Free 7 Days by Deon Meyer Page B

was brief. She made only a few affirmative grunts, then said, ‘I’m coming.’ Then to Griessel, resigned, ‘He’s shot another one. The SC, at Green Point.’
    He drove to the Bo-Kaap, only four blocks away, to the home of the caretaker, Faroek Klein, in Bryant Street. His mind was in too many places at once, he wanted to think about how to approach the man, about Mbali’s parting words, but the new email haunted him.
You know who it is
. This one addressed to him personally now.
    In the very first one it was,
You know very well who murdered Hanneke Sloet
. In one of the others,
You know why she was murdered
. Between all the variation in singulars and plurals and Bible verses, this repetitive theme.
    He had read the case file, he had been to the scene, he knew enough to be able to say that it was nonsense. There was no obvious suspect.
    Mbali had said, ‘Unless he
is
crazy.’ What he could add was, ‘Maybe he’s even crazier than we think.’ In normal circumstances he would have ignored the emails – just another lunatic.
    The rifle, the scope and the silencer were the problem. You couldn’t be too crazy if you could put all that together with a long-distance shot and get away with it. And the latest email, there was a new tone to it, self-satisfied, a certain awareness of power.
I hope not, because then I would have to escalate things
. This was a man who could force the SAPS to reopen a case, a blackmailer who had to be taken seriously.
    This was trouble. It fuelled his frustration. He still knew too little. About everything.
    He struggled to find parking, had to cross Bloem Street for a bay in front of the St Paul Primary School. Griessel got out and walked back, between the brightly-painted little houses. Coloured people sat on their porches, their eyes following his progress with a certain wariness. He thought of Mbali back at the street café. Just before she walkedaway, she’d said, ‘Thanks, Benny, for not asking about Amsterdam.’ She had a vulnerability about her he had never seen before. And she was subdued this morning, not her old, obstreperous self.
    Now he too was curious about what had happened in Holland.
    Klein’s home was a yellow terraced house with white pillars, and a tree that dominated the small front garden. Griessel reached to open the red garden gate. His cellphone rang.
    He paused, saw an unfamiliar number, and answered simply, ‘Yes.’
    ‘Hey, Benny, it’s Vaughn, where are you?’ Captain Vaughn Cupido.
    ‘I’m still in the city, Vaughn.’
    ‘I thought you were going to call me?’
    ‘Call you?’
    ‘Jis
. The Giraffe said you would phone me. About the Sloet case.’
    Griessel tried to remember what Colonel Nyathi had said the night before. ‘As far as I know, you are just on standby, Vaughn, nobody said I had to phone you.’
    ‘
Jissis
, the brass … always mixed messages. Anyway, I’m keen to help, Benny. Can I come and get the files, get myself up to speed?’
    ‘I’m still busy with it myself. Listen, I’m standing in front of a …’ If he said ‘suspect’, Cupido would definitely broadcast the news that Griessel had made great progress. ‘… witness’s house, I’ll call you as soon as I have something. Thanks, Vaughn, I appreciate your offer.’
    Silence over the line. Then, ‘Cool,’ his tone unenthusiastic.
    Griessel ended the call. Cupido was not his favourite detective. He was one of those men who knew everything, and was extremely pleased with the fact that he was a Hawk. Vaughn was with the former Organised Crime Unit, which had been directly incorporated in the DPCI. Cowboys.
    He put his phone away and opened the garden gate.
    She was as slim and sleek as a cat, with long black hair and big dark brown eyes, beautiful, and not much older than sixteen. She looked Griessel up and down critically and then called over her shoulder into the house: ‘Dadda, the Boere are here again.’
    She tossed the cascade of straight hair over her shoulder