The Song Dog (13 page)

“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 …”

T
HE 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
soak, 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—”

“Ach, no, there’s no hearing that can’t be adjourned, not in these circumstances! What really happened was, the lady first had to have her hysterics—you know, cry and scream and scare the shit out of the servants, saying she just couldn’t take any more. Then, when she finally woke up to the fact that she’d
better
go—or what would her friends say?—the old man, who’d been using her as his excuse, had to come, too.”

“God preserve me,” murmured Mansfield, after quite a pause, “no bloody wonder I prefer animals …”

And Terblanche, nodding, silently concurred.

“Fine,” said Kramer, lighting a Lucky. “First, I want to know whether if at any time it has crossed your mind that Lance Gillets could have been behind what happened early yesterday morning at Fynn’s Creek.”

“What an extraordinary idea!”

“Is it? How would you describe them as a couple?”

“Well, um, rather ill matched, I suppose, and things were bound to get a bit sticky eventually—but that’s it. I’ve never
dwelt
on the matter, if you know what I mean.”

“Why not, sir?”

“No idea. Better things to do, I suppose.”

“You’re sure you are not being evasive because suddenly you feel partly responsible for what’s happened?”

Mansfield did a double blink. “Good Lord, no!” he said. “What on earth do you mean by that?”

“We understand that you’d put Gillets under a lot of pressure recently, telling him that Fynn’s Creek was his last chance to get his private life sorted out and make good.”

Mansfield’s face darkened. “Who the Devil’s been—”

“Is it true?”

“To some extent.”

“Meaning?”

“I would have been recommending we got shot of him anyway, once I had someone to take his place.”

“Oh, ja? You’d better expand on that.”

“Difficult. I suppose it could have been partly a certain, er, unpleasant streak in him that regrettably surfaced.”

“See?”
said Terblanche to Kramer, looking vindicated.

“What sort of streak exactly?” asked Kramer.

“Put it this way,” said Mansfield. “It’s always been a deuce of a business, getting any of my game guards to work under him.”

“Meaning boys, Bantus,” explained Terblanche, in case Kramer had missed the distinction between game guard and game ranger. “Can you quote any specific examples of—”

“Ach, never mind about that,” cut across Kramer. “Let me ask you the
opposite
question now, Mr. Mansfield: Why did you hire this man in the first place?”

“I didn’t, as a matter of fact,” he said. “That sort of thing is done by our headquarters staff. And he came to us most highly recommended, the right sort of background and all that. Awarded his gymnasium’s Sword of Honour during—”