Tell him not a damn, thought Griessel. Vusi just nodded.

'No,' said Griessel. 'We need them before eight. It's not negotiable.'

The photographer walked away to the wall, not bothering to hide his attitude. Griessel looked after him with disgust. 'Thanks, Benny,' said Vusi quietly.

'Don't be too nice, Vusi.'

'I know ...'

After an uncomfortable silence, he asked: 'Benny, what am I missing?'

Griessel kept his voice gentle, counselling. 'The backpack. It must have been robbery, Vusi. Her money, passport, cell phone ...'

Ndabeni caught on quickly. 'You think they dumped the backpack somewhere.' Griessel couldn't stand around like this any more. He looked about him, at the pavement where the spectators were getting out of hand. 'I'll handle that, Vusi, let's give the Metro guys something to do.' He went up to the wall and called to the uniforms. 'Who's in charge here?'

They just looked at each other.

'This pavement is ours,' said a coloured Metro policeman in an impressive uniform, emblems of rank all over it. Field Marshal at the very least, Griessel mused.

'Yours?'

'That's right.'

He felt the anger rise. He had an issue with the whole concept of the city police, fucking traffic cops that didn't do their jobs, total absence of law enforcement on the roads. He restrained himself and pointed a finger at a SAPS Constable: 'I want you to seal off this pavement, from down there to up to here. If people want to stand around they can do it on the other side of the street.'

The Constable shook his head. 'We don't have any tape.'

'Then go and get some.'

The SAPS man did not like to be the one singled out, but he turned and went off through the crowd. From his left-hand side an ambulance approached with some difficulty through the crowd.

'This is our pavement,' said the heavily ranked Metro policeman stubbornly.

'Are you the chief in charge here?' Benny asked him.

'Yes.'

'What is your name?'

'Jeremy Oerson.'

'And the pavements are under your jurisdiction?'

'Yes.'

'Perfect,' said Griessel. 'Make sure that the ambulance parks here. Right here. And then I want you to inspect every pavement and alley within six blocks of here, livery dustbin, every nook and cranny, got that?'

The man gave him a long look. Probably weighing up the implications should he refuse. Then he nodded, sourly, and began barking orders at his men.

Griessel turned back to Vusi.

'You need to look at this,' the pathologist called from where she was crouched by the body.

They went over to her. With a pair of tweezers, she held up a clothing label, the one from the back of the girl's T-shirt.

'Broad Ripple Vintage, Indianapolis,' she said and gave them a meaningful look.

'What does that mean?' asked Vusi Ndabeni.

'I think she's American,' she said.

'Oh fuck,' said Benny Griessel. 'Are you sure?'

Tiffany October's eyes widened somewhat at his language and her tone of voice confirmed it: 'Pretty sure.'

'Trouble,' said Ndabeni. 'Big trouble.'

07:02-08:13

Chapter 4

In the library of the big house in Brownlow Street, Tamboerskloof, the shrill, terrified screams of the maid shocked Alexandra Barnard from her sleep.

It was a surreal moment. She had no idea where she was, her limbs felt peculiar, stiff and unwieldy, and her thoughts were as sluggish as molasses. She lifted her head and tried to focus. She saw the plump woman at the door, mouth twisted in what she at first recognised as revulsion. Then the noise penetrated to the marrow.

Alexandra realised she was lying on her back on the Persian rug and wondered how she had come to be there. As she became aware of the horrible taste in her mouth and the fact that she had spent the night on the floor in a drunken stupor, she followed the gaze of Sylvia Buys: someone was lying beside the large brown leather armchair opposite her. She pushed herself up on her arms, wishing Sylvia would stop screaming. She couldn't recall anyone drinking with her last night. Who could it be? She sat upright, and with better perspective, recognised the figure. Adam. Her husband. He was wearing only one shoe, the other foot wore a drooping sock, as if he had been in the process of taking it off. Black trousers, and a white shirt smeared with black on the chest.

Then, as if someone had eventually focused the camera's lens, she realised that Adam was wounded. The black on the shirt was blood, the shirt itself was torn. She pressed her hands on the carpet to get up. She was confused, stunned. She saw the bottle and glass on the wooden table beside her. Her fingers touched something and she looked down and saw the firearm lying next to her. She recognised it, Adam's pistol. What was it doing here?

She got to her feet.

'Sylvia,' she said.

The coloured woman kept screaming.

'Sylvia!'

The sudden silence was a huge relief. Sylvia stood at the door with her hands over her mouth, and her eyes glued to the pistol.

Alexandra took a cautious step forward and stopped again. Adam was dead. She knew it now, from the sum of all the wounds and the way he was lying, but she couldn't understand it. Was it a dream?

'Why?' said Sylvia, approaching hysteria.

Alexandra looked at her.

'Why did you kill him?'

The pathologist and the two ambulance men manoeuvred the corpse carefully into a black zip-up bag. Griessel sat on the stone border of a palm tree bed. Vusi Ndabeni was on his cell phone talking to the station commander. 'I need at least four, Sup, for leg work ... I understand, but it's an American tourist ... Yes, we're pretty sure ... I know ... I know. No, nothing yet.. .Thanks, Sup, I'll wait for them.'

He came over to Benny. 'The SC says there's a protest of some or other labour union at Parliament and he can only send me two people.'

'There's always a fucking protest of some other union,' said Griessel and stood up. 'I'll help with the footwork, Vusi, until the photos arrive.' He couldn't sit around like this.

'Thanks, Benny. Would you like some coffee?'

'Are you going to send someone?'

'There's a place down the street. I'll go quickly.'

'Let me go.'

They filled the Caledon Square charge office, complainants, victims, witnesses and their hangers-on with stories of the night past. Over the sea of protesting and accusatory voices a telephone rang monotonously, on and on. A female Sergeant, weary after nine hours on her feet, ignored the scowling face across the counter and grabbed the receiver. 'Caledon Square, Sergeant Thanduxolo Nyathi speaking, how may I help you?'

It was a woman's voice, barely audible.

'You'll have to speak up, madam, I can't hear you.'

'I want to report something.'

'Yes, madam?'

'There was this girl...'

'Yes, madam?'

'This morning, at about six o'clock, on Signal Hill. She asked me to call the police because someone wanted to kill her.'

'One moment, madam.' She reached for a SAPS form and took a pen from her breast pocket. 'May I have your name?'

'Well, I just want to report it...'

'I know, madam, but I need a name.'

Silence.

'Madam?'

'My name is Sybil Gravett.'

'And your address?'

'I really can't see how this is pertinent. I saw the girl on Signal Hill. I was walking my dog.'

The Sergeant suppressed a sigh. 'And then what happened, madam?'

'Well, she came running up to me and she said I must call the police, someone was trying to kill her, and then she ran off again.'

'Did you see anybody following her?'

'I did. A few minutes later, they came running.'

'How many, ma'am?'