Free Thirteen Hours by Deon Meyer

basketball shoes that teenagers wear, although he seemed
to be in his late forties. A middle-aged Zorro. His prominent Adam's apple
bobbed up and down in time with his words. Dekker spotted Griessel. 'He insists
on seeing her,' said Dekker, still tense. The man ignored Griessel. He snapped
open a black leather holder at his belt and brought out a small black cell
phone. 'I'm calling my lawyer; this behaviour is totally unacceptable.' He
began to press keys on the phone. 'She's not a well woman.'
    'He's the partner of the deceased. Willie Mouton,' said
Dekker.
    'Mr Mouton,' said Griessel reasonably. His voice sounded
unfamiliar to his own ear.
    'Fuck off,' said Mouton, 'I'm on the phone.' His voice had
the penetration and tone of an industrial meat saw.
    'Mr Mouton, I won't allow you to talk to a police officer
like that,' Dekker said on a rising note. 'And if you wish to make personal
calls, you will do it in the street...'
    'It's a free country as far as I know.'
    '...and not on my crime scene.'
    'Your crime scene? Who the fuck do you think you are?' Then,
into the phone:
    'Sorry. Can I speak to Regardt, please ...?'
    Dekker advanced in a threatening way, his temper beginning to
get the better of him.
    'Regardt, this is Willie, I'm standing on Adam's veranda with
the Gestapo ...'
    Griessel put a hand on Dekker's arm. 'There are cameras,
Fransman.'
    'I won't hit him,' said Dekker and jerked Mouton roughly off
the veranda and pushed him towards the garden gate. Cameras flashed and
clicked.
    'They're assaulting me, Regardt,' said Mouton with somewhat
less confidence.
    'Morning, Nikita,' said Prof Phil Pagel, the state
pathologist, from beyond the gate. He was amused.
    'Morning, Prof,' said Benny, watching Dekker push Mouton
through the gate onto the pavement. He told the uniform: 'Don't let him through
here.'
    'I'll sue your arse,' said Mouton. 'Regardt, I want you to
sue their fucking arses. I want you here with a fucking interdict. Alexa's in
there and God knows what these storm troopers are doing with her ...' His voice
was deliberately loud enough for Dekker and the media to hear.
    Pagel squeezed past Zorro and went up the stairs with his
black case in hand. 'What a piece of work is man,' he said.
    'Prof?' queried Griessel, and suddenly the sense of
disconnectedness was gone; he was back in the present, head clear.
    Pagel shook his hand. 'Hamlet. To Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern. Just before he calls man "a quintessence of dust". I
was at the show last night. I highly recommend it. Busy morning, Nikita?'
    Pagel had been calling him 'Nikita' for the past twelve
years. The first time he had met Griessel he had said: 'I am sure that's how
the young Khrushchev looked'. Griessel had to think hard who Khrushchev was.
Pagel was flamboyantly dressed, as usual - tall, fit and exceptionally handsome
for his fifty-something years. There were some who said he looked like the star
of one of the television soapies that Griessel had never watched.
    'Things are hectic, as usual, Prof.'
    'I understand you are mentoring the new generation of law
enforcers, Nikita.'
    'As you can see, Prof, I'm brilliant at my job,' Griessel
grinned. Dekker came back up the veranda steps. 'Have you met Fransman yet?'
    'Indeed, I have had the privilege. Inspector Dekker, I admire
your forcefulness.'
    Dekker had lost none of his tension. 'Morning, Prof.'
    'Rumour has it that Adam Barnard is the victim?'
    They both nodded, in synch.
    'Take arms against a sea of troubles,' said Pagel.
    The detectives looked at him without comprehension.
    'I am abusing Hamlet to say
that this means big trouble, gentlemen.'
    'Aah,' said the detectives. They understood.
     
    In the library they stood talking while Pagel knelt beside
the body and opened his doctor's bag.
    'It wasn't her, Fransman,' said Griessel.
    'Are you one hundred per cent certain?'
    Griessel shrugged. Nobody could be a hundred per cent
certain. 'It's not just what she says, Fransman. It's how it fits in with