John Afrika looked at Griessel, at Joubert, at Ndabeni, and back to Griessel again. Conflicting emotions passed like the seasons across his face. He nodded slightly. 'Get her, Benny,' he said, and walked out, careful not to step in the pool of blood.

Griessel's phone rang again, he answered it and the man from Telkom said: 'Benny, between twelve and two there were only two calls made from that number. The first was to West Lafayette in Indiana, that's in America, and the second was to you.'

'Dave, what time was the first one made?'

'Hold on ... thirteen thirty-six. It lasted for two minutes, twenty-two seconds.'

'Thanks, Dave, thanks a lot.' He ended the call and thought. He tried to piece the thing together, the thousands of loose strands in his head.

'Benny ...' Vusi said, but he held up a hand, checked his cell phone screen, looked up the call register for the record of Rachel's call to him. He received it at thirteen forty-one. Then he had run out of Van Hunks and they had raced here. If her attackers had somehow intercepted her first call, they had only had five minutes more. What if they had been in the area somewhere nearby? They must have arrived just after he had finished speaking to Rachel. That was some quick reaction. Too quick ...

A spark lit up in his brain, a flash of insight. 'Vusi, was it here on the corner that she went into the cafe?'

'The deli,' Ndabeni nodded.

'And then she ran down here,' Griessel indicated Upper Orange.

'Mbali found footprints in the garden.'

Griessel scratched his head. 'They were waiting somewhere, Vusi. They must have seen her, but with all the police around ...'

'Benny, the panel van ...'

But Griessel did not hear him. Why hadn't they shot her? Just the old man. They had cut Erin Russel's throat. But they allowed Rachel to live when they could easily have killed her. Here in this house. But they abducted her?

Another revelation.

'The rucksack,' he said. They had cut Erin Russel's rucksack off her shoulders. He bent and looked under the table. 'See if you can find a rucksack.' He walked down the passage. 'Vusi, take the left,

the bathroom, that bedroom, I'll take the right.' He stopped. 'Mat, please, can you look in the kitchen and outside?'

'What does the rucksack look like?'

'I have no idea,' said Griessel. But a thought occurred to him and stopped him in his tracks so that Vusi nearly bumped into him. He began to phone feverishly. As the sergeant in Caledon Square answered, he identified himself and asked if there were still uniforms at the Cat & Moose in Long Street.

'Yes, they are still there.'

'Sarge, tell them to ask where the American girls' luggage is. Erin Russel and Rachel Anderson. They must find it, and guard it with their lives.'

'I'll do that.'

Griessel said to Ndabeni: 'They're looking for something, Vusi, the fuckers are looking for something the girls have. That's why Rachel is still alive.' And he dashed off to the bedrooms to look for the rucksack.

Chapter 37

'What now?' Natasha Abader asked as he closed the late Adam Barnard's door behind her.

'Sit down, please,' said Dekker, leaning against the desk, intimidating her with his proximity.

She didn't like that, her beautiful eyes showed it, but she sat.

'Can I trust you, sister?'

'I told you, I'm not your sister.'

'Why not, sister? Are you too la-di-da working here with the whiteys and I'm just a common hotnot from Atlantis? You're chlora, finish en klaar.'

'Do you think that's what it's about?' Her eyes flashed. 'You can't stand it that I slept with a white man, can you? No, it's no use shaking your head, I saw how you changed, just like that, when I said he did it here with me too. Let me tell you, he wasn't the first white man and he won't be the last. But I don't discriminate, I sleep with whoever I want, because it's the New South Africa, but you don't want to know about that. You want to "brother" and "sister" us all. You want us to be a separate tribe, us coloureds; you're the kind who goes around complaining how hard it is to be a coloured. Wake up, Inspector, it's useless. If you don't integrate, you won't. That's the trouble with this country, everyone wants to complain, nobody wants to do anything, nobody wants to forget the past. And, just for the record, how many white women have you slept with?'

He looked away, towards the window.

'I thought so,' she said.

'What makes you think I have?'

'What woman can look at you and not think of sex?' she said.

Now he looked her in the eyes, and she looked back, challenging, angry.

'I'll take that as a compliment.' Knowing he had lost the battle, he tried to consolidate his position.

'Why am I here?'

Now he felt uncomfortable to be so close. He stood up and walked around the desk.

'Because I trust you.'

She shook her head, long hair cascading.

'I am going to tell you things you can't repeat,' he said.

She just looked at him.

'The people who shot Adam Barnard knew him very well. They know his wife passes out every night. They know where he keeps his pistol. You are the only one I can trust. Tell me who knows him that well.'

'How can you say that? He was shot in his house ...'

'No, he was shot somewhere else. Maybe not far from here, in the street. We found his shoe. And his cell phone.' He saw that surprised her and it gave him satisfaction.

'Then they took him to his house and carried him up the stairs and put him down there ... Who knows about his wife, Natasha? Who knows about the pistol? The Geysers?'

She adjusted her skirt and brushed her hair back over her shoulder before answering. 'No. I don't think so. I don't think they have ever been to his house. Adam was ... ashamed of Alexa. A few times she'd ...'

'What?'

'Made a scene when he took people to his house. He lived here. From morning to night. He would go home about seven o'clock, but he would come back, often. Eight o'clock, nine o'clock, then he would work till twelve ...'

'So who would have known that?'

She considered before she answered. 'I really can't say.'

'Please. Take a guess.'

'A guess?'

'Speculate.' 'I knew about his wife ...'

'Who else?'

'Willie and Wouter and Michele ...'

'Who's Michele?'

'She's been sitting in there all morning. She does the PR.'

'I thought Willie Mouton did production and promotion?'

'Yes, but she does the PR. Promotion is when we pay for something. PR is when the papers write about stuff, or someone is on TV or radio and you don't pay for it.'

'Which one is Michele?'

'She's the oldish woman who was sitting with Spider and Ivan ...'

He had a vague recollection of an older woman between the younger men. 'And she knows Adam well?'

'They've worked together for years. From the beginning. She went freelance about seven years ago but she still does our PR on contract.'

'She went freelance?'

'You know, she set up her own agency. For artists who don't have a label, or for minor labels.'

'Did she and Adam get on well?'

'They were like brother and sister .. .'There was a hint that this wasn't the whole story.

'What does that mean?'

'They say Adam and Michele were lovers. Years ago.'

'How many years ago?'

'It's just rumours.'

He gave her a look that said, 'Drop the shit.'

'From when Alexa began drinking, apparently. He went and cried on Michele's shoulder. She was married herself then ...'

'Fuck,' said Dekker.

She looked at him with disapproval.

'Damnit, sister,' he said indignantly. 'My list keeps getting longer.'

Mat Joubert walked back through the kitchen to the hall where Griessel and Vusi were watching him expectantly. He shook his head. No rucksack. He watched Benny process the information silently. Joubert waited patiently until he knew he could speak.