'So you did find something?'
'The streets are full of stuff. There's a bag of junk in my office, but there is no passport or a purse or anything that would belong to an American woman.'
'How do you know?'
'Do you think I'm stupid?'
Oerson waited before he answered. 'Where are you now?'
'No, tell me where your office is and I'll have it fetched.'
Natasha Abader unlocked Adam Barnard's office and said: 'I will have to give you the password if you want to check his laptop.'
She went in and Dekker followed. There were large framed photographs on the walls, Barnard and stars, one after the other, the men with an arm around Barnard's shoulder, the women with an arm around Barnard's waist. Every photo had a signature and a message in thick black marker. 'Thank you, Adam!' 'Adam for president!!!' 'With love and thanks.' 'The star in my heaven.' 'You are my darling.' Hearts, crosses to represent kisses, music notes.
He looked at the desk on which, according to her personal testimony, Melinda Geyser had been screwed. Apart from the laptop there was nothing else on it. His imagination ran riot, Melinda lying on her back on the wide wooden surface, stark naked, legs hooked over the shoulders of the standing Barnard, her mouth open in ecstasy as Adam fucked her, the sounds audible through the thin walls.
Dekker looked at Natasha guiltily. Her attention was on the laptop, eyebrows raised in query.
'What?'
'Adam left his laptop on.'
Dekker walked around the desk and stood beside her. He could smell her perfume. Subtle. Sexy. 'So?'
'He wouldn't usually do that. I switch it on when I come in, so he ...'
The screensaver was on, the AfriSound logo like a small flag fluttering. She moved the mouse, the screensaver disappeared, replaced by a request for a password. Natasha bent down to type it in, her long nails clicking on the keys and her neckline gaping. Dekker's view was good; he could not look away. Her breasts were small, firm and perfect.
She stood up suddenly. His eyes slid away to the screen. There were no programs open.
'I will have to look at his emails.'
She nodded and bent down again to work the mouse. Why couldn't she sit down? Did she know he was looking?
'Where is his diary?'
'He used Outlook. Let me show you,' and she shifted the mouse, clicking here and there. 'You can use Alt and Tab to change between email and calendar,' she said, and then she moved away so he could sit down in the large comfortable chair.
'Thanks,' he said. 'Can I ask you a few questions?'
She went over to the door. At first he thought she was ignoring him, but she shut the door, came back and sat down opposite him. She looked him full in the eyes.
'I know what you want to ask.'
'What?'
'You want to know whether Adam and I... you know . ..' 'Why would I want to ask that?'
She shrugged dismissively. It was a sensual gesture, but he suspected she was unconscious of that. She had a subdued air about her, sad. 'You're going to interview everyone,' she said.
Now he did want to know, but for another reason. 'Did you?' His head was screaming, Fransman what are you doing? But he knew what he was doing - looking for trouble and he could not stop himself.
'Yes.' She dropped her eyes.
'Here?' He gestured at the desk.
'Yes.'
Why had she given herself to a white man, a middle-aged white man, when she was lovely enough for the cover of a magazine? He wanted to know if that meant she was easy, accessible. To him.
'This morning I'm glad that I did,' she said.
'Because he's dead?'
'Yes.'
'There are stories about him ... and women.'
She did not respond.
'Did he force women?'
'No.' With an attitude that said she objected to the question.
'Did you hear, yesterday? When Melinda was here?'
'Yes, I did.' Without blushing or averting her eyes.
'Do you know why he sent for her?'
'No. I only saw in the diary that she was coming.'
'But usually Josh is with her.'
Again the shrug.
'This is what I don't understand: there are three of you who heard him ... 'nailing her',' his fingers made quotation marks around the words, 'a gospel artist in his office, and nobody thought it was strange. What kind of place is this?'
That made her angry; he could read her body language, the way she pulled her mouth, suddenly tight and sour.
'Come on, sister, think how it looks.'
'Don't 'sister' me.'
He waited for an explanation, but she just sat there.
'Did Adam say anything about a DVD last week? Something that came in his post?'
'No.'
'Do you know who shot him?'
It took a while for the answer to come, reluctantly, more of a question: 'Josh Geyser?'
'Maybe not.'
She looked surprised, brushing long hair back over her shoulder in a practised motion.
'Why do you think it was Josh?'
'I saw him yesterday. He was angry enough. And he's ... weird.'
'Weird?'
The shrug again, which conspired to make her breasts move oddly under the tight, thin material. 'Gladiator turned gospel singer. Don't you think that's weird? Look at him ...'
'I can't lock him up because of the way he looks. Who else was angry with Adam Barnard?'
She made a wry noise. 'This is the music business.'
'And that means ...'
'Everyone is angry with everyone sometimes.'
'And everyone screws everyone else.'
She was indignant again.
'Who else was angry enough to shoot him?'
'I really don't know.'
He asked the question that fascinated him: 'Why were ... the women so crazy about him? He was over fifty ...'
She stood up, crossed her arms over her breasts, cold and angry. 'He would have been fifty-two. In February.'
He waited for an answer but none was forthcoming. He egged her on: 'Why?'
'It's not about age, it's about aura.'
'Aura?'
