The Gooseberry Fool Read online

  And there seemed nothing remarkable about the hearing aid whatsoever.

  Kramer pitched the print into the stop bath and then into the fixer. He lit another cigarette from the one burned down in the ashtray, and then snapped on the white overhead light. When he looked this time, it was not with any hope of seeing anything significant.

  But he did. He saw very faint parallel gray lines, too pale for visibility under the yellow safety, and rendered almost indistinguishable by the disruption of grain, running round and round the hearing aid.

  God, what an oversight! When the priest had remarked upon the fact that the gadget had suffered willful damage, Kramer’s reaction had been one of professional intolerance. He had been annoyed that anyone who claimed to know his fellow men would not also know that the more violent of them often took out excess feelings on inanimate objects associated with their victims—just as a kid might thump his sister, then kick down her pile of blocks. He had wanted to tell him how burglars crap on beds and pee into dressing tables. He had got caught up with a trifle and quite missed the appallingly obvious.

  Which went something like this: the assumption had been that the hearing aid fell to the floor during the death struggle. But here it was, its lead wound neatly around it, as it would be when the fastidious Swart was not wearing it. And yet the priest had stated the radio was on when he found the body—which was a lot of use to a deaf man.

  “Hold it,” said Kramer to himself, trying to think of reasonable explanations for this gross contradiction of fact. There was the thought that the killer had switched the radio on to smother the sound of his retreat; but this was rubbish, because if he had been quiet enough to take Swart by surprise—wait a minute. That presupposed Swart could hear, and turned the argument on its head.

  Kramer started again. A deaf man comes into his kitchen and switches on the radio. It is about nine o’clock so probably he wants to hear the news. Then he decides to unhitch his aid—probably bothersome in the heat—and does so. This cancels the radio for him anyway, and perhaps he is about to switch it off when the killer attacks.

  And yet he was expecting a visitor at any minute, the priest had arranged to call, he would want to hear the knock. All right, so the priest had been early by ten minutes, but nobody relied on callers to time their arrivals so exactly.

  The counter to that was simply that Swart had intended to go and wait out on the front veranda for the priest, but was struck down before he could do so.

  The counter-counter was that this left him very little time to enjoy his illicit drink, which he would hardly carry out with him. Or again, he might, seeing it was vodka.

  Counter, counter, counter. But when you came right down to it, a hearing aid was like a heavy-framed pair of spectacles: habitual users were unlikely to be aware of their weight and inconvenience any more than a well-stacked dolly was aware of her mams. Unless, of course, in each case their equipment was sham. Then, in the privacy of the home, during a heat wave, shedding could well take place, foam rubber the lot.

  “Man, oh, man.…”

  Kramer lifted the print out of the fixer, swished it through the wash, and then rolled it flat on the small glazer. While it dried, he tidied up the bench and left nothing for Prinsloo to find out of place.

  Then he went back to the clerk’s office and compared the two pictures. He had chosen exactly the same negative—there was a water mark in the same place on each one—and the degree of enlargement had been, within a millimeter, identical. Which suggested Prinsloo had done as he had done—blown it up to fit the paper and pressed the button. It also suggested that somebody had trimmed off the hearing aid from the one picture in which it appeared, and then had cut the other prints down to give them a uniform size.

  Without actually handling them, Kramer might never have noticed any difference; it was also extremely unlikely that the examining magistrate would have given the dimensions a thought. It was just the echo of Prinsloo’s “ten-by-eights” that had triggered him off. And was, in the final analysis, the crux of the matter.

  Suspicion bred suspicion, Kramer knew that, but felt the hearing aid itself now warranted his attention.

  But before going along to the exhibits room, he made a quick check on Lourens. The friendly ghost was still snuffling and snoring away. The ball pen lay where Kramer had left it on the duty book after signing in. Good.

  He used his own key to open the heavy door and locked it again behind him. Then he began a hunt along the shelves, prodding and peering and pulling at labeled plastic bags half hidden by larger items, such as an enigmatic chamber pot. His heartbeat stepped up as he reached the end of the last shelf empty-handed. The sod–ding thing was not there.

  Wait a minute, though. He had just remembered that the Chevrolet had been clean out of plastic bags; Zondi just may have used a few of the old issue of paper ones that had been lying around in the glove compartment, and there were a couple of them back near the door which he had taken to date from old unsolved cases.

  The first paper bag had Zondi’s careful printing on the outside and inside it were the fragments of a broken glass. And the other contained a hearing aid, again identified in Zondi’s hand. Kramer shook the bag and heard pieces of innard rattle about. That was as far as he could go, knowing bugger all about electronics, but there was a bloke on his private list of experts who could tell soon enough if there was anything significant in the way that picture had been trimmed.

  12

  BOB PERKINS WAS away over Christmas. Kramer hid the accumulation of milk bottles behind an azalea bush, spat at the cat very realistically, slammed the garden gate behind him, and stalked to his car. Bloody hell, Bob had been perfect for the job; he had worked on a burned tape Zondi found in the Le Roux case and come up trumps. He was also, being a yoga fanatic and teetotaler, the sort of bloke you could rouse at four on a public morning-after and expect to deliver a sensible opinion—even if his funny little woman pupped in the pantry in protest. But Bob was away over Christmas and that was that. Except Kramer still had to find himself another whiz kid who would (a) know what he was talking about; and (b) not mind talking about it before breakfast. Patience was, in Kramer’s view, a vice, particularly when he had to return the hearing aid before anyone noticed it was missing.

  He forked left past the hospital, catching sight of a nurse at a high window. He slowed down. She was sneaking her last cup of coffee at the end of a long night shift, probably finding the new day as unreal as he did, probably praying the ambulance men would not be delivering before seven. She raised her cup to him, laughed, and backed away. Any girl, especially in a nurse’s uniform, looked beautiful at that distance, even desirable. That she was perhaps as plain as a pancake just made the brief encounter all the more poignant.

  He wondered if the Widow Fourie was awake yet or, indeed, if she had slept at all; his sudden departure on Christmas Day might have set her thinking those thoughts again. He wondered if Miriam Zondi was asleep, or still twisting knots in her handkerchief. He had no doubt that Zondi himself was asleep.

  Kramer’s train of thought meandered about and stopped at every siding, but finally it brought him to where he should have driven in the first place: Trekkersburg Fire Station. It had traveled by way of ambulance men, who were also firemen, who had a radio link-up between their vehicles, who relied on Leading Fireman Ralph Brighton to keep this equipment in perfect order, who was a transistorized nut case. A genius.

  He braked on the concrete apron outside the high, wide doors and brought the Ford right up to the watch room door. The duty fireman left his switchboard and leaned across the counter.

  “What’s up, cock?” he called out

  Tommy Styles, like Brighton, was another honest-to-Gawd Englishman, who had gone through the Blitz then got the hell out of a country with old buildings.

  “Kramer, cock.”

  “Oh, aye?”

  The Ford door clicked shut and Kramer took the three steps in a stride. Styles opened the
counter flap.

  “Sun fair blinded me. Don’t say you’ve gone and set fire to some poor bleeder this time—dead nasty, the stories I hear.”

  His attitude toward the law was typical of the station’s limeys: unusual to say the least, at times—incredible as it seemed—almost disrespectful. Not that it mattered; just something in their upbringing.

  “Where’s Brighton?”

  “His flat. Only got in at half three.”

  “On ambulance?”

  “Native maternity. Had to wash his ambo out, too, when he got back—hasn’t got the touch, y’know. Won’t be happy if he’s wanted before his tour ends.”

  Now this was something else about firemen, as a whole this time, which Kramer found perplexing: they did all their own chores. The only wog employed on the premises was an old keshla who handed wrenches to the mechanic. The fire chief had once muttered something about discipline, which was patently absurd; as anyone trying the same trick down at the charge office would soon find out. Hey ho, he had begun to wander.

  “Sorry, but I want to see him. This minute.”

  “On your head be it!”

  Styles crabbed along the communications panel in his special chair, walked his fingers up a row of buttons, and pressed the second from the top.

  “No phone?”

  “Said you wanted him chop-chop. This should see to that nicely.”

  The huge clock above them tapped fifty seconds off the year and then down a shiny brass pole, in time-honored fashion, came Leading Fireman Brighton. Kramer, looking through the glass partition into the fire engine hall, saw him absorb the jar of his landing with a neat bend of the knees, do up the last button of his long white coat without pausing, and come cursing through into the watch room. He reached under the counter, where there were two piles of folded blankets, and snatched out one fluffy and one worn.

  “Come on,” he said. “Which? European or native? And where’s me bloody mate?”

  “Morning, Brighton. Like a word.”

  “Lieut! You bastard!”

  “In your room?”

  “And you’re a right bugger, Tommy! Got my youngest squawking his ruddy head off, you have! Wait till I tell the missus; she’ll have your—”

  “Wot? Me with a police escort and all?”

  “Look,” said Kramer softly, “just watch it.”

  Good; they had lived in the Republic long enough to appreciate what that meant. Both men went slightly red and Styles took the blankets away to replace them. Brighton waved a hand at the staircase.

  Kramer went ahead until the second landing, where he stepped aside to allow Brighton to unlock the door to the radio workshop. It was so cluttered with loudspeakers, wire, electric cord, circuit boards, jagged metal sheeting, valves, things with knobs, and other junk, the untidy bugger had to kick aside quite a bit before there was room enough inside for two.

  “Close the door and lock it.”

  Brighton raised an eyebrow briefly but followed orders.

  “Something I’ve done?”

  “Something you’re going to do.”

  “Oh?”

  “If you will, please, man.”

  “Couldn’t wait?”

  “No.”

  “To do with what, though?”

  “All this,” answered Kramer, waving vaguely about him. “I’ve got a little problem just up your street. Our radio bloke is off for Christmas.”

  Again the quick arch of an eyebrow.

  “Besides, this is a very confidential matter.”

  “Let’s hear it then, Lieutenant. Take a pew.”

  Kramer perched on a section of worktable specially cleared for him.

  “Because I don’t want a word of this repeated outside these four walls, I’m going to give it to you straight—and you’re going to keep your mouth shut.”

  “As I said, let’s hear it.”

  “As you know, I’m Murder Squad, but right now I’m conducting a departmental inquiry. I have reason to believe that evidence has been interfered with. This evidence.”

  Kramer handed Brighton the paper bag, then slid off the table to give him somewhere to examine it. Brighton lifted out the hearing aid very carefully and put it down on a clean sheet of newspaper.

  “Cor, what happened to this lot then?”

  “Somebody smashed it with their heel.”

  “I’ll say.”

  Brighton bent over the hearing aid and tutted and grumbled worse than Strydom over a mangled toddler.

  “Where was it found, Lieut?”

  “Here, see for yourself.”

  A man who lived his life to the tune of a wailing siren was not easily distracted by something as everyday as a corpse; Brighton hardly looked at Swart before taking his jeweler’s glass to the section showing the hearing aid.

  “You see,” said Kramer, “another photograph to be offered in court as an exhibit has had that part of it cut away—no hearing aid showing, in other words.”

  “And what’s your query?”

  “I want to know what, if anything, there is unusual about this gadget.”

  “I follow.”

  Brighton switched his attention back to the hearing aid, picking it up and turning it around. He used his glass to examine the name H. Swart scratched on the back with something sharp, and rubbed a thumb on a grayish deposit.

  “Any idea what this stuff is?”

  “Fingerprints did that.”

  “Name’s not been on long—no dirt yet in the marks. Easy to get off sweaty hands, too.”

  Then Brighton used a small screwdriver to poke about inside the instrument.

  “Perfectly straightforward, Lieut; few bits missing, that’s all.”

  “There’s others in the bag.”

  “Heck! Take a gander at this!”

  Kramer understood what had crossed Brighton’s mind at almost the same instant. His hands moved forward on reflex to snatch the thing away and try it himself. But Brighton was already winding the lead to the earplug around the casing. It made four turns.

  “This a trick you’re playing on me?” Brighton asked suspiciously.

  “Hell, no!”

  “Then it isn’t the same bloody hearing aid, is it?”

  And he pushed across the ten-by-eight print, pointing to the broad band, which had about four times as many turns in it.

  “See, the lead goes in here, molded fitting, and solders on there. This is as from factory; nobody has changed it.”

  “Jesus.…”

  “And that bugger in the pic’s got a lead on it about three feet long. What are you after, a deaf giraffe?”

  Kramer could not reply, mainly because he could hardly think straight. His cigarettes came out automatically and they lit up.

  “The aids have been switched?”

  “Positive of it. Does that help?”

  “Man, you’re doing a great job.”

  “Done it, as far as I can see.”

  “But why such a long lead? There must be a reason!”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you, Lieut? They don’t make them like that. Was it his?”

  “Yes, that’s Swart.”

  “And what’s he when he’s at home?”

  “Draftsman, worked for the province, but lived in the wrong place.”

  “More to it then?”

  “Still waters. You get my meaning? Our friend here was mixed up in something bloody peculiar—could have been anything, but I haven’t got round to that yet.”

  “Disciplinary, you said, Lieut?”

  Brighton was shrewd, there were no two ways around that. But Kramer was quite satisfied the man was also completely trustworthy. He had that air about him.

  “Yes, could be one of my officers is involved.”

  “That’s bad.”

  “Very.”

  “But doesn’t give us our answer, does it?”

  “That long lead, Mr. Brighton—wouldn’t it have been noticeable?”

  “Wrapped around
the thing in the pocket? I wouldn’t say so.”

  “Uh huh.”

  They stood and stared down at the substituted hearing aid, mulling over their thoughts. Brighton tipped up the paper bag and several small electronic parts dropped out. He lifted the bag and held it against the glare coming in off the high, white-walled practice tower outside in the yard.

  “Oi, oi,” he said, spotting a small dark shadow in one of the glued folds at the bottom. He reached in and tried to pick out something with thick finger and thumb.

  “Mind if I tear this, Lieut? Bit gone astray.”

  “Don’t, if you can help it.”

  “Okay.”

  Brighton picked up a toffee tin filled with clutter and jiggled it about. He found an old pair of eyebrow tweezers and tried them. Out of the bag came a small brown rod, with two bands of hair-thin wire wound around it, and a silver wire sticking out either end.

  “All that trouble for something that doesn’t belong.”

  “What do you mean, man? I found one just like it on the kitchen floor, right by where the original thing was smashed. Just like that one—only the lines were yellow, not red.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Anyway, my sergeant wouldn’t put anything in the bag that didn’t belong.”

  “He’s the one you’re after, Lieut?”

  “Jesus, no. But he’s the bloke who wrote on the bag.”

  “So the bag is the same one?”

  Kramer took the point. The original hearing aid, and all its pieces, had been put in the bag by Zondi. Later the aids had been switched—but somebody had not taken as much trouble as Brighton to make sure everything had first been removed. Somebody who probably made the switch in the exhibits room, where the light was poor and the rod so wedged it did not rattle.

  “Yes, the bag is the same bag my sergeant used. We can take it this thing belonged to the other aid; that’s why it doesn’t belong to this one.”

  “No, Lieut, it just couldn’t.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because this little beauty is a radio part and so, from the sound of it, was the one you yourself found.”

  “But his wireless wasn’t touched, man.”