The receptionist's frown deepened as Kaleni put her chubby hand into the plastic bag and took out a little red and white carton and a tin of Fanta Grape. She watched the policewoman put her handbag on the ground and the Fanta on the table beside her, opening the carton with absolute concentration.

'You can't sit there and eat,' she said with more astonishment than authority.

Mbali Kaleni lifted a chicken drumstick out of the packet. 'I can,' she said, and took a bite.

The receptionist shook her head and made a little noise of disbelief and despair. She picked up the phone, without taking her eyes off the munching policewoman.

Galina Federova walked down the passage with Vusi and Griessel behind her. Benny smelled the alcohol even before they entered the big nightclub - that familiar, musty old smell of drinking holes where alcohol has been poured, drunk and spilt, the smell that for more than ten years had offered him a refuge. His stomach contracted in fear and anticipation. As he went through the door and the club opened out before him, his eyes sought out the shelves of bottles against the wall, long rows glinting like jewels side by side in the bright lights.

He heard the Russian woman say: 'This is the night shift,' but he continued staring at the liquor, his head full of memories. He felt a powerful wave of nostalgia for days and nights of drinking with forgotten booze buddies. And for the atmosphere of these twilight places, that feeling of total submission, clasping a glass with the knowledge that a refill was only a nod away.

The taste in his mouth now was not the brandy or Jack Daniels that he used to drink, but the gin that he had poured that morning for Alexa Barnard. He recalled her relief with disturbing clarity; he could see the effect of the alcohol on her so clearly, how it drove out all the demons. That was what he desired now: not the smell or the taste, but the calm, the equilibrium that had evaded him all day. He craved the effect of alcohol. He heard Vusi say his name once, twice, and then he dragged his face away from the bottles and concentrated fiercely on his colleague.

'These are the night-shift staff,' Vusi said.

'OK.' Griessel looked around the room, aware that his heart was beating too quickly, his palms sweating, knowing he must squeeze the longing out of himself by force. He looked at all the people. Some of the staff were seated at tables, others were busy arranging chairs and wiping down tables. For the first time he heard the music in the background, unfamiliar rock.

'Can you ask them to sit, please?' he said to Federova, thinking he must pull himself together pretty smartly; he had a young, lost and frightened girl to find.

The woman nodded and clapped her hands to get everyone's attention. 'Come. Sit.' Griessel noted that they were all young and good looking - mostly men, nine or ten of them; four women. None of them looked particularly impressed to be here.

'Can someone turn off the music?' Griessel asked, his patience worn thin by the general lack of interest, the liquor and the urgency inside him.

A young man got up and walked over to the sound system, pressed or turned something and it went suddenly quiet.

'They are from the police,' said Galina Federova in a businesslike voice, but her irritation came through. 'They want to ask questions about last night.' She looked at Griessel.

'Good afternoon,' he said. 'Last night, two American girls visited this club, young tourists. This morning, the body of one of them was found at the top of Long Street. Her throat was cut.'

He ignored the subdued sounds of dismay; at least he had their attention now. 'I'm going to pass around a photograph of the victim and her friend. We need your help urgently. If you remember them at all, put up your hand. We believe the other girl is still alive, and we have to find her.'

'Before it is too late,' said Vusi Ndabeni softly beside him.

'Yes,' said Griessel, and gave half of the photographs to Vusi, walked to the back table and began to hand them out, watching how they looked at the picture with the usual macabre interest.

He went and stood in front again, waiting for Vusi to give out the last photos.

Federova sat down at the bar and lit a cigarette. In front of him the young workers' heads were lowered, busy studying the photos.

Then two or three slowly looked up, warily, with that tentative expression that said they recognised the girls, but they didn't want to be first to raise a hand.

Chapter 30

Mbali Kaleni was aware of the disapproval of the coloured receptionist, but didn't understand it. A person had to eat. It was lunchtime and here was a table and chairs. That was the problem with this country, she thought, all these little cultural differences. A Zulu eats when she must eat; it was normal, natural, and no big deal. She wasn't bothering anyone; she had no issue with how and what and when brown people or white people ate. If they wanted to eat their tasteless white sandwiches behind closed office doors or somewhere in a claustrophobic little kitchen, that was their problem. She didn't judge them.

She shook her head, took out the tub of mashed potatoes and gravy, lifted the transparent lid, picked up the white plastic teaspoon and made sure she took a small, well-mannered portion. This was part of her ritual: first she ate all the chicken, then the potato, leaving half of the cold drink for last. And, as usual, she thought while she ate. Not about the murder of the music man; it was the American girl who haunted her. She had been so sure she would find her. Her colleagues had been running around in a panic; in the crisis they had acted like headless chickens, but that was the way men were. In an emergency they had to do something; they couldn't suppress the impulse. This situation called for calm, for logic and causal thought. That was how she had found the trail in the flower bed.

And then, nothing. That was what she found perplexing.

The girl would not have jumped the picket fence only to clamber over the next wall and run down the street again.

But the old man had said he had heard her go up to the wall.

Why didn't Rachel Anderson knock on his door and ask for shelter? Too little time.

And if time was so short, she would have hidden from the street some other way. Why hadn't the helicopter spotted her? The way it seemed to Kaleni as she thought the situation through was that there were only two options for a fugitive woman trying to stay off the streets: get inside a house, or hide somewhere in a garden where nobody could see her. If she hadn't gone into the old man's house, she must have climbed over the northern wall to the next house. But Kaleni had had a policeman, a tall, skinny Xhosa, look over the wall for her, because she was too short. He said there was nothing there, just a little herb garden and a plastic table and chairs.

Had she climbed over the next wall as well and gone through the next yard? The helicopter would have spotted her sooner or later.

And if she had travelled so far, why did Mbali Kaleni have such a strong feeling that she was close by?

She scraped out the last of the potato, put the lid back on the tub, and the tub back in the little carton.

When she was finished here she would go back to Upper Orange. Have another look. She owed that to the girl: a woman's calm, logical and causal thought.

Ivan Nell sat opposite Fransman Dekker in Adam Barnard's office and said in his deep voice: 'I wanted to see Adam, because I believe they are cheating me. Of my money.'

'How's that?'

'It's a long story ...'

Dekker pulled his notebook and pen nearer. 'Can you give me the main points?'