Thirteen Hours

He saw a cyclist weaving skilfully through the traffic on a racing bike, those incredibly thin wheels, the rider in tight black shorts, vivid shirt, shoes, crash helmet, the fucker was even wearing gloves. His gaze followed the cycle to the Orange Street traffic lights, knowing that he never wanted to look that silly. He felt stupid enough with the piss-pot helmet on his head. He wouldn't even have worn it if he hadn't got it for free, with the bicycle.

Doc Barkhuizen, his sponsor at Alcoholics Anonymous, had started the whole thing. Frustrated, Griessel had told Doc that the pull of the bottle was not diminishing. The first three months were long over, the so-called crisis period, and yet his desire was as great as it was on the first day. Doc had recited the 'one day at a time' rhyme, but Griessel said he needed more than that. Doc said 'You need a distraction, what do you do in the evenings?'

Evenings? Policemen had no 'evenings'. When he did get home early, wonder of wonders, he would write to his daughter Carla, or play one of his four CDs on the computer and pick up the bass guitar to play along.

Tm busy in the evenings, Doc.'

'And mornings?'

'Sometimes I walk in the park. Up near the reservoir.'

'How often?'

'1 don't know. Now and then. Once a week, perhaps less ...'

The trouble with Doc was that he was eloquent. And enthusiastic. About everything. One of those 'the glass is half full' positive guys who would not rest until he had inspired you. 'About five years ugo I started cycling, Be

After Doc's third speech he was swept up by his enthusiasm and at the end of October he went looking for a bicycle, in his usual way - Be

Then he thought about Christmas and all the expenses still to come. He argued the bicycle owner down another two hundred and then he went and drew the money and bought the thing and began riding every morning. He would wear his old rugby shorts, T-shirt and sandals and that ridiculous little helmet.

He soon realised that he did not live in the ideal neighbourhood for cycling. His flat was a quarter of the way up the slopes of Table Mountain. If you went down towards the sea, you had to ride back up the mountain eventually. You could head uphill first, towards Kloof Nek, in order to enjoy the ride home, but you would suffer going up. He almost gave up after a week. But then Doc Barkhuizen gave him the 'five-minute' tip.

'This is what I do, Be

He tried it - and never once did he turn around. Once you were going, you went on. Towards the end of November, it suddenly became a pleasure. He found a route that he enjoyed. Just after six in the morning he would ride down St John's Street, illegally cutting through the Company Gardens before the zealous security guards were on duty. Then he would turn into Adderley and wave at the flower sellers offloading stock from the bakkies at the Golden Acre and then to the bottom of Duncan Street to the harbour, see what ships had docked today. Then he would ride down the Waterkant, to Green Point - and all along the sea as far as the Sea Point swimming pool. He would look at the mountain and out over the sea and at the people, the pretty young women out jogging with long, ta

And about his smart purchase. Until his son came around two weeks before Christmas and said he'd decided bass was not for him any more. 'Lead guitar, Dad, jissie, Dad, we saw Zinkplaat on Friday and there's this lead, Basson Laubscher, awesome, Dad. Effortless. Genius. That's my dream.'

Zinkplaat.

He hadn't even known such a band existed.

Griessel had been hiding the bass guitar from Fritz for nearly two months. It was his Christmas present. So he had to go and see Hot Lips Faizal again and at such short notice he only had one guitar available, a fucking Fender, practically new and horribly expensive. Plus, what he gave to Fritz had to be matched by a gift to Carla in London. So he was financially stuffed, because A

The moral high ground. She had it and he did not. So he must pay. It was part of his punishment.

But that was not the thing churning in his guts.

Griessel sighed and walked back to the murder scene. As his mind focused on the growing crowd of onlookers who would need to be controlled, he recognised the new unease he was feeling.

It had nothing to do with his sex life, his finances, or hunger. It was a premonition. As if the day brought evil with it.

He shook his head. He had never allowed himself to be bothered by such tripe.

The Metro policemen were helping a young coloured woman over the railings with eager hands. She picked up her briefcase, nodded in thanks and came across to Griessel and Ndabeni. A new face to them.

'Tiffany October,' she said, holding out a small hand to Be

'Be

'Call me Vusi.'

'Pleased to meet you,' she said and shook the black detective's hand.

They looked at her enquiringly. It took her a second to realise. 'I'm the pathologist.'

'You're new?' Vusi asked, after an uncomfortable silence.

'This is my first solo.' Tiffany October smiled nervously. Thick and Thin from Forensics came closer, curious to meet her. She shook each politely by the hand.