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“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.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said, after a pause.

  “From you, I suppose that’s really something,” Colonel Muller replied. “But get the hell out of my sight.”

  14


  THE GREATEST HURT of them all, far crueler than anything else suffered on Kramer’s rack of regret, was what this fiasco must have done to the Widow Fourie. She had forgiven and forgotten, returned, come back at Christmas, the best present he ever unwrapped, and such had been her welcome. Two hours of tentative happiness, and then God knew how many more of worry and anguish, of sick concern for the brats of a Kaffir as willful, stupid, and deaf to bloody reason as himself. Yes, Zondi shared some of the blame, but only some. The rest fell entirely on Kramer. Went off half cocked, Du Plessis had said. Distracted by prejudice, Scott had said. They were right, the bastards. No, not bastards; not this time round.

  Jesus, what a clown he had been that morning when the message about the train came through. He could have dropped everything right then and sod the lot of them. It would not have been the first time he had told Du Plessis to go stick a report in a pigeon’s hole. And all Scott had wanted was him out of the way, so it would not have mattered anyhow. But no; pride, conceit, arrogance—give it what fancy name you liked—had got the better of him. Made him go racing around putting two and two together and getting twenty-two on his slate. Bloody wonderful. If he had just approached Scott at the swimming pool, the chances were he would have been put in the picture, had the rest of the day and the next with the kids and herself.

  Started again, differently, so it would last, so she would never go away again. Oh, Christ.

  He reached out again to dial the flat but found he still could not bring himself to do so. There might be no answer. Again.

  The phone tinkled and never got the chance to ring properly.

  “Yes? Look—”

  “Old McDonald here, Lieutenant. That is you, isn’t it?”

  Kramer moved to replace the receiver, then decided to get it over with.

  “Kramer speaking, Mr. McDonald. I was going to give you a ring actually, tell you that we’ve dropped the case.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Yes, nothing to it—never thought there would be. But we’ve got to be certain in these matters.”

  “It was just—”

  “Uh huh?”

  “First day back, Lieutenant, getting down to the hard graft again, tidying up. Naturally I started with my late colleague’s affairs. Something very distressing—very odd.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, it amounts to this: Mark surrendered all his policies a week ago.”

  “Hey?”

  “Cashed them in; did it on the quiet, too, somehow. Twenty thousand rand in all.”

  “Twenty, you said?”

  “Yes, quite a bundle that would make.”

  “But what the hell did he do with it?”

  “It isn’t in his bank—I’ve made discreet inquiries—and his wife hasn’t seen a penny of it.”

  “You’ve been on to her?”

  “Had to; there was a call from head office about his using the firm’s car—you know what head offices are like, no blooming sense or compassion. I hoped she’d say theirs was out of commission that night, but it wasn’t. But they simply can’t claim any off the estate, not with the way it is now.”

  “Forget the car—tell me more about this money. How was he paid?”

  “By transfer. The bank—Look, don’t tell anyone about this, please; more than my friend’s job is worth.”

  “Talk, Mr. McDonald. No pack drill.”

  “Mark withdrew this money in cash—small notes.”

  “And nobody was told why?”

  “My friend couldn’t very well ask around this morning, could he? But he did remember one teller saying that the nice Mr. Wallace had his secret vices after all.”

  “Such as?”

  “Gambling. He’d said he needed it for gambling debts—a man who wouldn’t even take a jackpot ticket with the rest of us on a Saturday. And horses are one thing, the sort of gambling he tried to imply was another.”

  “Man, oh, man.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant, just how I feel.”

  They both listened to the background noises on the line for a while. Then Kramer flipped open his notebook.

  “Remember he said he wanted to talk to you that night at the Comrades’ Club, Mr. McDonald? Could it have been about this?”

  “It’s been on my mind ever since—this isn’t the first time I’ve tried to get you.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. McDonald. Another case, a big one. Although this sounds.…”

  “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “A big one, too, man. Now I want you to say nothing about this, understand? I’ll be round soon as I can so you can show me the papers. Okay?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Kramer killed the call with a push on the cradle bar, flipped on three pages in his notebook, found an address, found a number in the directory, and dialed it.

  “Good morning, madam. This is the police here, CID. Can you tell me if Miss Samantha Simon is there, please?”

  “Oh, no. I’m sorry. She’s gone to work.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “Let me think. A bit earlier than usual, I suppose—about eight. Yes, just after her breakfast. The ten-past bus.”

  “Do you take a paper, madam?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The Trekkersburg Gazette—do you have it delivered?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Did Miss Simon see a copy of it by any chance?”

  “My hubby and me always let her have it first. We’re retired, you see. We have all day.”

  “Uh huh. And when she went out, did she have anything with her? A suitcase maybe?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Was she carrying anything, madam?”

  “Oh, no, just her handbag.”

  “Thanks and bye,” Kramer said, again prodding the cradle bar.

  The number rang for some time before being answered.

  “Librarian speaking,” said what sounded like an answering machine.

  “Oh, good morning. I’m sorry to trouble you like this, but you see I’ve found this season ticket—bus season, that is—and it’s got your address on it”

  “Well?”

  “I was wondering if I could speak to the person it belongs to, Samantha Simon?”

  “Miss Simon? Busy at the counter.”

  “She is the pretty one, isn’t she?” Kramer leered audibly.

  “So that’s your game!”

  The librarian slammed down his receiver and left Kramer quite certain that nothing would be said to alarm the cool little bitch until he got to her.

  Yes, cool was the word for it. She must have realized that now the man was dead his finances would show a deficit that would bring her back into the action. Yet to have cut and run would have been her downfall. She was going to bluff this one out, and had probably taken a few precautions as it was. He would enjoy seeing how long she stayed cool in the heat of what he planned to do.

  Just at that moment, as Kramer was grabbing up the spare cuffs, Zondi entered the room holding his nose with his good hand.

  “You, you bugger! Where have you been?”

  “Hau!” replied Zondi. “Since when has the boss been doing the rubbish collection?”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “The Chev, in the boot, rubbish to the top and a smell that is terrible.”

  Kramer bloody nearly hit him. And it had been for his sake, too, the Widow had gone to such trouble. Instead he shouldered Zondi out of the way roughly, perversely pleased to hear the thump of plaster cast against the filing cabinet. Then he plunged into three startled Africans just outside the door.

  “Jesus!” shouted Kramer. “What the bloody Christ next? What do you want here, slima?”

  The Zulu obscenity slammed into the trio as hard as he would have liked to place his boot.

  “They want nothing here,” said Zondi from the door, rubbing his shoulder. “It is I who want them. And you, too, boss, for they are witnesses.”

  “To what?” Kramer aske
d over his shoulder, striding away.

  “The Swart case, of course, boss. They all saw the white master who you think did it.”

  Kramer and Zondi left the servants with the Bantu detective constable who had done the driving, and was now to take down detailed statements from all three. They went back into the office and closed the door.

  “Nice work,” Kramer said, indicating that Zondi should draw his stool up to the desk.

  “Thank you, boss. You were waiting for me that you did not ask these people before?”

  “Something of the kind. Cigarette?”

  He unlocked his middle drawer, lit two Luckies, and handed one across.

  “But tell me, Zondi—how was it you moved so fast this morning? I wasn’t here to fill you in on the case.”

  Zondi stubbed out his Lucky, shuddering.

  “I come here, there is nobody to greet me. So I have a little look at these dockets. I read them and wonder why my boss is worrying himself with this Traffic case. I put the dockets back like I find them and, hau, see the truth of the matter.”

  “What do you mean exactly?”

  “The way the dockets are side by side—the boss is taking the cases together. Very, very clever, the nose blood.”

  “Hey? You just tell me how your thinking went—I’m interested.”

  Flattery was Zondi’s Achilles’ leg, bugger one tendon.

  “Like this, boss. When the man Wallace goes to the drinking place, he tells the people there that it is so hot that his nose has been bleeding and they see little bit of blood on his shirt and are sorry for him.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Now the laboratory, boss: I see this work was done down in Durban because ours was closed for Christmas. You send the clothes, blood sample, say analyze, and they don’t see anything strange they should ring you up about.”

  “No?”

  “Ikona, because many times the men at the wheel in vehicles have blood from passengers on them.”

  “Wallace didn’t have a passenger—did he?”

  “Ah, yes, boss, but did you tell the laboratory this? See, you cannot trick me. They get just the one shirt, the one suit, the one form with one name on it. It is alcohol you are really interested in. They tell you it is high. Then they test quickly the blood stains, thinking you are mad maybe, and put down O group and A group. Wallace is O group, am I right?”