The Blood of an Englishman (4 page)

“I know who the body is,” he said.

Her gaze flicked towards him.

“His name’s Bonzo, lady—and he was your kid brother.”

Mrs. Digby-Smith said nothing. She swooned. She swayed and pitched forward over the far side of the couch, too unexpectedly for Kramer to catch hold of her. The mask of yellow wax shattered on the mosaic floor, scattering like egg shell, and her upper dental plate fell out.

“Bloody hell,” said Kramer, “just when we were getting acquainted.”

The telephone rang once again in the district surgeon’s household. Anneline Strydom sighed and answered it, anticipating who was at the other end by having in her mind the picture of a tall, broad-shouldered man with fair hair, high cheek-bones, slightly protruding front teeth and eyes like green marbles, although it was those big, lion’s-paw hands that really gave her the shivers. “Now look, Trompie,” she said firmly, anticipating her caller’s mood as well, “there’s no point in blasting me if Chris hasn’t arrived there yet. I gave him your message—what more can I do?”

“Er, actually it’s me, Mrs. S—not Lieutenant Kramer.”

“Sergeant Van Rensburg?”

“The same, Mrs. S.”

And the picture became one of a mortuary sergeant so grossly overweight that his fingers could no longer squeeze into his tight trouser pockets. “Don’t tell me something else has come in!” exclaimed Anneline, crossly. “My poor husband doesn’t often take the morning off, you know!”

“Hell, we all know he’s dedicated, hey?” smarmed Van Rensburg. “It’s just—if Doc hasn’t left yet—I wanted to save him
from a wasted journey down to Gillespie Street. What’s happened is they’ve decided to bring the whole caboose here, you see, to my mortuary, and I’ve got the car with the body still intact in it out in my yard.”

“Oh?”

“Ja, they towed it here.”

“Well, I’ll look and see if Dr. Strydom is about anywhere, although I doubt it. This
is
a white that Lieutenant Kramer’s making all the fuss about?”

“Definitely, Mrs. S.”

“That’s all right then. Bye for now.”

Anneline knew perfectly well that her husband was still out in the garden, looking for snails with Josiah the garden boy. It was just that it was so rare for him to show an interest in anything other than post mortems that she felt extremely reluctant to disturb them again, and for another ten minutes she let the matter rest. Then, anxious he shouldn’t slip away unaware of the change in venue, she went out to call for him.

“Chris?” He had vanished. “Chrissie—where are you, man?”

Finally, way down at the bottom of the garden, behind some large azalea bushes, she found her husband and the garden boy squatting on their haunches, looking more like a couple of kids than two grown men, and paying great attention to something they were prodding about in a big Pyrex bowl. To her astonishment, Anneline realized that the “something” was hundreds of horrible snails, mixed in with a salad of lettuce leaves.

“My goodness me,” she declared, “you’re not thinking of
eating
those things, are you?”

“Hau!” said Josiah, and had a fit of the giggles.

“Ach no, what we’re doing is scientific,” replied her husband, airily. “This is the snail Helix—”

“You don’t have to be scientific to those extremes, man! And why use my best mixing bowl? All you need to do is stick some
salt in a bucket of water: that’ll kill them and no mistake. Van’s just been on the phone, and I’ve come down to tell you—”

“I’m coming! I’m coming! I just wanted Josiah to get the hang of it.”

“The hang of
that?
”

“Certainly. We’re preparing an extract.”

“
Hey?
What on earth for?” And she laughed girlishly.

But he wouldn’t tell her what for, not while his feelings were hurt. He stumped off up the lawn, with his shirt tail hanging out and his shock of white hair matted, muttering darkly. It was just as well, Anneline Strydom thought, that this person he was going to see had no further use for a soothing bedside manner.

Names like Digby-Smith had always irritated Kramer. They smacked of English-speaking snobs with horse-dung under their fingernails and—after drug-crazed alcoholic clap-struck half-castes—there was no breed of human he distrusted more profoundly. Yet he had to concede that the name Digby-hyphen-Smith had one undoubted virtue. It was listed only twice in the Trekkersburg telephone directory, and to make things even simpler, one entry was marked
Residence
and the other
Business
.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the secretary who answered his call, “but Mr. Digby-Smith is out visiting a site with a client at the moment. Can I put you through to his junior partner, Mr. Wells?”

Kramer sagged fractionally. “Ach no, that wouldn’t be much help,” he said. “Instead, can you do two things for me? As soon as your boss gets back, can you ask him to come down to Jonty’s—you know where I mean, the beauty shop?”

“Er, yyyyes.… You did say this was the police?”

“CID. Also, will you please give me the number of his family doctor?”

“It’s Dr. Crickmay. But what on earth—?”

“Later,” said Kramer, and hung up.

He found and tried Dr. Crickmay’s number. It seemed to ring an unpardonable length of time for a surgery switchboard. While waiting for a reply, he glanced around Jonty’s private office, unable to decide whether it was helluva modern or helluva down-to-earth and simple. The floorboards were bare, the walls a plain white, the desk and two chairs were ordinary, the calendar was a trade hand-out, and that was about it—except for a huge family-sized refrigerator in the far corner which added a nonsensical, baffling touch. Helluva modern, was his verdict.

Jonty slipped into the room and closed the door. “Any luck with that doctor yet? She’s still not quite with us, y’know; keeps mumbling about old Bonzo and then fading out.”

“That’s who I’m ringing right now, only I don’t seem to—Oh hullo, it’s the CID here. Is Dr. Crickmay available?”

“Sorry, but Doctor’s out finishing his morning rounds,” said the surgery receptionist.

“Hell.”

“Is this something urgent? If so, I could have Doctor bleeped to the nearest telephone.”

“Ideal,” said Kramer, and gave her the salon’s number.

Jonty waited until the receiver had been replaced before he asked, “What exactly is going on here? Did you bring her a bit of bad news or other?”

“Ja, pretty bad.”

“Concerning her brother?”

“How did you guess?”

“Well, from what she’s mumbling, I suppose, Mr.—er.…”

“Kramer—Lieutenant Tromp Kramer, Murder and Robbery Squad.”

“
Robbery?
” Jonty’s thick eyebrows shot up. “Poor old sod! Where was this? Here in town? This morning?”

Kramer was about to set the record straight when he realized that the salon owner might be more helpful if he was
left holding the wrong end of the stick. Murders tended to be messy, very personal affairs in which other people tried not to become involved, but a robbery on the other hand was close to an Act of God, and nobody minded divulging what they knew of a robbery victim’s circumstances to anyone who appeared interested.

So instead he said, “Bonzo was found about an hour ago in Gillespie Street. You speak like you know him.”

“I know
of
him, certainly,” said Jonty. “As you can imagine, we get the lowdown on all our clientele and their belongings, one way or another—there’s what they themselves insist on boring us with, plus the juicier bits of gossip their best friends pass on. It’s a pain at times, but there you go, we’re in the ego business.”

“Uh huh.”

“And so I’ve naturally picked up quite a bit on Bonzo, alias Edward Hookham, DFG and bar—now there’s a thought!” Jonty swung open the refrigerator door to reveal about ten dozen cans of chilled beer. “What’s yours, Lieutenant? A lager?”

“Please,” said Kramer, and felt suddenly very much at his ease, being a man of simple, down-to-earth tastes himself. “And don’t bother with a glass, hey?”

As Jonty removed the cans of lager, Kramer subjected him to a swift reassessment. He could see now that the salon owner was a fairly ordinary sort of bloke under all that rubbish he wore—the wide leather belt, the embroidered shirt and pink jeans—and probably not the least bit perverted. His age was around thirty-five, his build was well above average, and his face would not have disgraced a bulldozer driver, provided something was done about those golden ringlets first. One thing still seemed a little strange though, and that was his accent.

“Right, get that down yer,” said Jonty, handing over the lager. “Where were we?”

“You were telling me about this bloke Bonzo.”

“Old Trekkersburg family, the Hookhams. Must’ve been second- or third-generation South Africans by the time our Lillian was born, followed a few years later by Bonzo. Their dad was in the seed trade.”

“Oh ja, Hookham & Bailey, down by the Market Square.”

“Right. Lillian married money—Digby-Smith really only plays at being an estate agent—and Bonzo buggered off to England to join the RAF when the war started. He was in Bomber Command, and that’s where he got the nickname Bonzo, apparently, which has stuck ever since. Then he did the opposite to me.”

Kramer tipped his head enquiringly.

“What I mean is,” said Jonty, “I came out here five years ago last March from Southampton—I’m an immigrant.”

“Ah. I’d wondered.”

“And Bonzo did things the other way round. When the war ended, he stayed on in England, married an English girl, and built up a small electronics business. His wife died about two months ago.”

“Oh ja?”

“Of cancer. He was left on his tod—their kids were all grown up—and he decided to carry on with the holiday they’d planned for his retirement, which was to come and visit his sister. First proper holiday he’s ever taken, she tells me.”

“When did he arrive here?” asked Kramer.

“In Trekkersburg? Oh, I’d say about three appointments ago. That’s right, they took him to Hluhluwe Game Reserve last week, and so he must have arrived—”

“—at the beginning of the month.”

“Check.”

Kramer watched Jonty drain a can of lager in one long pull. “And now the juicy gossip, hey?”

“About the Digby-Smiths?”

“That’s right.”

Jonty laughed. “You’ve got to be joking! Those two? They’re not only past it, I don’t think they ever bloody reached it!”

“Tell me more.”

“No kids, two dogs, six servants and a house the size of a sodding hotel. They run on rails. They do the same things year in and year out. They don’t care about anything, apart from the fact everyone recognizes their
position
, is polite to them at cocktail parties, and keeps telling the old bag how well groomed she is.”

“You sound bitter, my friend.”

“Do I?” Once again Jonty laughed, and went over to the refrigerator to get them each another lager. “Not really. I’ve been screwing their kind for years, and I’ve done all right out of it.”

The telephone rang. Kramer answered it and Dr. Crickmay promised to be at Jonty’s within the next ten minutes.

“So there’s absolutely no gossip on the Digby-Smiths?”

“Christ, no!” snorted Jonty. “It would kill ’em.”

Kramer pondered that for a moment. “But does the same apply to Bonzo?” he asked. “No scandal there either?”

“None so far. He doesn’t sound a bad fellow, actually. His sister bitches about how ‘independent’ he is, which probably means that they bore the arse off him, and he goes and does his own thing. Like last night, for example.”

“Oh ja?” Kramer’s interest quickened.

“That’s what she’s been moaning about this morning. It seems Bonzo announced he had an old flame to look up, borrowed her car, said he’d be getting back late, and then left it outside the property with its windows open all night. I spared myself the rest of the gruesome details.”

“An old flame?” queried Kramer. “Any idea of—”

“Not the slightest.”

“And yet you claim there’s been no gossip about him?”

Jonty shrugged. “Well, I suppose there’s been a bit of a flutter in certain quarters. Quite a few of the sweet young things he used to know are divorced now—or widowed—and they’re all rich and fancy free, y’know. I suppose I’ve made a bob or two out of new face jobs!”

“I bet.”

“Mind you, they’d be better off going down to the gym, from what I’ve heard. If anything comes through loud and clear about Bonzo Hookham, then it’s that he’s very much the dynamic type—a right little ball of energy!”

“The sort to leave them flat on their backs?”

“Or dangling from the chandeliers! No, to be fair to the man, the talk hasn’t reached that stage yet.”

Kramer watched Jonty sink his second lager in another long gulp. “Do you know of any connection between the Digby-Smiths and the Bradshaws?” he asked.

“Bradshaw?” repeated Jonty, looking puzzled.

“He runs an antique shop in Ballard’s Arcade.”

“Oh, you mean the idiot who got shot at last week, and said he’d been attacked by a giant? No, I’m pretty sure there couldn’t be one—I mean, the Bradshaws are hardly
society
, are they?”

Kramer rose. “Can you do me a couple of favors?”

“Let’s hear them first.”

“Number One, keep your ears open for any snatches of gossip about Bonzo.”

“Fair enough, not that I see—”

“Number Two, deal with this Dr. Crickmay for me when he comes. I’ve got an appointment at the mortuary, and already I’m long overdue there.”

“If your lads are staying on, I don’t mind,” agreed Jonty. “But I think in return you might let me in on a few of the details, pal. What was Bonzo robbed of, for instance?”

“His life,” said Kramer.

The beer can crumpled in the Englishman’s hand like a plastic cup. “You’re pulling my leg,” he said slowly.

“Not really. He was found shot through the head about an hour ago, trussed up like a fowl in the boot of his sister’s car.”

Jonty dropped the crumpled can into his waste-paper bin. Then he opened a desk drawer, took out a perfume atomiser, gave a puff into his mouth, making himself cough, and sprayed a lot more of the stuff over his chest and shoulders, smothering the smell of hops. “I must be getting back,” he said, holding open the door. “You really are a right bastard, aren’t you?”