'I will have to keep this account.'
'May I make a copy first?'
'Please.'
Inspector Vusi Ndabeni had never flown in a helicopter before.
The pilot passed a headset to him over his shoulder, someone closed the door, the engine made a mighty roar, the rotors turned and they lifted off. His stomach churned. He put on the earphones with trembling hands and watched De Waal Drive shrink below him.
Sometimes these machines dropped out of the sky, he thought. One shouldn't look down, someone once told him, but the city was below them now, Parliament, the Castle, the railway tracks leading to the station in tidy ranks; the harbour, sea, blinding as the sun reflected off it. Vusi took his dark glasses from his jacket pocket and put them on: 'Does Table View know we're on our way?' he said, looking down at Robben Island in wonder.
'Turn the microphone - it's too far from your mouth,' said the co-pilot and demonstrated what he should do.
Vusi bent the microphone around to the front of his mouth. 'Do Table View know we're coming?'
'Do you want to talk to them?' asked the pilot.
'Yes, please. We're going to need patrol vehicles.' 'Let me get them for you.'
With glittering Table Bay to the left and the industries of Paarden Island stretching away to his right, Inspector Vusumuzi Ndabeni spoke to the SC of Table View over a helicopter radio. When he had finished, he wondered what his mother would say if she could see him now.
Chapter 25
Benny Griessel jogged down Buitengracht again. The traffic jam had cleared as though it had never existed. His mind was on the fugitive Rachel Anderson. Where was she heading? The only possibility was the Cat & Moose Youth Hostel; that was where her luggage was, and her friend Oliver Sands. Where else could she go?
He phoned Caledon Square and asked the radio operator to send a unit to Long Street. 'But they must not park in front of the Cat & Moose. Tell them to wait inside. If she does come, she mustn't see them.'
That was all he could do. According to Vusi, the eyewitness at Carlucci's had looked at the covert photos of Demidov's troops, shaken his head and said no, it was none of them.
That really meant fuck all, because Organised Crime might not have sent all the pictures. Or the pictures could be out of date. Or they didn't have photos of all of Demidov's people.
Either he or Vusi would have to go back to Van Hunks again. But first he would see what the house in Table View produced. He had to give the whole search some direction. He would use Caledon Square as the base; it was central, that was where the radio connection with the patrol cars was.
He ran the last two hundred metres to his car, aware of the heat now smothering the city like a blanket.
'I don't know what it was for,' said Willie Mouton, and passed the Jack Fischer invoice back across the desk to Dekker. 'I don't think they will tell you.'
'Oh?' 'It's sensitive. Client privilege.'
'What is?'
'No, Willie,' said Groenewald, the lawyer.
'Of course it is. They guarantee confidentiality. That's why we use them.'
'Privilege only counts for doctors, psychologists and legal practitioners, Willie. If the police have a warrant, they can get the information.'
'What is the use of their guarantee then?' The Adam's apple bobbed.
'Is there anyone specific that you deal with at Jack Fischer?' Dekker asked.
'We work with Jack himself. But you're barking up the wrong tree, I'm telling you.'
Rachel Anderson could no longer hear the helicopter.
At first the silence was eerie, but gradually it became reassuring. In spite of her tracks in the flower bed, even though a black policewoman had been only two steps from her hiding place, she had evaded them.
She made up her mind. She would stay here until dark.
She checked her watch. It was eleven minutes to twelve. Another eight hours before the sun went down. A long time. But let them look for her in other places; let them forget about this garden.
The pain from the scratches and bruises was a dull constant in her body. She would have to make herself comfortable if she were going to lie here that long.
Slowly she sat upright and pressed the thick, thorny branches to one side. She didn't want to make any noise, or show movement. She didn't know whether there were eyes trained on these plants.
The rucksack would have to come off. She could use it as a pillow.
She loosened the clips, pulled the straps off her shoulders and lowered the rucksack. It snagged on the branches and thorns, awkward, behind her. With care she untangled it and put it on the ground. She turned on her back slowly and let her head rest on the bag.
The ground underneath her was not too uncomfortable. The dense shade would protect her from dehydration. She knew her blood sugar was low, but she would survive until night fell. She would have to find a telephone; somewhere someone would allow her to phone, they must, she would beg. She had to tell her father where she was.
She drew a deep breath and looked up through the dense leaf cover to where patches of sky shone through. Her eyes closed.
Then she heard the front door of the house open.
Barry drove up in his Toyota bakkie from the city side. Upper Orange was quiet now, the police vehicles and uniforms gone. Only a white microbus with a SAPS emblem still remained up on the corner.
He wondered if it would be worthwhile to watch the Victorian house.
He looked for the driveway that he had noted earlier, turned up it and drove to the back against the garage door. He picked up the binoculars that lay beside him on the worn seat cover. He realised he couldn't see the house from here. The wall on the left was too high.
He climbed onto the load bed of the Toyota and leaned back against the cab with the binoculars to his eyes. It was barely a hundred metres to the Victorian house. He let the binocular lenses sweep across the house.
It was dead still.
He checked the garden. Back to the house.
A waste of time.
Then the front door opened. A man appeared. Barry focused on him and waited. An old man stood in the front door. Dead still.
Josh and Melinda Geyser were sitting close together at the big oval table in the conference room when Dekker opened the door. They looked at him expectantly, but said nothing until he was seated - one chair away from Josh.
'Inspector Griessel and I don't believe you are suspects in the case at this stage ...'
'At this stage?'
'Madam, the investigation has only just begun. We—'
'We didn't do it,' Josh said emphatically.
'Then help us to take you off our list.'
'Who else is on the list?' asked Melinda.
Dekker wanted to shut her up. 'We are trying to trace a parcel.' He saw the fright on her face.
'What parcel?' asked Josh.
'I am not at liberty to tell you, Mr Geyser, but I am asking you again: help us.'
'How?'
'Give us permission to search your house, so we can make sure there is nothing that connects you with Barnard's death.'
'Such as?'
'A firearm. You can refuse, and we would have to obtain a search warrant. But if you give permission ...'
Josh looked at Melinda. She nodded. 'Go ahead. There isn't anything.'
