The Gooseberry Fool (24 page)

“What’s that?”

“I’m not in security work, not in the slightest. Wish I was.”

“Hey?”

“And of course you went the other way with poor old Swart, making out he was a bad bugger working for a foreign power even.”

“He wasn’t? Then where’d he get a special radio like that one?”

“From us,” said Scott simply.

Which put a very different complexion on things, and on Colonel Muller in particular. The unhappy man sank back and swiveled his chair so that he need not meet anybody’s eyes. While Kramer experienced a sensation first felt as a child when making his maiden journey in a fast lift, downward. His stomach came back off his diaphragm and bounced on his intestines. Just the once, however.

“Almighty God!” he said. “But that was still no reason.”

“Ah, let me explain first, Tromp, let me explain. Go back to the night of the twenty-third. A message comes in that the body of one presumed to be Hugo Swart has been found stabbed in his kitchen. Murder Squad is immediately informed and Colonel Muller puts you on to it. Right? I come on at ten and find Colonel Scott here waiting in my office—this office, in fact. He identifies himself and then explains the position. This man Swart is a special agent of his department. Maybe you can explain this part better, John?”

Scott forsook his smoke rings.

“As you’ve already heard, Kramer, this priest Lawrence had himself a bad reputation for his carryings on. Just how far they went was becoming of some interest to us, so we fixed up for Swart to move into the parish and see what gives. He was already working as a draftsman for the province and in that department because of his good security rating.”

“Don’t rub it in, John!” chuckled Du Plessis, hoping he would. But it was an act of overfamiliarity which did him no good: the quick glare must have singed his eyelashes.

“As I was saying, we moved Swart in. The man’s mother had been a Catholic and made him go to Mass till he was fifteen, so he knew what to do. Very soon he had worked his way in at Our Lady’s, but nothing to report. His contacts on our side pushed him hard, but nothing. Then one meeting he says he has noticed something; many of the people coming to confession are from outside the district.”

“Hell, it’s common practice,” interrupted Kramer. “Shows what a nonsense it is.”

“Nobody’s arguing, Lieutenant, but it was a good point. From how far outside the district were they coming? That’s one question you can ask. Then remember Swart had been nearly living in this priest’s pocket, knew all his moves, his timetable, but had not seen him engage in any suspicious activity—no secret get-togethers.”

“The confession box?”

“Ah, you can be flexible then. Naturally we were interested in this little theory. Particularly as the confessional at Our Lady’s was built into one side and completely soundproof. Sightproof, too; ideal for passing messages, even documents.”

“But a priest wouldn’t do a thing like that,” Muller objected. “They take vows.”

“And get funny ideas, too, Colonel,” Scott replied. “They often imagine that God turns a blind eye if what they do is done in His name—what about that saboteur the other day? It depends on how you read your Bible, not so?”

Muller mumbled an apology.

“I’ve got it,” said Kramer. “Church is also a place where you can’t listen to the radio!”

“Exactly—which is what I mean by how often you were right, Lieutenant. We had to think up an idea and our resident genius thought of the hearing aid. First we got Swart to complain to his fellow churchgoers about his ears, then we gave him the equipment. There is a little shelf in the confessional under the wire netting where he put the transmitter. It was a very special one, costing a lot, so as to pick up even the rustle of papers if necessary, because we couldn’t get a camera in there. I see from Colonel Muller’s face that he is still not happy about this arrangement, but tell me, what harm could come to the priest if he was doing his business honestly?”

“Oh, no, you’re getting me wrong,” Muller replied hastily.

“Fine. So what happened was this. For a whole month Swart listens in and hears nothing he shouldn’t hear. I got on to his Trekkersburg contacts and said maybe we were wasting time and money—Swart did very nicely out of it, I can tell you. They went to see him and to pass on my doubts. Then, just one day later, he comes through with a piece of information. Man, that was luck for you.”

“Can you say what it was?”

“Just a small mention that made us interested. Nothing by itself, but—well, you know. So we tell him to keep at it. All this stuff is very vague but some ties up with what we already knew. We didn’t take any action because this would probably spoil our chances of something really useful.”

“How did he identify these callers?”

“That was the big problem. At the start, he just followed them out—this gave us a description: some were white, some were black. Then he intended to get the number of the vehicle they used. But these bastards were smart; they left on foot or were picked up down the road, too far for a clear sight of their plates.”

“Didn’t you put a man outside?”

“Sometimes we did, more recently. We didn’t have enough personnel for a constant check, you see—we’ve always got a lot on our plate. The bugger of it was that only twice did we have a man in front when a suspect left.”

“And you traced the numbers?”

“Yes, but did nothing with the ones my men took. A few that Swart thought would be worth it—earlier, that is—we checked out.”

“Were they?”

“No, all honest citizens. Just as well we did not approach them direct. We got the dope, passed it on to him, and he tried the names in a round-about way on the priest. No reaction. We had a look at them, too, but nothing.”

“This was the weakness of your method then—identification?”

“Only while the investigation stayed low priority. When Swart came through with something much stronger last week, I moved two men in for all the time confessions were held. But the priest’s friends must have picked up their Volksy the first night because Swart heard nothing more.”

“They could have picked up Swart, Colonel.”

“Yes, that is the line we have been taking. But I’m buggered if I see how.”

“What I can’t understand is why you haven’t hauled the priest in, chucked him in solitary,” Kramer persisted.

“That’s just the background. Dupe here will tell you the rest.”

For once Kramer was only too eager to hear what the old bitch had to say.

“Right, I’ll do my best. Ach, you see, this development put me in a bit of a spot. If you hadn’t already gone out to Skaapvlei, Tromp, there would have been no problem. The thing was, the Colonel here didn’t want a good detective on the job.”

“Jesus.…”

“No, honestly, man, that was the position. You could have spoiled the whole thing by poking your nose into it and then asking questions that would be like lifting up a stone—you would scatter everything hiding under it.”

“You see,” cut in Scott, “straightaway I realized the best move was in point of fact to treat it like an ordinary murder. This would confuse the bastards and the chances were that one or other of them would get in contact with the priest. For all they knew, perhaps, it could have been a mistake killing Swart. They would want to talk it over.”

“Men of conscience, remember,” sneered Du Plessis.

“Go on,” said Scott.

“Well, I had to get you away from Swart, didn’t I, Tromp? And as you correctly guessed, I had to find something else and the car crash was all I had. I apologize now but, as you will see, it was for the best.”

“Uh huh.”

“Zondi we kept because Shabalala could always be the scapegoat until we got our proper man.”

“You were confident we would find him?”

“Naturally. Probably quicker than we could, and more easily. We kept an eye on him, of course.”

“Of course.”

“To get on with what happened, after you left for the car crash, we—that is the Colonel and his men—brought in the two suspects whose numbers had been noted by the man outside the church. We got nothing out of them. They denied any knowledge of any political conversations or connections with the priest. The colored started to change his story this morning, mind you, but maybe he just wants to sleep.”

“Look, let me wrap this thing up,” Scott said, impatient with Du Plessis’ oratory. “After the killing we checked every source of information—nothing. Right through the next day we watched the priest’s house—nothing. We sent in a man to Mass but he reported all seemed normal. Man, this wasn’t making sense. So I decided to put a bit of the pressure on; I got the blokes watching his place to come out into the open where he could see them. Still nothing.”

“What about that ‘strong’ stuff Swart gave you last week? I take it that it included a name?”

“Yes, it did. She denies everything as well. Flatly. Every word. Tried to hang herself in the cells, though.”

“Uh huh. And so?”

“Night before, I’d got one of my best Bantus to have another chat with Shabalala’s town wife. She put him on to his cousin, and this man told us Shabalala had probably run off because his family was moving house. Seems a bloody-fool reason to us, but you know these wogs—irresponsible. Then on Christmas Eve I began to wonder if Shabalala didn’t have something useful to tell me: if you looked at the times carefully, he could have been a witness. So I radioed my blokes keeping an eye on Zondi to ask how things were going. They said he was kicking up hell at Jabula—that it would be dangerous to go in without stens. Is he usually like this, Kramer?”

“Comes and goes.”

“I see. So I ordered them to stick around—didn’t want a big fuss, naturally—and see what happened. Just before midnight they come through: Zondi has suddenly appeared with his prisoner and driven off. Do they let him carry on down here or what? I tell them I want a few questions asked of Shabalala straightaway and, as Zondi hasn’t got a radio, they’d better stop him on the road.”

Kramer tightened his grip on the armrests, knuckles showing like bare bone, Muller leaned forward anxiously.

“Yes, I can see what’s on your mind, Lieutenant, but I have it on oath my blokes didn’t mean what happened. It was your Kaffir. He drove like a bloody madman when they came alongside. Frikkie was yelling at him who they were but he took no notice. Nearly killed all of them, Frikkie says. They even tried to slow down but—Look, you can ask him yourself.”

“I will.”

“Then, of course, I still wanted to know what Zondi had got out of Shabalala and I didn’t want you to know because—well—Dupe here said it would become a very personal matter for you, and you’d get your nose in and do what he said with the stones. The sleep didn’t hurt him.”

“I’ll ask that, too.”

Scott was surprised by this remark—so much so, Kramer took another lift ride and cursed his big mouth. This was no way of scoring a point.

“That Kaffir,” added Kramer, “does nothing but bloody sleep!”

It got its laugh of absolution.

“And we tell you all this,” said Scott, with sudden weariness, “because on the twenty-seventh of December—that’s today, two days later—we still haven’t a bloody clue who did it. We’re just going to have to pull in that priest after all, spoil our chances of more.”

“Uh huh. But what about that thing you took from the study? Something did disappear and you haven’t said what.”

“Ach, it was just this,” said Scott, handing over a worn Missal that he took from his briefcase.

Kramer flicked through its dog-eared pages, stopping at a few numbers written faintly in pencil over a feast-day litany.

“Car numbers—the ones I told you about earlier, Tromp. All Trekkersburg, all harmless. Swart used this book for taking his notes in the church—you can see some pages with conversation on them—all stuff we’d had before, so don’t read it. What we’ve been working on is up near the front.”

“Chemicals” was the word Kramer found there, written in Afrikaans.

“Explosives?” he ventured.

“What else, man? Only it’s new, you see. Swart said there had been talk of explosives between the priest and a man who was going to find out what ingredients were available from over the border. But he never got round to reporting they actually discussed the chemicals.”

“Then they might have deliberately brought up the subject to see if he reacted—they must have found the bug.”

“My thoughts exactly, Tromp—and this happened the night he was murdered.”

“Hmmm,” said Kramer, a thought later.

“Some doubt, Lieutenant?”

“No; I suppose he could have jotted it down after leaving the church—otherwise they would have taken the book. The priest, for example, had all the time he needed in the house before ringing us.”

“You know what?” said Scott. “Bugger all this clever stuff. Let’s have this bastard Father Lawrence in here and give him the onceover. A bird in the hand, as the English say—hey, Colonel Muller?”

Scott left abruptly, Du Plessis on his heels.

Then Kramer rose, walked slowly over to stand before the desk, stiffened up, and lifted his chin.