the detectives,’ she said, her voice serious, muted.
He was all too aware of how she might know this.
He nodded. ‘Benny Griessel.’
She reached out a manicured hand for the telephone, pressed a button, waited a second. ‘Detective Benny Griessel is here.’
She listened, glancing at him with a slight frown. ‘You may go in,’ she said and pointed at the black doors with the chrome handles.
He could see how upset she was. ‘Thank you.’
Jeanette Louw sat behind her blackwood desk. The jacket hung from a stand in the corner, her striped tie was loosened. She seemed older and more weary than this morning.
‘Captain,’ she greeted him. ‘Come inside. Please take a seat.’
He could hear the suppressed antagonism. He sat down in a black leather chair.
‘I understand from your colleague that you still have no leads.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘You know he’s an arsehole. And that has nothing to do with race.’
Griessel sighed. ‘He’s a very good detective.’
Louw just stared at him. He was unsure how to address her. ‘Were you in the Service?’ he asked.
‘The police?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’ With distaste.
He was too tired to react.
‘I was the Regimental Sergeant Major of the Women’s Army College in George,’ said Louw.
He merely nodded. It would have been easier if she were a former officer. ‘It seems as though Morris has been kidnapped,’ he said.
‘So I understand.’
‘It makes things awkward with the media.’
‘Oh?’
‘The trouble is . . . We assume he’s a rich man . . .’
She grasped the point instantly. ‘Because he can afford my services.’
‘That’s right. It may be that they want ransom . . . And we don’t know whether his next of kin have been contacted by the kidnappers yet. Usually they demand that nothing appears in the press, and the police may not be contacted, or they will kill their victim.’
‘I understand.’
‘If we tell the media that there were two bodyguards, they’ll want to know who was being guarded.’
‘And who they were working for?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t want to reveal anything for now.’
She was smart. ‘Is it possible to . . . Would the families of your men understand? If we keep the names out of the media? For now?’
Louw leaned back in her chair. She rubbed a hand over her strong jaw, then said: ‘As much as it will be best for the reputation of my company not to have publicity, I would have to leave that up to the families. I owe them that at least.’
‘Of course.’
‘B. J. Fikter has a wife and child . . .’
Griessel said nothing.
‘I’ll try,’ she said.
At the Hawks’ offices on the corner of Landrost and Market Street in Bellville, he knocked on the frame of Zola Nyathi’s open office door.
The colonel waved him in, motioned him to sit.
With Nyathi’s eyes glued on him, he reported back precisely and fully.
‘Thank you Benny. Good work. But we have a media problem.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ve approved your strategy, but Cloete says they’re going nuts. The radio stations are already throwing around words like “massacre” and “bloodbath”, and are speculating about drugs and gang violence. I don’t know how long we can keep this under wraps.’
‘I’ll move as fast as I can, sir. The Consulate . . . If we can get hold of Morris’s family . . .’
‘The brigadier has spoken to our Deputy National Commissioner, who has asked Foreign Affairs to get involved. So we should soon see results.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Griessel stood up.
‘Benny, just a moment,’ said Nyathi, very seriously.
He sat down again. He knew what was coming.
‘Benny, I don’t want to pry. But you understand that your personal well-being is very important to me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can I ask you a favour?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You have a mentor, at the AA—’
‘A sponsor, sir. But I can assure you—’
He stopped talking when Nyathi lifted his hand. ‘You don’t have to assure
He was all too aware of how she might know this.
He nodded. ‘Benny Griessel.’
She reached out a manicured hand for the telephone, pressed a button, waited a second. ‘Detective Benny Griessel is here.’
She listened, glancing at him with a slight frown. ‘You may go in,’ she said and pointed at the black doors with the chrome handles.
He could see how upset she was. ‘Thank you.’
Jeanette Louw sat behind her blackwood desk. The jacket hung from a stand in the corner, her striped tie was loosened. She seemed older and more weary than this morning.
‘Captain,’ she greeted him. ‘Come inside. Please take a seat.’
He could hear the suppressed antagonism. He sat down in a black leather chair.
‘I understand from your colleague that you still have no leads.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘You know he’s an arsehole. And that has nothing to do with race.’
Griessel sighed. ‘He’s a very good detective.’
Louw just stared at him. He was unsure how to address her. ‘Were you in the Service?’ he asked.
‘The police?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’ With distaste.
He was too tired to react.
‘I was the Regimental Sergeant Major of the Women’s Army College in George,’ said Louw.
He merely nodded. It would have been easier if she were a former officer. ‘It seems as though Morris has been kidnapped,’ he said.
‘So I understand.’
‘It makes things awkward with the media.’
‘Oh?’
‘The trouble is . . . We assume he’s a rich man . . .’
She grasped the point instantly. ‘Because he can afford my services.’
‘That’s right. It may be that they want ransom . . . And we don’t know whether his next of kin have been contacted by the kidnappers yet. Usually they demand that nothing appears in the press, and the police may not be contacted, or they will kill their victim.’
‘I understand.’
‘If we tell the media that there were two bodyguards, they’ll want to know who was being guarded.’
‘And who they were working for?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t want to reveal anything for now.’
She was smart. ‘Is it possible to . . . Would the families of your men understand? If we keep the names out of the media? For now?’
Louw leaned back in her chair. She rubbed a hand over her strong jaw, then said: ‘As much as it will be best for the reputation of my company not to have publicity, I would have to leave that up to the families. I owe them that at least.’
‘Of course.’
‘B. J. Fikter has a wife and child . . .’
Griessel said nothing.
‘I’ll try,’ she said.
At the Hawks’ offices on the corner of Landrost and Market Street in Bellville, he knocked on the frame of Zola Nyathi’s open office door.
The colonel waved him in, motioned him to sit.
With Nyathi’s eyes glued on him, he reported back precisely and fully.
‘Thank you Benny. Good work. But we have a media problem.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ve approved your strategy, but Cloete says they’re going nuts. The radio stations are already throwing around words like “massacre” and “bloodbath”, and are speculating about drugs and gang violence. I don’t know how long we can keep this under wraps.’
‘I’ll move as fast as I can, sir. The Consulate . . . If we can get hold of Morris’s family . . .’
‘The brigadier has spoken to our Deputy National Commissioner, who has asked Foreign Affairs to get involved. So we should soon see results.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Griessel stood up.
‘Benny, just a moment,’ said Nyathi, very seriously.
He sat down again. He knew what was coming.
‘Benny, I don’t want to pry. But you understand that your personal well-being is very important to me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can I ask you a favour?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You have a mentor, at the AA—’
‘A sponsor, sir. But I can assure you—’
He stopped talking when Nyathi lifted his hand. ‘You don’t have to assure
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