His shift partner came out of the shop and said: 'If you ask me, it's drugs.'

Vusi Ndabeni met the police photographer at the Cat & Moose Youth Hostel and Backpackers Inn and asked them to fetch Oliver Sands and his camera again.

When Sands walked into the entrance hall, he still looked broken.

'I want to use that photograph of Erin and Rachel, please,' said Vusi.

'Sure,' said Sands.

'Can we borrow your camera for a few hours?'

'I can just take the memory card,' said the photographer.

'OK. I need ... fifty prints. But quickly. Mr Sands, please show our photographer which one is Rachel Anderson.'

'I'll get it back?' asked Sands.

'I can't get the prints to you today,' said the photographer. ,

Vusi stared at the man with his long hair and unhelpful attitude.

You have to be tough, Benny Griessel had said.

But he wasn't like that. And he didn't know if he could be. He would have to make another plan.

Vusi muffled a sigh. 'Tomorrow? Is tomorrow OK?'

'Tomorrow is better,' the photographer nodded.

Vusi took his phone out of his pocket. 'Just a minute,' he said, and pressed a number in and held the phone to his ear.

'When you hear the signal,' said a monotonous woman's voice on the phone, 'it will be ten ... seven ... and forty seconds.'

'May I speak to Commissioner Afrika, please?' said Vusi. He whispered to the photographer. 'I just want to hear if the Commissioner will be angry if the girl is dead tomorrow.'

'When you hear the signal it will be ...'

'What girl?' asked the photographer.

Oliver Sands looked from one to the other, bewildered.

'Ten seven ... and fifty seconds.'

'The one in the photo. She is out there somewhere, around Camps Bay, and there are people who want to kill her. If we only get the photographs tomorrow ...'

'When you hear the signal...' 'Hang on ...' said the photographer.

'I will hold for the Commissioner,' Vusi said into the phone while the woman's voice said, 'Ten eight exactly.'

'I didn't know,' said the photographer.

Vusi raised his eyebrows expectantly.

The photographer looked at his watch. 'Twelve o'clock, that's the best I can do.'

Vusi looked at his phone and ended the call. 'OK. Take the prints to Caledon Square and give them to Mbali Kaleni ...' and right then his phone rang.

'Detective Inspector Vusi Ndabeni.'

'Sawubona,Vusi,' said Mbali Kaleni in Zulu.

'Molo, Mbali,' said Vusi in Xhosa.

'Unjani' she asked in Zulu.

'Ntwengephi,' he said in Xhosa to make his point and then switched to English.

'Where are you?'

'On the Nl, coming from Bellville. Where are you?'

'I'm in Long Street, but I need you to go to Caledon Square.'

'No, brother, I must come to you. I can't take over the case if I don't know what's going on.'

'What?'

'The commissioner said I must take over the case.'

Vusi closed his eyes slowly. 'Can I call you back?'

'I'm waiting.'

Griessel walked into the arcade entrance at 16 Buiten Street. The building was built around an inner garden with paved pathways between flower beds, a fishpond and a birdbath. On the wall of the south wing was the huge logo of AfriSound, the word drawn in stalky letters that were probably meant to look African. The logo was a boastful bird with a black breast, yellow throat and eyebrows, singing with a gaping beak against an orange sun. Griessel had no idea what sort of bird it was. He crossed to the double glass doors. His cell phone rang. He knew this number by now.

'Vusi?' he said as he answered.

'Benny, I think we have a misunderstanding.'

The Metro patrol vehicle stopped beside the two young men in the Land Rover Defender on the corner of Prince and Breda Streets. Jeremy Oerson sat in the passenger seat of the Metro car. He wound the window down and asked the young white man behind the steering wheel of the Land Rover. 'Do you know what she's wearing, Jay?'

The young man nodded. 'Blue denim shorts, light-blue T-shirt. And a backpack.'

'OK,' said Jeremy Oerson and reached for his radio. He nodded to the driver. 'Let's go,' he said.

'Thank you, sir,' said Benny Griessel over the cell phone, turned it off and stood shaking his head for a second in front of the glass doors of AfriSound.

He wasn't a mentor, he was a fucking fireman, all he did was beat out fires.

Griessel sighed, opened the door and walked inside.

There were framed gold and platinum CDs and posters of artists' performances on the blood-red and sky-blue walls. Griessel recognised some of the names. Behind a modern desk of light wood sat a middle- aged black woman, who looked up when he came in. Her eyes were red, as though she had been crying, but her smile was brave.

'May I help you?'

'I'm here for Willie Mouton.'

'You must be Inspector Griessel.' Her pronunciation of his surname was perfect.

'I am.'

'Such a terrible thing, Mr Barnard ...' She nodded in the direction of the stairs.

'They're waiting for you on the first floor.'

'Thank you.'

Griessel climbed the wooden stairs. The railing was chrome and there were more framed CDs on the wall, with the name of the artist or band on a bronze plaque underneath each one.

The first floor opened up before him. The colour scheme was bright and multicoloured, but the atmosphere was sombre. No music, just the quiet whisper of the air conditioning and the hushed voices of five or six people sitting around a big, flat, chrome coffee table on couches and chairs in brightly coloured ostrich leather - blue, green, red.

They became aware of him and stopped talking, turning to look at him. Griessel saw an older woman crying; everyone looked distressed, but there was no sign of Mouton. Some of the faces studying him were familiar - he guessed they were singers or musicians. Was Josh Geyser one of them? For a second he hoped Lize Beekman or Theuns Jordaan was there, or Schalk Joubert. But what would he say to them, here, under these circumstances?

There was no shame in hoping.

To his left, near the window, a coloured woman stood up from a desk. She was young and beautiful with high cheekbones, a full mouth and long black hair. She walked around the desk. Elegant close-fitting clothes, high-heeled shoes, a slim figure. 'Inspector?' The same subdued friendliness as the receptionist below.

'Benny Griessel,' he said, putting out a hand.

'Natasha Abader.' Her hand was small. 'I am Mr Mouton's PA. Please come with me.'

'Thank you,' said Griessel and followed her down the corridor. He looked at Natasha Abader's pert, perfect bottom and he couldn't help wondering if Adam Barnard had fucked her in his office too. He looked away deliberately, at the framed CD covers on the wall, more posters. There were plaques beside the doors. AfriSound Promo. Production. Finance & Administration. Recording Studio. AfriSound On-line. And almost at the back, to the right, Willie Mouton. Director.

To the left, another closed door. Adam Barnard. Managing Director.

Natasha knocked on Mouton's door and opened it. She put her head in. 'Inspector Griessel is here.' She stood back so that Griessel could enter.

'Thanks,' said Griessel. She nodded and walked back to her desk. Griessel went in. Mouton and his lawyer, Groenewald, sat stretched out like two magnates on either side of a large desk.

'Come in,' said Mouton.

The lawyer, still seated, put out a half-hearted hand to Griessel. 'Regardt Groenewald.'

'Benny Griessel. Is that Geyser out front?'

'No, they are in the conference room.' Mouton gestured with his head towards the far end of the corridor. There was a solemn air about him; the aggression had disappeared.