No Ordinary Killing

by No Ordinary Killing (retail) (e

  The man’s arms were folded on the scuffed and battered surface, his head buried in them such that only the back of his tight greying curls was visible. He wore a ripped and grubby white shirt. And he stank.

  “Local force tracked him down quick enough,” said Harmison. “Turns out a couple of officers had stopped him in the street and taken his licence number shortly before presumed time of death, around 2.30am. Had been acting suspiciously. Major Cox was drunk and dozing in the back of the trap at the time. The cabbie was on his way to drop the major at his guest house, just a hundred yards away.”

  He beamed a smile of pride.

  “Had a right good go on him, sir.”

  “Who?” asked Finch.

  “Him,” he pointed.

  The cabbie looked up. He was a man around 50, Finch guessed. Alarmingly, his left eye was swollen shut. He had a split lip. Blood trickled from his nostrils. He groaned. The smell was of urine.

  “Bastard claims the officer was still alive when he dumped him at the guest house. My guess is he offed him soon after. Or—”

  “Or?” asked Finch, sarcastically.

  “Or it was one of his mates lying in wait.”

  Finch reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean white folded handkerchief and handed it to the man. He dabbed it to his left cheek.

  “Sergeant?”

  “Sah.”

  “Can you see to it that someone brings this man some water?”

  The sergeant shrugged. He nodded at the police corporal loitering in the doorway.

  Finch crouched down next to the man.

  “Do you mind?” he asked, and gently cupped his hands under the man’s cheekbones. He gently probed the sides of his nose with his thumbs, then felt around the man’s jaw.

  “Nothing broken.”

  The sergeant harrumphed. The police corporal returned, bearing an enamel jug. Finch dipped the handkerchief in it and instructed his patient to press it to his swollen eye.

  “Hurts like hell I’m sure,” said Finch.

  The man nodded.

  “But it’s superficial. Lip’ll heal in time. The swelling around the eye will come down.”

  The man looked up at him. He spoke weakly.

  “Thank you.”

  Finch turned to Brookman.

  “Inspector, if I might have a word.”

  Finch walked outside and beckoned Brookman back into his office. He closed the door. He strained to keep his voice down.

  “What the hell are you doing beating up an innocent man?”

  Brookman didn’t react. He walked behind his desk, sat down and went through the charade of organising some papers. Only when Finch had calmed did he speak.

  “Two things, Captain. One, I have beaten up nobody, nor do I condone it in the slightest. Two, why do you presume the cabbie to be innocent?”

  “Isn’t he?”

  “Beyond your Florence Nightingale ministrations, you know nothing about him. How can you possibly form a judgement?”

  Brookman was correct, knew Finch.

  “I just assumed—”

  Brookman shook his head and exhaled a mocking whistle.

  “Please.”

  He bade Finch sit down too.

  “The facts, Captain … Always the facts.”

  He pointed towards the door.

  “For your information, the man in the other room is named Pinkie Coetzee, age 54. Lives in District Six. Wife and seven children. A licensed driver with the Cape Town Hansom Cab Company. An employee of five years standing. Clean record. He is the man, as you have heard, who drove Cox home. Claims to have placed him on the stoep of the guest house in the early hours of this morning.”

  It was turning out to be a very long day, mused Finch. Once upon a time he used to wish that Christmas Day would go on forever. Not this one.

  “‘Claims’?” he asked.

  “I never deal in absolutes until such things are a hundred per cent certain.”

  “Go on,” said Finch.

  “According to Mr Coetzee’s testimony, he picked up the fare … Cox … at around 2am outside the Officers’ Club on the waterfront. Also claims that the officer was drunk and incapable. Had to be helped aboard.”

  He saw Finch wrinkle his brow.

  “Such a thing isn’t unusual, Doctor.”

  “I suppose not.”

  Finch reached for his Navy Cut cigarettes and offered one to Brookman, who admired the packet with its lifebelt emblem and the caricature of a bearded sailor within, whose cap band read ‘Hero’.

  “Thank you.”

  Finch lit a match and cupped his hand for the detective.

  “Mr Coetzee claims he was instructed to take Cox to …”

  He consulted his notes.

  “… the Esperanza guest house on Atlantic View Drive. As you know, it was the maid there who discovered the dead body on the stoep some two, maybe three hours later.”

  Finch rubbed his chin.

  “So he died in the cab? Is that what you’re now saying?”

  “Well here’s where it gets interesting,” said Brookman. “You see, two police officers were out on mounted patrol in the Green Point area last night, as you just heard Harmison mention …”

  Brookman checked the names on a report.

  “… Sergeant Hett and Private McDonald … They spotted Coetzee’s cab parked, only a hundred yards or so from the lodgings as it turned out. Now here’s the thing – the driver was, quote ‘observed acting strangely, climbing in and out of the cabin.’”

  “How odd,” said Finch.

  “They put the frighteners on Coetzee, thinking he had perhaps been going through his passenger’s pockets – such things happen – but they were satisfied on speaking with Coetzee that Cox was merely drunk and that the cabbie, who had lost his way, was just ensuring his well-being.”

  Finch sighed. Bloody Cox.

  “They directed him to the guest house and continued on their way. Ordinarily an incident like this wouldn’t get written up, but, given that this has now turned into a murder investigation, we brought the two officers in to put it down on paper.”

  “Hang on a minute,” cut in Finch. “They said Cox was dozing in the back? At what, two-thirty? I thought the time of death had been established earlier than that.”

  “There’s always a degree of leeway.”

  Brookman held up his cigarette and gave a nod of approval.

  “Tell me. What the hell’s going on, Inspector?”

  “Well, if Cox was certified to have been alive, within yards of his lodgings at 2.30am and was found dead on the stoep two hours later, you can hardly blame anyone for concluding that Coetzee had something to do with it.”

  Finch shook his head.

  “You’ve already established that Cox was poisoned,” he tutted.

  “Not yet officially.”

  “All the same, an unorthodox method for a murder on the public highway. You said as much earlier. Moreover, you yourself stated that Cox was probably either already dead when put in the cab or died en route.”

  “I hypothesised, yes. Yet two of my officers have since filed a signed report declaring that Cox was alive – dead drunk, yes, but alive – at two-thirty.”

  He handed the typed report to Finch. Finch did not doubt what it said and waved it away.

  “But that contradicts—”

  “Captain, like I say, you must never rule out any possibility.”

  He tapped his temple with his index finger.

  “The mind must always be open.”

  “Come on. What motive could the cabbie possibly have?” Finch snapped.

  “There are any number of possible motives,” Brookman responded. “Sometimes none is needed at all.”

  “It wasn’t theft,” said Finch. “His valuables were still on him. You said so.”

  “The ones that we found … Maybe Cox was knocking off the cabbie’s wife. Who knows?” said Brookman.

  “You don’t seriously mean tha
t?”

  “I never ‘mean’. I merely postulate.”

  “And anyway,” went Finch. “why would a man, who has just been stopped by the police, kill his passenger via a complicated method, then dump the body at the deceased’s own residence but yards away? He might as well have had a commemorative photograph taken.”

  Brookman spluttered a laugh.

  “The history of crime is littered with some pretty stupid villains.”

  “You also said … suggested … that the killer was known to the victim. Cox had only been in town one day. How could the cabbie possibly know him?”

  “Cox, I understand, was a pretty gregarious fellow.”

  Finch sighed again. He knew Brookman was playing with him. He gestured to the closed door and the MFP sergeant across the corridor.

  “And anyway, you’re not seriously going to hand the investigation to that Neanderthal?”

  “It would not be my choice, I grant you. But why do you call him a Neanderthal?”

  “Beating up a suspect like that.”

  “Why do you assume it was he who beat up Coetzee?”

  “Because he said so.”

  Brookman’s black eyes burned right into him.

  “The trick is to listen to what is said,” Brookman explained. “The choice of words, the tense, the syntax. Harmison appeared to express some perverse pleasure, I admit, at the alleged beating. But never once did he claim that it was he who had done it. Check his knuckles.”

  Brookman paused.

  “Let me ask you a question, Captain. If Harmison didn’t beat up Coetzee, then who did?”

  “Judging by what I’ve seen today, could be any of your crew out there.”

  Brookman didn’t rise to the jibe. He leaned forward.

  “Very well, I shall tell you. It was Sergeant Hett and Private McDonald who roughed him over. Officers, I might add, who have now been temporarily suspended as a consequence of their actions.”

  Finch was beginning to feel like a prize trout being reeled in then let out, flapping on the line.

  “Ask yourself Captain, why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know … To obtain a confession?”

  “It’s not their business to do so. Other than the report they filed, officers Hett and McDonald are not involved in the case.”

  “To get to the truth, then?”

  “Beat a man long enough and he will tell you he wears ladies’ undergarments … or whatever else he believes you want to hear. It is an ineffective method for extracting information.”

  “Then I don’t know … Sadism?”

  “In McDonald’s case, perhaps. But no.”

  Finch shrugged.

  “Try frustration … anger,” said Brookman. “Bear in mind they both burst in to have a pop at Coetzee shortly after he was brought in, when my back was turned. They were furious with him.”

  “Why would Hett and McDonald be frustrated or angry with Coetzee?” asked Finch.

  “Think.”

  The penny suddenly dropped.

  “Because he had made fools of them?”

  Brookman smiled. The pupil was doing well.

  “Because, quite possibly, he had made fools of them, Captain … The last thing a copper wants is to be made a fool of. Believe me.”

  Finch exhaled a huge puff of smoke. He was starting to enjoy this. He didn’t know if he should be feeling guilty for doing so.

  “So, they were mistaken,” Finch sighed. “Cox wasn’t drunk at all, he was already dead when they stopped Coetzee’s cab.”

  “Seems Hett has a pal round the corner at the mortuary. Got wind that Cox was most likely killed before their encounter and was feeling rather embarrassed about letting a dead body slip through their fingers. Coppers are worse than women for gossiping, sir.”

  “A case of what we call ‘egg on the face’, Inspector.”

  “Actually we say that too.”

  Brookman stood up. Finch did the same.

  “Look, I’m not stating anything,” said Brookman. “Far from me to impugn fellow officers of the law—”

  “So,” said Finch. “The cabbie was just pretending that Cox was still alive when the police stopped him, going through a charade.”

  “Exactly, Captain. He probably panicked, like I’d suggested earlier, if I might say so. Which means …?”

  He let Finch finish it.

  “… that he isn’t telling us the whole story.”

  Brookman went to the door and opened it.

  “Come on.”

  Across the corridor, Pinkie Coetzee sat there, eyes fixed on an imaginary spot on the wall. His demeanour was one of non-cooperation.

  Brookman reminded Coetzee that this was a murder investigation at its most critical juncture, the first 12 hours. Deceit, withholding evidence – they were serious offences. That said, he went through the rigmarole of apologising for Coetzee’s treatment. The officers were being disciplined, he assured. He should no longer be afraid of telling the truth.

  The corporal entered with a mug of rooibos tea and a hunk of bread with some dark meat pressed into a rough incision carved into it. Ostrich it looked like. He dumped it on the table before Coetzee. No plate.

  Coetzee remained motionless. Brookman rubbed his chin, mulling over the next move.

  Harmison, clearly unimpressed with the niceties of civil policing, was gearing up for more coercive action but Brookman raised a hand and stayed him. Again, Brookman urged Coetzee that he need be absolutely truthful. This was his chance to redeem himself.

  Eventually Coetzee spoke. The words were slow and pained.

  “Ja, I will tell you everything,” he said. “But on one condition …”

  The lingua franca of the Cape Coloureds was Afrikaans, a revelation for Finch on arrival in the colony. But nearly all spoke English equally fluently.

  “You’re not in any position to bloody negotiate,” barked Harmison.

  Brookman raised his hand again.

  Coetzee’s eyes turned to Finch.

  “… that the doctor stays.”

  Finch thought he detected the faintest trace of a smile on Coetzee’s lips. He reciprocated.

  “Mr. Coetzee … Pinkie,” said Finch, “as someone who isn’t an officer of the law, I’m not sure if that’s permissible.”

  He turned to Brookman. The inspector raised an eyebrow but did not demur.

  “Very well,” he consented.

  Harmison gave a derisory snort.

  The inspector nodded at the corporal, who unlocked Coetzee’s handcuffs. The cabbie rubbed his wrists then devoured the bread and meat.

  Sated, he wiped his hands on his trousers, swigged his tea and leant back in his chair.

  “All right then Pinkie old chum, you’ve got your wish” said Brookman. “Now tell us everything … And I bloody well mean everything.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sixteen hours earlier…

  Pinkie Coetzee twitched the reins and his bony mule clopped to a casual halt. Tattered palms rustled overhead, buffeted by the night breeze. A municipal gas lamp hissed. In its pale amber glow he re-examined the oblong of expensive vellum, the words upon it etched in a stylish, looped italic, the paper scored by a sharp, crisp fold.

  The error was not his own. Having sauntered up and down the winding dirt path, peering hard at the clapboard dwellings, it seemed perfectly evident there was no guest house named ‘Esperanza’.

  (Es-per-anza it had been mouthed to him, like a parent to a child.)

  He sighed.

  Nie goed nie.

  The man in his charge would now have to be roused. He would have to ascertain just where, exactly, to deposit him. He spat out his wad of tobacco. It arced out onto the ground.

  Dit is nie goed nie.

  There was a three-quarter moon, the light bright, though diffused by the low cloud. Below, on the headland of Green Point, lamps winked on the army encampment sprawling across the grassland. Silver flecks danced on the waves beyond, r
ight out to the low black mass of Robben Island. The distant pound of the breakers that carried uphill was punctuated only by the clank of chains from the warships at anchor. Their silhouettes could just be traced.

  The war had been good for business, he knew. No doubt about that. The private clubs near the waterfront disgorged free-spending officers throughout the night. There was no question either that the one lolling in his gig was as drunk as the proverbial lord, as the same British liked to say.

  “Baas?”

  No response.

  Coetzee jumped down from his perch, his action too athletic for his bow legs to accommodate. He winced, took pause, then yanked back the canopy.

  “Baas? Mister?”

  Not even his horsewhip would stir this dozing beast.

  Kak.

  Beyond the battery on Signal Hill, Lion’s Head loomed, behind it the sheet wall of Table Mountain. He buttoned up his hessian jacket. There were shillings and tickeys stuffed in his belt. Cutthroats lurked in the rubble of the uplands.

  His battered watch told him it was just after half past two. He was finished for the night. Should be finished. A warm bed … a warm wife … were waiting.

  He pushed back his straw hat and wiped the beads that were forming, despite the cool. Then he shook the officer roughly by the shoulder …

  Nothing.

  … before grabbing the serge of his lapels for a more emphatic rousing.

  Kak!

  It happened so quickly he barely had time to react. With a great and panicked heave, he struggled to bundle the officer back on board. The man landed with a thud, face up on the deck. Coetzee climbed up after him. Springs creaked. The mule snorted and scraped her hooves.

  A shiver of fear shot down his back. The sweat became a trickle, cold between the shoulder blades.

  “Baas. Please, baas!”

  The fumes were strong. Coetzee’s eyes were drawn to a flash of white at the mouth. Not saliva, not foam, but cloth – the protrusion of white silk… a handkerchief?

  Slowly he extracted it, feeling momentarily and incongruously like a street magician – one he remembered from his childhood, pulling yards of bright material from a seemingly limitless sleeve.

  There was no splutter, no gagging, the breath long since gone. Neither the man’s chest nor his wrist yielded the faintest throb of life.