The Gooseberry Fool (5 page)

“Oh, yes?”

“Decapitated.”

“Uh huh.”

“And telescoped.”

“How’s that?”

“Must have been standing on the floorboards when he hit, arching his body back against the seat. Thigh bones right up into his trunk.”

“Arms?”

“That’s the strange thing. Must have taken both hands off the wheel before impact because—”

“I believe you. Drink?”

“Yes, a definite smell of it. No bottles in the car, though. A lot of blood.”

“I bet.”

“We’ve seen our fair share of it tonight, Lieutenant. Is there any point in staying on here?”

“Can’t have been vodka,” Kramer said with a slight smile. “Not if you could smell it.”

As it turned out, the pilfered vodka did little for either of them. Exhaustion had Strydom snoring halfway through his first glass, and Kramer, who drank seldom and then never alone, lost crunched away at it as he pondered his next move.

Perhaps he ought to have remained at the accident and supervised the sergeant’s tape measurings. But he really did not feel this was necessary—and had lost much of his determination to give the incident the full treatment. By doing so, he could well embarrass Colonel Du Plessis, but the cost was high. Perhaps, by the morning, he would have another plan.

It was the morning, damn it. Four o’clock by the cuckoo clock unless the bird had the burps. No, four it was, and his mind beginning to slow down. It was also much cooler and a faint breeze was rattling the dry leaves on palm trees outside the window. Death-rattling them at an hour when, they said, the old passed away in their sleep. Sometimes he forgot there were folk like that, people who died peacefully in their own beds, just buggered off without a fuss.…

Zondi. He would have to know what was in the wind, for Du Plessis had shown his dislike for the Kaffir before, and not in a nice way.

Kramer reached for the telephone, then thought better of it; Van der Poel could still be hanging about, all ears and tittle tattle. So he rose, lifted Strydom like a sleeping child, and carried him through to the bedroom. Ma Strydom murmured an endearment as her spouse’s weight sagged the big bed, then rolled over with her face to the wall. And she stayed asleep while he was manhandled in under the single light covering.

Before he left the room, Kramer paused in the doorway, looking back. It had never occurred to him that someday he might strip old Strydom naked and slip him beneath a sheet. The idea was amusing—but not quite as jolly as the thought of what the doc, whose pajamas were still under the pillow, would offer as an explanation in the morning.

A false dawn was in the sky as Kramer finally reached the turn-off to Sunderland Avenue. He had had to walk back to all-night filling station for petrol.

Thank God the Chev was still parked outside number 44, for it meant Zondi was still there. Van der Pod’s Land Rover had gone, another relief, and so had all the other vehicles, with the exception of the two bicycles.

Kramer cut the engine and coasted in the last fifty yards, getting out and closing his door with care so as not to attract attention. Then he kept close to the hedge and walked up to the garage. It was empty.

“Good morning, my boss,” said a voice right behind him.

Turning, he saw one of the Bantu constables there, nervously thumbing the switch on his torch.

“Name?”

“Mkize.”

“Well, where’s Sergeant Zondi, Mkize?”

“Gone.”

“What?”

“Gone away, my boss, I think to the reserves.”

“How? My car’s still outside there.”

“I—I don’t know properly, my boss.”

“But on whose orders, man? You Kaffirs just can’t do what you like, you know! Who said he could go?”

“Actually, I told him to go, Lieutenant Kramer,” said a side of pork appearing in the doorway.

“Who the—” Kramer just stopped himself.

“Go, boy,” the stranger sighed to the Bantu constable, waiting until he had hurried off.

“You were saying?”

This was pork with menaces, no doubt of it.

“I want to know who the hell you are and what the hell you think you’re doing.”

“No need to get so mad, man. I’m Lieutenant Scott.”

“Oh, yes?”

That last phrase snapped the stem of Kramer’s most florid expletive. He stood speechless, staring at the other officer, noting that he was pink and fatty and unclean under the arms. It was amazing how accurate an assessment he had made in that first split second in the half dark. It was equally amazing how determined his mind was to fight shy of assessing just what was going on.

“I’ve got some coffee in the house. What do you say to us two getting together there and sorting this thing out?”

Kramer made no reply but led the way back into the bungalow through the front door. The coffee was on the desk in the study, a big pot of it and two mugs.

“With milk?”

“Without.”

Scott lifted the heavy pot and poured without a tremor. This made Kramer realize he had better ease off on the tension or find himself at a disadvantage.

“Scott, you say? CID?”

“That’s right, but not in this division. Been seconded from Southwest for a couple of months.”

No wonder Kramer had never heard of the bastard. The Southwest was about as far as you could get from Trekkersburg and still be in the Republic.

“Too much desert?”

“Too much bloody everything out there. Real reason’s I needed some experience in towns.”

“Still, thought somebody might have told me.”

“Only just arrived this morning. Usual bugger-up; nobody knew I was coming, not even your colonel.”

“Muller?”

“Du Plessis.”

“So he was already in charge when you got here?”

“What do you mean—er—”

“Tromp. Tromp Kramer. Yours?”

“John.”

On first-name terms already; not bad going, considering the way Kramer felt. Now to get at the guts of the matter.

“First night and they set you to work, John? You must be a bit pissed off.”

“Don’t mind. Don’t know anyone; barracks aren’t up to much. Mind you, I’ll find myself a cheap place in a hotel soon as I’m able.”

“Uh huh.”

“No, the way it happened was this, see? The Colonel called me up to his office around eleven and said that he had a senior officer with his hands full. White bloke murdered and another dead in a car crash, suspicious circumstances.”

“Didn’t know he cared.”

“Oh, yes. Said it was Christmas and he didn’t want you too tied up. Also said this murder here seemed pretty straightforward and your boy could probably handle it on his own, seeing it’s a Bantu matter.”

Isn’t that presuming a bit much?”

“Well, isn’t it Bantu?”

Kramer shrugged.

“And your boy is not bad, the Colonel tells me.”

“True.”

“There you are then. Simple.”

Yes, it was simple. Straightforward, like the man said. Nothing to get all worked up about. Yet.…

“I see, John. So you’ve taken over from me, in other words. Pity nobody—”

“They couldn’t get hold of you.”

“No? So what are your plans?”

“None. I’ve had the kitchen cleaned up, I’ve seen that Swart’s fiancee has been informed—did it by phone, got the Cape Town boys to go round. Lucky she was on night duty.”

“And what else?”

“Nothing else. Zondi seems to know what he’s doing. Got the home address of the servant and pushed off to find him.”

“On foot? How far is it?”

Scott laughed, motioning Kramer to be seated, too.

“Hell no. He lives in northern Natal, Robert’s Halt. I was told to hand over the car they gave me and keep the other for you.”

Kramer sat down and put his feet back on the blotter. Actually, once you got over his appearance, and natural distrust of an Afrikaner with an English name, this Scott bloke seemed all right. Not so much pork as pawn, he decided.

“Family?” asked Scott.

“Me? No, why?”

“Christmas Day tomorrow. Just wondered what you’d be doing.”

“Nothing special. Got this accident case, of course, but nobody’s going to be much help until the twenty-seventh.”

“I know. Local lab have already told me they don’t want to know about this one till then. I could send the stuff down to Durban, I suppose. Maybe we could have a few drinks?”

“Maybe,” Kramer replied, looking very hard at the blotter to the right of his shoes. He was certain that something had been lying there earlier that had since disappeared. Then he glanced up at the bookshelves; they had seemed very neat and orderly before, and he knew Van der Poel had not touched any of the volumes. Casually he pulled open the bottom left drawer and saw a paper clip lying on a Catholic Truth Society pamphlet.

“You’ve been digging around in this room?” he asked Scott.

“Thought you’d done the job for me, Tromp.”

“Ah, so they told you. Just didn’t want you to have extra work.”

“Thanks, man. You’re going now?”

“Just for a pee,” Kramer replied, clowning a stiff-legged walk for a couple of paces.

In the bathroom along the passage he opened the medicine cabinet and found what he wanted. He used the lavatory, dallied a moment at the kitchen door, and then rejoined Scott.

“Somebody made a good job of cleaning up in there,” he said affably. “Best when they bleed on lino; carpet has to be chucked away. Who did it?”

“Local station sent a boy over.”

So the Bantu constables had not left their posts. He would have to take the matter further.

“Think I’ll get a bit of shut-eye, John.”

“Here?”

“Good as any this time of day. How about you?”

“Seems a good idea. Okay.”

“Get a boy to wake me at six when they change over, all right?”

“Fine, Tromp. Me, I’ll find myself a proper bed.”

Scott left Kramer alone and very soon he was, contrary to his expectations, sound asleep.

Several times a check was made on this.

At ten past six, without seeing Scott again, Kramer took his leave of 44 Sunderland Avenue and drove, not back into town, but toward Skaapvlei police station. In under a mile he sighted his quarry and cut him off.

The Bantu constable reared his bicycle up over the curb, wobbled wildly, caught his balance, and stopped. He was a very startled man. And that made a good beginning.

Kramer swung open his passenger door and called, “Get in—I have something for you.”

The constable got in, seating himself on the extreme off side of the car, like a virgin at a drive-in.

“This,” said Kramer, holding out a pill. “You swallow that for me.”

Which put the constable in a dilemma, but Kramer’s rank, skin, and expression reduced his degree of choice. He gulped the aspirin down, swallowing hard because his mouth must have gone very dry.

“It is medicine, my boss?”

“No, it is magic.”

“Yebobo!”

“A special magic that will kill your seed.”

The constable, shocked to the core, jabbered in Zulu and Kramer recognized the word for “sterile,” which he had been trying to remember.

“That’s right, you’ve got the picture. Only this can’t happen if you tell me the truth, old son.”

“My—my boss?”

“Tell me the truth and never tell anyone I spoke with you.”

The constable nodded. Anything, anything to preserve the family line.

“Then who has been in that house tonight since I left it? Zondi?”

“No, he never go inside. He go away like I say before.”

“The other lieutenant?”

“Just him, my boss. No other new ones came.”

“Sure?”

“Mkize tells truth, cross my heart.”

“The back door was locked, wasn’t it?”

“No key for it.”

“Right. Off you go then; you did your job well.”

The Bantu constable scrambled out and regained the safety of the sidewalk.

“Oh, one other thing, Mkize—may they never fall off.”

With which Kramer accelerated away and made for home. It had been a dirty trick to play on the wog, but by going for the Zulu’s most vulnerable spot he had made sure of the truth.

When he had left the house with Strydom, everyone—Fingerprints, photographers, the lot—had already been and gone. Zondi had not gone back in. This meant that Scott had been lying through his teeth when he denied making a search in the study.

What this, in turn, actually signified was now the important thing. Kramer thought very carefully and long, finally coming up with what had to be the answer: the bastards really were out to get him, and Zondi, too.