The Gooseberry Fool Read online

  “Jesus, I need a holiday,” he muttered, striding forward. Slowing down when he saw Sergeant Van der Poel, mincing, God help him, down the path with his right hand extended in greeting.

  “That you, sir, Lieutenant?”

  “It is, old mate.”

  “Thought so, sir. Knew you straightaway. Said to my constable that it was you who had arrived and it was.”

  Already the stupid bugger was finding a lot to say about nothing. Liked the sound of his own oily voice, did Van der Poel. Loved himself from cap to toecap, he did, which must have made his arse alone think it was something pretty special. Funny life for an arse that must be.

  “Anything the matter, sir?”

  There was: Kramer distrusted vain men. And vanity was all too apparent in the wavy locks slicked to cover a bald spot, in the uniform tailored to fit like a condom, in the Errol Flynn mustache trimmed to the brink of extinction above cupid’s-bow lips.

  “What’s with your shoes, Van der Poel?”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “You’re walking like a bloody pimp.”

  How very satisfying this remark proved: it put things in perspective for both of them without wasted breath.

  “This way, Lieutenant Kramer.”

  “Ta, old mate.”

  Inside the house, people were in every room and more especially the kitchen. Kramer ordered them all out with the exception of the priest, Father Lawrence, and the District Surgeon, Dr. Christiaan Strydom.

  “Now we can get down to business,” he said, crouching to inspect the corpse. The sequence of the wounds was self-evident, requiring no explanation from Strydom. First the stab in the back, then the follow-up in the chest, and the one in the throat. There was another, smaller cut above the eyes.

  “Mixing himself a drink when some bloke got him from behind,” he concluded.

  “That’s how I see it,” Strydom concurred.

  “Been here long?”

  “I can be pretty sure about this one,” Strydom replied. “His temp and other factors give us nine-fifteen as the time of death.”

  “I see. What time did you get here, Reverend?”

  Father Lawrence looked up from his seat by the door.

  For a man whose business was preparing for death, he was woefully unprepared for this one. His voice shook.

  “I—I arrived at the house at nine-twenty, Lieutenant. I know this was ten minutes earlier than expected, but there are so few people to see in hospital at this time of year—Christmas, you know.”

  “I know,” said Kramer.

  “Sorry. Well, I didn’t think—er—think Hugo would mind, and came up and knocked. I waited and no answer. We had an appointment at nine-thirty to make final arrangements for Midnight Mass. He was to have organized transport for our older parishioners living on their own, you know.”

  This time Kramer did not know but simply gave up.

  “Then what?” coaxed Strydom gently.

  “It was very odd, that’s what I thought. Hugo always so punctual—and his car in the drive. I don’t know why, but I gave the door a little push and it opened.”

  “Time, Reverend?”

  “I must confess I didn’t look at my watch, but only a minute or so had gone by. I called out and didn’t get an answer. The radio was on; I could hear classical music of some kind. I called again, louder. Gave another knock. Hugo was, of course, extremely hard of hearing, Lieutenant.”

  “Deaf, you mean?”

  “Very largely, but bore his cross with great courage. It’s sad enough when you’re born like that, but to have it happen to you in your prime is very different, much harder somehow.”

  “Oh, yes?” Strydom’s professional interest was alerted.

  “I can’t tell you what sort of illness it was, doctor; an infection is all I remember. That’s his hearing aid over there. Funny thing to smash, wasn’t it, Lieutenant?”

  “I’ve seen funnier, man, but that’s probably why he didn’t hear the killer coming up behind. I’ll note it. Yes, so far this all makes sense.”

  Kramer moved crablike around to the other side of the body. He pointed to two rather odd, square-shaped lighter patches in the thickened blood.

  “Doc?”

  “Hadn’t noticed those, to be honest.”

  “Ice,” said Father Lawrence. “I wondered, too, but they hadn’t quite melted when I got here.”

  “Uh huh, you’ve got a good eye, Reverend. Spot anything else?”

  “No, nothing, Lieutenant.”

  “And you say he was at church earlier this evening?”

  “We have Mass at seven-thirty and Holy Hour from eight. He was there all the time, in his usual pew on the side aisle, beyond the confessional.”

  “What’s a Holy Hour, please?”

  “A time for meditation, mainly. We pray individually and then at intervals together. Say the rosary. For the first half, though, I generally hear confessions.”

  “Do you get many folk at your Holy Hour then?”

  Father Lawrence hesitated, anxious not to give the wrong impression.

  “Enough of the faithful to make it worthwhile.”

  “How many’s that?”

  “Apart from the people at confession? About a dozen usually, I suppose.”

  “Just curiosity, you understand,” Kramer said. “Now what can you tell me about Mr. Swart himself? How long has he been in this area? What were his plans?”

  “I’m not sure I follow you, Lieutenant. Plans?”

  “Well, a young man doesn’t buy a house like this for nothing; that’s what I mean.”

  “Oh, I see! Actually Hugo rented it; the landlord lives just round the corner—Mr. Potter, at 9 Osier Way.”

  “A big place for one.”

  “He was hoping to marry soon.”

  “Really? You know the girl?”

  “No, she nurses in Cape Town. Her training ends in Easter and then Hugo and she.…”

  “Her name, Reverend? Someone will have to inform her if she’s a fiancee.”

  “Judith Jugg—that’s with two g’s. I’m not sure which hospital, though. Perhaps a sanatorium, as she was also Cath—”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of that. So Mr. Swart was planning marriage and took this house. A bit expensive, shall we say?”

  “I understand that Hugo managed to get it rather more cheaply than many houses round here. Mr. Potter and he were connected in some way. No good, I can’t remember.”

  “Then I’ll only ask you two more questions and you can go. Okay?”

  Father Lawrence nodded. When all was said and done, he was an old man with gray hair, and exhaustion had now made his face gray, too. Had he been a grandfather, his children would have long since insisted on escorting him to his bed.

  “Firstly, can you think of any reason why anyone should do this to Mr. Swart?”

  “None at all. In the relatively short time I have known him, I have grown—grew to regard him as one of the finest lay Christians I have ever been graced to meet. Hugo was quiet, unassuming, yet always ready to lend a helping hand. He was also blessed with a quite outstanding ability to make the most of the power of prayer. Our Holy Hours took on.…”

  Father Lawrence was only just keeping himself from collapse. Strydom went over to his bag and rummaged for an appropriate pill. Kramer felt he had lived through the same scene once before.

  “My other question, Reverend, then that’s all,” Kramer said. “Do you know if Mr. Swart ever partook of liquor?”

  “It isn’t against the laws of the Church, Lieutenant.” Father Lawrence smiled faintly. “In fact, there’s nothing I want more at this moment than a brandy in warm milk.”

  Then he concentrated again and shook his head.

  “Hugo never touched a drop of alcohol,” he added. “Nothing prudish, you understand; after all, our Lord drank wine. He never gave a reason but, well, I think it would have simply been out of keeping with his character, that’s all. We still admired him for
it, of course.”

  Kramer rose to shake hands and then Strydom accompanied the priest out to the street. On Strydom’s return to the kitchen, he saw Kramer dip a finger in an orange-colored fluid splashed over the counter.

  “Vodka,” remarked Kramer, licking it.

  “Then the plot thickens. Swart was mixing the drink for someone else—for a caller?”

  “And the caller killed him for the bottle—because, if not, where has it got to? Not in any of the cupboards.” Strydom looked around and nodded.

  “True, then the—”

  “Then nothing.” Kramer laughed, pulling out the vegetable tray and revealing the dead man’s secret.

  “I’ll tell you something about our Mr. Swart here, doc: like most Catholics, he went to another church to say his confessions. That’s a bet.”

  Strydom declined to put money on it; he had been caught more than once by the lieutenant.

  “Not really any need for anyone to know,” he ventured instead.

  “Agreed. Let’s you and me finish it off when we get back to your place. Got plenty of ice?”

  “Destroy the evidence? Come, Lieutenant!”

  “All in a good cause.”

  It was rare for Kramer to show any social inclinations. Strydom looked him over very carefully before replying.

  “Agreed then. But first we both have some work left to do.”

  “True, doc. I haven’t had a proper scratch round yet. Must be signs of a break-in somewhere, whatever Van der Poel says.”

  “And I’d better call in my lads and their meat tray. With the weather what it is, Mr. Swart here is long overdue in his freezer.”

  After a meticulous examination of all points of possible entry, Kramer had finally to admit to Van der Poel that he might be right. Nobody had forced his way into the house; either he had found a door or window open, or he had been in possession of a key.

  “So I still say it was the servant boy—he had one,” Van der Poel declared.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Kramer replied, shrugging. “Your blokes haven’t found him yet?”

  “No, but they will. We’ve got his girlfriend in the garage—your boy’s talking to her.”

  “Zondi? We’re all right then.”

  “Actually, sir, I was just going to ask if I—”

  “Leave Kaffirs’ work to Kaffirs, Van der Poel. Where did you grow up?”

  Van der Poel had the surprising good sense to treat this as a joke, half of which it was. They walked in and out of a few more rooms in a desultory way and stopped once more in the study.

  “Lot of books, sir.”

  “Maybe some dirty ones, too, if you look hard enough.”

  “Never!”

  Kramer almost disclosed his discovery of the vodka but then saw no reason to share it with everyone. He was amused to see Van der Poel edge over to the shelves and cock his head sideways in search of a titillating title. If the man had any intelligence, he would look behind the big Bible.

  “Yirra, this bloke must have been a professor,” Van der Poel exclaimed, having reached the end of an incomprehensible row. “One hour on Sunday’s enough for me—and that’s not every Sunday, mind. Never turn down a Sunday duty if I get the chance.”

  “Hmmm? How’s that?”

  Kramer was not listening. He was taking a look through the desk and finding it about as exciting as frisking a store dummy.

  There were six drawers in all, five more than most people would have troubled to use for the meager contents. Bills, top left; receipts, top right; car papers, middle left; stationery, bottom right—and not as much as a puff of fluff or a loose pin to disrupt the arid orderliness. So he had to be wrong about the books—the dead man had not possessed enough passion to leave toothmarks on a bloody pencil.

  “You’re wrong about the books, sir.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Find anything?”

  “So-so. Swart lived within his means, kept most of his money in the bank, writing small checks for the day-to-day needs—in other words, I wouldn’t say there’s a cash box missing anywhere here. And I don’t see how he’d have enough to buy anything worth stealing, so we can rule out the idea of theft.”

  “It’s a good neighborhood, though, sir—housebreaker couldn’t be expected to know what he had.”

  “Thought you said it was the servant?”

  “I do—I mean.…”

  “You’re crossing your wires, hey, Van der Poel? Take the ideas one at a time. Housebreaking: this place is a likely target because of its situation and because it’s empty first part of most evenings, with Swart at church and the servant off duty. Say somehow a skelm got in here and was looking around when Swart got home. Now if Swart cornered him and then had been stabbed, I could understand it. But Swart was mixing himself a drink in the kitchen; all the housebreaker had to do was go out the front door. You can’t tell me Swart was killed so that the skelm could finish looking; any damn fool could see straight off there was nothing here worth all this trouble.”

  A white constable knocked on the door and came in.

  “Excuse me, lieutenant, sir, but the sergeant is wanted on the telephone.”

  “Carry on, old mate,” Kramer said, dismissing them both. Then he sat down behind the desk, found a place for his feet on the blotter, and went on uncrossing the wires in his own mind.

  In the end, the only possible basis for the murder motive was something personal between Swart and his killer. Personal, that was it—a relationship that had gone lethally wrong. This made it murder proper, as opposed to a killing—a useful distinction which Kramer always sought to establish at the outset. Because murder itself had a pattern, and at least that was a start when, in a particular case, none other was immediately apparent. This pattern was basically statistical and concerned relationships. The exact figures were unimportant once you had absorbed their message, which came down to: you stood the least chance of being murdered by a work colleague, a greater chance of being murdered by a friend or close acquaintance, and the best chance of all of being murdered by a member of your household.

  Now Father Lawrence had made it clear that Swart was both admired and liked at the church, and it was reasonable to suppose his behavior was equally unprovocative in the drafting office. The possibility certainly existed of his having friends and acquaintances outside these circles, but so far all the evidence pointed to a man far too disciplined for clandestine living. There was also the possibility, of course, that Swart, having committed a grievous wrong in his past, had become a penitent sinner only to finally pay the price when this wrong was secretly avenged. An attractive little theory in its way, but the sort apt to lead detection astray. The more obvious lines of inquiry had first to be explored.

  Such as the statistical probability that the solution lay right there in the domestic situation. The priest had presumably told the truth, but history abounded with saints great and little who became fiends in the privacy of their own homes. Which was all well and good—except, with the girlfriend so far away, the only relationship left was with the servant boy.

  Kramer had now argued himself right back to where he had not wanted to finish up—on the same side of the table as Van der Poel. Inescapably, boringly, the wog was indeed the most likely candidate. To begin with, he had the wog mentality. Kramer did not ascribe to it a mystique capable of heinous crime totally without provocation, as Van der Poel undoubtedly did, but he conceded that here you had a thinking process—or rather, form of reaction—unlike his own. He had seen a word in English-language newspapers that described it well: overkill. And overkill there was in the shantytowns and alleyways of Trekkersburg—with the country as a whole, its population 22 million, racking up 6,500 murders a year. The only thing that made sense of it was to imagine that a small incident was the last straw on the camel’s back. That inside every wog was this big sense of outrage and all you needed to do was add a touch more and the whole lot went up. What put it there in the first place was more than
he had ever troubled to.…

  Bloody hell, this was sodding philosophy and he had a killer to catch! Correction, murderer.

  The servant, then, may have been provoked beyond endurance by demands made upon him and have just struck out. Wait a moment, that burnt steak could have something to do with it. Swart comes home hot and tired, finds his supper spoiled, bawls for the servant, the servant comes in from his room in the yard, has it dropped on him from a dizzy height, Swart finishes what he has to say and turns his back—and gets it, with the first thing to hand: a steak knife. Then the servant backs out, locks the door, and runs for it. Good plausible stuff, however unoriginal. Originality in crime was something only whites seemed to think important anyway.

  One reservation was all that he had: would Hugo Swart, the good Catholic, have staged such a scene with his employee? It was a good question, too, in days when the churches were troublemaking and telling their people to act soft like liberals. He would check with Zondi.

  Kramer left the study, nodded to Van der Poel, who was still on the telephone in the hall, and went out to the garage. Only one side of the doorway was open, and there was not much light within, but he took in the details of the servant boy’s girlfriend without much difficulty.

  She sat, fat and pathetic, on a fertilizer drum dragged out from a corner, holding her high-heeled shoes in one hand. She was sweating like everyone else that sweltering night, but giving off a very sweet sickliness, a by-product of cold fear. She shook. Trembled and gusted with long sighs. Rubbed tears into dimpled cheeks with the heel of the hand, making a proper mess. She wore a Salvation Army hat with the name ribbon sewn on upside down, and a cast-off frock that may have graced an administrator’s reception—it had its own separate smell of salmon paste. She was terrified.

  “Lucy Kwalumi,” said Zondi, making the formal introductions. “Bantu female, works as cook girl at number 3 for Mr. and Mrs. Powell, says she is the wife of the boy here.”