'Willie ...' Groenewald cautioned.

'It's my company, Regardt, I have a right to know. What are the Geysers going around saying?'

'Willie, his investigation is sub judice. That means he doesn't have to—'

'I know what it means, Regardt, but it's my company now that Adam is no longer with us.'

'Mr Mouton, unfortunately you are obliged to answer my questions.'

The Adam's apple bobbed; the hand fiddled with the silver earring. 'What was your question?'

'Who can I talk to about payments that Mr Barnard made in the past week?'

'To whom?'

'To anyone.'

'Adam was in charge of finance and admin. He signed the cheques. But Wouter would know. He's the accountant.'

'Where would I find Wouter?'

'Next door down.'

'Thank you,' said Dekker and rose. 'I will also have to search Mr Barnard's office. Has anyone been in his office since yesterday night?'

'Ask Natasha, I don't know.'

Dekker went to the door.

'They're lying,' said Mouton. 'The Geysers are lying to save their own butts. Payments? What payments?'

'Willie ...' said Groenewald.

Griessel sat in the absent director's office. The big chair was comfortable and the desk very broad and clean. He studied the sheet of white paper the Provincial Commissioner had given him. Bill Anderson was written on it. Plus a number with overseas codes.

He was reluctant to make the call. He wasn't good at this sort of thing. He would try too hard to reassure and that would spark false hope, and he knew how the man felt. If Carla were to phone him from London and say there were people trying to kill her, people who had killed already, he would go out of his mind. He would climb on the first fucking plane.

But that wasn't all that was worrying him.

Ever since John Afrika had walked out of here and shut the door behind him, Griessel had been worrying about the other alternative. What if Rachel Anderson were not a mule?

Gennady Demidov was notorious, with an extensive web of activities. Rumour had it that there were city councillors in his pocket. SAPS members as well. At least a few uniforms. There had been a complaint of assault, something about people being beaten with baseball bats because they didn't want to sell property to Demidov - property that the city council needed to buy to build the World Cup soccer stadium. The docket disappeared from the Sea Point station and witnesses stopped talking. Six months ago the Organised Crime Unit had been cleaned up with great fanfare.

There was a new commanding officer, new detectives, quite a few from Gauteng and KwaZulu, but six months was a long time. The Russian had deep pockets.

He would not be very popular with the Commissioners for that theory.

Griessel sighed, lifted the receiver and heard the dialling tone.

He would say: 'This is Captain Benny Griessel.'

At least that would feel bloody good.

Chapter 24

Vusi Ndabeni, Mbali Kaleni and the young man in the apron stood at the computer in the small cubicle of an office at Carlucci's. They watched the email download.

'Don't you have ADSL?' asked Kaleni, as though it were a crime not to.

'We don't need it,' said the young man.

Vusi wondered if he was supposed to know what ADSL was, but he was saved by a cell phone ringing. Kaleni's.

'Yes,' she answered sharply, irritable. She listened for a long time. 'Hold on.' She took her big black handbag off her shoulder, plunged a hand into its depths and brought out a black bound notebook and pen set. She opened it solemnly, put it on the table, clicked the pen in readiness and said: 'OK. Shoot.'

Then: 'I mean, give it to me.'

She made a note, said, 'I've got it,' and ended the call. 'Vusi, I am going to Parklands. They have a hit on the registration number.'

'The Land Rover?'

'Yes. A Mr J. M. de Klerk of Twenty-four Atlantic Breeze in Parklands registered a Two thousand and seven Land Rover Defender One-ten Hard Top in September. Registration number CA four-one-six, seven-eight-eight-nine. And he was born in Nineteen eighty-five. A young guy.'

'Not a Russian,' Vusi said in disappointment.

'Must have a rich dad,' said the young man in the apron as he opened an email.

'Those Landies cost three hundred grand.'

'Where does he work?' Vusi asked hopefully.

'Same address. He works from home.'

Griessel heard the phone ring on another continent. It was crystal clear and he wondered what time it was in West Lafayette, Indiana.

'Anderson,' said the voice on the other end.

'Mr Anderson, my name is Benny Griessel ...' Griessel was aware of his Afrikaans accent, and for a fraction of a second the logical next sentence lay on the tip of his tongue,'... and I'm an alcoholic.' He bit it back and said, 'I am a Captain in the South African Police Services and I'm in charge of the search for your daughter. I am very sorry for the circumstances, but I can tell you we are doing our absolute best to find her and protect her.'

'Thank you, Captain, first of all, for taking the time to call. Is there any news?' The voice was polite and American, making the situation feel unreal to Griessel, like a TV drama.

'We have a police helicopter searching the area where she was last seen, and we have more than ten patrol units looking for her in the streets, with more coming. But so far, we have not located her.'

There was a silence over the phone, not just the usual static of a local call.

'Captain, this is a difficult thing for me to ask, but when Rachel spoke to me over the telephone, she said that she could not go to the police ... I hope you understand, as a parent, I am very concerned. Do you know why she said this?'

Griessel took a deep breath. It was the question he had been afraid of. 'Air Anderson, we have been thinking about this ... matter ...' Those were not the right words.'... this question, I mean. It could mean different things, and I am investigating all the possibilities.' It didn't seem enough. 'I want to tell you, I have a daughter the same age as Rachel. My daughter is in London at the moment. I know how you feel, Mr Anderson. I know this must be very ... difficult for you. Our children are all we have.' He knew it sounded odd, not quite right.

'Yes, Captain, that is exactly what I have been thinking these past few hours .. .That is why I am so concerned. Tell me, Captain - can I trust you?'

'Yes, Mr Anderson. You can trust me.'

'Then I will do that. I will trust you with my daughter's life.'

Don't say that, thought Griessel. He had to find her first. 'I will do everything I possibly can,' he said.

'Is there anything we can do from here. I... anything ...?'

'I am going to give you my cell phone number, Mr Anderson. You can call me any time you like. If Rachel calls you again, please give her my number, and tell her I will come to her, just me, if she is worried ... And I promise you, I will call you if there is any news.'

'We were thinking ... We want to fly out there ...'

He didn't know how to respond to that. 'I.. .You can, of course ... Let me find her, Mr Anderson. Let me find her first.'

'Will you, Captain?' There was a desperate note in his voice, grabbing at a lifeline.

'I will not rest until I have.'

Bill Anderson put the phone down carefully and sank back into his chair. He put his hands over his face. His wife stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder.

'It's all right to cry,' she said to him in a barely audible whisper. He didn't reply.

'I will be strong now, so you can cry.'

He slowly dropped his hands. He looked at the long rows of books on the shelves. So much knowledge, he thought. And so useless now.