Ten Year Stretch

by Martin Edwards

  But Willemse wasn’t born yesterday. ‘We’ll do it now. Get in the car.’ There’s an anger in his voice that I don’t understand. Like I insulted him. I don’t like it one bit.

  And I have to get rid of that ring. It seems to be weighing down my pants.

  I asked Freddie to watch my trolley, but that was the day gone. After I’d given the statement, and they’d taken pictures and fingerprints, they let me go but I knew I was in trouble. I was pretty sure that between the plastic bags and the newspaper I’d used to wipe my hands, they were going to match my prints. I wish I’d watched more CSI.

  Freddie had my trolley safe inside the gate and had even collected some bits of plastic and bottles for me. I’m wondering how Willemse knew me, but Freddie has the answer to that.

  ‘He asked me who looks through the bins, so I told him you and Enoch come every week.’

  Not like Freddie to be so chatty. He’s really shy with strangers. ‘You know this guy?’

  ‘He’s here sometimes.’

  For a moment, I don’t get it. ‘You mean even before the murder?’

  Freddie nods.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Miss Joubert. He visits there sometimes.’

  After a while I close my mouth because it looks funny open, and Freddie’s starting to grin. But my mind is really working on this now.

  ‘He was here Wednesday a week ago?’

  Freddie thinks for a bit and shakes his head. ‘I’m not so good remembering, Mr Malele.’

  ‘He comes during the day or at night?’

  Freddie shrugs. ‘Sometimes.’

  I’m thinking about the ring, and now I’m sure it’s a man’s ring. And I’m thinking that a wedding ring is tight and doesn’t slip off that easily. But maybe a man will take it off if he’s visiting a woman. A woman who’s not his wife.

  ‘The chairman was just around, Mr Malele. He said I was doing a really nice job with the garden. He took me round to his own house and I planted some things for him there. He was very happy.’ Freddie gives me that special smile of his.

  Right away I call Enoch and tell him the whole story. He’s not happy.

  ‘You been following what the news says? The police aren’t sure this is the Beheader at all. No Koran verse. They think it could be a copycat.’

  This is supposed to make me feel better? Shit.

  ‘I’m thinking about the cop, Enoch. He knows her. Maybe he was with her that night, maybe she was trying to blackmail him. Who knows? She wasn’t a nice person.’

  Enoch says nothing for so long, I wonder if I’ve lost the signal. ‘Really? A cop? I don’t know. But if it’s not the Beheader, they need another killer, and your prints and DNA and stuff are all over.’ Some more silence. ‘I’ve got family at home in Zululand. I’m going to head down there. Do me a favour. Take my number off your phone.’

  That’s it. Cuts me off. Doesn’t even say good-bye.

  I’m left looking at my phone and wondering what I do next.

  I decide I’d better come clean. Keeping out of trouble is one thing, being a murder suspect is something else altogether. And I’m thinking that maybe I’m getting too worked up about the Willemse story. So, he knew Miss Joubert. So, he visited her. Maybe he even slept with her. Lots of guys cheat on their wives. That doesn’t make them murderers, does it? Although I’m guessing Willemse’s boss would be pretty unhappy if he knew about it.

  So, I go back to Fairlands Police Station, and tell them I want to add to my statement, and they take me in to Willemse. He looks at me like I’m something straight out of one of the bins I go through, but he digs out my statement from his drawer and shoves it over his desk to me.

  ‘Okay, you going to tell me the truth this time?’

  But I don’t say anything. I’m looking at his hands resting on top of my statement. He’s got big hands, big hands and thick fingers. And the ring finger of his left hand has a deep mark running round it, like a ring was there and it was too tight.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I changed my mind,’ I say. ‘It’s not really that important.’ I get up to go, but he’s much too quick for me. He looks pretty bulky blocking his office door.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere, Malele. Sit down!’

  He grabs my arm and yanks me back to his desk. I’m starting to sweat, and I’m not feeling good at all. How am I going to get out of this? But right then I get a bit lucky. The door opens, and a black man in a smart uniform comes in. I wonder if I can sneak out past him, but I don’t fancy my chances of getting very far.

  ‘This the suspect?’ says the new guy, looking at me. ‘I told you I wanted to be in on this one.’

  ‘He just came in voluntarily, sir.’

  I’m adding this up very quickly. I’m a suspect, and I was lucky I came in myself or otherwise Willemse would’ve been out looking for me. I might just’ve had an accident ‘resisting arrest.’ Also, Willemse called the new guy ‘sir,’ so maybe I’ve got a chance.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ I say to new guy, ‘I do have important information, sir. I’d be happy to make a full statement. To you, sir.’

  New guy gives me another look and turns back to Willemse. ‘Bring him to the interview room. We’ll talk to him there.’

  Willemse says, ‘Yes, Colonel,’ but he doesn’t look pleased at all. I let out my breath.

  It wasn’t quite what I wanted. I didn’t want to be talking in front of Willemse, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  So, I tell them what really happened that Thursday morning. Every single thing, except for the ring and Enoch. Why get him into the same mess I’m in?

  Willemse glares at me. ‘You pig! That’s exactly the story you’d give us if you had killed her. To explain why your fingerprints are all over everything.’

  I wait a few seconds, then I ask him if he lost his wedding ring. He glances at his left hand and tells me to shut up, but the colonel wants to know why I asked.

  So, I tell them Freddie’s story—he’ll also be for it, I guess, and I feel bad about that, but I’m getting desperate now. Willemse tries to interrupt but the colonel shuts him up with one hand wave. When I’m finished, they both look like they’re going to explode. I hope I’m far away when it happens. But when the colonel speaks, it’s to Willemse and real soft. Like a snake.

  ‘Is this true?’

  ‘Well, yes, sir. I visited the lady a few times, but—’

  ‘And the wedding ring?’

  ‘Yes, I must have lost it. Probably at home somewhere.’

  So, I play my last card. I fish the ring out of my pocket and put it on the table. ‘I found it.’

  The whole thing is almost worth it just to see Willemse’s face. Almost.

  ‘Is that it?’ the colonel asks Willemse.

  Willemse doesn’t answer right away. ‘It could be. Where the hell did you steal it from you little—?’ Again, the colonel shuts him up. He picks up the ring and looks at it carefully. ‘The hair’s tied to it,’ he said Shit, I never looked that closely.

  ‘Where did you find this?’

  ‘It was in her hair. It must’ve got tangled up in it. I thought it was hers, and she didn’t need it no more.’

  I guess that wasn’t the right thing to say. The explosion took place, and I’d been right to hope that I’d be far away, but I wasn’t. It was three days before they let me go, and they’re still holding charges of stealing evidence and lying to the police over my head. They found a lot of fingerprints in the apartment but not mine, and no one could suggest how I’d get through the security. Then, I had no motive. Break in and kill someone for a ring I didn’t even know was there? And Miriam stuck by me. I was with her all that night.

  I didn’t see Willemse again after that interview with the colonel, but when I leave, another coloured policeman grabs me and pushes me against a wall. Hard. />
  ‘Captain Willemse’s been suspended you filthy skelm, because of you. He’s got a wife, and he was with her the whole night. He’s worth fifty of you, and a lot of us feel that way. If anything bad happens to the captain, you’d better be watching your back. All the time.’

  To drive home the point, he knees me in the balls and leaves me collapsed on the ground. So much for being a good citizen and telling the truth. As I limp off, I console myself by wondering if Mrs Willemse will stick to her story once she hears about where her husband left his wedding ring, and why he took it off in the first place.

  The next Thursday I make a point of chatting to Freddie. I’m guessing he’s also had a pretty tough time. All thanks to me.

  I find him at the outside tap washing a panga, too heavy for a garden tool—more like what you’d use for cutting sugar cane.

  ‘Hello, Freddie. You okay?’

  He looks up and nods. ‘Hello, Mr Malele. I’m fine. The chairman likes me. And Miss Joubert is gone. My garden is really happy now.’ He gives me the big smile.

  ‘Police didn’t give you a hard time?’

  He shakes his head slowly. ‘They had lots of questions. About you. About Mr Willemse. I just told them everything true, if I remembered it. And they wanted to know who else I’ve seen here. I told them about lots of people. Keep them really busy, I guess.’ He chuckles. ‘They asked me about why my fingerprints were inside Miss Joubert’s unit. I told them I help Cynthia—she’s Miss Joubert’s maid—with windows and stuff when I’m not busy.’ He nods a few times. ‘That’s just what I said. I help with windows.’

  I’m thinking about the ring again. Can’t seem to get it out of my mind. How Willemse swore he lost it, how Freddie helps Cynthia clean, and how it was tied into Miss Joubert’s hair.

  ‘Freddie,’ I ask before I can stop myself, ‘What were you doing that night?’

  He frowns, and it’s a few moments before he replies. ‘They also wanted to know if I let anyone through the gate that night. I told them that I’m not so good at remembering things. But maybe I could remember someone, Mr Malele. Maybe I could remember you.’ He’s not smiling anymore. ‘Got to get back to the tools now. Really important to keep your garden tools clean and sharp, you know that, Mr Malele.’

  The panga’s all covered in soil. It looks like he’s been using it to dig a hole or like it’s been buried. What the hell does he need a panga for, anyway? He never lets a weed grow to more than a centimetre high.

  As he washes it, the water starts to run off a bit pink.

  I’m thinking about Freddie and his garden and his panga. I’m thinking about Willemse and those coloured policemen and their fists. I’m thinking about Enoch in Zululand, and how I still have his number—I never took it off my phone. I’m thinking how it’s nice and warm down there in Zululand. Miriam hates the cold, and the winter’s coming on.

  The Five-Letter Word

  Andrew Taylor

  It was the old trick with the weedkiller.

  ‘Hooligans,’ went on Mrs Paynton, breathing heavily. ‘Teddy Boys. It’s all of a piece.’

  She had a quiet voice, rather monotonous but not unpleasant, with a touch of Yorkshire in it. Richard Thornhill had to stoop towards her to catch what she was saying.

  ‘This sort of thing never happened before the war. My husband used to say that since the Labour government ruined everything, it’s become a case of spare the rod and spoil the child.’

  They were standing on the paved area outside the French windows. Chief Inspector Richard Thornhill let his eyes travel down the sunlit lawn, past the circular rose bed to the offending word. The parched brown capitals were set off by the vivid green of the grass. Following a week’s drought, it had rained in the night, and the garden looked freshly polished.

  The strokes that made the letters were on average three or four inches broad, though the thickness varied. Whoever had done it had probably used a watering can, and the width of the strokes varied according to the height of its rose from the ground. All in all, though, a neat job.

  ‘That’s all very well,’ Mrs Paynton said with the air of one reaching her peroration, ‘but the rest of us have to live with the consequences. Don’t you agree, Mr Thornhill?’ She bared her teeth at him in a smile and added, ‘Or should I call you Inspector?’

  ‘Whatever you like, Mrs Paynton.’

  Sweat trickled down his neck and slipped under his collar. He was wearing a soft shirt, thank God, and open at the neck. Edith had wanted him to change before he went up to Mrs Paynton’s, or at least to put on a tie, but she hadn’t been in a position to exert too much pressure. It was Sunday morning, and he was off duty. He was doing Edith a favour, and they both knew it.

  ‘Have you any idea who could have been responsible?’ he asked.

  ‘It must be Michael,’ Mrs Paynton said, wrinkling her nose as if the name were an unpleasant bodily function. ‘Who else could it be?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Thornhill said, choosing to take the question literally. ‘Who’s Michael?’

  ‘Mrs Franks’s gardener. Well, not what I’d call a gardener.’ She waved her gloved hand, dismissing Mike’s horticultural skills. ‘I don’t know if he’s actually a Teddy Boy but I wouldn’t be at all surprised. He certainly qualifies as a hooligan in my book.’

  Mrs Paynton was still in the clothes she had worn to church. She was a sturdy woman and the material of her dress pressed tightly against her, imprisoning her body. She tilted her head up to him. Her forehead was damp with perspiration under the brim of her hat. Her face needed powdering.

  ‘He didn’t work for you, then?’ Thornhill asked.

  ‘Only for a short while. Mrs Franks mentioned him, you see. He did a few hours a week for her after Mr Franks died—the heavy pruning, the lawn and so on—and she said he was quite good. So when we moved here in March, he turned up on the doorstep one afternoon and asked if I’d like him to carry on. I said yes—after all, it wasn’t as if he was a complete stranger, and we needed someone to tide us over.’

  ‘But he wasn’t much good?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it. Mrs Franks said he was a good worker, but I’m afraid I can’t agree with her. I made the mistake of asking him to do the wisteria on the back wall. Never again. Anyway, he should have done the winter pruning back in January. Of course Mrs Franks is in her seventies now, and I don’t think her eyesight’s what it was. Nor her memory, come to that, poor lady. And of course it’s not that long since her husband died, and that can shake you up terribly. Don’t get me wrong’ —here Mrs Paynton’s gloved hand patted the well-upholstered spot that, roughly speaking, concealed her heart from the vulgar gaze—‘I know that from experience. When poor George passed away, I thought I’d never recover. But you simply can’t let yourself go when you have a child to consider, can you, particularly when that child has lost her father?’

  Thornhill allowed himself to be swept along, an unregarded twig in the current of Mrs Paynton’s existence. It would please Edith if he stayed a little longer. When his wife had returned from church this morning, clad in the shining armour of her Sunday best, she told him that she had promised Mrs Paynton he’d come and see her at once. Edith wanted to oblige her new acquaintance.

  The Payntons lived near the Jubilee Park at the upper, more expensive end of Victoria Road. The Thornhills lived at the lower end. Edith had mentioned them to her husband on several occasions since they had moved in. She knew for a fact that Mrs Paynton had bought the house outright before they had sold their old house in Bradford. Mother and daughter came to St John’s, and Mrs Paynton had made an impressive donation to the spire restoration fund. Mr Paynton, she gathered, had been something very senior in insurance.

  That was why Edith had volunteered her husband’s services when Mrs Payton mentioned that her lawn had been wilfully damaged while she and her daughter had been away. Edith was
not a snob in the old sense of the word but she was a realist. She had a healthy respect for money.

  ‘It’s disappointing. I can’t pretend it isn’t.’ Mrs Paynton’s hat dipped from side to side as she shook her head in sorrow. ‘You expect this sort of thing in a city—it’s one of the reasons we moved from Bradford. I thought it would be different in Lydmouth. Such a nice little town.’ Her lips formed an inverted U to indicate sadness, a mannerism that might have been charming when she was a girl. ‘But this never happened to us in Yorkshire.’ She stared at the five-letter word. ‘And we had a much larger lawn there.’

  Thornhill absorbed what she was saying but, with a skill born of long necessity, his attention was following a parallel and far more interesting track. This weekend was the beginning of his leave. Seven days of sloth. At this very moment, the deck chair was waiting for him under the apple tree in the garden, with his book and the newspaper on the grass beside it. Edith and the girls would be in the kitchen or the scullery, doing the vegetables. The air would be full of the comfortable odours of roasting potatoes and a slowly cooking brisket of beef. Soon Edith would ask him to pour them both a small sherry, a recent innovation of hers.

  God, he thought, I’m becoming middle-aged, and I like it.

  ‘Does it happen often here?’ Mrs Paynton asked, her voice sharper than before, as if she suspected his attention might be wandering.

  ‘Does what happen?’ he said, taken by surprise. He recovered swiftly. ‘You mean the weedkiller? No, very rarely, since you ask. A friend in the army told me he’d seen it done in the barracks near Chepstow last summer. Someone didn’t like the CO.’ He nodded towards the letters and tried the effect of a smile. ‘That one was rather worse than this.’

  ‘It’s no joking matter, Mr Thornhill. My daughter will be home soon. I really don’t want her seeing this. Surely the police can do something?’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s not much we can do—not in the short term, at any rate.’ Enough was enough, he decided, Edith could expect no more of him. ‘Look, this really isn’t my field, Mrs Paynton—and in fact I’m on leave. But if you let me use your phone, I can ring the station for you and have them send an officer round. He’ll make a note of the details and take it from there.’