He walked down the narrow tarmac path, past tall palms and
pine trees and a yellow notice board: STRICTLY AUTHORISED.
CARS ONLY. AT OWNERS OWN RISK, to the spot just left
of the pretty grey church where, on the same tar, she lay stretched
He looked up at the perfect morning. Bright, with hardly any
wind, just a faint breeze bearing fresh sea scents up the mountain.
It was not a time to die.
Vusi stood beside her with Thick and Thin from Forensics, a
police photographer and three men in SAPS uniform. Behind
Griessels back on the Long Street pavement there were more
uniforms, at least four in the white shirts and black epaulettes of
the Metro Police, all very self-important. Together with a group of
bystanders they leaned their arms on the railings and stared at the
Morning, Benny, said Vusi Ndabeni in his quiet manner. He
was of the same average height as Griessel, but seemed smaller.
Lean and neat, the seams of his trousers sharply pressed, snowwhite
shirt with tie, shoes shined. His peppercorn hair was cut
short and shaved in sharp angles, goatee impeccably clipped. He
wore surgical rubber gloves. Griessel had been introduced to him
for the first time last Thursday, along with the other five detectives
he had been asked to mentor throughout the coming year. That
was the word that John Africa, Regional Commissioner: Detective
Services and Criminal Intelligence, had used. But when Griessel
was alone in Africas office it was Were in the shit, Benny. We
fucked up the Van der Vyver case, and now the brass say its
because weve just been having too much of a good time in the
Cape and its time to pull finger, but what can I do? Im losing my
best people and the new ones are clueless, totally green. Benny,
can I count on you?
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...