'A mixture of cheddar and Gruyere, it always smells better than it tastes. That is one thing about old age. Your sense of smell lasts longer than taste.'

The toaster popped the two slices up. He took a small plate, put the toast on it and brought it to her. 'Some green fig preserve? I have a really good Camembert to go with it, rich and creamy, made by a small cheesery near Stellenbosch.' He opened the fridge and took it out anyway before she could reply.

He was back at the stove, sliding the omelette onto his plate. He brought it to the table, sat down and took a mouthful. 'I often add feta as well, to this particular mixture, but it might be too salty for a young woman ... the coffee!' He jumped up again with surprising energy, to put water in the coffee-maker. He spilled some on the counter and wiped it up with the white dishcloth before turning on the machine and sitting down again.

'West Lafayette. You're a long way from home, my dear.'

Chapter 28

On the sixteenth floor of the apartment block, the man with the trimmed grey beard stood etched against the bright city panorama, his hands behind his back.

In front of him were the six young men. They looked at him, not intimidated, expectant. Three black, three white, united by their youth, leanness and fearlessness.

'Mistakes have been made,' the man said in English, but with a distinctive accent.

'Learn from them. I am taking charge now. This is not a vote of no confidence. See it as an opportunity to learn.'

One or two nodded slightly; they knew he didn't like emotional display.

'Time is our enemy. So I shall keep it short. Our friend in Metro will provide a suitable vehicle, a panel van that has been unclaimed in the pound in Green Point for four months. Go and get it; Oerson is waiting at the gate. Leave the bus in the parkade of the Victoria Junction Hotel.'

He picked up a shiny metal case from the floor and put it on the table in front of him.

He looked at one of the young men. 'The Taurus?'

'Underwater in the harbour.'

'Good.' The greybeard undipped the case and swivelled it around for all to see. 'Four Stechkin APSs, the APB model. The B stands for Bes-shumniy, the Russian word for "quiet", because the barrel is bored out for low velocity and, as you can see, they come with a silencer. These weapons are thirty- five years old, but they are the most reliable automatic pistols on the planet. Nine millimetre, twenty in the magazine; the ammunition is less than six months old. The silencers don't mean that the weapon is completely silent. It makes a sound equal to an unsilenced point-two-two pistol; enough to attract attention, which we do not want. Only use it in an emergency. Is that clear?'

Everyone nodded this time, greedy eyes on the guns.

'Much more stopping power than the Taurus. Remember that. The numbers have been filed off; they cannot be traced to us. Make sure you wear gloves, and get rid of them if necessary.'

He waited another second to make sure there were no questions. 'Very well. This is how we're going to do it.'

Inspector Fransman Dekker was on his way over to where Natasha was sitting when the tall white man intercepted him.

'Are you from the police?'

'I am,' said Dekker. The face seemed familiar.

'I'm Ivan Nell,' he said with an inflection of the powerful voice that said the name meant something.

'Weren't you on that TV show?'

'I was one of the mentors on Superstars ...'

'You sing ...'

'That's right.'

'My wife watched Superstars. Pleased to meet you. You must excuse me - we're a little busy here this morning,' said Dekker and began moving again.

'That's why I'm here,' said Nell. 'Because of Adam.'

Dekker stopped reluctantly. 'Yes?'

'I think I was the last person to see him alive.'

'Last night?' The singer had his full attention now.

Nell nodded. 'We were eating at Bizerca Bistro down near Pier Place until ten o'clock.'

'And then?'

'Then I went home.'

'I see.' Dekker thought for a while. 'And Barnard?'

'I don't know where Adam went. But this morning when I heard on the radio ...' Nell looked around at the people who were sitting too close for his liking, at Natasha who had got up and come closer. 'Is there somewhere we could talk?'

'What about?'

Nell came up close and spoke quietly: 'I think his death has something to do with our conversation last night, I don't know ...'

'What did you talk about, Mr Nell?'

He looked uneasy. 'Can we talk somewhere else?' It was an urgent whisper.

Dekker suppressed the impulse to sigh. 'Can you just give me two minutes, please?'

'Of course. I just don't want you to think, you know ...'

'No, Mr Nell, I don't know,' said Fransman Dekker. He looked at Natasha who was waiting patiently only steps away from them, then back at Nell. 'Just give me a moment.'

'Of course.'

Benny Griessel was not good at sitting and waiting. So he left the radio room, walked through the busy charge office and the security doors out onto Buitenkant Street. His brain was busy and his courage was low. They were not going to find her. He had fourteen patrol vehicles driving in a grid pattern, and one was parked in Long Street with the men waiting at the Cat & Moose. He had ten foot patrols, two of them searching the Company Gardens. The helicopter had returned from Table View and covered the entire bloody city. There was no sign of her.

Where could she be?

He walked to his car, unlocked it and took out the Chesterfields from the cubbyhole, locked the door again and stood on the pavement, holding the pack of cigarettes. What was he missing?

Was there something in the chaos of the morning that he had missed? It was a familiar feeling. On the day a crime took place, there was so much information, his head would be overflowing, the pieces unconnected and crowding each other out. It took time, a night's sleep sometimes, for the subconscious to sort and file, like a slow secretary working at her own unhurried tempo.

He took out a cigarette and put it between his lips.

He was missing something ...

He slid the box of matches open.

The Field Marshal. Jeremy Oerson and the search for the rucksack.

He began to walk hastily back along the pavement, putting the matches in his trouser pocket, and the cigarettes back in the pack. He went into the police station. Was that the only item knocking at the door of his consciousness?

In the radio room he asked a uniformed policeman where he could get a telephone directory.

'Charge office.'

Griessel fetched one, paging through it as he walked back. The local government numbers were all right at the back. He found Metro and put the book on the old government-issue table of dark wood, next to his maps, notebook, pen and cell phone. He kept a finger on the number and phoned. Two rings and a woman's voice said: 'Cape Town Metropolitan Police, good afternoon, goeimiddag.'

'Jeremy Oerson, please.'

'Please hold,' she said and put him through. It rang for a long time. A man answered.

'Metro.'

'Jeremy Oerson?'

'Jeremy is not here.'

'This is Insp ... Captain Benny Griessel, SAPS. Where can I get hold of him, it's quite urgent?'

'Hold on ...' A hand was held over the receiver and muffled words exchanged. 'He should be back soon. Do you want his cell phone number?'

'Please.' Griessel reached for his pen and book.

The man recited the number and Griessel wrote it down. He rang off and phoned it. Oerson answered instantly.

'Jeremy.'

'Benny Griessel, SAPS. We talked this morning in Long Street.'

'Yes.' A total lack of enthusiasm.