'Help me,' he said to Vusi, 'I'm taking her myself.'

Vusi knelt beside him and said calmly, 'Benny they're on their way.'

'Jissis, Vusi, are you sure?' as he searched his phone for the Caledon Square number.

'They know it's a policewoman. They're coming.'

Griessel pressed the hanky harder. Mbali Kaleni moved, a jerk of the head. 'Mbali,' he said in despair.

She opened her eyes. Looked far away, then focused on him. 'The ambulance is coming, Mbali,' he wanted to encourage her: 'You're going to make it.'

She made a noise.

'Take it easy, take it easy, they'll be here soon.'

Vusi picked up Mbali's hand. He talked quietly to her in an African language. Griessel noted the small Xhosa man's calmness and thought Vusi might not be hardass, but he was strong.

Mbali was trying to say something. He felt her jaw moving under his hand, he saw the blood running out of her mouth. 'No, no, don't talk now; the ambulance will be here soon.'

He looked up at the house. 'Vusi, you will have to see what's going on inside there.' The black detective nodded, jumped up and ran. Griessel looked at Mbali. Her eyes were on him, pleading. He held the hanky tight against her neck, realising he still had his phone in the other hand. He phoned the station. They needed more people. Mbali Kaleni's eyes closed.

                                                                                                                                                                      Chapter 34                                                                                                                                                                                          

At first she was only aware of the noise, voices shouting, the high revving of an engine. Then she felt the pain in her face and she wanted to put a hand over it, but she couldn't. There was the sensation of movement, a loss of balance, a vehicle turning sharply, accelerating.

Then she remembered everything and she jerked.

'The bitch is waking up,' one of them said. She tried to open her eyes, she wanted to see, but she could not. One eye was swollen shut, the other would not focus, her vision was blurred. Four people were holding her down. The pressure on her arms and legs was too much, too heavy, too painful.

'Please,' she said.

'Fuck you.' The words were spat out with hatred, flecks of saliva spattered her face. A cell phone rang shrilly.

'It's the Big Guy,' said a voice she knew.

'Fuck.' Another familiar voice. 'Tell him.' She flicked her eyes across, but could not see them, only the four holding her. They were all looking forward now.

'Jesus. OK.' Then: 'Mr B, it's Steve. The fucking bitch stabbed Eben ... No, he was with Robert, on the back door ... It's bad, chief ... No, no, he's with Rob in the bakkie, you'll have to call him ... OK. Yes, it's here ... No ... OK, hang on ... The boss wants to know what's in the bag ...'

The one holding her leg let go. 'Here, take it,' he said and then she kicked him with all her might, struck him somewhere.

'Fuck!' A heavy blow against her head, her leg clamped fast again, and she screamed, in frustration, pain, fury and fear. She fought wildly, straining her arms and legs to break free, but it was no good.

Vusi came running, Griessel could hear his hasty steps.

'Benny, there's an old man inside. He's been shot, but he's alive.'

'An old man, you say?'

'Yes, wounded in the chest, through the lung, I think.'

'Nobody else?'

'Nobody.'

'Fuck.'

Then suddenly and clearly, the wail of an ambulance.

'You do that again, I'll shoot you in the fucking leg, you hear me?'

The spit-sprayer's face was right up against hers, grimacing, his voice crazed. She closed her eyes and went limp.

'It's not in here,' said Steve up front.

'Jesus,' said Jay.

'Mr B, it's not in the bag ... Yes, I'm positive.' A long silence, then the sound of the vehicle slowing to a more regular speed, smoother. Then: 'There was no time, and then this fucking fat cop turned up, but Jay shot her, she's a goner ... No, I'm telling you, there was no time ... OK ... OK ...' The sound of a cell phone snapping shut. 'The Big Guy says to take her to the warehouse.'

Once he had managed to get the last member of the press out of the door and locked it, Fransman Dekker heard a voice behind him: 'Fuck this, you'll have to do something, it can't go on like this.'

Mouton stood on the stairs, hands on his hips, looking very displeased. 'I'll phone now, our PR people will come and help,' said Dekker.

'PR?'

'Public Relations.'

'But when will you be finished?'

'When I have asked all my questions,' said Dekker, and climbed the stairs, past Mouton, who turned and followed him.

'How many questions do you still want to ask? And you're talking to my employees without a lawyer being present. It can't go on like this - who do you want to talk to now?'

'Steenkamp.'

'But you talked to him already.'

They walked through the spacious seating area. Dekker stopped in his tracks and shoved his face close to Mouton's. 'I want to talk to him again, Willie. And I have the right to talk to every fucking member of your staff without your lawyer sitting in. I'm not doing this little two-step with you again.'

Mouton's skin flooded with crimson from the neck up, his Adam's apple bobbing as though words were dammed up beneath it. 'What did Ivan Nell say to you?'

Dekker stalked off down the corridor. Mouton followed him again, two steps behind. 'He's not one of our artists any more; he has no say here.' Dekker ignored him, went to Steenkamp's door and opened it without knocking. He wanted to shut it before Mouton came through, but then he saw that fucking legal undertaker sitting across from the accountant.

'Please, take a seat, Inspector,' Groenewald said in his dispassionate voice.

The paramedics ran from the front door with the stretcher. Griessel held the garden gate open for them, then jogged after them. 'Will she make it?'

'Don't know,' said the front one, holding out the bag of plasma to Griessel. 'Hold that while we load, just keep it high.'

'And the old man?' Griessel took the plastic bag of transparent fluid. Vusi held one ambulance door to prevent the wind blowing it shut.

'I think so,' the paramedic said. They lifted the old man up in the stretcher and pushed him in beside Mbali Kaleni, two figures lying still under light-blue blankets. One paramedic ran around to the driver's door, opened it and jumped in. The other one jumped in the back. 'Close the doors,' he said and Griessel and Ndabeni each took a door and slammed. The ambulance sirens began to wail as it pulled away in Upper Orange, made a U-turn and passed them, just as the first of a convoy of patrol vehicles appeared over the hump of the hill.

'Vusi,' Griessel said, loud enough to be heard over the noise of the sirens, 'get them to seal off the streets and keep everyone away. I don't want to see a uniform closer than the pavement.'

'OK, Benny.'

Griessel took out his cell phone. 'We will have to get Forensics as well.' He stood and surveyed the scene - Mbali's car, the strewn bullet casings, the front door open, its glass shattered. The old man had been shot inside there and somewhere they had grabbed Rachel Anderson ... It would take hours to process everything. Hours that he did not have. The hunters have caught their prey. How long would they let her live? Why hadn't they killed her here, like Erin Russel? Why hadn't he and Vusi found her body here? That was the big question.

One thing he did know, he needed help, he needed to make up time. Between Vusi and himself they didn't have enough manpower.