'I think so. He seemed slightly familiar.'

'Describe him to me.'

'Tallish guy ...' His words dried up.

'Old? Young? Black? White?'

'No, a white guy about my age, early twenties, short darkish hair, very tanned ...'

'And the other one?'

'Black guy, also early twenties ...'

The waiter with the wooden beads suddenly pointed a finger at the door behind Griessel's back and said excitedly: 'That oke was at their table last night.'

The detectives turned quickly. Against the wall, waiting patiently, were three SAPS men in blue uniforms. One had a large, transparent rubbish bag on the floor beside him. Between them stood Oliver Sands and a young man Griessel hadn't seen before. 'Yes, we know,' said Griessel.

'The other man is the guy from Carlucci's,' said Vusi, and stood up. Griessel followed him.

'Is that the bag for me from Metro?' Griessel asked one of the uniforms.

'Yes, Inspector.'

'It's Captain now,' said Mat Joubert from the table.

'Genuine, Benny?' asked Vusi, and there was real happiness in his voice.

Before leaving Adam Barnard's office, Fransman Dekker phoned Forensics.

'Jimmy here,' said the thin one.

'Jimmy, it's Fransman Dekker. I just wanted to know - about the Barnard case - have you found his cell phone anywhere?'

It took Jimmy a while to put two and two together. 'Just hold on ...'

Dekker heard him say faintly: 'Arnie, that music ou who was shot, did we find a cell phone?' and then to Dekker: 'No, Fransman, we found fokkol!

'Not in his car either?'

'Fokkol.'

'Thanks, Jimmy.' Dekker stood still for a second in thought, opened the office door and walked over to Natasha Abader's desk. She was on the phone, but when he approached she held a hand over the receiver and raised her eyebrows at him. 'Adam Barnard's cell phone number?'

She kept her hand over the phone as she recited the number. He keyed it in. 'Thanks.' He walked away while it rang. He walked down the passage - perhaps Barnard's phone was in his office, in which case he would hear it. But the only ringing was in his ear. It went on and on. Just when he expected it to go over to voice mail, a familiar voice said: 'Hello?' 'Who is this?' Fransman Dekker asked in surprise.

'This is Captain Benny Griessel of the SAPS,' said the voice.

'Captain?' said Dekker, completely bewildered.

Griessel and Vusi were hoping that the young man from Carlucci's would identify one of the Van Hunks personnel, when a cell phone began ringing shrilly, with the triiing-triiing of an antique farm telephone. A lot of people checked their phones, until a policeman said: 'It's in the bag.'

Griessel ripped open the refuse bag and began scratching around frantically. He grabbed something, fished the phone out of it. He stared at it in disbelief for a second before answering. The conversation was surreal - talking to someone who apparently knew him - until the puzzle was solved. 'Benny, it's Fransman Dekker talking. I have just dialled Adam Barnard's number.'

'You're joking.'

'No.'

'You will never fucking believe where this phone was. Inside a black shoe, in a bag of stuff Metro picked up this morning in the streets around the churchyard murder scene.'

'A shoe? Did you see what size it was?'

Griessel picked up the shoe, looked inside but saw nothing. He turned it over. The numbers were worn down. 'It's a ten and a half.'

'Fucking unbelievable.'

'Where did they find it?'

'I don't know; you'll have to ask Jeremy Oerson at Metro. He's a Field Marshal or something there.'

'What's a Field Marshal?'

'I mean he's some or other fucking fancy rank. Wait, I'll give you his number ...' He began looking it up on his own cell phone.

'And you're a Captain now?' Griessel heard how Dekker tried to keep the envy out of his voice. Then he said: 'Can you look up his call history for me?'

'Hold on.' It took a while because he wasn't familiar with the make of phone.

'I think he called someone last night, just before ten,' said Dekker.

Eventually Griessel found the right icon. NO RECORDS, read the screen.

'There's nothing here,' he told Dekker.

While Barry answered his phone, his eyes were on the delivery vehicle parked on the corner in front of Carlucci's.

'Barry here.'

'Why haven't they gone in yet?' said the man with the grey beard.

'They can't. There's a delivery truck at the shop up the street, parked in Upper Orange, and the driver is looking right down the street.'

'How long?'

'Well, they've been unloading for a while now, so it shouldn't be long ...'

A moment of silence on the line. 'We're running out of time.'

It was the first time Barry had heard a tinge of concern in the man's voice. But then he was back in control: 'Call me when it's clear. I want to know exactly when they go in.'

'OK, Mr B.'

Chapter 32

His moustache was as big as his ego, thought Mbali Kaleni.

She was sitting with Jack Fischer at a round table in his luxurious office. On one side was the expansive dark wood desk, on the other a bookshelf covering the whole wall with what looked like legal reference books. On each of the two remaining walls was a single large oil painting, landscapes of the Bushveld and the Boland respectively. Behind the desk, deep red, heavy curtains hung at the window. On the floor was a Persian carpet, new and beautiful.

Fischer was approaching sixty with a full head of hair painstakingly combed into a side parting. Greying temples framed the weathered hawkish face, with the fine wrinkles of a lifelong smoker. And that wide, extravagant moustache. She suspected the dark-blue suit was tailor-made, the fit was too good.

She did not like him. His heartiness was false and slightly condescending, the kind of attitude towards black people that was typical of many Afrikaner men of a certain age. He had risen from his desk with a blue folder in one hand and asked her to take a seat at the round table. He opened the conversation with 'How can we help you?' We. And when she explained, he smiled beneath his moustache. 'I see.' And: 'I would offer you refreshments but I understand you brought your own.'

She did not react.

'You realise I am not obliged to release the information without a warrant.'

She settled herself in the expensive chair and nodded.

'Nonetheless, we are former members of the Force.'

It was the 'nonetheless' that spurred her to show him a thing or two about language.

'Nowadays we prefer to refer to the SAPS as "the Service",' she told him. 'I was relying on the fact that former members would appreciate the significance and urgency of a murder investigation.'

Once more he deployed that superior smile under his moustache. 'We understand only too well. You will have my full cooperation.'

He opened the file. On the inside cover was the word 'AfriSound' and a code number. She wondered whether the record company's accountant had phoned him to let him know the police were on their way. That in itself would be interesting.

'We simply tracked the AfriSound payment of fifty thousand rand to the account of one Mr Daniel Lodewikus Vlok, and subsequently contacted a subcontractor in Bloemfontein to go and talk to Mr Vlok. The purpose of that conversation was merely to make sure Mr Vlok was aware of the payment and the circumstances leading thereto. We did not want to point out an innocent man to our client.'

'So the subcontractor assaulted him.' «

'Absolutely not.' Indignant.

She looked at him with an expression that said, she might be a woman in a man's world, but that didn't mean he should think she was stupid.