Dekker looked at her intently. He saw only the decisiveness. 'Wait here, please. I will be back as soon as possible.'
When Mbali Kaleni walked through the double ground-floor doors of AfriSound there were four white people standing in front of the black receptionist, in animated conversation.
'Excuse me,' said Kaleni and held up her identity card. 'Police.'
All four turned to her. One had a camera slung around the neck.
'Are you here about the Barnard case?' a young woman with very short blonde hair asked.
'Are you from the newspapers?' asked Kaleni.
'I don't talk to the media,' she said and directed herself towards the receptionist.
'Inspector Dekker.
'Please,' another journalist called out, 'are the Geysers here?'
Kaleni just shook her head as she climbed the stairs.
'Izidingidwane.'
Rachel Anderson lay stock still, but she couldn't hear anything.
Had he just opened and closed the front door?
She barely breathed.
There were footsteps, scarcely audible: one, two, three, four.
Then silence.
'The policewoman told me you are an American girl,' said the same voice she had heard earlier. She was startled by the abruptness and then she tensed as she realised he was speaking to
'I saw you when you jumped over the fence. I saw how scared you were. And then, the men in the Land Rover ...' There was great compassion in the voice, but the fear that he knew she was there paralysed her.
'The policewoman told me those men are hunting you, that they want to hurt you.'
She breathed through her mouth, silently.
'You must be very frightened, and very tired. I suppose you don't know who to trust. I will leave the door unlocked. If you want to come inside, you are most welcome. I am alone. My wife died last year. There is food and drink inside, and you have my word that no one will ever know you were here.'
Emotion welled up in her. Self-pity, gratitude, the impulse to leap up.
No!
'I can help you.'
She heard feet shuffling.
'I will be inside and the door is unlocked.'
It was quiet for a moment before she heard his footsteps moving away again. The door opened and shut.
Then there was the roar of a cannon and her whole body jerked in alarm.
12:00-12:56
Chapter 26
Fransman Dekker stopped for a second in the passage of AfriSound, deep in thought, one arm folded and the other on his cheek, staring at the simple patterns of the long woven dhurrie on the floor. All the doors around him were closed: the Geysers behind him in the conference room, Mouton and his lawyer in the office on the left, the accountant Wouter Steenkamp on the right.
He should phone Bloemfontein and find out what they had, he must go to Jack Fischer and Associates, he must search Barnard's office, he must talk to Natasha about Barnard's schedule yesterday. He didn't know which of these to do next and he was not keen on Jack Fischer or Natasha Abader. The detective agency was full of whites, all ex-policemen who loved to sing to the press if they could show the SAPS in a bad light. Natasha was a temptation he did not need. The story of Adam Barnard, womaniser, was a mirror held up to him. He didn't want to be like that; he had a good, pretty and clever wife who trusted him with her life.
The cannon roared the noonday shot from Signal Hill, breaking his train of thought. He glanced up and saw fat Inspector Mbali Kaleni's stormy face approaching through the reception area, or lounge, or whatever these music people called it.
'Fuck,' he said softly to himself.
Benny Griessel heard the cannon as he crossed the threshold of the Caledon Square police station and thought how it startled him every time; he would never get used to it. Was it really only twelve o'clock? He saw the long-haired photographer trotting across to him from inside, eyes searching, with a pack of photos in his hand.
'Are you looking for Vusi?'
'Yes,' said the photographer. 'He's just missing.'
'He's gone to Table View. You're fucking late.'
'We had a power cut, how am I supposed to make copies without electricity?' the photographer asked and angrily held out the prints to Benny.
He took them. 'Thanks.'
The photographer walked off without a word. Indignant.
Griessel looked at the print on top. Rachel Anderson and Erin Russel, laughing and alive. Light and dark, blonde and brunette. Russel had the face of a nymph, with blonde hair cut short, a small pretty nose, big green eyes. Rachel Anderson was sultry, her beauty more complex, dark plait over her shoulder, long, straight nose, wide mouth, the line of her jaw enchanting and determined. But both still children, with carefree exuberance, eyes bright with excitement.
Behind them, brooding, was the only other African iconic mountain landmark, Kilimanjaro.
Drug mules?
He knew anything was possible, he had seen it all before. Greed, recklessness, stupidity. Crime had no face; it was a question of tendency, background and opportunity. But his heart said no, not these two.
She was torn between her fear of trusting anyone, and the decency in the man's voice. She couldn't stay here, because someone knew where she was; she couldn't go back to the streets, it would start all over again. The knowledge that the door was open just a few steps away, offering a safe haven, food and drink, overcame her and won every argument.
She got up slowly, heart racing, aware of the risk. She picked up the rucksack and crawled on her knees, avoiding the thick, scratchy branches higher up, to the edge of the leaf curtain.
There was a small stretch of paved garden path, a single step, a low veranda, a brown doormat saying
She hesitated there, considering the consequences one last time. Then she crept the last few centimetres, blinking in the bright sunlight. She stood erect, straightening legs stiff from lying so long. She walked fast with long strides over the path, the step, the shaded part of the veranda. She put her hand on the door handle of oxidised copper, cool under her palm, breathed in and opened the door.
Barry wasn't looking through the binoculars. They were too heavy to hold up permanently without a prop.
His head was turned a few degrees away, looking up the street towards Carlucci's. He saw movement in the
