The Gooseberry Fool Page 16

  “The one in the picture? Not surprised—you don’t go putting gear like this into ruddy steam engines! Very rare, these are, and very expensive—sophisticated’s what the write-ups call them. Specialized.”

  “In which way?”

  “VHF.”

  “Ach, commercial stations?”

  “Hell! Crystal set’s practically all you’d need for that. No, a specialized receiver of some kind, VHF, miniaturized.”

  Kramer extinguished his own cigarette very carefully, rubbing it until the tobacco shredded from the paper. Sophisticated, specialized, miniaturized, and totally bewildering.

  “And so?”

  “Looks like we’ve got another problem to sort out.”

  “I’ll be making this worth your while,” Kramer said.

  Brighton sat down on a loudspeaker case, fidgeted and fretted like a man trying to dislodge an idea from a corner of his mind.

  “Oh, aye, but you can’t give me back my kip, Lieutenant. I’m bushed, shagged; almost done my twenty-four when you buzzed. Too bloody tired. To think, I mean.”

  In fact, Brighton’s obvious fatigue had been worrying Kramer from the outset. Now that the fireman had admitted to it, the end of their fruitful little discussion was very near at hand. Kramer just had to push him on to make one last effort.

  But before he could do that, the bells went down.

  “Christ,” said Brighton, fully alert in a split second. “Something big’s happened. I’ve got to scramble.”

  He was out of that room before Kramer could move.

  The Widow Fourie was not at home. Having managed to replace the paper bag in the exhibits room without waking Lourens, and having almost bumped into Scott coming out of the communications room, Kramer had driven straight to her flat. There was a note waiting, though.

  “To Whom It May Concern,” it read. “Don’t worry, it’s just that the kids wanted to swim before the mobs arrived. See you.”

  So he let himself in with his own key and took a bath. He ate a leftover or two.

  Then he put through a call to the fire station and learned from the duty man—Styles had gone off—that a bus up near Ladysmith had hurtled off the approach to a bridge into a dry riverbed. At least ten had died and injuries were very serious; the driver had escaped with cut hands and shock. Lead Fireman Brighton’s message said he was bringing the brain damages down to Trekkersburg the minute the doctors gave the goahead. That could be anytime. An hour, two hours—it all depended.

  “To Whom It Does Concern,” wrote Kramer. “Had a bath. Had some turkey. Had to go. Things are very bad.” Then he paused, trying not to add what first came to mind. Finally he wrote instead: “High Noon.” And crossed it out.

  But left the note with nothing torn off it and returned to the fire station.

  “Brighton’s been held up, sir,” the duty fireman, an Afrikaner, no less, said as he entered the watch room.

  “How long now?”

  “If all the ambos weren’t out, he’d have been relieved by now. You can ask the chief if you like.”

  “Won’t make any difference.”

  “Nothing I can do for you, sir?”

  “No. Got someplace I can wait?”

  “Up the stairs, standby room.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “There’s billiards, too, sir, if you prefer.”

  Kramer scowled at the thick-headed bugger and went on up to the standby room, finding two beds in it made up with blankets. He stripped one of them, loosened his tie and laces, and stretched out. Perhaps it would be as well. He slept.

  A cup of coffee and a bacon sandwich woke him, furious, as the sun was setting a cheap orange against the far wall. Their breakfast aroma convinced him he had gone once around the clock.

  “Take it easy,” sighed Brighton, flopping onto the other bed and easing off his boots—they and his white coat had both been stained by blood. “I’ve had a sodding day of it.”

  “Hey? How long?”

  “Never know your luck, do you? Drove like buggery all the way down, and what happens? I end up with four DOAs. Four! The fresh-meat express. Little kiddie and all. Should have seen the hospital—like a bleeding bomb hit it. Any road up, idea came to me around Lion’s River. Could’ve killed meself, honest.”

  “What idea?”

  Kramer swung around into a sitting position.

  “Four, and my oppo near to blubbing in the back. Could’ve killed meself.”

  “Brighton! Take a pull at yourself, man!”

  “Where my job ends and yours begins, isn’t it, Lieut? When they’ve snuffed it. Oh, yes, I’m sorry. Trannies, you see, lots of them had trannies.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Y’know, transistor radios. On the bus. Plugged into their earholes when she went arse over tip. Started me thinking. Coils in an aid case. Radio. Need a proper aerial really, something a bit more than you’d get in a tranny. Too directional, they are. Depends on meters, wave band, all that. Around three foot should work nicely. That’s where he had it, you see, aerial twisted up the lead to the ear—could fix it so it’s hardly a thing you’d notice. This Swart was hooked into a receiver.”

  “Of what? Don’t be stupid, for God’s sake.”

  “Ah, but what was it you said, Lieut? He could’ve been up to anything? How does bugging suit you?”

  “Never!”

  “Can’t see it any other way. Always been deaf, has he?”

  Now Kramer was on his feet. He dragged Brighton up so he leaned against the headboard, and shook him until he opened his eyes again. Yes, it was the priest, Father Lawrence, who had said it: afflicted in the prime of life.

  “No, no, he hasn’t. Fairly recent.”

  “There you are then. I’ll have your coffee if it’s going.”

  The cup was thrust into his hands.

  “How did you work that out?”

  “Listen, Lieut, simple. Our lad here wants to do a bit of eavesdropping. Bit of the old fly on the wall. All right? So he puts in a bug transmitting on VHF, special frequency, short range. Now he wants to hear it but, wherever this place is, there’s people who’d notice if he plugged in a receiver. Ask questions. Want to know the cricket score. Or can’t even use a faked-up tranny because it’s not the place you use trannies. Like where he works, for instance. Province wouldn’t let a man listen to Springbok during hours; private firm maybe, but not the province. So he’s got to find a way of having himself an earplug and summat big enough for the works. What else can a man stuff in his ears? Carrots? I grant you. But another answer’s that thing you brought round this morning. Makes sense, don’t it?”

  Too true it did. Kramer had to stop in the doorway to get his shoes on properly. Then he realized he needed a few more answers.

  “You said the range of this thing was short—how short?”

  “Size he had? Around ten, twenty feet. These private eyes lug around sets the size of an overnight bag if they are working at longer ranges.”

  “And the cost? Expensive you said?”

  “Bleeding fortune; not your amateur’s gear. Proper 007 stuff and then some.”

  “You’re suggesting what? A foreign power would’ve had to foot the bill?” Kramer brought a chuckle into this.

  “Aye, aye, that kind of shekels.”

  “Man, this is really something then? No bloody wonder.…”

  “What?”

  “Forget it—forget all about it, Mr. Brighton,” said Kramer, taking out twenty-five rand of his own money and tucking it into the limp fist.

  Brighton held the money and the stare until his eyes began to glaze. Then he smiled, almost, and rolled over, giving a grunt of deep satisfaction.

  “Never happened, Lieut. Now piss off.”

  The Widow Fourie looked up from the kitchen table, where she was setting down a bowl of chicken-noodle soup, three minutes from its packet.

  “You didn’t waste time” she said.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Do it a
ll by phone?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Then I’ll just tell the kids they can talk now but must stay in their rooms—and you can let me hear the rest.”

  Kramer lifted the soup and placed it on the top of the washing machine. He had not been able to sit still in one place ever since leaving the fire station. He broke some bread, dunked it, and began spooning up nourishment. He was not an eating man, more of a refueler. And he paced about between each mouthful. Chewing crumbs.

  “Give it a rest, Trompie! I’m going to go cross-eyed if you don’t stop. Want mushrooms in your omelet?”

  “Uh huh.”

  He took his last sup from the bowl as he plonked it into the sink, wiped an arm over his chin, and lit up.

  “Really! Is it ulcers you want?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “In your omelet?”

  “Uh huh. What?”

  “Ach, I might as well talk to the blinking wall sometimes. Never mind; have your think first.”

  She cracked four eggs and got busy.

  “Like I said, Whipstock, he knew the number.”

  “Who, Trompie?”

  “Gazette reporter, municipal and provincial, knows all departmental heads. Bloke called Cheyney is Swart’s boss. Still celebrating, by the sound of it; called me ‘old chap’—you know the kind. But I bulled the bugger good, oh, yes; he told me the lot. Enough anyway. Swart wasn’t working on top classified stuff, but the three in the next office were mixed up in some road scheme with the Defense Force. Cheyney wouldn’t say more, mad to blab anything on the phone, but, like I say, it was enough.”

  “Roads? They don’t sound important. Do you want the mushrooms chopped fine?”

  “Uh huh. Roads not important? With a coastline as long as this one? You’re a—”

  “Now, now.”

  “The point remains, my girl. Swart was right next door to secret information, okay?”

  The Widow Fourie started to beat the eggs, chasing the bowl as it slid around the work top. Kramer held it for her.

  “Point taken, sir.”

  “Now that priest was very interesting. You know what he said when I rang just now? I gave him my name and he says, ‘Decided to come out in the open, have you?’”

  “Hey?”

  “So I say, what do you mean, Reverend? And he says, ‘You’ve had your men outside my house for two days; didn’t you think I knew?’”

  “What could he mean?”

  “Very, very interesting. ’Specially after I phoned Dan, the one who was in Security till he hurt his shoulder, owns that tearoom and a farm down near Drummond.”

  “It’s ready now—mind the pan.”

  Kramer stepped aside to let her get by.

  “Just casual like, I say to Dan, does he know a Catholic priest called Lawrence? I’m working on a case, see, and this priest seems a funny bugger to me. Made out I’d really phoned to ask if I can go shooting on his land sometime.”

  “And?”

  “Old Dan laughs and says I must watch out—the priest is a red-hot Commy!”

  “What did he mean?”

  “Ach, the bugger must be some kind of liberal, but I would have heard myself if it had been more. Before now, that is. See?”

  “Hand me that big fork, please, Trompie. Ta.”

  “But do you see? The pattern?”

  “No; to be honest, I don’t.” She sighed, very content simply to be with her man.

  “Jesus bloody Christ!” he exploded.

  The Widow Fourie swung around, startled, outraged.

  “Don’t you dare shout at me like that!”

  But Kramer seemed quite unaware of her response as he stood there, eyes tight shut. Unaware of anything—not even the burning tip of the Lucky Strike’s stub as it sizzled down between his fingers, shriveling the hairs, blistering the skin. She had to knock it from his hand.

  “Trompie?” she said.

  His eyes opened.

  “Trompie, what is it? Please tell me! Please!”

  “Zondi.…”

  “I’ve never seen you so angry. Are you angry? What—”

  “The bastards.”

  “No, don’t do anything right now, Trompie. You mustn’t. You were laughing before; I’ll stop you going out.”

  The Widow Fourie barred the doorway.

  “The pattern, my girl, the real pattern, just then, when I was talking.”

  Now Kramer’s voice was so unnaturally soft she shivered. Shuddered right down the spine and backed away. Stopping again at the door to the hall, pressing it shut behind her.

  “What—what are you going to do?”

  “Ach, just make a couple of calls,” he said lightly, and mean, lifting the telephone receiver.

  “Who to?”

  “A Kaffir doctor.”

  “Hey? And who else?”

  “Colonel Muller, long distance; he’s going to have to cut his holiday short.”

  “You’re calling him back?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “But why?”

  “Because it’s either that or I go into the murder business myself. Okay?”

  13

  ZONDI STARTED TO come around at six o’clock on the morning of December 27, and Dr. Mtembu was there to help him do it. His head still felt stuffed with thundercloud, and his cheek was burning, and his arm was aching, but never in years had he had such a good rest. He could sense as much throughout his spare frame, right down to the calluses on his soles, and for once hunger was his only discomfort. He had been relentless with that body. It was grateful.

  It was also reluctant to get on the move again, and he needed assistance to reach the chair.

  “Don’t rush yourself,” Mtembu advised. “You have been asleep two days, a very long time.”

  “Shabalala—where is he?”

  “The prisoner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dead. He died in the car.”

  Zondi sighed, lilting the sound in the way of his people when they mourned.

  “I went to much trouble to find him.”

  “Sit down. I will fetch some milk.”

  “Where is the nurse?”

  “She is busy.”

  Zondi watched Mtembu slip out, puzzled. This was a strange business when a doctor ran errands for you. He hobbled over and drew aside the curtains surrounding his bed. There was one other patient in the small ward, inside a plastic tent, breathing like a rutting buck, but nobody else. He almost missed the chair getting back on it.

  “For shame,” he hissed at his body.

  Remembering then, with a shudder, the women at his back and the sweat in his eyes as he ran. All for nothing. Or perhaps he had dreamed it in his long sleep. A nightmare.

  Mtembu returned with the milk, and a plate of bread and butter besides.

  “Eat as an old woman without teeth,” he warned, “and drink like a sparrow.”

  “Am I farm boy, you speak to me thus?” Zondi snapped, pushing the glass away.

  Mtembu laughed, too loudly, too anxious to be found a man of whimsical humor. There was fear in him and that, too, was strange.

  “Answer me, Mr. Stethoscope.”

  “I apologize, Sergeant. I intended only to.…”

  “I have felt my head,” said Zondi, continuing now in English, “and where is the wound that made me unconscious?”

  “Shock to the general system, Sergeant.”

  That was a new one on Zondi, but another thought occurred to him.

  “Why is it you wake me so early?”

  “It is you who did the awakening.”

  “But why must I get up now?”

  Again that curious glance away and flick of the tongue to keep the lips wet.

  “Because your superior asked for you to join him whenever possible.”

  Zondi rose unsteadily.

  “Why didn’t you say that straightaway? Get me my clothes.”

  Mtembu pointed to them on the locker.

  “Shall I help you,
Sergeant?”

  “Ring for a police car.”

  “Your superior will come for you.”

  “He said this?”

  “To myself, personally.”

  “Then ring him—checha!”

  Mtembu hurried, all right, compounding Zondi’s shaky bewilderment. This was not the world as he had left it.

  By the time Colonel Muller had dropped off the family and reached CID headquarters, everything was in the bag and Kramer waiting for him on the top step. Muller, still dressed casually in yellow polo shirt, khaki shorts, sandals, and blue socks, gave just a shake of the head and no greeting. Kramer turned and led the way. Up the stairs and down the corridor. Outer door, inner door, rum turn turn, halt.

  They talked for forty minutes.

  Then Muller left his seat on the corner of the big desk under the Prime Minister’s portrait, and walked the feeling back into one leg. He broke off his third circuit of the desk to sit down and use the internal line.

  “Switch? Muller. I want you to ring Colonel Du Plessis and ask him to come to HQ quick as. And Lieutenant Scott. Are they? Good. Then I want you to find out for me if Brigadier Willems can be contacted at BOSS, Pretoria. BOSS—Bureau of State Security, you baboon! Not Boss Anybody! God in heaven, who am I speaking to? De Kok? Might have bloody guessed. Get on with it.”

  Kramer took the chair pointed out to him; caught and lit the small cheroot tossed across. He was enjoying all this.

  “Tromp.”

  “Sir?”

  “I intend taking this matter all the way,” said Muller, holding his smoke.

  “Uh huh.”

  Muller exhaled to avoid choking.

  “Minister. Pardon. To the Minister himself.”

  “Hell.”

  “Hell nothing! I’m not having anybody play silly buggers with my men’s time! Bloody cheek!”

  There was nothing Kramer could usefully add. He had said it all already, with maximum effect. So he simply nodded a few times.

  “I mean, Tromp, it would have been different if they’d asked for our cooperation. Quite different. But to treat us as though we can’t be trusted—that I will not have! Huh! What do they think we are? Russia-trained spies?”

  “No, sir, just not so special as they are. We’re dog-license cops.”

  “Bastards.”

  The internal telephone bleeped.

  “Muller. What gives? Then get me his home number. Of course it isn’t in the book, you—”