'Two men went into the building just before he saw you?' he asked her as they wheeled her into theatre.

'Yes,' she said.

Griessel followed. 'What did they look like?'

'I can remember only one. He was ... eccentric. Very thin, his head was shaven .. . Oh, and he had a silver earring,' and then the doctor told Griessel he would have to leave. 'He was dressed all in black,' she called before the theatre doors closed.

16:41-17:46

Chapter 47

Detective Inspector Vusi Ndabeni finally lost his professional cool in the interrogation room at the Caledon Square police station.

They deposited Steven Chitsinga in a cell. They asked Mat Joubert to question Jason de Klerk in an available office, as Griessel said he couldn't, because if he did he 'would beat the fucker to death'.

Vusi took Barry Smith to the official station interview room. Griessel took charge of Bobby Verster in another office. Verster was the last one to come out of Rachel's torture chamber, the one who had left Jeremy Oerson alone with her. They suspected he was the weakest link.

Joubert got nothing from Jason de Klerk, despite his skill, his intimidating size and the fact that Jason was in agony from his smashed elbow. He ignored every question, just sat and stared at the wall.

To every question from Vusi, Barry Smith mumbled 'Fuck off.' Vusi felt the unease growing inside him, but he suppressed it and asked the next question.

'Fuck off.'

In the other office, Bobby Verster told Griessel he hadn't been on the tour. Last night by chance he had been with Barry and Eben at the Purple Turtle when Jason had phoned. Barry had jumped up and told them to come, and outside they had seen Jason and Steven chasing two girls down Long Street. So they joined in the chase.

Griessel's body was sore, but he was filled with euphoria from the breakthrough and the relief at finding Rachel. He stood up from his chair and approached the table. He looked at

Bobby. Bobby looked away. 'Have you heard the one about the little dog?' Griessel asked.

'What one?'

With suspicion.

Benny sat on the table, folded his arms carefully across his chest and said in a mischievous, playful and friendly voice: 'The one about the young dog that heard the big dogs talking about sex and how good it felt to fuck. "What is fucking?" asked the young dog. "It's the best thing ever, let's show you." The dogs ran up the street and found a bitch on heat. The bitch ran away from the pack. They chased her, around and around the block. After the fourth time around the block, the little dog said: "Guys, I'm only fucking one more round and then I'm going home."'

Bobby Verster didn't laugh.

'You didn't get tired of all the chasing, Bobby?' Benny Griessel asked.

Verster said nothing.

'Not even when they cut an innocent girl's throat?'

Bobby said he was shocked when Jason did it. He had protested. But Steven Chitsinga told him: 'You're next if you don't shut your mouth and help.' It scared him. But he didn't know what the hell was going on with Jason and them.

'So were you forced?'

'Yes.'

'So actually, you are innocent?'

'Yes!'

'Would you make a statement to that effect? Just so we can close your part of the case?' Griessel asked him.

'I will,' he answered eagerly.

Benny shifted pen and paper closer. Bobby wrote. 'Sign it,' said Benny. Once Bobby was finished, Griessel read the statement out loud to him. He asked: 'All this is the truth?'

'It is.'

'Then you are an accessory to murder. You are going to jail, and you will sit there for a very long time.'

Bobby Verster's eyes widened. He protested, just as he claimed he had done the previous night. 'But you said I was innocent!'

'No, I asked you if you were. Come, there's a police van outside that will take you to Pollsmoor.'

'Pollsmoor?'

'Just until the bail hearing. In about a week or two. Three.'

'Wait...'

Griessel waited.

Bobby Verster thought for a long time. Then he said: 'You're looking for Blake.'

'Who is Blake?'

'Do I still have to go to Pollsmoor?'

'Everything is negotiable.'

'Blake is the owner. Of Overland. We bring the people in for him.'

'What people?'

'The blacks.'

'What blacks?'

'The blacks they put in the bins under the trailer. From Zimbabwe. But they're not always Zimbabweans.'

'Illegal immigrants?'

'Something like that. I don't know. I've only been helping with unloading about a month, but they won't tell me everything yet.'

'What is Blake's name?'

'Duncan. But we call him Mr B. He lives here in the city, that's all I know.'

'Thank you very much.'

'Do I still have to go to Pollsmoor?'

'Yip.'

Fransman Dekker brought another two uniforms along with him to AfriSound. They walked through the pack of journalists in the little garden. He ignored the questions. One of the two Constables guarding the door opened up for them. Dekker said: 'All of you come with me.' They climbed the stairs in step, the detective in front, four uniforms behind him. They walked through the reception area. Dekker smiled at Natasha. He felt self-confident

for the first time today. Down the passage as far as Mouton's office. He didn't knock, he just walked in.

The lawyer wasn't there.

'What now?' Mouton asked.

'The best thing about my job, the thing I enjoy most of all, is arresting a whitey bastard,' said Dekker.

Mouton's Adam's apple bobbed wildly up and down, but he couldn't get a word out. Dekker asked two Constables to keep an eye on Mouton and walked out, beckoned the other two uniforms closer and opened Wouter Steenkamp's door. The accountant was seated behind his computer.

'We know all about last night,' he said. Steenkamp didn't bat an eyelid.

'He doesn't phone anyone, he doesn't move, he just sits here,' said Dekker to the two uniforms. 'I'll be back soon.'

Griessel called Vusi and Mat Joubert. He held a quick meeting in the station commander's office. He told them what Bobby Verster had said. Once the detectives had finished discussing it, Vusi went back and told Barry Smith: 'We're bringing in Mr B. We know everything.'

Barry Smith turned white. 'Fuck off,' he said, with more venom.

'Murder,' said Vusi to him. 'Life sentence.'

'Fuck off, you black bastard.'

The injustices of the day bore down incredibly heavily on Vusumuzi Ndabeni, but he shook them off one last time. Then Barry Smith said: 'Fucking motherfucker,' and Vusi's temper exploded over him like the mighty breakers on the Wild Coast. In one lightning move he reached the young white man, and his fist struck his temple with all the power in the lean, neat body behind it.

Barry's head jerked back and he toppled backwards, chair and all. His head hit the floor with a dull thud. Vusi was there, on him, jerking him up by the collar, shoving his face into Barry's and said: 'My mother is a decent woman, do you hear?'

Then he let go of him and stood back, breathing heavily. Vusi adjusted his jacket, realised his knuckles hurt and saw that Barry's eyes had trouble focusing. Barry got unsteadily to his feet, looked back, slowly picked up the chair, set it right and sat down. He put his hands on the table in slow motion and dropped his head onto them, his palms obscuring his face.

It was quite a while before Vusi realised that the young man was crying. He pulled out a chair and sat down. He said nothing, not trusting his voice: his rage had not subsided, the guilt was just a small dark spot in his belly.

They sat like that for over a minute.

'My mother is going to kill me,' said Barry through his hands.