by Tony Park
There was a gleaming copper chamber pot. He smiled. Very rustic, but probably not at home in a swanky town house in Salisbury. Under the vessel was a stack of old newspapers and magazines. He moved the pot and pulled out a handful of newsprint. One of the pages of a yellowing copy of the Chronicle newspaper, dated 8 July 1938, was dog-eared at a top corner. He flicked it open. It was an article about Catherine’s late husband, the wealthy professional hunter Hugo De Beers. A slightly blurry photograph showed the thin, silver-maned man standing beside a dead elephant. Hugo had one foot resting on a massive tusk, almost as long as the hunter was tall. The headline read: ‘LOCAL HUNTER SLAYS CROP RAIDER’. Bryant tossed the paper back in the box. The other newspaper editions and journals were similarly flagged and all had stories about De Beers.
He was going to put them back, but then he came across a story not from the news or finance pages – there seemed to be almost as much coverage about De Beers’ business investments as there was about his hunts. This page showed a collection of wedding photographs from the social pages. The picture, taken in early 1940, showed a radiant, smiling Catherine clinging to the arm of the old man. She looked the picture of virginal innocence. Bryant smiled again and shook his head.
He lifted the chamber pot to replace it and the newspapers, but another clipping, now on the top of the stack, caught his eye.
‘BIG GAME HUNTER SHOT DEAD!’ screamed the bold headline. He picked it up and replaced the others in the box. He heard a cough behind him and turned in surprise.
‘Ah, good morning, sah,’ an elderly African man in blue overalls said.
‘Oh, hello, how are you?’ Bryant asked. He held the newspaper by his side and slightly behind him.
‘I am fine, sah. Can I help you?’
Bryant had met the man before. ‘You’re Kenneth’s father.’
‘Yes, Enoch, sah. Enoch Ngwenya. I am the head of security for Isilwane.’
It was a lofty title for the nightwatchman. ‘Ah, right. Enoch. How is your sickness, Enoch?’
‘The medicine is helping, sah. The madam has left-i,’ Enoch said, waving his hand around the empty room.
‘Ah, right. Yes, so I see. She told me she was going to Salisbury, but I thought I might catch her at home today. I landed my aeroplane at the airstrip.’
‘Yes, sah,’ Enoch said, narrowing his eyes.
Bryant noticed the man had a black eye and a long scabby cut above his right eye. The skin around the gash and his cheek was puffy and swollen. ‘Kenneth told me you had been hurt, Enoch. How did that happen?’
‘Sah?’
‘Your eye.’
‘Oh,’ the man said, looking at the floor for a moment. ‘I was kicked by one of the horses, sah. It was an accident.’
‘Kenneth told me that another man had done this to you. Was he a friend of Mrs De Beers?’
‘The madam has left-i, sah,’ Enoch said again.
Bryant wasn’t sure whether the old man’s grasp of English was lacking, or whether he was too embarrassed – or scared – to answer the question. ‘I’m a friend of Kenneth’s, Enoch. If someone has hurt you, we can tell the police.’
The old man’s eyes widened. ‘No, sah. It is fine. I just-i bumped my head.’ He rubbed his temple and forced a smile.
‘Was there a man here, with Mrs De Beers?’
‘The madam has left-i, sah,’ Enoch said.
Bryant gave up. It was up to Kenneth now to see how he could help his father. ‘Where are the rest of the staff, Enoch?’
‘Mrs De Beers has dismissed them, sah. I am the only one left here. It is my job now to protect the empty lodge, but the madam has told me to take two weeks’ leave first.’
Bryant saw the mix of regret and relief in the man’s eyes. He still had a job, albeit a boring one. ‘Were the other staff disappointed?’
The old man shrugged. ‘Everyone needs to work, sah.’
Bryant had little to gauge Catherine’s behaviour by, but he had been surprised at just how rude and condescending she had often been to her domestic workers. She had a variety of distasteful terms for Africans, and tried to use as many different ones as possible in his presence. As an outsider, a foreigner, he was a little shocked, but he’d said nothing.
‘When did she leave, Enoch?’
‘Very early this morning, sah. I was told to burn those newspapers, sah,’ he said, gesturing to the box. ‘The madam gave me the pot-i as a gift, sah,’ he added proudly.
‘Good for you, mate.’ Bryant could imagine Catherine laughing at the back-handed compliment paid to the security guard by such a gift.
‘I am sure the madam would not mind if you wanted to take a newspaper to read, sah,’ Enoch said, nodding down at Bryant’s half-concealed hand.
He suddenly felt guilty, like a thief caught red-handed. He wanted to be out of the house quickly now. He’d have to try to contact her by telephone. She’d told him she was staying at the Meikles Hotel in Salisbury while her new house was being sorted out. ‘Thanks, mate,’ he said to Enoch, and stuffed the newspaper into his trouser pocket at he walked out.
He trudged back down the dirt road towards the airstrip. ‘Bugger,’ he said aloud to himself. He looked at his watch. It was after midday now. There would be a stack of minor but nonetheless necessary tasks for him to attend to, in preparation for tomorrow’s big parade. He’d end up working late into the night. What he really wanted now was a cold beer.
He began his pre-flight inspection of the Harvard. The kite had handled beautifully over Bechuanaland and there was no evidence of any oil leaks around the engine. He looked along the fuselage, checked the tail wheel and ran his hands over the elevators, rudder and trim tabs. He checked the wings, then the landing gear underneath, for hydraulic leaks. As he’d been away from the aircraft for a while he turned the propeller, as the mechanic at Kumalo had done before he left, in order to redistribute the engine oil.
He climbed quickly into the cockpit and ran through the remaining checks rapidly. The sooner he started up, the sooner he could get up amongst some cool air. The engine coughed to life. The oil temperature had climbed to forty degrees, so he opened the air intake again. Everything looked fine.
He brought the undercarriage up as soon as the wheels had cleared the grass. Ahead of him was a clear sky and typically perfect flying weather.
‘Christ, I could do this for a living,’ he said to himself. The irony made him smile.
‘Constable Lovejoy,’ Flight Sergeant Henderson said as he leaned into the window of the police car which was stopped at the red-and-white-striped boom gate at the front of Kumalo air base, ‘to what do we owe the inestimable pleasure of your company this time?’
Pip tried her hardest to smile. Something she did not feel like doing. She recognised the air force policeman from the riot in town, and detested the way he was staring at her breasts. ‘I need to talk to you and whoever was on guard duty on the night of Felicity Langham’s death.’
‘Me?’
Henderson’s smarmy self-confidence evaporated and a look of panic crossed his face. Despite the turmoil that raged within her she was able to crack a genuine smile now. The job did have its perks. ‘Don’t worry, Flight Sergeant. I’m not here to arrest you.’
Henderson snorted and nodded to the askari to lift the boom. ‘Park over there,’ he ordered.
Pip drove while Hayes fidgeted with his belt buckle in the seat next to her. ‘Is there something going on between you and Bryant? You need to tell me now, you know, if there is,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said, then switched off the ignition and got out of the car.
‘Now, what’s this all about?’ Henderson asked as Lovejoy and Hayes entered the guardroom and removed their hats. ‘And when’s that black bastard going to swing for killing Langham?’
Pip pursed her lips. Henderson sat in a reclining wooden office chair behind a metal desk. He leaned back and put his hands behind his head.
‘Do you mind if we sit?’ Pip asked.
‘Suit yourself,’ said Henderson. ‘We’re a bit short on tea and biscuits, though.’
She ignored his sarcasm. ‘I need to see your record of people coming and going at Kumalo for the night of Miss Langham’s death and the morning after.’
‘Not as easy as it sounds,’ Henderson said. ‘We only record vehicle movements, not personnel, and then we only take note of vehicles coming onto the base. When people leave, even by vehicle, is their business. We’re more concerned with making sure the wrong people don’t get on base. Anyway, what’s it matter? You’ve got a suspect. Been charged, too.’
‘Our investigations are continuing,’ Pip said flatly. ‘Now, if you’d be kind enough to fetch your register . . .’
‘You think the Kaffir had an accomplice? Not one of our lads?’
‘The register, please, Flight Sergeant.’
Henderson frowned. ‘Sixpence!’ he roared.
Hobnailed boots clattered on concrete and a uniformed askari trotted into the room and snapped to attention. ‘Sergeant!’
‘Fetch the vehicle register for last week, Sixpence,’ Henderson ordered.
‘Do you check vehicles coming onto the base – search them, I mean?’ Pip asked while they waited for the man to return with the log.
‘Not if we know the person driving, if he’s got a valid ID.’
‘What do you know about the trade in black market petrol?’ Hayes asked Henderson, speaking for the first time.
‘Cripes. Is that what this is about? You think Langham was mixed up with the black market?’
‘Just a question,’ Hayes said.
‘I know it goes on, same here as in England, I’d expect. I know, too, that the powers that be keep a close check on the fuel that’s used on this base. No air force petrol ends up on the street on the black market – and that’s a fact. Old Bryant would hang, draw and quarter anyone who tried.’
‘But that doesn’t stop airmen . . . officers, from purchasing fuel outside?’ Pip probed.
Henderson thought about the question, and his answer. ‘Some of the staff have got private vehicles over here. Cars, motorcycles. They’ve got to get fuel somewhere. Big country you’ve got here. Can’t get far on the fuel ration.’
‘But you don’t check vehicles coming onto the base for illegal fuel?’ Hayes asked.
‘No,’ Henderson said, shaking his head. ‘Why should I? That’s your job, I would have thought. Ah, here we are. Good man, Sixpence.’ Henderson took the ledger from the askari and dismissed him. He flicked through the pages, looking for the date in question.
Pip looked at the page Henderson was studying, although it was upside down from where she sat. She saw that as well as lists of vehicles and personnel entering the base, there were notes taken of messages phoned through, and actions taken. ‘You get telephone calls here after hours?’
Henderson nodded as he read. ‘Yes. The main telephone switchboard is only manned from eight in the morning to five in the afternoon. At other times the telephone rings here in the guardroom. Don’t know that you’ll find much of interest. Quiet night, by the look of it. Perhaps we should wait until the adjutant gets back before I hand over official air force documents.’
‘He’s still flying?’ Pip asked.
‘Haven’t seen him land.’
‘I could get a court order, a search warrant,’ Pip said.
Henderson eyed her coldly. He looked again at the entries. ‘Nothing untoward that I can see.’ He shrugged and slid the book across the desk.
Pip ran her fingers down the inked entries for the night Felicity died. There were various deliveries noted, and the midnight bus that brought airmen home from a night on the town. She felt a shiver down her back. ‘What’s this? Telephone message for Squadron Leader Bryant, received 22:25 hours?’
‘What it says. Someone called at 10:25 at night for him,’ Henderson said casually.
‘How do we find out what that message was?’ Pip asked.
‘Why do you want to know about the adjutant’s phone messages?’
‘As I said, Flight Sergeant Henderson,’ Pip’s voice lacked any trace of courtesy, ‘I can come back with a search warrant.’
A slow smile of understanding dawned on Henderson’s face. ‘Well, I suppose I could get whoever was on duty that night to join us.’
‘That would be greatly appreciated,’ Sergeant Hayes said.
‘Who’s the duty NCO listed at the top of that page?’ Henderson asked Pip.
She checked and said, ‘Corporal Evans.’
‘Ah yes, one of the armourers. Sixpence!’ The African trotted back into the room and snapped to attention. ‘Be so good as to dash across to the armoury and find Corporal Evans, please.’
‘Sah!’ the askari said, and doubled outside.
Pip studied the remaining entries. Her heart beat faster. ‘It says here that Squadron Leader Bryant entered the base at 07:45 hours on the morning that we found Miss Langham’s body.’ Bryant had told her that he’d been drinking in his room the night Felicity was killed and had fallen asleep after reading a book. He’d said nothing about leaving the base for any reason.
‘You’re very interested in the adjutant all of a sudden, aren’t you?’ Henderson said.
‘What time does the adjutant start work?’ Pip asked.
‘Same as most of them, eight in the morning. Odd, though.’
‘What’s odd?’ said Pip.
‘It’s him and Langham, isn’t it? Were they an item?’
‘That’s really none of your business, Flight Sergeant,’ Pip said.
‘You want me to cooperate with you, waste half my day, but you won’t tell me, not even as one police professional to another, what you’re up to.’
‘The details of civilian police investigations are always kept private,’ she said.
‘Then you’d better go fetch your search warrant. I’ve got work to do in the meantime,’ Henderson said, and pushed back his chair as though he were about to stand.
Bastard, thought Pip. The man just wanted some titillating gossip that he could spread around the base. Getting a warrant would be a pain, but she would have the satisfaction of seeing Henderson having to kowtow to the power of the law. All the same, she wished there were some way she could make him change his mind. She, too, pushed her chair back, happy to call Henderson’s bluff.
Hayes stayed seated. ‘I suppose the air force frowns on fraternisation between the ranks,’ he said.
Pip looked at him, surprised. Henderson stayed seated. ‘Right you are. Not on for officers to be getting too close to their subordinates. Bad for discipline. Undermines morale, it does.’
‘Mightn’t look good on a service record. Might affect promotion,’ Hayes said.
Henderson smiled. ‘If we’re talking about who I think we are, then that wouldn’t be much of a threat to him. He’s reached his terminal rank, as we say. Not the most distinguished of service records.’
‘Nothing to lose by lording it over a pretty WAAF then, I suppose. Probably talked up his part in the war to ease the way, so to speak.’ Henderson chuckled. ‘If he did, it would have been lies. Word is the bloke ran out on one of his mates. Left him to burn in a crippled kite.’
Pip frowned. She hated the way this was heading. Still, lying might still prove to be one of the Australian’s greatest talents. It was unethical and morally reprehensible, the way Hayes was feeding Henderson titbits of innuendo to get him talking. But, she realised, it was working. She kept silent.
‘She was a pretty girl, Felicity Langham,’ Hayes said.
‘You’re right again there,’ Henderson said. ‘But tell me, on the quiet, are you having second thoughts about the Kaffir you arrested?’
‘Well,’ Hayes said, scratching his chin, ‘as my colleague Constable Lovejoy here pointed out, it would be improper to go into details, but, as one professional to another, I’m sure you’d agree we’re duty-bound to continue our investigations if, say, a suspect turns out to have a pretty
strong alibi.’
‘Ah,’ said Henderson.
Pip thought the man was about to salivate.
‘Raped, I heard,’ Henderson said.
‘No great secret,’ Hayes said.
‘Dealt with a nasty rape case myself a year back, on a base in England, at Biggin Hill. Pilot officer and a WAAF NCO. Turned out they’d been seeing each other, in the Biblical sense, and had broken up. He’d gone after her and hurt her. Often, they say, the perpetrator knows the victim.’
‘Often,’ Hayes confirmed.
‘So what was odd,’ Pip interjected, ‘about Squadron Leader Bryant arriving fifteen minutes early for work on the morning after Miss Langham was killed?’
The two men exchanged a brief glance, as though they resented her interrupting their veiled conversation. Henderson looked at Hayes and raised his eyebrows. Hayes nodded, as though telling his new confidant that it was all right to answer the question, that he would reveal more details if they liked his response. Pip held her tongue.
‘Well,’ Henderson said, pausing, smiling, ‘thing is, Mr Bryant lives on base.’
‘So he’d spent the night out on the town, or, perhaps, with someone?’ Hayes said.
‘It would seem so,’ Henderson said, leaning back in his chair and making a steeple with his two fingers.
‘But you’ve no way of knowing what time he left the base?’ Pip asked.
Henderson shrugged. ‘Duty NCO might know.’ He craned his neck and looked out the window behind him. Sixpence, the African askari, and a white man in blue overalls were marching down the sidewalk side by side.
‘Flight,’ the corporal said by way of greeting to Henderson as Sixpence presented him to the door. He was in his early twenties, with fair tousled hair. His face and bare arms were sunburned and his overalls dark under the armpits with sweat. He looked at the police officers and said in a thick Welsh accent, ‘Whatever it was, I didn’t do it.’