador in Pretoria and the Consul General in Cape Town to get confirmation and whatever facts are available. He also knows a staffer with Condi Rice, and he will ask the State Department for all the help they can give. Now, I know you're a Democrat, but the Congressman is a former military man, Bill, he gave up his law practice on three days' notice to serve in the first Gulf War. He gets things done. So don't you worry now, we are going to bring Rachel home.'

'Mike, I don't know how to thank you.'

'You know you don't have to.'

'Erin's parents ...'

'I'm thinking the same things here, but we need it to be official, Bill, before we say anything.'

'That might be best. I'm thinking of taking Chief Dombkowski with me. I don't think I can do it alone.'

'I'll call the Chief as soon as we have more information. Then we'll both go with you.'

The Sergeant walked out of Carlucci's Quality Food Store to his patrol vehicle, opened the door and picked up the handset of the radio. He called the Caledon Square charge office and spoke to the same Constable who had sent him here. He reported that they had taken a statement, that a young woman had been pursued by a white and a black man, but that there currently was no sign of any of them.

'See if you can find something on the system, a white Land Rover Discovery, registration number CA and the numbers four, one, six, that's all he could see, but he isn't dead certain. We'll look around a bit,' he said, and then he saw the second Metro Police car in minutes driving down Upper Orange. He recalled the two foot patrols in Metro uniform that he had seen on the way here. Why didn't they help with the march instead, he thought. Here they were wandering around looking for traffic offenders. Or buyers for fake drivers' licences.

His shift partner came out of the shop and said: 'If you ask me, it's drugs.'

Vusi Ndabeni met the police photographer at the Cat & Moose Youth Hostel and Backpackers Inn and asked them to fetch Oliver Sands and his camera again.

When Sands walked into the entrance hall, he still looked broken.

'I want to use that photograph of Erin and Rachel, please,' said Vusi.

'Sure,' said Sands.

'Can we borrow your camera for a few hours?'

'I can just take the memory card,' said the photographer.

'OK. I need ... fifty prints. But quickly. Mr Sands, please show our photographer which one is Rachel Anderson.'

'I'll get it back?' asked Sands.

'I can't get the prints to you today,' said the photographer. ,

Vusi stared at the man with his long hair and unhelpful attitude.

You have to be tough, Benny Griessel had said.

But he wasn't like that. And he didn't know if he could be. He would have to make another plan.

Vusi muffled a sigh. 'Tomorrow? Is tomorrow OK?'

'Tomorrow is better,' the photographer nodded.

Vusi took his phone out of his pocket. 'Just a minute,' he said, and pressed a number in and held the phone to his ear.

'When you hear the signal,' said a monotonous woman's voice on the phone, 'it will be ten ... seven ... and forty seconds.'

'May I speak to Commissioner Afrika, please?' said Vusi. He whispered to the photographer. 'I just want to hear if the Commissioner will be angry if the girl is dead tomorrow.'

'When you hear the signal it will be ...'

'What girl?' asked the photographer.

Oliver Sands looked from one to the other, bewildered.

'Ten seven ... and fifty seconds.'

'The one in the photo. She is out there somewhere, around Camps Bay, and there are people who want to kill her. If we only get the photographs tomorrow ...'

'When you hear the signal...' 'Hang on ...' said the photographer.

'I will hold for the Commissioner,' Vusi said into the phone while the woman's voice said, 'Ten eight exactly.'

'I didn't know,' said the photographer.

Vusi raised his eyebrows expectantly.

The photographer looked at his watch. 'Twelve o'clock, that's the best I can do.'

Vusi looked at his phone and ended the call. 'OK. Take the prints to Caledon Square and give them to Mbali Kaleni ...' and right then his phone rang.