“Got the documents with you?” interrupted Kramer.
“Fingerprints still has them,” explained Gait, turning his scrap of paper over. “Let me see.… Ja, the passport is brand new, the driving license has no endorsements, and the letter was from someone signing himself ‘Timmy,’ who talks about his seventh birthday. Nothing much for you there, I’m afraid.”
“Ah! But who was it addressed to?” asked Colonel Muller.
“To ‘Gramps,’ Colonel.”
“No, man! I mean was it still in its envelope?”
“Er, yes of course.… It was addressed to Mr. E. J. Hookham, care of 52 Armstrong Avenue, Morninghill, Trekkersburg, Natal.”
“I thought so!” called Colonel Muller, smugly. “Now we have established how the killer knew where to return the car!”
Gait looked faintly surprised. “Or he could have taken the address from the cover of the Rover’s servicing booklet in the glove compartment,” he said. “There was never anything very complicated about that. The real puzzle is why did he return the vehicle? Was it to gain those ten or twelve hours before anyone could realize there was something seriously wrong? Was that why he stuck a match in the boot lock, hoping to cause a further delay?”
“Giving himself time to cover his tracks, hey?” said Colonel Muller.
“And, as I’ve pointed out before,” Kramer remarked, “by bringing the car back to Square One, we have been left with no idea of where this murder took place.”
“Excellent,” murmured Gait appreciatively, moistening his thin lips. “There’s definitely cunning at work in all this.”
“Could the soil samples help us here?” asked Colonel Muller.
“Could do, sir. Without microscopic examination though—”
“Then I won’t keep you from your invaluable work any longer, hey, Gait?” cut in Colonel Muller, using his smoothy’s voice. “And don’t worry, I’ll be telling your boss what a good job you’ve done on this so far!”
“It was the nearest sports shop to here,” Gait whispered modestly. “Couldn’t have been easier.”
Kramer felt a light touch on his shoulder, and saw Gait wander from the room with a long blonde hair, scrutinizing it thoughtfully.
“So we’ve got another little lead, Tromp!”
“Sir?”
“The Master Skip, man!”
“Ignoring the possibility it was bought in some other place—Cape Town, Durban, Jo’burg or Magaliesbergfonteinpoort West—ja, I suppose that’s true.”
“No, no!” replied Colonel Muller, snapping his pencil point. “Forget that side of it! What this particular Master Skip suggests to me is evidence of a quick improvisation. Nobody would deliberately spoil a nice, expensive skipping rope like that except in a dire emergency, when they had no other piece of rope at hand. In other words, it wouldn’t be something you’d plan to do, would it? I can see him grabbing up the Master Skip, cutting off the handles in case they give him away—or maybe he did that afterwards—and then quickly binding Hookham up with it. Where are those handles, hey? Did he throw them out? Did he hide them? Did he remember to do anything with them? Or are they still lying somewhere?”
“Good point,” said Kramer.
“Find those handles and we have found our man!” Colonel Muller went on, getting a little carried away. “Is it too late to get this in tonight’s paper?”
“The final edition is already on its way up in the van from Durb’s, Colonel.”
“Ach, well, it can go with the rest of the stuff in the Gazette tomorrow morning. Let me see, we’re putting in the new description of the suspect, repeating the appeal to find this gun, and—er, what was the other thing? I must write this down.”
“We’re also asking if anybody heard four shots last night,” Kramer reminded him. “No police station in the whole divisional area had any reports of gunfire from the public, they tell me. The trouble is that people just don’t notice bangs if they think they know the reason: it’s the cops, they say to the kids, or it’s a backfire—or, out in the country, it’s poachers on their neighbors’ land again. Somebody killing a snake.”
“Four shots in a row might produce something though, Tromp. And talking of shots, how is that list of licensed thirty-two owners coming along? The one Records gave you on Monday?”
“It proved useless, sir—that’s why I had Meerkat Marais in today.”
“Useless?”
“Uniform and me have already been through it, and apart from five—who didn’t even know their guns were gone till we approached them—the rest were negative. Neither does it cover more than this area, arms illegally held, war souvenirs and so on, and—”
“Okay, man, okay, I’ve got the picture. I must say I’m glad to hear you’re delegating for once! This isn’t a case for a one-man band, and as you know, my main criticism of you is that you work entirely on your own too often.”
Kramer nearly said something then didn’t.
“Well, Lieutenant, what comes next?” asked Colonel Muller, rising from behind his desk. “If you’re wanting to get going with the Digby-Smiths, I don’t mind doing some of the delegating myself. I’ll send some men out to do the house-to-house enquiries in and around Armstrong Avenue, just in case someone else was up at one o’clock and saw how the killer made his escape from there.”
“Thanks, sir.”
“And what about an armed guard for Bradshaw?” Kramer hesitated.
“Ach, don’t tell me you hadn’t thought of that! If there is this pattern you feel so sure about, and Bradshaw is a part of it, then surely he is in danger of being attacked once again?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Kramer, “Mrs. Bradshaw did ask about police protection, but I.…”
Colonel Muller wagged a stern finger. “Up to your old tricks, hey? You’re half-hoping this bastard will have another go at him, only this time he’ll leave a better set of clues behind?”
“Perhaps if it could be a discreet guard, sir, over on the other side of the road maybe, then—”
“No, Tromp, you can’t have your cake and eat it, man! Now you’ve finally talked me into believing you may have a hunch in this matter, and that you have found the start of some pattern, however nebulous, then you must accept the consequences of that.”
“Okay, sir.”
“And there’s one other thing I want to warn you about.”
“Sir?”
“I don’t want you to do anything but chase this pattern, hey? We’ve got the rope and those bullets and what Forensic is going to be able to tell us, which means—”
“They’ll all take time, Colonel,” Kramer pointed out. “If I can crack this fast another way, then it’s possible I’ll stop someone else being done in—this pattern could include more than two people, you know.”
Colonel Muller sighed. “Ja,” he said, “I know.”
Once Zondi had been brought up to date with what had been said in the divisional commandant’s office, Kramer itched to begin the investigation afresh. He rang Trekkersburg General Hospital, and was informed that Mrs. Digby-Smith had long since been treated and discharged. Pleased to have saved himself a wasted journey, and the loss of time that would have involved, he then dialed the Digby-Smiths’ home number to warn of his imminent arrival. His face fell when the cook answered and said that her mistress was upstairs in bed with the curtains drawn, while her master had gone out in his car with the two dogs, giving her no idea of his destination. Nobody had told her to postpone dinner, however, so she was expecting him back by no later than half past six.
“Six-thirty? Then tell your boss I’ll be there on the dot,” said Kramer, and turned to Zondi as he replaced the receiver. Funny bloke! He’s gone waltzing off somewhere and left his old woman alone in that state. How’s the time?”
“Just after five, boss.”
“Five? Jesus, what am I going to do in the meanwhile? I thought it was much later.”
Zondi shrugged. “Perhaps the Lieutenant could take a l
ook at the Aquarius gym.”
“And see if they’ve still got their Master Skip? Hell, you’re as bad as the Colonel, man.”
“What if theirs has been stolen?” asked Zondi.
“Fat chance!”
“What if they can tell you who owns such a thing?”
“That’s enough, I’ll go,” said Kramer, picking up his jacket. “And you? Are you coming?”
Zondi waved the hacksaw blade used in the murder at Mama Bhengu’s whorehouse. “I think there are some enquiries I must make in Peacevale, boss.”
“Oh ja? Well, if you want a lift later on, I’ll pick you up at the usual place, usual time, unless I get sidetracked.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant.”
Left alone at his small, plain table and stool in the corner, Zondi gazed at the wall for some time, nagged by the gravest of doubts. It worried him that the Lieutenant had become suddenly so single-minded about the case, instead of leaving his options open, and he couldn’t help thinking of the times when just such an approach had repaid stubbornness with disaster. Then he stood up, checked his gun, and went on his way too.
8
STILL TREMBLING WITH rage and indignation, despite several hours of hard drinking with a solicitous cronie, Meerkat Marais made his way back to his flat above a dry-cleaning depot on the wrong side of town. It wasn’t much of a place, and he didn’t spend a lot of time in it—for the last eight days, until rudely awakened by that bastard Kramer, he had been sleeping with a nympho from the telephone exchange—but it was home of a sort. A bedroom, lounge, bathroom and kitchen he could call his own, and somewhere among the general chaos was a clean pair of trousers. He decided against going in through the shop, and took the fire-escape stairs instead, which led up from an empty lot on the far side of the building.
After eight days of fending for itself, Dynamite, his ginger tom with a white tail, was pleased to see him. “Prooouw!” it said, jumping down from the kitchen window-sill.
Meerkat booted Dynamite aside and prodded the lock with his Yale key. He never got to turn it, for the door simply swung inwards, and Dynamite darted in ahead of him.
“Careful!” hissed Meerkat, and felt instantly rather foolish.
Then he followed in Dynamite’s wake, treading every bit as softly, and snatched up a bread knife from the kitchen table before putting his nose into any of the other rooms. He was quite certain he’d not left the door unlatched like that.
Stealthily, he crept from the kitchen to the bathroom to the lounge and into the bedroom, but found no intruders present. He flung the bread knife into the bedroom door, and looked about him, trying to establish whether anything had been disturbed. His clothes were all over the floor, drawers were hanging out, a glass lay smashed on the dressing table, and somebody had scrawled on a wall in lipstick, Up yours, Marais!; it was all, in fact, very much as he’d left it.
“Proooouw!” said Dynamite, turning and making a dash for the fridge.
Meerkat took a closer look at the rumpled gray sheets on his divan, and found some semen stains he didn’t remember making. Of course, he said to himself, that was it: his landlord, Fat Solly Wynberg, king of the premature ejaculation, had been bringing girls up from the shop again, as per their agreement. Probably the skinny brunette with boobs like ice-cream cones, who’d reduced him to such a shambles that he’d just managed to stumble out, forgetting to pull the door tight shut behind him. All the same, Meerkat decided, it would be as well to check on his merchandise, and then to get rid of it pretty damn pronto.
Dynamite was waiting expectantly at the fridge door. “Prrrrouw!” said Dynamite, leaning ecstatically against his ankles. “Miaow?”
“Here, dammit!” snapped Meerkat, scooping out a curl of ancient luncheon meat, and then, very casually, he opened the ice compartment at the top. “Jeeeeeeesus!” The second ice-cube tray, which should have contained a .32 five-shot Smith & Wesson revolver, was gone. “I’ve been done, Dynamite! Bloody burgled, hey?”
Dynamite paused, eyeing Meerkat warily because of the soft voice he was using, and prudently dragged the luncheon meat out of reach beneath the sink unit.
“Bloody burgled.…” muttered Meerkat, stunned and hardly able to comprehend what this meant, although the act itself had been second nature to him since the age of nine. “But who would dare do such a thing to me, Dyna? How many were there? Where did they come from?”
The steady green eyes gave nothing away.
“Kids? Those kids from the flats opposite?” It was unthinkable that anyone aware of Meerkat’s violent reputation would attempt such an outrage. “Ja, it was them, am I right? Are you in the mood for some nice fresh meat? Because when I’m finished with those little.…”
Not a whisker twitched.
“But kids would have fed you from here, wouldn’t they? And what kids would ever think to look in a fridge? It couldn’t have been kids!—never in a million years. This was a real pro, hey, Dynamite?”
A slow blink.
“Doesn’t he know what I’ll do to him?”
Another slow blink.
“Kramer!” said Meerkat, grabbing at a roast chicken wrapped in silver foil. “So this is where that psychopathic dog turd got to while I had to sit all—” But even as he leapt to this inspired conclusion, he knew that the logic didn’t follow right the way through.
It wasn’t simply that he was at home and a free man, instead of in Boomplaas Street lock-up having his ribs kicked in; it was also the fact that his personal firearm, a 9 mm Walther PPK semiautomatic pistol, just like that cocky black shit Zondi carried, fell out of the roast chicken at the very first shake.
Trembling violently, now with almost ungovernable fury and in total confusion, Meerkat staggered through to his little gold-painted bar in the lounge, frantic for a stiff drink. Why anyone would want the .32 with its faulty barrel and doubtful ammunition, when they could just as easily have taken the super-efficient PPK—or both!—was more than he could imagine. Then he noticed something else.
The top was off the Johnny Walker bottle, its level had dropped at least three inches, and right beside it stood two tumblers with heeltaps of whisky in them. What was worse, he could plainly see greasy fingerprints on the tumblers gilded by a glint of fading sunlight coming in off the roof of a dry-cleaning van parked round the back. Fingerprints that mocked him, jeered and taunted him, egged him on to call in the cops, just as any other outraged citizen would do in a similar predicament.
With a snarl, Meerkat Marais dashed the tumblers to the floor, grabbed the bottle of Scotch by the neck, and took it through with him into the kitchen, there to calm himself down and plan his terrible revenge.
9
A SHREWD BLACK beggar, with wasted limbs and his head twisted round to face the wrong way, lay sprawled at the entrance to the lane leading to the Aquarius Health and Fitness Center. There was nothing quite like a heightened sense of physical well-being, he’d discovered, for making passing whites feel compelled to shower him with coppers.
“God blessing you, my baasie, God blessing you,” he chanted as Kramer approached, but didn’t put too much into it as they usually paid better on their way out. “God bring you much happiness, my baasie.…”
“How’s it, Backchat?” grunted Kramer, pausing.
“Hau! Is it you, Lieutenant?”
“You’re not blind this week as well, are you?”
Backchat had a good cackle over that. “And what does the Lieutenant come seeking today?” he said.
“Seen any giants lately?”
“Four,” replied Backchat promptly, grinning up at him.
“You know what a giant is?”
“Ungasi, Lieutenant, but I do remember you telling me that the police pay well for any information!”
Kramer laughed and poked the old rogue with his foot. “Reliable information, hey? A giant in this case is one hell of a big bloke with arms like bloody tree-trunks. Don’t tell me you’ve sat here on your bum all day and you haven’t
a thing to tell me.”
“Maybe.”
“Such as?”
“There is a good price offered for the man who can find a volovolo size number thirty-two.”
“Oh ja? When did you hear this?”
“Monday, Lieutenant.”
“Who from?”
“The talk was all around.”
“And who’s doing the offering?”
“Ungasi, Lieutenant, but maybe I can find out.”
Kramer stood undecided for a moment. This could be something or nothing; it was difficult to tell. Backchat could simply have picked up a garbled story based on the efforts Zondi and he had been making over the last six days to trace the firearm used on Bradshaw. Yes, he must have done because, setting aside the criminal involvement aspect, the time factor wasn’t right.
“Which do you mean, Backchat,” he asked as a double-check on this, “Monday two days ago, or the Monday before that?”
“Hau, this Monday of this week, Lieutenant—and the news was very fresh.”
“Ja, it’s okay, I know about that,” said Kramer, dropping some silver into the collecting tin. “But you keep your eyes open for a giant, you hear me?”
“God blessing you, Lieutenant!” chuckled Backchat, and quickly emptied out the tin behind his chest.
Kramer strode on up the lane. The Aquarius Health and Fitness Center looked nothing too special from the outside, which was contrary to what he had been led to expect: it was just a long stretch of whitewashed brick wall punctuated by little windows like portholes and by the backs of three large air-conditioners, struggling hard to remove the smell of rich man’s sweat. He pushed open the big black wooden door, in which someone had wasted a great number of huge nails to no obvious effect, and found the reception area equally disappointing. For a start, it was a large room with very little in it, and what there was seemed very makeshift and cheap. The walls were covered in planks that nobody had bothered to paint, the floor was tiled in cork in the manner of an old-fashioned bathroom, and the furniture had been made out of chrome tubing that looked suspiciously like secondhand motor-bike exhausts, necessitating some very uncomfortable-seeming designs. As for the ceiling, it was stuck over with sacking of all things, and the pictures almost defied description, having no doubt been splattered together by somebody’s two-year-old. He, for one, would definitely ask for his money back.
The Blood of an Englishman Page 8