She searched under her desk and produced an empty pill packet.

'That's perfect,' said Griessel, 'thanks a lot.' He placed the Leatherman, pouch and all, in the packet. Then he put the packet in his shirt pocket. He pushed the clothing back into the big bag and looked up. The nurse was gazing intently at him, as though any minute he was going to perform a miracle.

He pulled off the rubber gloves, hesitating, where could he dispose of them?

'Give them to me,' she said softly.

He nodded his thanks, passed them to her, took out his cell phone and called Mat Joubert.

'Benny,' the deep voice said.

'Jas?' said Griessel.

'J.A.S. Just the three letters. Did you find anything?'

'Another three letters. A.O.A. With full stops between. I think they are the fucker's initials.'

'Or an abbreviation.'

'Could be.'

'J.A.S. Could also be an abbreviation, I don't know ... Or a suspect wearing a coat, in this weather ...'

A spark lit up in the back of Benny Griessel's mind, two thoughts coming together ... then it collapsed.

'Say that again.'

'I said J.A.S. could be an abbreviation too.'

Nothing, the insight was gone, leaving no trace.

His cell phone rang softly in his ear. Now what? He checked. It was the Caledon Square radio room. 'Mat, I've got another call, we'll talk.' He manipulated the phone's keys, said: 'Griessel.' The Sergeant said: 'Captain, two men just tried to collect the girl's luggage at the Cat & Moose.' Griessel's heart lurched.

'Did you get the bastards?'

'No, Captain, they ran away, but the manager says she knows one of them.'

'Jissis,' said Griessel, grabbing the plastic bag and starting to run. 'I'm on my way.'

'Right, Captain.'

'How the hell do you know about the Captain?' Griessel asked as he stormed out through the door into the street, nearly knocking two schoolgirls head over heels.

'Good news travels fast,' said the Sergeant, but Griessel didn't hear. He was too busy apologising to the girls.

Chapter 40

The woman at Cape Town Metropolitan Police: Administration pulled out the form from a file. She frowned and said: 'That's funny...'

Vusi waited for her to explain. Distracted, she laid the form to one side and paged through the file, searching. 'I couldn't have ...' she said.

'Ma'am, what's the problem?'

'I can't find the receipt.'

'What receipt?'

She put the file aside and began pulling documents out of a basket that was three storeys high. 'The form says the pound and traffic fines were paid ...'

'Would it help if we knew whose signature that is?'

'These people, they sign like crabs.' She kept on looking through the decks of the in-basket, found nothing, picked up the single sheet, studied it and put a fingernail on the form. 'Look, the boxes are both clearly marked - traffic offence, fine paid, and pound release costs. But there is no receipt...'

'Is that the only way someone can get a vehicle out of the pound?'

'No, the other options are "Court Order" and "Successful Representation".' She showed him the relevant blocks. 'But then there would be documentation to confirm that also ...'

'Ma'am, the signature ...'

She stared at the scrawl at the bottom of the form. 'Looks like ... I'm not sure, could be Jerry ...'

'Who is Jerry?'

'Senior Inspector Jeremy Oerson. But I'm not sure ... it looks like his.'

'Could we try to find out?'

' You can, I'm swamped.'

'Could I have a copy of the form?'

'That will be five rand.'

Vusi reached for his wallet.

'No, you can't pay me, you have to pay the cashier on the ground floor and bring me the receipt.'

Inspector Vusi Ndabeni looked at her, the simmering impatience slowly awoke. 'It might be easier to just ask Oerson,' he said.

'They're on the second floor.'

Fransman Dekker saw Griessel run around the corner of City Park Hospital and called out Benny's name, but the white detective had gone. Probably better that way, Dekker thought, because he wanted to start at the beginning again, go over the ground that Griessel had covered that morning. He wanted to talk to Alexa again; from whatever angle he studied the case, it had to be someone close to Adam Barnard. Inside knowledge.

And not the kind that Michele Malherbe had been referring to. Unfortunately dear Alexandra's situation is general knowledge. Especially in the industry. He knew her kind, the 'see, hear, speak no evil' kind. Sat there full of dignity - see, I'm a decent Afrikaner woman, pillar of the community, grieving deeply - but she fucked Barnard while they were both married. He, Fransman Dekker, knew the type: dressed like a nun, prim, disapproving, they were the wildcats in bed. He'd had one last year, white woman from Welgemoed, neighbour of a car-hijacking victim. He had knocked on the door looking for eyewitnesses. She was scared to open the door, eyes open wide behind her glasses, blouse buttoned up to her chin. Just over forty, housewife, kids at school, husband at work. When he had finished asking his questions, there was something about her, a reluctance to let him go. 'Would you like tea?' She couldn't even look him in the eye. He knew then, because it wasn't the first time it had happened to him. So he said 'thank you', ready for it, curious about what was under the chaste clothing. So he directed the conversation: 'It must be lonely at home,' and before the cups were emptied, she was talking about her marriage that was faltering and he knew the right noises to make, to prepare her, to open her up. Ten minutes later they grabbed each other, and she was hungry, hungry, hungry; he had to hold her hands - she was a scratcher. 'I'm married.' He had to prevent her marking his back. Lovely body. A wildcat.

And the words she had shouted while he fucked her on that big white sitting-room sofa.

He took out his SAPS identity card, held it up so the woman at City Park reception could read it and said: 'I want to see Alexandra Barnard.'

'Oh,' she said, 'just a moment,' and picked up the phone.

For a moment, when he reached his car, Griessel considered running the six city blocks, but what if he had to race off from there ...? He jumped into the car and pulled away. His cell phone rang. He swore, struggling to get it out of his pocket.

FRITZ. His son. His feelings about tonight descended on him again, the date with Anna at seven o'clock made him instinctively look at his watch. A quarter to three; another four hours. Should he phone and say tonight was going to be difficult?

'Fritz?' he said wondering whether his son knew anything about Anna's intentions.

'Dad, I'm done with school.'

'What do you mean?'

'Dad, we got this fat gig ...'

'We?'

'The band, Dad. Wet en Orde, that's our name, but you don't spell the "en", it's just that "and" sign, you know, that looks like an "s", Pa.'

'An ampersand.'

'Whatever. Wet en Orde, like your job, Law and Order, it was my idea, Pa. Don't you think that's cool?'

'And now you're leaving school?'

'Yes. Dad, this gig, we're opening for Gian Groen and Zinkplaat on a tour, Dad, they are talking about twenty-five thousand for a month, that's more than six thousand per guy.'

'And?'

'I don't need school any more, Pa.'

The call came through at 14:48 to the office of the Provincial Commissioner: Western Cape. The little Xhosa answered, forewarned by his secretary. It was Dan Burton, the American Consul.

'Mr Burton?'

'Commissioner, could you please tell me what's going on?'

The Commissioner drew himself up behind his desk. 'Yes, sir, I can tell you what is going on. We have every available police officer in Cape Town looking for the girl. We have what we believe is the best detective in the Peninsula leading the task force, and they are doing everything in their power, at this very moment, to try and find the young lady in question.'