Thirteen Hours

traffic offence, fine paid, and pound release costs. But there is no receipt...'

'Is that the only way someone can get a vehicle out of the pound?'

'No, the other options are 'Court Order' and 'Successful Representation'.' She showed him the relevant blocks. 'But then there would be documentation to confirm that also ...'

'Ma'am, the signature ...'

She stared at the scrawl at the bottom of the form. 'Looks like ... I'm not sure, could be Jerry ...'

'Who is Jerry?'

'Senior Inspector Jeremy Oerson. But I'm not sure ... it looks like his.'

'Could we try to find out?'

' You can, I'm swamped.'

'Could I have a copy of the form?'

'That will be five rand.'

Vusi reached for his wallet.

'No, you can't pay me, you have to pay the cashier on the ground floor and bring me the receipt.'

Inspector Vusi Ndabeni looked at her, the simmering impatience slowly awoke. 'It might be easier to just ask Oerson,' he said.

'They're on the second floor.'

Fransman Dekker saw Griessel run around the corner of City Park Hospital and called out Benny's name, but the white detective had gone. Probably better that way, Dekker thought, because he wanted to start at the beginning again, go over the ground that Griessel had covered that morning. He wanted to talk to Alexa again; from whatever angle he studied the case, it had to be someone close to Adam Barnard. Inside knowledge.

And not the kind that Michele Malherbe had been referring to. Unfortunately dear Alexandra's situation is general knowledge. Especially in the industry. He knew her kind, the 'see, hear, speak no evil' kind. Sat there full of dignity - see, I'm a decent Afrikaner woman, pillar of the community, grieving deeply - but she fucked Barnard while they were both married. He, Fransman Dekker, knew the type: dressed like a nun, prim, disapproving, they were the wildcats in bed. He'd had one last year, white woman from Welgemoed, neighbour of a car-hijacking victim. He had knocked on the door looking for eyewitnesses. She was scared to open the door, eyes open wide behind her glasses, blouse buttoned up to her chin. Just over forty, housewife, kids at school, husband at work. When he had finished asking his questions, there was something about her, a reluctance to let him go. 'Would you like tea?' She couldn't even look him in the eye. He knew then, because it wasn't the first time it had happened to him. So he said 'thank you', ready for it, curious about what was under the chaste clothing. So he directed the conversation: 'It must be lonely at home,' and beforethe cups were emptied, she was talking about her marriage that was faltering and he knew the right noises to make, to prepare her, to open her up. Ten minutes later they grabbed each other, and she was hungry, hungry, hungry; he had to hold her hands - she was a scratcher. 'I'm married.' He had to prevent her marking his back. Lovely body. A wildcat.

And the words she had shouted while he fucked her on that big white sitting-room sofa.

He took out his SAPS identity card, held it up so the woman at City Park reception could read it and said: 'I want to see Alexandra Barnard.'

'Oh,' she said, 'just a moment,' and picked up the phone.

For a moment, when he reached his car, Griessel considered running the six city blocks, but what if he had to race off from there ...? He jumped into the car and pulled away. His cell phone rang. He swore, struggling to get it out of his pocket.

FRITZ. His son. His feelings about tonight descended on him again, the date with Anna at seven o'clock made him instinctively look at his watch. A quarter to three; another four hours. Should he phone and say tonight was going to be difficult?

'Fritz?' he said wondering whether his son knew anything about Anna's intentions.

'Dad, I'm done with school.'

'What do you mean?'

'Dad, we got this fat gig ...'

'We?'

'The band, Dad. Wet en Orde, that's our name, but you don't spell the 'en', it's just that 'and' sign, you know, that looks like an 's', Pa.'

'An ampersand.'

'Whatever. Wet en Orde, like your job, Law and Order, it was my idea, Pa. Don't you think that's cool?'

'And now you're leaving school?'

'Yes. Dad, this gig, we're opening for Gian Groen and Zinkplaat on a tour, Dad, they are talking about twenty-five thousand for a month, that's more than six thousand per guy.'

'And?'

'I don't need school any more, Pa.'

The call came through at 14:48 to the office of the Provincial Commissioner: Western Cape. The little Xhosa answered, forewarned by his secretary. It was Dan Burton, the American Consul.

'Mr Burton?'

'Commissioner, could you please tell me what's going on?'

The Commissioner drew himself up behind his desk. 'Yes, sir, I can tell you what is going on. We have every available police officer in Cape Town looking for the girl. We have what we believe is the best detective in the Peninsula leading the task force, and they are doing everything in their power, at this very moment, to try and find the young lady in question.'

'I understand that, sir, but I've just had a call from her parents, and they are very, very worried. Apparently, she was safe, she called this Captain Ghree-zil, but he took his sweet time to get there, only to find her gone.'

'That's not the information I have, sir ...'

'Do you know what's going on? Do you know who these people are? Why are they hunting her like an animal?'

'No, we don't know that. All I can tell you is that we are doing everything we can to find her.'

'Apparently, sir, that is not enough. I am really sorry, but I will have to call the Minister. Something has to be done.'

The Commissioner stood up from his desk. 'Well, sir, you are most welcome to call the Minister. But I am not sure what else we can do.' He put the phone down and walked out, down the passage to John Afrika's office. On the way he said one word in his mother tongue; the click of the word echoed off the walls.

She did not hear them arguing on the other side of the wooden door. She sat with her naked back against the pillar, dreadful pain in her foot, blood still running from the two stumps and the severed toes lying on the cement floor. Her head drooped andshe wept, tears and mucus streaming from her nose, mouth and eyes.

She had nothing left.

Nothing.

They told Vusi Ndabeni that Senior Inspector Jeremy Oerson was out. He could reach him on his cell phone. They had the same sullen, 'it's-not-my-problem' attitude and thinly disguised superiority that he could not fathom. It had been like this the whole day - the ponytail at the club, the Russian woman, the man at the pound, the woman at Administration: nobody cared, he thought. In this city it was everyone for himself. He suppressed his escalating unease, the frustration. He must try to understand these people - that was the only way to deal with it. He took the number but before he could phone they said: 'Here he is now.'

Vusi turned, recognised the man; he was the one who had been at the church this morning - dreadful uniform, not quite so neat now, face shiny with perspiration.

'Inspector Oerson?' he asked.

'What?' Hurried, irritated.

'I am Inspector Vusumuzi Ndabeni of the SAPS. I am here about a vehicle that was booked out of the pound at twelve thirty- four, a Peugeot Boxer panel van, CA four-oh-nine, three-four- one ...'

'So?' Oerson kept on walking towards his office. Vusi followed, amazed by his attitude.

'They say you signed the form.'

'Do you know how many forms I sign?' Oerson stood at a closed office door.