It took a while before Fransman Dekker asked Michele Malherbe if she and Adam had slept together. Her dignity overwhelmed him when she came through the office door, so it was only later that he realised she was smaller than he thought. Her hair was blonde, cut short and her face attractive. Her age hard to pin down until he looked at her hands later and realised she must be in her late fifties or early sixties. She introduced herself, listened attentively to his rank and name and sat down in one of the guest chairs with an aura of controlled loss. Dekker could not sit at Barnard's desk, it felt wrong at that moment. He took the other guest chair.
'It's a great loss, Inspector,' she said with her elbows on the arms of the chair and her hands held together in her lap. He could see she had been crying. He wondered, immediately, how a woman like her could fall for Adam Barnard.
'It is,' he said. 'You knew him well?'
'Nearly twenty-five years.'
'Ah ... uh ... madam, I understand you know the industry very well, the circumstances ...'
She nodded, her face serious and focused.
'Why would someone want to ...' He searched for a euphemism. '.. . do away with him?'
'I don't think Adam's death has anything to do with the industry, Inspector.'
'Oh?'
She lifted her right hand in a small gesture. There was a single, elegant ring on her middle finger. 'We may be an emotional lot, by definition. Music is emotion, after all, is it not? But in essence there is no great difference between the music industry and any other. We fight, we argue, we compete with each other, we say and do things that were better not said or done, but it's like that everywhere. The only big difference is that the media ... tends to wash our dirty laundry in public.'
'I'm not sure I understand.'
'I'm trying to say that I can't think of a single reason why anyone in Adam's world would want to murder him. I can't think of anyone who would be capable of that.' He drew in a breath to respond, but she made the same gesture and said: 'I'm not naive. I have learned that our nature allows for anything. But after a quarter-century working with people, you see all sides, and you pick up a fair amount of wisdom along the way from which you can draw in circumstances like this.'
'Madam, the way this happened ... points to someone who had information about Adam's domestic situation.'
She didn't look away. Her eyes were light brown. Her sensuality was subtle, he thought, maybe in the blend of what he knew about her and her refinement. 'I'm not sure I know what you are referring to.'
'They knew about his wife, for example ...'
Her smile was sympathetic. 'Inspector, unfortunately dear Alexandra's situation is general knowledge. Especially in the industry.'
'Did Barnard talk about it?'
Muted indignation. 'Adam would never dream of doing that.'
He waited.
'I can understand if the press makes this seem like an environment where nobody cares, Inspector, but that is a false impression. There are many of us who still have contact with Alexa, who regularly try to communicate in the hope that she will ... recover. She is a wonderful person.'
'Are you one of them?'
She nodded.
'But I understand you were more than just friends with Adam Barnard?' It was deliberate.
She looked at him in disappointment. 'I will leave my lawyer's number with Natasha,' she said and walked slowly, with dignity, to the door, opened it and closed it quietly behind her.
He sat staring at the closed door, despising himself. Also knowing that he had no idea what to do next.
The nurse at Casualties told Griessel he would have to talk to the superintendent and he asked her to phone him. It's not a man, the nurse bridled, and Griessel said he didn't care what it was, she had better phone.
She dialled a number, whispered over the phone, replaced the receiver and said the superintendent was in a meeting. Her attitude intensified a few degrees.
'Miss, I have a female detective in that operating theatre with two gunshot wounds and I don't know if she is going to make it. I have a nineteen-year-old American girl who has been abducted by people who cut her friend's throat in Long Street this morning. That...' and he had to suppress the urge to say 'fucker' with huge effort, as he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the operating theatre '... man in there is my only chance to find her before they kill her. Let me tell you now, if anything happens to her because you are obstructing the law, you will all sleep in the dirtiest, most crowded cell I can find in the Peninsula. I hope you understand me very well.'
She swallowed her indignation and picked up the phone again with wide eyes and redialled the number. 'Julie, I think Dr Marinos should come to ICU immediately,' she said.
At the gate of the Metropolitan Police vehicle pound the young traffic officer in a gleaming uniform opened a fat green file, paged through it fussily, pressed the relevant page flat with his palm and ran his finger down to an entry on an official form.
'Yes, that particular vehicle was booked out at precisely twelve thirty-four with me. And here ...' he turned the page, and rotated the file so that Vusi could read it from the other side of the desk '... is the release form, stamped and signed.'
'Who signed it?'
The traffic officer turned the file back again and studied the signature. 'I can't say.'
'Who can tell me?'
'You would have to ask Administration.'
'Where is Administration?'
'There. In the licensing building. But you have to go upstairs. First floor.'
'Thank you. May I take the form with me?'
The traffic officer shook his head. 'I can't help you there. The form has to stay here.'
Vusi thought the man was joking. But there was not a trace of humour. 'Are you serious?'
'This file is my responsibility. Regulations.'
'Mister ...'
'It's Inspector.'
'Inspector, we are working on a case of murder and abduction, we are running out of time.'
'Administration has a duplicate of the form. Just give them the case number.'
Vusi wondered why the man had not told him that in the first place. He took out his notebook, opened it and clicked his pen and said, 'Would you give me the number, please?'
Mat Joubert pulled on rubber gloves, bent at the open door of Mbali Kaleni's Corsa and picked up the bullet casings in the footwell and beside the seat. He noted the number in his book. He heard the feet of Thick and Thin of Forensics shuffle on the tar beside him where they were circling the other casings with chalk and placing a small plastic triangle with a number beside every group of casings. They worked in silence.
He stood up, leaned his big torso inside the Corsa, pressing on the headrest and the steering wheel. Kaleni's big black handbag lay on the front passenger seat. On top was an A5 notebook, the pages folded back on the spiral, blood on the top page, fine drops, something written down.
He picked the notebook up carefully, brought it out of the car and stood upright outside. He took his reading glasses out of his breast pocket, flicked them open and placed them on the bridge of his nose. He stared at the three letters written in a shaky hand in capital letters:
He called Jimmy, the tall, skinny forensic technologist. 'I need an evidence bag.'
'I'll bring it, Sup.' Keen. Why did his colleagues complain about Thick and Thin? They never gave him any trouble.
Jimmy brought him a transparent ZipLoc bag and held it open. Joubert put the notebook inside so the written letters were visible. Jimmy zipped it up.
'Thanks, Jimmy.'
'Pleasure, Sup.'
Joubert bent again at the open door and peered under the seat. There was a pen, but nothing else.
