“But I’m not!” protested Terblanche. “I don’t ruddy know what’s happening to me—I just watch. Do you know that? I just watch, and see everything happening far outside of me. I knew I should tell you everything when you came yesterday, but that meant I’d have to think properly about what had happened, about what I knew would bloody happen eventually and had tried so hard to prevent. Oh, ja, that writing has been on the wall since the very beginning! But I couldn’t do it, couldn’t talk about her, it was all over. I also knew it had to be him, that Lance must’ve done it, but I couldn’t see how he’d done it. You know what? I even wondered, ja, when I got so angry there beside Kritzinger’s body, whether he’d been party to doing it, only he got caught short somehow—isn’t that terrible?”
“No,” said Kramer, “not really. It’s the way we in the CID think, hey? Maaties would have been proud of you.”
Terblanche gave a surprised laugh.
They traveled north within the hour, taking the Chevrolet. An apparently casual telephone call to Madhlala Game Reserve had established that Lance Gillets was still at the main rest camp. No longer drunk, but sunk in a deep depression, the game warden in charge had said. The doctor was about to pay a visit, and Gillets’ parents were expected at around eleven.
“Oh, shit,” Kramer said suddenly, several very muddy miles beyond Nkosala. “Didn’t someone tell me his pa’s a big-shot lawyer back in Durban?”
Terblanche nodded.
“Then, my friend, we better really step on it, before the bastard starts informing sonny boy of his rights or something.”
“But, Tromp, it’s nearly sixty miles of dirt road from here to there, hey? And we’re already going as fast as—”
“Ach, no, a better idea! I’ll ring and get the local cop shop to pick Gillets up right now and put him on ice for us.”
“But that could be really chucking petrol on the fire! What if we’re wrong? What if—”
“A lawyer ought to know the husband is always the number one suspect in a wife murder, hey? That should make Pa Gillets keep things in perspective, and not—”
“No, Tromp, he’ll be a father first, man! I know I would. There’s really no way around this.”
“Except to go like the bloody wind, hey?”
12
THE FAMILY CARS in line outside the game reserve’s main entrance looked every bit as respectable as their neat and tidy occupants, who gave details of their reservations to a Zulu game guard with a wide, welcoming smile. The Chevrolet joined the line like a drunken bum, hotfoot from the forces of law and order, crashing a PTA meeting: steam hissing from under its bonnet, another hubcap gone, and minus a wing mirror. Terblanche had to roll down his mud-splattered window before the game guard was able to see and recognize him.
“Hau, greetings, baba nkosi!” the game guard said, shedding his frown to snap off a smart salute. “Straight through, suh! Straight through!”
And up went the barrier, which bore a warning that the speed limit within the reserve was 15 mph, and the next sign read CAUTION: RHINO.
“They should get a few more like that for outside the Colonel’s office,” grunted Kramer.
Terblanche chuckled. “Ja, only bigger,” he said. “Well, it isn’t much farther now, so can we have a quick recap? I didn’t, er, quite catch all you were saying on that last stretch …”
Kramer nodded. “We have a murder,” he said. “We have a known hard-case, we have motive, and we have method. All we’re lacking now is the opportunity—not so?”
“Opportunity?”
“To set a crude time bomb ticking. That is our one real problem. According to the cook boy, Moses Khumalo, Gillets left Fynn’s Creek in midmorning, so theoretically it was impossible for him to have used an alarm clock to trigger an explosion that happened more than twelve hours later—which it did.”
“Ja, but he could have sneaked back somehow,” said Terblanche.
“Exactly,” said Kramer. “Which is what we now have to find evidence to prove …”
As Terblanche had predicted, it did not take Kramer long to reach the main rest camp, his progress through that last mile or so of long, dry grass and flat-topped thorn trees being completely uneventful. He found this disappointing, never having been in a game reserve before, and having rather hoped he’d spot at least one species of lumbering brute he wasn’t accustomed to handcuffing.
The main rest camp turned out to be a bit of a letdown, too, being no more than an orderly collection of round, thatched rest huts, empty stockades, rock gardens, and a dozen or so larger cement-block buildings, also with thatched roofs, all set about with the same flat-topped thorn trees. Kramer had once visited a secret detention camp out on the edge of the Kalahari Desert very nearly as boring, but at least there every one of the shuffling inmates had been worth a second look, as opposed to what now confronted him: an asinine assortment of city dwellers, padding about in their shorts with red knees, flip-flop sandals, and garlands of bloody long-lensed cameras, looking like each had a multiple hard-on.
“Park over there where it says RECEPTION,” said Terblanche. “The Parks Board have got Gillets in that hut just behind it.”
“Like so, you mean?” said Kramer, bringing the Chevrolet to a sudden, sliding halt.
“Very nearly,” said Terblanche, opening his eyes again.
Almost immediately, as they climbed out, they were approached by a stocky individual in game ranger’s uniform, who said in English: “Lieutenant Kramer, I presume?”—and smiled for no apparent reason at all, although he could have been trying to make some kind of joke.
The man was so deeply tanned that he was surely, however posh his English accent, in imminent danger of racial reclassification. As for his age, it was difficult to guess, late fifties to sixties, perhaps, but his background was obvious. Only an ex-military type would have known how to angle his Parks Board green beret quite so nonchalantly, while the cut of his khaki uniform suggested he was still using the same coolie tailor who’d kitted him out like a Boy Scout for the Battle of El Alamein.
“Ralph Mansfield, warden, chap in charge,” he said, extending a hand that was like taking a grip on an off-cut of pine. “Excuse fingers!” And he barked a laugh at what had to be a very old joke, intended to make him a bit of a character and to put people, new to amputees missing a set of digits, at their ease.
“Where’s Lance Gillets?” said Kramer.
Mansfield turned and pointed. “He’s in that hut over there, doped to the eyeballs. Still in shock, so the quack said, when he popped in about half an hour ago and gave him something to take. Quite wrong, in my opinion: the sooner the chap sobers up and is made to face what’s happened like a man, the better.”
“Ja, but is he all right to talk to?” asked Terblanche.
“Help yourself, my dear chap! I’ll be over in my office if you need anything, and—oh-oh, look who’s arrived … the Gillets Seniors, to judge by the pinstripes.”
“Then keep the buggers busy for the next ten minutes, okay?” said Kramer.
Lance Gillets was lying under a sheet on the bed in the rest hut, facing the whitewashed wall. It took him a count of six to become aware of the fact he had company, and a lot less to roll over, coming up on his elbows at the same time. “Who the fff—oh, hello, Hans! Good to see you,” he said, not making it sound at all convincing.
Then he turned to gaze at Kramer; a cocky look, superior man views inferior man, the way he had probably been taught to do at private school. You could almost hear his mind putting the ticks against its checklist: cheap, off-the-peg suit; frayed shirt collar; brown tie patterned by blue horseshoes; great, clumping black shoes with rubber soles like tractor tires; a broad, inelegant belt that had cracks in its mock-leather surface and far too big a brass buckle—another bloody Boer, another bloody hairy-back. Or perhaps Gillets had applied some other form of test, Kramer couldn’t be sure, but he did know that the result was the same: he still ended up feeling dangerously like a kaffir
.
So he did his own looking, hard and unwavering. Gillets’ dentist, he concluded, must have bought himself one hell of a swimming pool on the strength of all the correction work he’d done, bringing those exquisite teeth neatly into line and closing the gaps between them. They certainly hadn’t simply grown that way, not from that kind of jawline. And then someone equally artistic must have set the pace for all those who followed him, by sculpting those brown curls into a Rock Hudson haircut that can’t have been cheap either. As for the tanned, smoothy bit in the middle—the straight nose, fine cheekbones, and striking, long-lashed tawny eyes—they helped a lot to complete the first impression he gave, that of undoubted officer material, a jolly good fellow. It was only at a second glance that Lance Gillets looked as unreal as those bloody poofters modeling sweaters in adverts.
“Meet Lieutenant Kramer of the Murder Squad,” said Terblanche, making the introduction with ill-concealed relish. “He’s going to get the one who killed little Annika and see he’s strung up good and high, hey?”
Gillets’ face remained deadpan.
“What’s the matter, man?” asked Terblanche. “Aren’t you pleased?”
“I’m not—not anything,” said Gillets, his Afrikaans so unguttural it bloody minced, and lay back again.
“But don’t you want the murderer caught?” Terblanche persisted, moving closer to him.
“Of course I do—it’s just that I know it won’t make any difference,” retorted Gillets. “Annie’ll still be dead.”
“An-nika,” said Terblanche.
“Dead,” said Gillets.
“Now listen here, hey? You—”
“What will make a difference,” said Gillets, closing his eyes now, “is when I get my own back. I just need time to think, that’s all. Things are so jumbled.”
“Time to think about what?” asked Kramer.
“Who could have done this, you clown!”
“Hey, just a minute!” began Terblanche, very indignant. “You can’t talk to the Lieutenant in that—”
“He can talk how he likes, Hans,” Kramer cut in. “It’s the privilege of every condemned man …”
Gillets showed very little reaction, a slight movement of his hands clasped on his chest beneath the sheet, that was all. “What makes me a condemned man?” he asked.
“That’s obvious,” said Kramer. “Your Land Rover was still parked at Fynn’s Creek, nobody local was aware you’d flown out of there, and so the killer must have thought he had you in his sights as well—only he chose the wrong night for it.”
“Christ, so obvious it hardly needs stating,” sneered Gillets, looking up at him. “By being ‘condemned,’ are you insinuating that this ‘killer’ still has me down for the chop on his shopping list?”
“Uh-huh. Or are you suggesting there could have been a good reason for someone wanting to kill just your lady wife? I believe she did have a bit of a reputa—”
“Don’t talk shit! Of course I’m not! Annie’s never harmed, never hurt anyone! Jesus, she’s dead only because of me, you sodding idiots!”—and as he said this, Gillets grabbed up a tumbler from his bedside locker and hurled it at the opposite wall, sending orange juice and broken glass flying everywhere.
“Ooops,” murmured Kramer, gratified he’d provoked an outburst that gave him some idea of how this spoiled, overgrown brat could behave. Then he went on to picture him in a tantrum, turning like a deadly three-year-old on the woman who threatened his career. “Anyway, as I was saying, you must be on the killer’s list still. Would you like police protection? It could happen at any time.”
Gillets gave an amused snort. “Crap. He’s a total bloody coward or he wouldn’t have used dynamite—he’ll keep well clear for a bit. Long enough, anyway, for …”
“For you to do your thinking?”
“There can’t be many bastards who hate me as much as that.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure—” began Terblanche, before Kramer’s hard nudge silenced him.
Gillets sighed. “Not still trying to put me down, are you, Uncle Hans? Isn’t it a little late for the rampant jealousy bit now?”
Terblanche bristled. “What are you trying to hint at?” he demanded. “I’ll have you know—”
“Take it easy, hey?” said Kramer, now wishing to Christ he’d not brought the station commander with him. “We’re here to hear what Mr. Gillets has to say …”
“Mr. Gillets,” said Gillets, “has nothing to say. I’m meant to be in deep shock, so just leave me alone or I’ll tell my father when he comes and there’ll be trouble, I can promise you!”
“Hell, no need for any hard feelings,” said Kramer apologetically. “Come, Hans, my friend, it’s time we were on the road again, hey?”
“But,” said Terblanche, getting no further before Kramer motioned him to leave ahead of him.
He was still looking bewildered, half through the doorway, when Kramer turned at his side and said: “You’re meant to be in deep shock, did you say, sir?”
“Jesus, you heard!” stormed Gillets.
“Then here’s some of the real thing,” said Kramer. “Will you hold your hands up nicely so I can see them, please?”
“What the hell for?”
“You’re refusing to do it?”
“Here, look all you like—so what?”
“Uh-huh, they should fit some interesting bruises we’ve found among the bits and pieces,” said Kramer.
The look on Gillets’ face at the moment was enough to put a spring into the step of any man, all the way back to the Chevrolet. Terblanche almost capered.
“Hey, Hans, cool it, man!”
“Ja, ja, Tromp! I’m sorry, okay? But all the time we were in there, I thought you had changed your mind, that he was going to be let off scot-free, and then you—”
“Listen, we had only a few minutes, we couldn’t really start anything,” said Kramer. “But we have given him something to think about.”
“Ja, and we did elicit that reference to dynamite, didn’t we? How would he know a thing like that?”
“Well, to keep things in perspective,” said Kramer, “explosions and dynamite do sort of go together in most people’s—”
“What’s up?” asked Terblanche.
“Shhh, turn away, the parents!” said Kramer, having glimpsed the game warden emerging from his office with a smartly dressed couple in their fifties. “I don’t want us getting involved at this stage …”
The hiatus also provided him with an opportunity to review how he truly felt after meeting Lance Gillets for the first time. Something was wrong, something was missing, of that he was convinced, despite a strong gut feeling he had just confronted a nasty, dangerous little bastard. Perhaps gut feelings could be led astray in the presence of someone unusually violent by nature, picking up on not a single act but a whole range of them, showing no discretion, he reasoned. And perhaps, to extend this logic a pace further, the cold-blooded murder of Gillets’ wife had not been among them.
“The parents’ve gone now,” said Terblanche, peeping.
Kramer’s gut feeling, when tested, was now coming up either null and void or numbed by an onslaught—he just didn’t know what to make of it. “Look, let’s sidle round that way and back up to the boss’s office,” he said. “There are a few questions we’ve got to ask him …”
13
THE GAME WARDEN’S office opened off the main reception area. Its furniture was plain, set square on a carpet of coconut matting. A huge map of the game reserve, divided into areas shaded different colors, hung to the right of the desk, and the rest of the walls were taken up by framed paintings and photographs, every one of which appeared to have an animal in it, ranging from warthog and flamingo to white rhino and hippopotamus. In one of the pictures, Mansfield was feeding a baby elephant, using a rubber teat attached to a beer bottle.
He saw Kramer peer at it, and said: “No, that isn’t milk, I fear, Lieutenant. Poor old Winston grew up to be a dreadful s
oak, I’m afraid …”
“East Africa?” guessed Terblanche.
“Uganda—no, I stand corrected: Kenya. I’m afraid I’ve rather dodged about a bit!”
“Ja, it’s the way the bastards keep chucking their bloody spears at a bloke, isn’t it?” said Kramer. “But can we get back to the business in hand, hey?”
“Of course! Take a seat, gentlemen. Coffee?”
“Ta, but no,” said Kramer. “We’ll have to be on our way in a minute. First, though, I wondered whether, regarding Lance Gillets—”
“Rather distinguished couple, his parents, what? Frightfully well dressed and well spoken. Did you see them?”
“No, not really,” said Kramer. “Can we stop this getting off the subject and—”
“I say, old chap,” said Mansfield, scratching his stump with the fly whisk held in his left hand. “I’ve been doing a spot of thinking. Not at all sure I can be of much assistance after all—might not be in order, y’know! Got to remember my lords and masters on the board, adverse publicity, all that sort of thing. I’m sure you’ll understand …”
“Anything I ask you to do will definitely be in order, believe me,” said Kramer. “The adverse publicity and that sort of thing will begin only the moment you don’t cooperate—understand me?”
“Ah,” said Mansfield, glancing predictably at the rather distinguished cigar stub left in the ashtray on his desk.
“Listen, those two must have had bad times with him before, so don’t fall for all Pa and Ma Gillets had to tell you,” said Kramer. “I bet they’re experts by now at making people feel sorry for them, and getting them to keep their traps shut.”
“That’s a bit steep! What on earth makes you say that?”
“Because, if it wasn’t so, they would have been here yesterday,” replied Kramer. “Like any other parents whose young son’s wife has been murdered, only a few hours’ car ride away.”
“But Ralph Gillets explained he’d had to appear in court before the Judge President on behalf of—”
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