Ndabeni had hung on every word. 'Thanks, Benny. I'll ask him about that.'

'Is he the only one here, from the group?' 'Yes. Some of them flew home last night. The rest are somewhere else, a wine tour. Or up the mountain.'

'And this one was here?'

'He was still in bed.'

'Now why would that be?'

'Good question.'

'Do you know how to watch his eyes, Vusi?'

The black detective shook his head.

'First you must get him to write something down, so you know whether he is left- or right-handed. Then you look for eye movement when he answers ...'

Griessel's cell phone rang and he saw the name on the screen. AFRIKA. 'It's the Commissioner,' he said before answering. Vusi raised his eyebrows.

He took the call, 'Griessel.'

'Benny, what the hell is going on?' the District Commissioner: Detective Services and Criminal Intelligence asked, so loudly that even Vusi could hear it.

'Sir?'

'Some lawyer is phoning me, Groenewoud or Groenewald or something, lecturing me like a missionary saying you all made a big cock-up with Adrian Barnard's wife ...'

'Adam Bar—'

'I don't give a damn,' said John Afrika. 'Now the woman has committed suicide because you intimidated her and she has nothing to do with the whole bloody thing ...'

A hand clenched his heart. 'She's dead?'

'No, she's not bloody dead, but you are there to mentor, Benny, that's why I brought you in. Just imagine what the press are going to make of this, I hear Barnard is a bloody celebrity ...'

'Sir, nobody—'

'Meet me at the hospital, you and Fransman Dekker. He can't curb his bloody ambition and if I try to cover for him they say it's because he's a fucking hotnot just like me, and I only look after my own people, where the fuck are you, anyway?'

'With Vusi, Commissioner. The church murder ...'

'And now I hear that's an American tourist, jissis, Benny, only on a Tuesday. At the hospital, I'll meet you there, five minutes.' The line went dead. Benny considered the fact that he had given Alexa Barnard the alcohol and that the Commissioner had not said which hospital and then Oliver 'Ollie' Sands walked in with the camera, crying as he stared at the screen on the back. He held it up so that the detectives could see. As Benny Griessel looked he felt that ghostly hand squeeze his heart, that familiar oppression. Rachel Anderson and Erin Russel stood laughing, lovely and carefree, with Kilimanjaro in the background. Young and effervescent, just like his daughter Carla, part of the Great Adventure.

Rachel Anderson lay on her belly behind the heap of pine logs in the cool of the garage and tried to control her breathing.

She thought they must have seen her, because she heard footsteps and voices approaching.

'... more people,' said one of them.

'Maybe. But if the Big Guy comes through, we'll have more than enough.'

She knew their voices.

They stopped right in front of the garage.

'I just hope to God she's still out there.'

'Fucking mountain. It's huge. But if she moves, Barry will spot her. And our cops will have the streets covered, we'll get the bitch. I'm telling you, sooner or later we'll get her and this whole fuck-up will go away.'

She lay listening to the voices and footsteps that faded away uphill. And our cops will have the streets covered. These were the words that echoed in her mind, that killed the last vestige of hope.

Benny Griessel said in Afrikaans: 'He will talk, Vusi. Just give him a fright. Tell him you'll lock him up. Take him down to the cells, even. I have to go.'

'OK, Benny.' So Griessel left and, outside, on the way to his car, he phoned Dekker.

'Is she still alive, Fransman?'

'Yes, she's alive. Tinkie was with her all the time, but she fucked off into the bathroom and locked the door and cut her wrists with a broken gin bottle ...'

The one he had poured her drinks from? How did she get it into the bathroom?

'Is she going to make it?'

'I think so. We were quick. She lost a lot of blood, but she should be all right.'

'Where are you?'

'City Park. Did the Commissioner call you?'

'He's the moer in.'

'Benny, it's nobody's fault. It's that fucking Mouton who made a huge scene. When he saw the blood, he just lost it...'

'We can handle it, Fransman. I'll be there now.' He climbed into his car and wondered if he had missed something in his conversation with Alexa Barnard. Had there been a sign?

Inspector Vusi Ndabeni said: 'I'm your friend. You can tell me anything,' and he saw Oliver Sands reach for his glasses and take them off.

'I know.' Sands began cleaning the glasses on his T-shirt, now with his back to the door.

'So what really happened last night?' Vusi watched for the signs Benny had talked about.

'I told you,' the voice was too controlled.

Vusi allowed the silence to stretch out. He stared unblinking at Sands, but the eyes evaded him. He waited until Sands put the glasses back on, then he leaned forward. 'I don't think you've told me everything.'

'I did, honest to God.' Again the hands went to the glasses and adjusted them. Benny had told him to give Sands a fright. He didn't know if he could be convincing. He took a set of handcuffs out of his jacket pocket and put them on the table.

'Police cells are not nice places.'

Sands stared at the handcuffs. 'Please,' he said.

'I want to help you.' 'You can't.'

'Why?'

'Jeez ...'

'Mr Sands, please stand up and put your hands behind your back.'

'Oh, God,' said Oliver Sands and stood up slowly. 'Are you going to talk to me?'

Sands looked at Vusi and his whole body shivered once and he slowly sat down again.

'Yes.'

09:04-10:09

Chapter 11

Griessel drove down Loop Street towards the harbour. He should have taken Bree Street as there was heavy traffic, slow vehicles, and pedestrians just wandering across the road, all the local chancers. And the Gauteng tourists. They were unmistakable. This was the second wave: the first were the December school holiday brigade, smug motherfuckers who thought they were God's gift to Cape Town. They were usually families with moody, cell-phone-obsessed teenagers, Moms fiercely shopping, Dads unfamiliar with the streets, getting in everyone's way. The second wave would arrive in January, the arrogant fat cats who had stayed behind to make their Christmas killing in Sandton and then come here for their annual spending frenzy.

He saw small groups of foreign tourists, Europeans, so painfully law-abiding, only crossing the road at the traffic lights, noses stuck in guidebooks, wanting to photograph everything. He stopped with the lights showing red as far ahead as he could see. Why couldn't the fucking Metro Police get off their backsides and synchronise them?

That reminded him he ought to call the Field Marshal. Oerson. Perhaps they had found something. No, better to remind Vusi. This was Vusi's case. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, realised it was the rhythm of 'Soetwater' and could no longer ignore his conscience. Alexa Barnard. He should have seen it coming.

She had told him she had a suicide fantasy. 'I wanted Adam to come home at half past six and climb the stairs and find me dead. Then he would kneel down beside me and say, "You're the only one I ever loved." But being dead, of course, I would never see Adam plead with me; those dreams could never be reconciled.'

He shook his head. How the hell could he have missed that? That's what happened when you got up too early, an hour earlier than usual. He still wasn't quite with it today. And he had given her alcohol as well. Benny the great mentor who 'had forgotten more than others had to learn.'