they also have a database of stolen and lost travel documents. Shall I look up Paul Anthony Morris on that?’
Griessel knew it wouldn’t help, but he kept up appearances. ‘Please.’
He turned and walked back to his office. While he waited for Nyathi and the SSA agent to finish talking, he wanted to bring his admin up to date. The file would have to be created. He must write an email to his team, remind them to forward him their interview reports and witness statements for Section A. Then he must write out his own interviews and notes, and in Section C, he must fill in the investigation journal on the SAPS5 form, a detailed, chronological history of the case.
It made him wonder: should he leave out the discussion with the Consulate entirely? Or just not mention the full content?
Nyathi called him within fifteen minutes.
‘They want to be kept in the loop,’ said the colonel. ‘So now I have to liaise with an SSA agent as often as I deem necessary.’
‘Sir, if we ask the SSA to look in their database for a hit man who engraves his shell casings . . .’
‘I did not tell him about the engravings, Benny. I had to tell them about Adair, because I don’t know what they might have eavesdropped on. But I told them no more than we told Graber.’
‘OK.’
‘Anything new?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Go and get some sleep, Benny. Tell Philip’s people to alert you only if they find something big.’
15
He drove home.
Alexa would still be awake.
She was a true creature of the night, staying up till all hours. In the evenings she answered emails and talked on the phone when he wasn’t there. She went over the figures from the record company while she listened to demo CDs of hopeful artists (‘One never knows . . .’), and she talked with him about his day when he eventually arrived home.
And she cooked for them. He suspected it was her method of suppressing the urge to drink, an attempt at a degree of normality, to create a homely atmosphere after the chaos of her first marriage, and the bohemian nature of her world. He also suspected that she thought that he expected it of her, even though he had denied it.
But Alexa was no chef. She had no natural aptitude for cooking, and she was easily distracted if a text or a call came in, so that she couldn’t remember which of the ingredients she had already added to the pot. And her sense of taste was decidedly suspect. She would carefully taste the pasta sauce, declare it perfect, but when she dished it up and began to eat, she would frown and say: ‘Something is not right. Can you taste it too?’
He would lie.
But these were insignificant untruths. White lies.
The big lie, the unmentionable, unshareable and increasingly unbearable lie, the fraud that assailed him now on the dark, silent N1 on the way to Alexa, was the one about sex.
He swore out loud in the car.
Life just never gave him a break.
If you drank as he used to drink, seven days a week, sex was not a big priority. When lust sometimes overcame him, his alcohol-soaked equipment wouldn’t cooperate anyway.
But then you dried out, and that had consequences. The biggest problem of being on the wagon was the desire for the healing powers of the bottle. Close on those heels was the return of the libido, at a time when you have way too much mileage on your middle-aged clock, and desirable women were not necessarily queuing up to accommodate you.
Which was what was so damn ironic. Six months ago he was head over heels in love with Alexa, and a big chunk of that was his desire to make love to her, good and proper. Look, he was a sucker for a beautiful mouth, and she certainly had one, broad and generous and soft. And like most guys, surely, he appreciated a royal pair of jugs – as Cupido, faced with an impressive bust measurement, would longingly, admiringly describe them.
And there was Alexa’s voice, and her attitude, and that look in her eyes, as if she knew what you were thinking, and she wanted
Griessel knew it wouldn’t help, but he kept up appearances. ‘Please.’
He turned and walked back to his office. While he waited for Nyathi and the SSA agent to finish talking, he wanted to bring his admin up to date. The file would have to be created. He must write an email to his team, remind them to forward him their interview reports and witness statements for Section A. Then he must write out his own interviews and notes, and in Section C, he must fill in the investigation journal on the SAPS5 form, a detailed, chronological history of the case.
It made him wonder: should he leave out the discussion with the Consulate entirely? Or just not mention the full content?
Nyathi called him within fifteen minutes.
‘They want to be kept in the loop,’ said the colonel. ‘So now I have to liaise with an SSA agent as often as I deem necessary.’
‘Sir, if we ask the SSA to look in their database for a hit man who engraves his shell casings . . .’
‘I did not tell him about the engravings, Benny. I had to tell them about Adair, because I don’t know what they might have eavesdropped on. But I told them no more than we told Graber.’
‘OK.’
‘Anything new?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Go and get some sleep, Benny. Tell Philip’s people to alert you only if they find something big.’
15
He drove home.
Alexa would still be awake.
She was a true creature of the night, staying up till all hours. In the evenings she answered emails and talked on the phone when he wasn’t there. She went over the figures from the record company while she listened to demo CDs of hopeful artists (‘One never knows . . .’), and she talked with him about his day when he eventually arrived home.
And she cooked for them. He suspected it was her method of suppressing the urge to drink, an attempt at a degree of normality, to create a homely atmosphere after the chaos of her first marriage, and the bohemian nature of her world. He also suspected that she thought that he expected it of her, even though he had denied it.
But Alexa was no chef. She had no natural aptitude for cooking, and she was easily distracted if a text or a call came in, so that she couldn’t remember which of the ingredients she had already added to the pot. And her sense of taste was decidedly suspect. She would carefully taste the pasta sauce, declare it perfect, but when she dished it up and began to eat, she would frown and say: ‘Something is not right. Can you taste it too?’
He would lie.
But these were insignificant untruths. White lies.
The big lie, the unmentionable, unshareable and increasingly unbearable lie, the fraud that assailed him now on the dark, silent N1 on the way to Alexa, was the one about sex.
He swore out loud in the car.
Life just never gave him a break.
If you drank as he used to drink, seven days a week, sex was not a big priority. When lust sometimes overcame him, his alcohol-soaked equipment wouldn’t cooperate anyway.
But then you dried out, and that had consequences. The biggest problem of being on the wagon was the desire for the healing powers of the bottle. Close on those heels was the return of the libido, at a time when you have way too much mileage on your middle-aged clock, and desirable women were not necessarily queuing up to accommodate you.
Which was what was so damn ironic. Six months ago he was head over heels in love with Alexa, and a big chunk of that was his desire to make love to her, good and proper. Look, he was a sucker for a beautiful mouth, and she certainly had one, broad and generous and soft. And like most guys, surely, he appreciated a royal pair of jugs – as Cupido, faced with an impressive bust measurement, would longingly, admiringly describe them.
And there was Alexa’s voice, and her attitude, and that look in her eyes, as if she knew what you were thinking, and she wanted
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