Free 7 Days by Deon Meyer

unacceptable. He felt it had something to do with the almost exclusive man’s world of detectives, and her appearance. If
that
personality had come in a slim, attractive package, they would have queued up to work with her. They would have said she deserved her promotion to the Hawks. Maybe it was because he was an alcoholic and a fuck-up that he could identify with her. Because he knew what it was like to have people laugh behind your back. Or maybe it was his experience – after twenty-six years in the Force you knew that good, reliable detectives were scarce, it made no difference what shape they came in.
    ‘Hi, Benny.’
    He stood up, greeted her, and waited for her to be seated.
    She did so with a sigh, putting her handbag down on the chair beside her. She fiddled inside it, pulled out a thin file, took one sheet of paper out of it, and placed it in front of him.
    ‘This is for you.’ Then she pushed her dark glasses up above her forehead and, frowning, looked around for a waiter.
    The Green Point Police Station was quieter than the sniper had expected. It made the spring of tension wind slowly tighter inside him: how long could he sit here with the shooting hole open, rifle in hand, before someone noticed – someone walking past, a car pulling off the M6 right in front of him? It was the unpredictable, chance, the things no one could plan for, that presented the greatest risk. He knew that. In his preparation, his research, thinking through his plan over and over, he kept coming back to that truth. The solution was to limit the influence of chance at all costs. Don’t become over-keen or overconfident. Don’t underestimate them. Don’t hesitate. Don’t take risks.
    He wished for the euphoria of yesterday afternoon, that lightheaded jumble of relief and satisfaction and contentment – he had outmanoeuvred them, he had got away, he had hit back. He had known then that his strategy was masterful, infallible. But now doubts were eating away at him. And the fear of being caught.
    A white SAPS sedan drove through the gate opposite.
    More adrenaline.
    He pressed his cheek against the rifle, looked through the scope.
    [email protected]
    Sent: Sunday 27 February. 06.57
    To: [email protected]
    Re: To Kaptein Bennie Griessel
    I saw the article in the Weekend Argus. Can you do right (Proverbs 21:15)? Are you also hand in glove with the communists? I hope not, because then I would have to escalate things.
    I shot the policeman in Claremont yesterday. Today there will be another one. Every day, until you charge the murderer.
    You know who it is.
    Griessel looked up. Mbali told him General Afrika had forwarded it to both of them that morning, and asked her to take it to him.
    He thanked her, and asked her if she had found anything in Claremont.
    She counted off the problems one by one, slow and measured, on her podgy fingers, her face filled with frustration. One: there were no eye witnesses. Nobody heard the shot, nobody saw anything strange. Two: the bullet that shattered Constable Brandon April’s knee had disintegrated entirely. Three: the nature of the wound made determination of the trajectory difficult – they still did not know where the shot had been fired. ‘If you take into account the parking area’s possible field of vision, it could have been from the school, or from a block of flats, but he would have had to be inside, or on the roof. All access was locked, and there is no sign of forced entry anywhere. It doesn’t make sense.’ The waiter came and stood beside her, and she said sternly, ‘Coca Cola, but bring the ice separately, no half a glass monkey business.’
    The man raised his eyebrows, glanced at Griessel, who indicated he didn’t want anything. Then he left.
    ‘So we have no real crime scene,’ said Mbali. ‘And today he is going to shoot again.’
    Lieutenant Colonel Bevan Dlodlo pulled on the aluminium handle to open the door of the Green Point Police Station.
    At that instant,