Free Cobra by Deon Meyer Page A

were.’
    Griessel tried to remember what van Wyk had taught him. ‘That means we’ll have to go and collect their computers.’
    ‘Please.’
    ‘They’re not going to like that.’
    ‘I can send Lithpel to them. It may be less disruptive, and it shouldn’t take too long.’
    ‘Maybe Ulinda as well; those foreigners won’t understand a word Lithpel says,’ said Cupido.
    ‘I’m right here,’ said Reginald ‘Lithpel’ Davids, the lisping computer whizz van Wyk had recently poached from Forensics. Davids was small and frail, with the face of a schoolboy. He shook his big Afro hairstyle indignantly. ‘It’th sometimeth like I don’t exthitht to you.’
    ‘I rest my case,’ said Cupido.
    ‘I’ll phone Franschhoek so long,’ said Radebe and reached for a phone. ‘This is new, it’s the first time I’ve been an English interpreter for a coloured outjie .’
    ‘ Jithith ,’ Lithpel said, but he grabbed his worn old rucksack of computer equipment and stood up.
    ‘Anything on Paul Anthony Morris?’ Griessel asked.
    One of van Wyk’s researchers said: ‘We started with Google, Captain. It’s a relatively common combination of names, and there are quite a lot of references that don’t have photos with them. But we’re working on it.’
    ‘And the snake on the cartridges?’
    ‘That’s a difficult one to isolate in the database records,’ said van Wyk. ‘The query is still running, we might have to refine it. But nothing so far.’
    Nyathi walked in and the room fell silent. ‘Benny, the British Consul General’s office just called. She has news about the passport, we can go and see her now.’
    Eyebrows were raised. Cupido looked at his watch. ‘Twenty past seven at night? Maybe this Morris is royalty or something.’
    In the car Nyathi said, ‘I spoke to your sponsor. Thanks, Benny. I hope you understand.’
    ‘Of course, sir,’ he said, because he did understand. The Hawks were a team environment. The weakest link determined their success. And at the moment that was what he was. The weakest link.
    ‘Everything else OK? Your health? The family?’
    ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’
    The Colonel nodded his bald head slowly and thoughtfully, like a man who has come one step closer to insight and truth.
    They drove in silence until they reached the N1. ‘Cloete has his hands full with the media,’ said Nyathi. ‘We need a break. Quickly.’ And then, ‘Do you think it’s about ransom, Benny?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Have you investigated a kidnapping involving a ransom before?’
    ‘Three or four times, sir. But not where there’s a foreigner involved.’
    ‘I’ve never had one,’ said Nyathi.
    ‘They’re all bad news, sir.’
    They parked in Riebeeck Street and first had to search for the entrance to Norton Rose House, a tower block that was deserted at this time of the night.
    The British Consulate, with bullet-proof glass doors and a comprehensive security system, was on the fifteenth floor – Griessel and Nyathi had to identify themselves before a woman came to fetch them and escort them to the Consul General’s office.
    The dignified middle-aged woman introduced herself as Doreen Brennan. She was not alone. With her was a younger woman with dark hair cut short, black-rimmed glasses, and a pretty mouth. ‘This is one of our vice consuls, Emma Graber. Please, gentlemen, sit down.’
    When the courtesies were dispensed with, Brennan pushed the police photographer’s photo of the passport across the desk. ‘I’m afraid this is a forgery,’ she said apologetically.
    Griessel’s heart sank into his shoes. That meant they still did not know who Morris or his next of kin were.
    ‘Are you sure?’ asked Nyathi.
    ‘Yes. The passport number belongs to a seventy-six-year-old woman from Bexhill-on-Sea who passed away thirteen days ago. It might be her passport that was modified, but we’ll need to analyse the original to be sure.’
    ‘No, the passport is very new,’ said Griessel as