by Tony Park
Bryant had drifted in and out of consciousness, but each time he awoke he wished he hadn’t. His head felt like it had been kicked by a horse – several times – and he was nauseated every time he opened his eyes.
Just that small effort of raising his eyelids brought waves of pain, so he tried to keep them shut. After his mind faded to black, the visions came. A kaleidoscope of images – Catherine, Felicity, the face in the intelligence file. Reitz. Hendrick Reitz. The newspaper story about the death of Hugo De Beers. He couldn’t tell. In his dreams he saw Pip Lovejoy, in her uniform, walking away from him, on the other side of the young copper with the rifle. Before he could call to Pip the gun went off.
Bryant winced in pain and opened his eyes as he felt the cloth of his shirt pull away from his skin. The movement dislodged a scab of drying blood and opened one of the cuts inflicted by the leopard. ‘Leopard,’ he said.
‘What was that?’ Hayes asked. ‘Something about a leopard. Man’s lost it completely.’ He bent so his face was close to Bryant’s. ‘Don’t try to pull the old insanity defence, matey. You’re for the court and the rope, if there’s any justice in this world. Why’d you do it, eh? Were you on with that poor girl?’
‘What? I —’
‘No use denying it, you know.’ Hayes laid a hand on Bryant’s wounded shoulder but, instead of trying to clean or soothe the injury, he leaned forward, transferring his weight onto the prone man.
Bryant screamed. He’d thought the ache in his head was the worst injury he had suffered. ‘Get off me!’
‘I’ll get off you when I damn well please, sonny boy,’ Hayes said, leaning further into Bryant.
Roger Pembroke looked away. He’d never been one for roughing up prisoners. ‘Sarge, don’t you think . . .’
Hayes shot the younger man a look that said, keep quiet, or else. To Bryant, he said: ‘You can save us all a lot of time, fly-boy, and tell us the truth, right here and now. I’ll make sure you’re well looked after when we get to Bulawayo. Of course, if you want to stay silent, I’ll find another way of looking after you in the cells.’
‘I need to see Pip, Pip Lovejoy,’ Bryant stammered. His head was swimming with pain and he needed to throw up.
‘You’ll stay away from Constable Lovejoy. I don’t know what’s been going on between you two, but I’m telling you now, China, that you won’t see her again. She’s out of your league – and I’ll not see her end up the same way as Felicity Langham. Now, be a man for a change and tell us the truth. You raped and killed that girl, didn’t you?’
‘What?’ Bryant had no idea why Hayes was accusing him, and hurting him. He lifted a hand to push the fat policeman off him, and then noticed, for the first time, that his wrists were in handcuffs. ‘Get these bloody things off me! You’ve got to stop the parade. Get me to Kumalo!’
‘Parade? You’re not going to any parade, Squadron Leader. You’re finished. We know you hid her underwear in that black man’s car. You filthy swine.’ Hayes still held Bryant down with his hand on his bloodied shoulder. He drew back his other and slapped the Australian hard, across the face, with the back of his hand.
Bryant’s ears rang and his eyes rolled back into his head. He fought the oncoming unconsciousness. ‘Wrong person. It’s him, you want . . .’
‘Him? Him who?’ Hayes shook his head.
Bryant tried to make the words come out. He wanted to say the name but had trouble remembering it. ‘German . . .’
‘Bloody Germans? Trying to tell us you’ve got shell shock, hey? Doolally? I told you, it won’t wash with me.’ Hayes shook him. ‘Snap out of it!’
Bryant closed his eyes and forced himself to remain still.
‘I think he was trying to tell us something, Sergeant.’
Hayes shook his head. ‘I’ve seen ’em pull that daft stuff before, Roger. Wounded war hero, my arse. He’s no good, this one. A deviant. I ought to put a bullet in his head now and save the courts the time and effort.’
‘Meikles Hotel, good day,’the female voice on the telephone said.
‘I’d like to speak to one of your guests, please. Mrs Catherine De Beers,’ Pip said into the telephone, in the detectives’ office at the police camp.
‘One moment, please, madam.’
Pip drummed her fingers on the desktop as she waited for the hotel receptionist.
Are you there, madam?’
The line to Salisbury was scratchy, and Pip had to speak up in order to be heard. ‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘Who’s calling, please?’
‘Constable Lovejoy, Bulawayo Police. This is official business. I need to speak to Mrs De Beers urgently.’ She made no attempt to hide her impatience.
‘I’m sorry, Constable, but Mrs De Beers has not checked in, and I’ve no record of a reservation for her.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, madam. Mrs De Beers often stays with us when she’s in Salisbury. I do hope nothing has happened to her, if you were expecting her to be here.’
‘No. I mean, I don’t know. I’ll leave my number, though, and I’d very much appreciate it if you could call me back if Mrs De Beers does check in.’ Pip left the phone number and hung up. ‘Damn,’ she said to herself.
Pip walked out of the office and into the switch room. She asked Shirley, who took off her headset: ‘Any word on where they are?’
Shirley checked her wristwatch. ‘Last message I had was that they’d picked up the Australian and were on their way. That was about two hours ago. When you were out. Should be back here any time now, I expect.’
‘Shirley, can you get a message out to all the radio cars and major police stations between here and Salisbury?’
The other woman frowned. ‘Blimey, Pip, you know you don’t have the authority to issue a bulletin like that.’
‘I know, but this is really serious, Shirley.’
‘I don’t know. It could go bad for me, as well as you.’
‘I’m worried, Shirley. I don’t think I’ve been in this job long enough to have instincts about policing, but I think I know people pretty well. I need to interview Catherine De Beers.’
‘Don’t you think you should wait for Hayes?’ the telephonist asked.
‘He’ll laugh off my worries.’
‘You’ve been right about everything in this case so far. That fellow, Nkomo, might have been at the gallows by now if you hadn’t persisted. Hayes thought it was an open-and-shut case once I took the tip-off call.’
Pip suddenly thought of something else she’d forgotten to follow up. ‘You took the call from the person who gave us Nkomo, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, it was on my shift.’
‘I never asked anyone about that call. Who was it from?’
‘It was anonymous.’
‘Yes, but from a man or a woman?’
‘A woman. White, by the sound of her. Said she’d heard about the murder and that she’d seen a blonde-haired girl getting into a car driven by Nkomo.’
‘You didn’t ask how she knew Nkomo, or if she knew who the woman was?’
‘She rang off before I had a chance.’
‘We need to get that bulletin out about Catherine De Beers, Shirley. She’s not in Salisbury, where she said she was going to be. She told me she had made a hotel booking, but she hasn’t shown up there and they have no record of her reservation.’
‘You think that she . . . ?’
‘I honestly don’t know what to think, Shirley, and that’s the truth. It seems that every time we uncover something in this case, or think we’ve got the right suspect, it all takes a new turn. Paul Bryant’s still a suspect, but there are a whole lot of new questions I need to ask him about Catherine De Beers.’
Bryant’s head banged against the sidewall of the bakkie’s tray as the vehicle rounded a corner. He blinked.
‘Ah, back from the land of nod?’ Hayes said. ‘Perhaps we can resume our discussion.’
Bryant’s head still throbbed and his body ached all over, bu
t his vision wasn’t swimming like before. He blinked and saw purple jacaranda blossoms whizzing past over his head. He lifted his torso a little and saw whitewashed houses rusty with red dust. An African woman with mealie bags piled high on her head turned to watch the police truck. They were in the outskirts of Bulawayo. ‘Hayes, listen to me . . .’
The policeman lashed out with his foot and delivered a short, sharp kick to Bryant’s ribs. ‘Sergeant Hayes!’
Bryant gasped with pain, but controlled his anger and said: ‘I think there is going to be an attack on Kumalo air base. Possibly today and —’
‘Bloody hell. You Australians won’t see sense, will you. Keep your fairy stories for the court, Bryant. You won’t fool me. You’re going straight to the cells and nowhere else. As I said to you before you nodded off, a confession’ll do you the world of good right now.’
Bryant sat up a little. He’d had enough of being civil to this oaf. ‘For Christ’s sake, shut your fat fucking mouth and listen to me! Take me to Kumalo now, and —’
Hayes was sitting at the far end of the truck. ‘Guilty or innocent, no one speaks to a policeman that way.’ He grabbed the side of the bakkie’s tray and lashed out with a violent kick.
Bryant knew his words would goad the policeman to reckless action. He saw the kick coming long before Hayes stood up. He brought back both legs, bending at the knee, and then met Hayes’ kick with a two-footed riposte that caught the Rhodesian in the shin and sent him toppling backwards.
‘Stop it!’ Pembroke screamed. He fished in the bottom of the truck for his rifle.
Bryant rolled onto his side and was able to get onto his knees. He stood and stepped over the younger policeman. Hayes had landed on his bottom, on the edge of the sidewall of the pick-up, and he flailed about with his hands to find a grip as the truck went around a corner. Bryant saw his moment. He lunged towards the policeman and grabbed hold of the webbing belt that pinched the man’s corpulent waist. Hayes windmilled his arms and toppled over backwards. Only Bryant’s hand on his belt stopped him from landing headfirst on the roadway. Bryant hauled the fat man upright again and, as Hayes’ face reappeared, Bryant smashed his forehead into the bridge of the policeman’s nose. For Bryant it was just one more small dose of pain in a morning full of agony, but Hayes yelped like a kicked dog. Tears and blood streamed down his face. Bryant let go of the belt and dropped the policeman back on the truck’s floor. As Hayes moved his hands to his shattered nose, Bryant deftly undid the flap on the other man’s holster and drew out his revolver.
‘Drop it,’ Bryant ordered Pembroke, who had finally managed to find his rifle. The constable had been too slow to bring his weapon to bear, and Bryant pointed Hayes’ pistol at him. ‘I mean it. I don’t want to kill you, mate, but, God help me, I’ll put a round in your leg to slow you down. There’s too much at stake.’
‘It’s all right. I hear you,’ Pembroke said.
Bryant looked around. People on the street were taking notice. A man in a suit was pointing at him and calling something out. It would only be a matter of time before someone flagged the truck down and alerted the driver to what was going on.
‘Keys,’ Bryant barked, holding up his manacled wrists to Pembroke. ‘Stay where you are, fatso,’ he said to Hayes, menacing him with the revolver. Hayes cowered in the rear of the truck, his hands covering his broken nose.
‘You won’t get far,’ Pembroke said defiantly.
‘Cut the dramatics, pal, and unlock these cuffs. I don’t want to get far, you bloody fool, just back to Kumalo to warn them.’
‘Warn them about what?’ Pembroke asked as he fished a handcuff key from his pocket and leaned forward to free Bryant’s wrists.
‘I don’t even want to imagine,’ Bryant said. ‘Look, mate, if you see Pip Lovejoy, tell her to meet me at Kumalo. If nothing happens I’ll turn myself in again. But, for the record, I didn’t kill Felicity Langham. I’ve got an idea who did, though.’
‘Who?’
‘Get Lovejoy. I don’t have time to explain it all to you. Just out of interest, tell me why you blokes decided to arrest me?’
Pembroke bit his lip. Hayes had explained the chain of events that had led to Bryant becoming a suspect.
‘Haven’t got all day, mate. You want the bullet in the leg or the arm? Your choice.’
Pembroke relented. ‘You bought petrol from the man who was the original suspect.’
‘Petrol?’
‘A man called Nkomo. Black marketeer. You left Felicity Langham’s personal things in Nkomo’s car, it was a set-up.’
Bryant thought about it for a moment and everything fell into place. ‘You’re right about one thing. It was the set-up of the century’. He looked around him. They were on the main street. The game would be up soon. ‘Lie on the floor, face down. And help Hayes do the same thing. Go on, before I shoot you for real.’ Pembroke complied.
Bryant shifted to the front of the truck and rapped on the roof of the cab. The driver slowed and checked his mirror. As he did, Bryant leaned around the side and thrust the pistol through the window until the muzzle was planted in the side of the man’s head. ‘Pull over!’
The man did as he was ordered. Bryant hopped out of the truck and ordered all three policemen to get out. He motioned for them to move away from the vehicle towards a telegraph pole. ‘Ring-a-rosie time,’ he said to Pembroke. ‘Get your cuffs out and join yourselves together, around the pole.’
‘You’re making it worse for yourself,’ the young policeman said. Hayes just shook his head as Pembroke snapped the handcuff on his wrist and then the driver’s.
‘It’ll be a hell of a lot worse for a lot more people if I let you take me in,’ Bryant said. ‘Keys. All of you. Someone’ll find you soon enough. It’s a busy town.’
Bryant placed the .303 rifle in the back of the pick-up, climbed in the cab and started the engine. He rammed the truck into gear and the tyres squealed as he did a U-turn. He took a series of turns at speed until he was on the Salisbury Road, heading out of town. He floored the accelerator, pushing the speedometer up to sixty miles an hour. The engine and gearbox whined in protest.
The flat, dull landscape whizzed by. A shadow overtook him and he looked up through the windscreen. It was a twin-engine Oxford trainer, on a short final approach to Kumalo. He was almost there. He checked his watch. It was ten. The wings parade would start in two hours and Prime Minister Huggins would arrive at the base at eleven, in advance of Jan Smuts. He would have to convince Rogers to cancel the parade, send the Rhodesian PM packing and divert Smuts’ aircraft to another airfield. There would be time for explanations later. If he were wrong he’d either end up in gaol or stripped of his rank. The wheels skidded as he braked and turned left up the drive to the main gate. An askari called something into the guardroom, then came smartly to attention as Bryant rolled to a stop. He kept the engine running.
Flight Sergeant Henderson stepped from the guardroom and marched smartly to the boom gate. Always immaculately turned out, Henderson looked as if he had stepped from the pages of the air force drill manual today. His uniform was starched as stiff as cardboard, the toe caps of his boots shone like black glass, and the pistol belt and holster at his waist were so white they almost hurt Bryant’s eyes. No doubt the extra doses of spit and polish were for the benefit of the visiting brass. ‘Call the Wingco and tell him I’m on my way, Henderson,’ Bryant ordered.
‘Morning, sir. Expected you in the company of a couple of coppers, we did,’ Henderson said as he approached the truck. He made no move to carry out his orders. ‘I see you’ve got yourself a police vehicle, though.’
‘All a mistake. Open the boom gate, Flight,’ Bryant said. He gripped the steering wheel with one hand so hard that it hurt.
Bryant saw Henderson was looking at the Webley revolver on the seat next to him.
Henderson slowly reached for his own holster and began to unbutton it. ‘Perhaps you’d like to wait in the guardroom, Mr Bryant, and we’ll tele
phone him from there.’
‘I gave you an order, damn it. Open that fucking boom gate!’
Henderson had his hand on the grip of his pistol now. ‘Be so kind as to get out of the vehicle, sir.’ The African askari was edging closer to the vehicle, from the other side. ‘Open the door for Squadron Leader Bryant, Sixpence.’
Bryant floored the accelerator and dropped the clutch. The rear wheels of the police truck spun on the concrete and smoke poured from the burning rubber as they struggled to find purchase. The rear of the vehicle slid from side to side, and then suddenly leaped forward and smashed through the freshly repainted red-and-white-striped boom, shattering the timber. He tore up the base’s main road, leaving black skid marks and running askaris in his wake. Somewhere behind him an alarm bell started to ring.
He sped past the orderly room and came to a screeching halt outside Wing Commander Rogers’ office. A telephone rang inside. The guardroom had called ahead of him. Pistol in hand, he bounded up the stairs and through the flyscreen door. An NCO dropped a full cup of tea when he saw the wide-eyed, gun-toting Australian.
‘Bryant!’ Wing Commander Rogers said as he stepped from his office. ‘Put the gun down, man,’ he said, holding empty hands up to the wounded flyer.
‘Sir, you’ve got to call off the parade. An attack is about to take place.’
‘Yes, yes, er . . . Paul. Put the gun down and we’ll talk about it.’
‘What?’ Bryant looked at the pistol in his hand, only half aware he was still holding it.
He lifted it higher and Rogers screamed, ‘No!’
‘Sir, I’m not here to hurt anyone.’
‘Drop the gun, then, Bryant.’
He let his hand drop to his side, but he would not surrender the weapon until he had convinced them all he was not insane or a murderer. ‘Sir, I’ve found Smythe’s missing kite . . . I mean, I know what happened to it.’
‘Put the gun down, Paul, and you can tell me all about it. Now, what’s this about an attack?’