'They?'

'He brought Melinda along.'

Griessel could not mask his annoyance. Mouton saw it. 'I couldn't help it - I didn't tell him to bring her,' as if speaking to an inferior.

He knew Mouton's kind, self-important in their own little world, used to calling the shots. Now that he had had the ear of the Regional Commissioner, he would think he could keep on interfering. 'We want to question them separately,' Griessel said and took out his cell phone. 'My colleague thought she would be at home. I have to call him.'

He found Dekker's number and called.

'How much does Geyser know?' he asked while it rang.

'Nothing yet. Natasha just told him to wait in the conference room, but you can see he's guilty. Sweating like a pig.'

'Benny,' said Dekker over the phone.

'Things have changed,' said Griessel.

Chapter 16

Vusi Ndabeni was walking quickly down Long Street when John Afrika phoned him back.

'It's sorted out, Vusi. Inspector Kaleni's commanding officer misunderstood me.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'She's gone to Caledon Square, she will talk to the stations in the meantime.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'She will be a great help to you, Vusi. She's a smart woman.'

'Thank you, sir.'

More than 1,300 kilometres to the north, in the Wachthuis building, part of the Thibault Arcade in Pretorius Street, Pretoria, the telephone of the Acting National Police Commissioner made a single growling noise. He picked it up. 'The Deputy Minister wants to talk to you,' said his secretary.

'Thank you.' He hesitated for a second before pushing the white 'Line 1' button. He knew it would not be good news. The Deputy Minister only phoned when there was bad news about the currently-on-long-leave National Commissioner and his approaching corruption trial.

'Good morning, Minister,' he said.

'Morning, Commissioner,' she said, and he could hear she wasn't overjoyed. 'I just had a call from the US Consul General in Cape Town.'

The front door of Van Hunks was in Castle Street. There was a neon sign with the name and motto: Smokin'. Inspector

Vusumuzi Ndabeni pushed and tugged on the handle but it was locked.

'Ai,' he said, and walked around the corner to the entrance of the shop next door, a company that sold lights. He found a coloured woman at the checkout and asked if she knew whether there would be anyone at the club.

'Try the back door,' she said, and went to show him the service alley at the back. He thanked her and walked past men unloading crates of beer from a lorry and carrying them into the club, into the kitchen of Van Hunks. A white man with a short black ponytail and small eyes was supervising the unloading. He spotted Vusi.

'Hey!' he said. 'What do you want?' Aggressive, with a slight accent.

Vusi took out his SAPS identity card. He held it out for the man to read. 'I would like to speak to the manager,' he said politely.

Ponytail, a head taller than Vusi, pulled up his nose at the card and the detective.

'Why?'

'Are you the manager?' asked Vusi, still civil.

'No.'

'I would prefer to speak to him.'

'Her. She is busy.' With a faint accent. Foreign.

'Could you take me to her, please?'

'Have you got the warrant?'

'I don't need a warrant,' he explained patiently. 'I am investigating a murder, and the victim was in this club last night. I just need information.'

While Ponytail weighed him up, Vusi noticed that his eyes were too close together. He had heard that in white people it was a sign of stupidity. That would explain the man's behaviour.

'You wait, because they steal my beer.' Ponytail pointed at the black labourers carrying the beer crates. 'What will the police do about this?'

'Did you report it?'

'Why?'

'So the police can investigate,' said Vusi slowly and clearly. 'You have to go to the charge office and report the crime.'

Ponytail rolled his eyes. Vusi didn't know what he meant by that; surely he could not have put it more plainly? 'Look, my investigation is very urgent. I need to speak to the manager immediately.'

More hesitation. Then the man said: 'Down the passage. Third door right.'

'Thank you,' said Vusi, and walked out of the room.

Willie Mouton held the door to the conference room open for Griessel. The Geysers were seated at the long oval table. They were holding hands. Benny had imagined two young bubbly angelic faces, with that exaggerated joy of the newly converted. But the Geysers were on the wrong side of forty, she maybe older than him. They were tense and grim. Josh was a big man with white-blonde hair and a styled crew cut. There were deep etched lines on his face, a droopy blonde moustache trimmed carefully to his chin. Wide shoulders, big arms, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. Beside him Melinda looked tiny, like a doll, with her round face and red-blonde hair in a cascade of tight curls, a milky-white skin and long lashes. She had a heavy hand with the make-up, the beauty of another era. There was something about her mouth and eyes that would have marked her as an 'easy girl' in the Parow of Griessel's youth.

'Willie,' said Josh Geyser getting to his feet. 'What's going on?'

'This is Sergeant Benny Griessel of the police, Josh. We would like to talk to you.'

Griessel put out a hand. 'Inspector,' he said.

Geyser ignored Griessel's hand. 'Why?' he demanded with an authoritarian scowl.

'Adam is dead, Josh.'

An invisible hand wiped the scowl from Geyser's face. Griessel watched him pale.

Silence dominated the room.

In her seat, Melinda made a little noise, but Griessel kept his attention on Josh. The big man's shock seemed genuine.

'How?' asked Geyser.

'He was shot yesterday at his house,' said Mouton.

'Oh heavens!' Melinda cried out.

'I would like to talk to you alone, Mr Geyser,' said Griessel quickly, worried that the impetuous Mouton would say too much.

'Melinda, won't you wait in my office?' asked Mouton.

She didn't move.

'You're making a mistake,' Geyser said to Griessel.

'Would you sit down, please, Mr Geyser?'

'Come, Melinda,' said Mouton.

'I'm staying with Josh.'

'Mrs Geyser, I am afraid that I must speak with him alone.'

'She stays,' said Geyser.

Vusi found the manager in a small, untidy office with files and sheaves of accounts strewn across the table and shelves. She was typing figures into a large adding machine, painted nails pecking at the keys with lightning speed. He knocked on the frame of the open door and asked whether she was the manager.

'Yes.' She looked up. Forty, maybe, short black hair, strong features, but hard.

Vusi held out his identification and introduced himself.

'Galina Federova.' She shook Vusi's hand with a self-assured grip. 'Why are you here?' in the same accented English as Ponytail's.

Vusi gave her a quick outline of the case.

'Please sit down.' Somewhere between an order and an invitation, the please was a short, powerful pits. She began to pick up invoices from the table, looking for something. She found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, flipped open the packet's lid and offered it to Vusi.

'No, thanks.'

She took one out for herself, lit it and spoke, the smoke trickling from her mouth.

'You know how many people last night?'

No, he said, he didn't know.

'Maybe two hundred, maybe more. We are very poplar.'

The mispronunciation distracted him momentarily. 'I understand that. But something must have happened, Mrs Federova.'

'Call me Galia. It is the Russian way for Galina.'