Thirteen Hours

'A female officer?' she was confused.

'A female member of the police.'

She thought for a moment. Then she said: 'He misunderstood me.'

'Oh?'

'After yesterday's events, I only meant it would be easier to talk to a woman about it.'

A meek little lamb without guile.

'So what do you want to do?'

'I just want to be sure it's confidential.'

He explained to her that if she or Josh were charged, nothing could be confidential.

'But we didn't do anything.'

'Then it will all be confidential.' So she agreed and he had to ask bloody Mouton where Fransman could question Melinda, because the studio was too dark. Natasha brought in a gas lamp and put it near Melinda in the recording studio.

Griessel and Dekker watched Natasha walk away. When she disappeared around the corner, Be

Fransman Dekker exploded. Not straight away, as if the implications mounted up in him first. Then he stood up straight, his eyes wild, his mouth opening and closing once, then the jaw muscles clamped shut, twitching as it all burst out and he hammered his fist against Adam Barnard's door:' Jirre-jissis!' He spun around, aimed for the door again, but Griessel had him, gripped his arm.

'Fransman!'

Dekker struggled to hold the arm. 'It stays your case.'

The coloured detective stopped, eyes staring, arms still up in the air. Griessel felt the strength in the shoulders as he pulled against them.

'I've got a son in Matric,' said Griessel. 'He's always telling me "Pa you must chill" and I think that is what you must do now, Fransman.'

Dekker's jaw began to work again. He jerked his arm out of Griessel's grasp and glared angrily at the door.

'You let everything wind you up, Fransman. It doesn't help shit.'

'You would never understand.'

'Try me.'

'How can I? You're white.'

'What is that supposed to mean?'

'It means you're not coloured,' he said, an angry finger pointed at Griessel's face.

'Fransman, I have no fucking idea ...'

'Did you see, Be

'You were the only one.'

'Yes, just me. Because they push the darkies. That's why they are sending Kaleni. They must be pushed in everywhere. I'm just a fucking statistic, Be

He wiped spit from his lips. Griessel said: 'I do understand, Fransman, but...'

'You think so? Have you been marginalised all your life? Now that you whiteys have affirmative action at your backs, now you think you understand? You understand fokkol, I'm telling you. You were either Baas or Klaas, we were fokkol, always, we weren't white enough then, we're not black enough now; it never ends, stuck in the fucking middle of the colour palette. Now this white Christian lady says no, she's not talking to a man, but she doesn't know I can read her like I can read all the whiteys.'

'Can you read me, Fransman?' Griessel was growing angry too.

Dekker didn't reply, but turned away breathing heavily.

Griessel walked around him, so he could talk to his face. 'They say you've got ambition. Now listen to me, I threw my fokken career away because I didn't have control, because I let the shit get to me. That's why I'm standing here now. I didn't have any more options. Do you want options, Fransman? Or do you want to still be an Inspector at forty-four, with a job description that says "mentor" because they don't know what the fuck to do with you? Do you know how that feels? They look you up and down and think, what kak did you get up to that you're just a fucking Inspector with all that grey hair? Is that what you want? Do you want to be more than a bloody race statistic in the Service? Do you want to be the best policeman you can be? Then drop the shit and take the case and solve it, never mind what they say or how they talk to you or who John Afrika sends to help you. You have rights, just like Melinda Geyser. There are rules. Use them. In any case, you can do what you want, it won't change. I have been a policeman for over twenty-five years, Fransman, and I'm telling you now, they will always treat you like a dog, the people, the press, the bosses, politicians, regardless of whether you are black, white or brown. Unless they're phoning you in the middle of the night saying "there's someone at the window" - then you're the fucking hero. But tomorrow when the sun shines, you're nothing again. The question is: can you take it? Ask yourself that. If you can't, drop it, get another job. Or put up with it, Fransman, because it's never going to stop.'

Dekker stood still, breathing heavily.

Griessel wanted to say more, but he decided against it. He stepped away from Dekker, his brain at work, shifting his focus.

'I don't believe it was Josh Geyser. If he's lying, he deserves a fucking Oscar. Melinda is the only alibi he has, and there's something about her ... she doesn't know what he said, let her talk, get her to give you more detail about yesterday, exactly what happened, then phone me and we can compare their stories. I have to go and see the Commissioner.'

Dekker didn't look at him. Griessel walked away down the passage.

'Be

'Thank you,' with reluctant frankness.

Griessel gestured with his hand and left.

One of the men in the lounge got up from an ostrich leather couch and tried to intercept him. Be

In a hurry and bothered, he said: 'Yes, but I can't talk to you now.' He would have liked to add 'because they are fucking me around', but he didn't. 'My colleague is still inside. Talk to him when he comes out,' and he jogged down the stairs, across the grass to where his car was parked.

There was a parking ticket stuck to the windscreen, right in the middle of the driver's window.

'Fuck,' he said, frustration surging over his dam wall of self- control. More paperwork that he didn't need. Metro Police had time to write fucking parking tickets, but don't ask them to help with anything else. He left the ticket right where it was, climbed in, started the engine and reversed out, grinding the gears as he drove away. He was going to ask the Commissioner for a clear job description.

Be