'Josh, did you go straight home?'

Geyser just nodded.

'Do you own a firearm?'

He shook his head. No.

'We will have to search your house, Josh. We have instruments that can tell if there were guns or ammunition, even if they are not there any more.'

'I don't have a gun.'

'Where were you from midnight last night?' 'With Melinda.'

'Where were you?'

'We went to church last night.'

'Which church?'

'The Tabernacle, in Parklands.'

'Until what time?'

'I don't know ... I suppose, half past ten.'

'At church?'

'After the service we went to see the pastor. For counselling.'

'Until half past ten?'

'Thereabouts.'

'And then?'

'Then we went home.' He looked at Griessel and saw it was not enough. He interlaced his thick fingers on the table and stared at them with great concentration. 'It was ... hard. She ... Melinda ... She wanted me to hold her ... I ...' He went quiet again.

'Josh, did you leave the house last night?'

'No.'

'Not at all?'

'I only went out again this morning. When Willie phoned.'

Griessel looked at Geyser intently. He recognised the simplicity of this giant, the childish honesty. He thought of the tears, his absolute brokenness over his wife's unfaithfulness. He didn't know if he could believe him. Then he thought of the damage Adam Barnard had done, to Alexa, to Josh, to how many others. Then he remembered his own infidelity last night and he got up in a hurry and said: 'You will have to wait here, Josh, if you don't mind.'

Fransman Dekker asked Melinda Geyser to sit on one of the chairs at the big sound desk in the recording studio, but when he closed the soundproof door and turned around she was still standing, like someone who had something pressing to say. 'Sit, please,' he said.

'I can't...' Uneasy, tense.

'Ma'am, this will take a while. It's better if you sit.'

'You don't understand ...' 'What don't I understand?' He sat down in an office chair on wheels.

'I ... You must forgive me ... I'm still old fashioned ...' She gestured with her hand to try to explain.

Dekker looked at her in query.

'I don't... I can't talk to you about yesterday ...'

The way she said it made him suspicious.

'To me?' His voice cut like a knife.

She couldn't look at him, confirming his suspicion.

'Is it because I'm coloured?'

'No, no, I can't talk ... to a man.'

Dekker heard the way she said it, like someone who had been caught out. He saw the flicker in her eyes. 'You're lying,' the anger flaring quickly in him, like a switch turned on.

'Please, this is hard enough.'

He rose from the chair, startling her into a backwards step.

'Your kind . ..' he said, losing control for a moment, other words welling up behind the rage, his fists opening and closing, but somehow he found control. He made a noise somewhere between disbelief and disgust.

'Please ...' she said.

He despised her. He walked out of the door, trying to slam it. Outside, Benny Griessel was in the passage with his phone to his ear saying: 'Vusi, I trust the guys from Organised Crime as far as I can throw them.'

Barry sat on the veranda of Carlucci's and listened to the sirens approaching through the city below. He saw a young man in an apron who heard them too, and came outside.

The patrol vehicles raced up Upper Orange, blue lights revolving. Four of them stopped in front of the restaurant with a screech of tyres, doors flung open, blue uniforms tumbling out. From one passenger door, a short, fat, black woman got out with a large handbag over her shoulder and a pistol on her hip.

She came quickly across the street, with the horde of blue uniforms following in her wake.

Around him at the other tables, the restaurant clientele watched the procession with astonishment.

The young man in the apron waited for them on the veranda.

'Are you the man who called in about the girl?' Barry heard the black woman ask with authority.

'I am.'

'Then tell me everything.' She heard shuffling behind her and turned around to see the amused grins on the policemen's faces. Their smiles disappeared under her angry glare.

'You can't all stand in here. Go wait outside.'

Chapter 19

At seventeen minutes to four, American Eastern Standard Time - five hours behind Greenwich Mean Time and seven hours behind Cape Town, Bill Anderson sat at the laptop on his desk reading Internet articles about South Africa. His wife, Jess, sat on the leather couch behind him, her legs drawn up and covered with a blanket. She jumped when the phone rang shrilly.

He grabbed it. 'Bill Anderson,' he said, the concern discernible in his voice.

'Mr Anderson, my name is Dan Burton. I am the US Consul General in Cape Town.' The voice rang as clear as crystal despite the great distance. 'I know what a difficult time this must be for you.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Who is it?' Jess Anderson asked, coming to stand close to her husband. He held a hand over the receiver and whispered: 'The Consul General in Cape Town.' Then he held the phone so she could also hear.

'I can tell you that I've just got off the phone with both the National and Provincial Commissioners of the South African Police Services, and although they have not found Rachel yet...'

Jess Anderson made a small noise and her husband put his arm around her shoulders while they listened.

'...they have assured me they will leave no stone unturned until they have done so. They are allocating every available resource to the search as we speak, and they think it is only a matter of time ..

'Thank you, sir ...'

'Now, the only reason why the Ambassador himself is not calling you, is because he is away on official matters up north in Limpopo Province, but it is my job to coordinate all functions of the US Government in the Cape Town consular district, where I maintain contact with senior South African officials, both provincial and national...'

'Mr Burton ...'

'Please call me Dan ...'

'Our biggest concern is that Rachel said something about the police when she called.'

'Oh?'

'She said that she could not even go to the police.'

The Consul General was quiet for a moment. 'Did she say why?'

'No, she did not have time. She was very distressed, she said "they're here", and then I just heard noises ...'

'She said the police were there?'

'No ... I don't know ... She said "they're here, please help me" ... But the way she spoke about the police ... I don't know, it was my impression that she could not trust them. And I've been doing some reading on the Internet. It says here the man in charge of the whole police force over there is being charged with corruption and defeating the ends of justice....'

'Oh, my God,' said Jess, looking at the computer screen.

'Well ...' the Consul General seemed to need time to digest this information. 'I know how it looks, Mr Anderson, but I have every reason to believe the law enforcement people in Cape Town are highly competent and trustworthy. I will certainly call the Commissioner right away to get some answers ... In the meantime, I've taken the liberty of giving your phone number to the authorities. The Commissioner has assured me the officer in charge of the investigation will call you as soon as he can, and he will keep you updated on all developments. His name is ... Ghreezil, an Inspector Benny Ghreezil...'

'Ask about Erin,' whispered Jess Anderson.

'Mr Burton, Erin Russel... Is there any news about Erin?'

'It is with great sadness that I have to tell you that Miss Russel was killed last night, Mr Anderson ...' His wife let the blanket slip from her shoulders, put her hands on her husband's shoulders, pressed her face into his neck and wept.