Thirteen Hours

'The deceased was your husband, Mr Adam Barnard?'

She nodded.

'What is his full name?'

'Adam Johannes.'

'Age?'

'Fifty-two.'

Dekker wrote. 'And his profession?'

She turned her tired eyes on Dekker. 'AfriSound.'

'Excuse me?'

'AfriSound. It's his.'

'AfriSound?'

'It's a record company.'

'And he owns this record company?'

She nodded.

'Your full name?'

'Alexandra.'

'Age?'

'A hundred and fifty.'

Dekker just looked at her, pen ready.

'Forty-six.'

'Profession?'

She gave an ironic snort and pushed her hair off her face again. Griessel saw confirmation of the maid's statement that she was a drinker - the trembling hands, the eyes, the characteristic colour and weathering of her face. But she reminded him of something else. He knew he had met her somewhere before.

'Excuse me?' said Dekker.

How do I know her, Griessel wondered. Where?

'I don't work.'

'Home-maker,' said Dekker and wrote that down.

She made the same little noise, loaded with meaning.

'Mrs Barnard, can you tell us about last night's events?'

She sank back slowly into her seat, put her elbow on the armrest and leaned her head on her hand. 'No.'

'Excuse me?'

'I don't know how long I can resist the temptation to say 'you are excused'.'

The muscles in Dekker's jaw worked as though he were grinding his teeth. Alexandra breathed in slowly and deliberately, as if steeling herself for a hard task. 'I am an alcoholic. I drink. From eleven in the morning. By six o'clock usually I am mercifully drunk. From half past eight on I don't remember much.' In that instant, perhaps because the deep, rich voice resonated somewhere in his memory, Benny Griessel remembered who she was. The word sprang to the tip of his tongue, he almost spoke it aloud, but stopped just in time: Soetwater. Sweet water.

She was the singer. Xandra. Lord, how old she looked.

Soetwater. The word activated a picture from memory, a television image of a woman in a tight-fitting black dress, just her and the microphone in the bright spotlight of a smoke-framed stage.

A small glass of sunlight,

A goblet of rain

A small sip of worship,

A mouthful of pain

Drink sweet water.

Mid-Eighties, somewhere around there. Griessel remembered her as she was, the incredibly sensual blonde singer with a voice like Dietrich and enough self-confidence not to take herself too seriously. He had only met her through the television screen and the cover of magazines, in the days before he started drinking. She had four or five hits, he remembered 'n Donkiekar net vir twee',

'Tafelbaai se Wye Draii' and the big one, 'Soetwater'. Fuck, she had been this huge star and look at her now.

Benny Griessel felt pity for her, also loss, and empathy.

'So you don't remember what happened last night?'

'Not much.'

'Mrs Barnard,' said Dekker stiffly and formally. 'I get the impression that your husband's death hasn't upset you very much.'

He was mistaken, thought Griessel. He was misreading her; he was too tense, too hasty.

'No, Inspector, I am not in mourning. But if you bring me a gin and dry lemon, I will do my best.'

For an instant, Dekker was uncertain, but then he squared his shoulders and said, 'Can you remember anything about last night?'

'Enough to know it wasn't me.'

'Oh.'

'Come back this afternoon. Three o'clock is a good time. My best time of the day.'

'That is not an option.'

She made a gesture as if to say that was not her problem.

'I will have to test your blood for alcohol.'

'Carry on.'

Dekker stood up. 'I'll just get the technician.'

Griessel followed him. In the sitting room Thick and Thin were busy packing up.

'Can you just take a blood sample before you leave?'

'Sure, chief,' said Jimmy.

'Fransman,' said Griessel, aware that he must tread with care. 'You know I am an alcoholic?'

'Ah,' said Arnold, the fat one, 'detectives bonding. How sweet.'

'Fuck off,' said Griessel.

'I was just about to, anyway,' said Arnold.

'You still have to do the Mercedes in the street,' said Dekker.

'That's next on the list,' and Arnold left the room with his arms full of evidence and apparatus.

'So?' Dekker asked once they were alone.

'I know how she feels, Fransman ...'

'She feels nothing. Her husband is lying there and she feels nothing. She killed him, I'm telling you. The usual story.'

How do you explain to a non-drinker what she was feeling now? Alexandra Barnard's whole being craved alcohol. She was drowning in the terrible flood of that morning; drink was the only lifeline. 'Griessel knew.

'You're a good detective, Fransman. Your crime scene is perfectly managed, you do everything by the book and ten to one you're right. But if you want a confession ... give me a chance. One-to-one isn't so intimidating ...'

Griessel's cell phone rang. He watched Dekker while taking it out. The coloured man didn't look too keen about his suggestion.

'Griessel.'

'Benny, it's Vusi. I'm at the Metro CCTV room. Benny, there are two of them.'

'Two what?'

'Two girls, Benny. I'm standing here, watching five guys chasing two girls up Long Street.'