The Gooseberry Fool Page 3

  “What’s his name, man?”

  “Thomas Shabalala, sir. She says she has not seen him since when their off-time ended at four o’clock. She does not know where he is.”

  “You asked her about the off-time?”

  “Yes, sir. She says she and Shabalala have their off-time two to four. Today they just sat on the pavement outside, talking.”

  “About?”

  “She cannot remember. She says it was not important. There were others there, too. Along the gutter by where the car comes in.”

  “Did Shabalala talk about his master?”

  “Not at all. He was a good master.”

  “Ask her if he ever shouted at Shabalala.”

  Zondi translated and then, after a sobbed reply that went on and on, interpreted.

  “She says the master sometimes shouted—he was a master, wasn’t he?”

  “Bloody cheek.”

  “This one is not trying to be cheeky, boss.”

  “So he liked his master?”

  Again Zondi translated and her nod saved time. Then Lucy suddenly volunteered some information on her own.

  “It’s all right, Zondi, I understand. Mr. Swart’s churchgoing made things difficult in the evening?”

  “That is true, sir. At first he made the boy wait on him nine, ten o’clock at night. He changed this after the priest made a joke about it when he ate at this place one time.”

  “So he wasn’t such a good master then, hey?”

  Lucy, who had not looked at Kramer while he was speaking in Afrikaans, jerked up her head as he switched to English.

  “He was a good master because there was not much work,” she replied in an amusing cultured English accent, giving away her employers as Home County far removed.

  “I see; so he could be a lazy bugger if he wanted, is that it?”

  Lucy giggled in obligatory fashion. Kramer, however, did not approve, and in a moment she was her unhappy self again. Zondi had a way with women—and with a spare fan belt, meaningfully slapped against the trouser leg.

  “So you’re his wife, you are?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Are you barren?”

  She did not answer.

  “Kids—children. How many have you got?”

  No reply.

  “Ask her, Zondi.”

  So Zondi put the question into Zulu and she finally came up with the answer.

  “She’s barren.”

  “Thought so. You’re just his town wife then? Hey? Come on, or there’ll be trouble.”

  The wretched woman nodded once more, unable to conceal how deeply shamed she was by this admission.

  “Where does his country wife live, Lucy?”

  No reaction. Zondi moved in a step closer, having exchanged the fan belt for an insect spray with greater potential.

  But Kramer surprised him. “Outside, man,” he said, walking out and down the drive a little way. Zondi followed, an eyebrow cocked.

  “It’s this way,” Kramer explained. “Dr. Strydom and me have some other business to see to. I think I’ll leave you here to see what Miss Lucy can tell us.”

  And then he outlined to Zondi his theory of how the attack in the kitchen had come about.

  “Sounds good, boss. I have thought very much the same thing.”

  “So all you have to do is find out where the bugger’s wife lives and you’ll know where to pick him up. Only a proper one, is he?”

  “No, an ordinary houseboy, boss. I’m sure of that”

  “Don’t let this Lucy have it too easy, though, Zondi. She probably knows something or she wouldn’t have kept so quiet about being a town wife.”

  “I do not agree, boss. It was just she did not like to say she cannot have babies. There is much shame in this for a Zulu woman. It is also a bad life—a town wife is not high up like country wife.”

  “Town whore, more like.”

  “Not this one, boss. She has been with just Shabalala all the time he works in this road.”

  “Then I’ll leave it to you to decide. Don’t make a mistake, though, or I’ll hang you up by your bloody tail. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Zondi replied, pleased to be entrusted with a free hand. “But what about Sergeant Van der Poel?”

  “I’ll speak to him, never fear. Oh, and I’ll leave the Chev for you—I’ll go with the doctor in his car.”

  Zondi would have thanked him but at that moment they became aware the Van der Poel had come up to them, so instead he gave a sulky shrug and shuffled off back to the garage.

  “Doesn’t want to be left alone then, Lieutenant? Like bloody children they are, always wanting you to help them.”

  “True, and a man can’t be in two places at once,” Kramer replied lightly. “At this stage, this is more his line than ours. A Bantu job.”

  “The servant Shabalala?”

  “Maybe, old mate—you could be right after all.”

  This was less than generous of Kramer—he was 99 percent sure Shabalala had run amok—but it delighted Van der Poel just the same, worst luck.

  “Thank you, sir! You’ll—er—maybe mention it in your … ?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Do you want me to start a hunt for the boy right away?”

  “Waste of manpower. Best we give him time to get back to his hut and pick him up there tomorrow. If we start looking tonight, that means anything up to two hundred miles of road and bush.”

  “Trains, sir?”

  “The Railway Police wouldn’t thank you.”

  Van der Poel, robbed of showing his initiative, took it hard.

  “What do you want me to do then, sir?”

  “Just keep a couple of Bantu constables guarding the property, then get along home—you were on a two-to-ten, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. Your boy will be all right here by himself?”

  “He’d better be. I’ve already told him what will happen if anything goes wrong.”

  Van der Poel sniggered silently. Then he remembered what had brought him out into the garden.

  “Doc Strydom’s going to a crash, sir,” he said. “He says you’ve got to go with him.”

  The cunning old devil! He must have built up quite a thirst by now, and was eager to have their secret out and open.

  “Me?” protested Kramer, as he felt he ought to do. “Christ, I thought I’d had enough of routine cases for one night!”

  And, without knowing it, brought comfort to an ear not five yards away in the shadows.

  3

  DR. STRYDOM DROVE well, if faster than Kramer had anticipated. They crossed the national road and headed north into the center of Trekkersburg, along streets almost empty of traffic. It was after midnight, long after curfew, and so the only pedestrians were white and few in number. It was also still very hot.

  “Where’s the booze?” Kramer asked.

  Strydom jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Kramer looked and saw the black medicine bag on the back seat—the perfect thing for removing such an exhibit.

  “Great,” said Kramer.

  “Must say I was surprised when you suggested a get-together, Lieutenant. Always regarded you as a bit of a lone wolf.”

  “Long as you aren’t Red Riding Hood, you’re okay, doc.”

  Strydom would have laughed but was not too sure of Kramer’s tone. Then a quick sideways glance reassured him that his passenger was very relaxed and good-humored.

  “The truth is,” said Kramer, “I just don’t give a bugger tonight somehow. Or all week, for that matter. Year, if you like.”

  “Nonsense, man. You did a fine job on that case up in Ladysmith. Who else would have thought of looking for the revolver in the Siege Museum? Bet I could take a guess at what the trouble is, Lieutenant.”

  “I should take a holiday?”

  “No, not the heat either. I hear the—”

  Then he thought better of it, which was just as well, for Kramer would never tolerate his private life being discussed, part
icularly if curiosity rather than compassion prompted the questions. Strydom was not the only snoopy bastard who had tried to find out what the Widow Fourie was doing in the Cape.

  “Hear what, doc? That the Colonel is away in the Free State?”

  “Yes, that’s it; you two work well together,” Strydom replied, grateful for a small mercy.

  Which put a natural end to their conversation for a while. Finally, however, Strydom became uncomfortable in the silence.

  “What are you thinking?” he ventured.

  “That this is a bloody long way round to your place. You’ve moved or something?”

  “Work before play, Lieutenant.”

  “What—you’ve got another job?”

  “And so have you. Didn’t Van der Poel tell you?”

  “Hey?”

  “There’s been a car crash up on Turner’s Hill that Traffic aren’t too happy about. That’s why they said you were to go along, too.”

  “They? Colonel Du Plessis?”

  “That’s what they told Van der Poel.” Jesus.

  “Didn’t you know?”

  Kramer had been told, of course he had, but not for a moment—this was the bloody end. The bloody sodding bloody end. A car crash, for God’s sake! They’d have him out checking on passes next. It did not make sense. Not at all. Not in a thousand years. Never. Then it did. It made sense the way the unfamiliar sound of a silencer makes sense when the slug slams in above your head.

  Some bastard was out to get him, and that bastard just had to be Colonel Granny Bloody Du Plessis. The old bitch had never forgiven Kramer for making a fool of him in the Le Roux case, nor Colonel Muller for having taken his place when he was pushed sideways out of CID. But now that he was back at the helm over Christmas and set on having himself some fun, no doubt he would find a few willing helpers—snivelers who had been trouble since they messed their first diapers. Trouble and stealth and quick smiles and just enough brain to know which way was up and how to creep an arse to get there. This was of course a chance they, too, had been waiting for. Bastards like Viljoen and Prinsloo and Evans and Van Reenen and … If the list had been any shorter, he would have picked them off long ago, round behind the lockup where the wogs could enjoy the squeals. Which was not quite true, for normally he never gave them a second thought, and there would always be others. More inadequates, more incompetents, jealous of his work, calling it luck, finding comfort in sharp little whispers, pinpricks like mad old women made in wax models, expecting him to wither away. Now, however, he was obliged to give them some thought, for he was under orders and had to obey them. Them! Christ, but that’s what it amounted to. Obey their orders or get out. If he quit, Colonel Muller would have lost a point, too. If he disobeyed orders, the same thing. Screw them. He would stick with it and find a way of obeying orders that would make a lasting impression. Dear God, yes. The bastards.

  “What aren’t they happy about, doc?” Kramer’s voice growled, giving away his frame of mind. He quickly added with a chuckle, “Not that car crashes are meant to make you happy, in the first place.”

  Another quick sideways glance from Strydom.

  “To be honest, I don’t know, Lieutenant. We’ll be able to see for ourselves over this rise.”

  His headlights dipped down a long straight road into a sharp right-hand bend. This bend was so dangerous there were no less than three signs warning drivers of what lay ahead, even though it was perfectly clear that gear changes and caution were imperative. At the bottom of the hill were a pile of wreckage and a small crowd. Somebody had gone right through the safety rails.

  “A right maniac, this one,” Strydom murmured, finding a place to park. “First pileup there’s been on Turner’s Hill since the signs went up.”

  Kramer climbed out and stretched, playing it all very cool. The Traffic sergeant in charge scrambled up the bank and saluted him. Kramer ignored him, walked on down the road, taking in the scene. The sergeant tagged along, embarrassed, looking for support from Strydom and getting none.

  “No skid marks,” said Kramer. “But the brakes are working.”

  The sergeant was decidedly impressed.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “And the steering is working.”

  “Right, sir!”

  “And the gears are okay, too.”

  “Sir!”

  “Why didn’t the silly bugger make the corner? Is that the question?”

  “I’d say he didn’t want to, sir—he was wanting to kill himself.”

  “Is this unusual?”

  “No, sir. We come across it but it’s always hard to say. Often we’re sure but.…”

  “I read in a magazine,” said Kramer, “that they think suicides are becoming more common using cars.”

  “What I mean, sir.”

  “So? Why send for me? You know all the answers.”

  “I didn’t send, sir. I was told you were coming.”

  Kramer thought about this for a moment, then went over to the sergeant’s car. He reached in and lifted the radio handpiece.

  “Give me CID Control,” he said. “I want to talk to Colonel Du Plessis.”

  After a wait of three minutes, Kramer was informed that the Colonel had long since left the building but the duty officer, Captain Malan, was ready to speak to him. Malan was a white man in both meanings of the word.

  “Trompie?”

  “Koos, maybe you can tell me what the hell I’m doing out here at this fatal. The sergeant has the situation under control and I’ve got other problems, man.”

  “Hell, I wish I knew, Trompie.”

  “It’s your bloody job, isn’t it?”

  “All I have is what Colonel Du Plessis said before he went. He wants you to take a very careful look at that crash—a full investigation.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “All I have.”

  “He knows I’ve got a murder?”

  “Says it’s in good hands.”

  “Zondi? That will be the day!”

  “What he said.”

  “Okay, but I’m still the investigating officer—does he realize?”

  “I suppose so, Trompie. Look, man, I’m sorry I can’t tell you more. Maybe the bloke in that car has a big life insurance.”

  “Not my job to help insurance companies, Koos.”

  “Suicide’s a crime.”

  “Uh huh. Capital offense, too, I hear. Be seeing you.”

  Kramer replaced the handpiece and lit his first cigarette in twelve—no, eighteen—hours. The tobacco tasted like grass from under a lamppost.

  “Chucking them up?” joked Strydom, ducking as it arced into the night. There were times when his sense of humor, juxtaposed with a mangled being, gave some the idea he was an aging ghoul.

  “What’s new?” Kramer asked, taking out his notebook.

  “No need, Lieutenant. You’ll get my report tomorrow morning.”

  “By the book,” Kramer replied, getting a glimmer of how he was going to have a lot of pleasure taking orders.

  “Off the record,” Strydom insisted. “I’m too damn tired to be precise tonight. The driver of that thing is deader than anything I’ve seen in a long time.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Decapitated.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And telescoped.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Must have been standing on the floorboards when he hit, arching his body back against the seat. Thigh bones right up into his trunk.”

  “Arms?”

  “That’s the strange thing. Must have taken both hands off the wheel before impact because—”

  “I believe you. Drink?”

  “Yes, a definite smell of it. No bottles in the car, though. A lot of blood.”

  “I bet.”

  “We’ve seen our fair share of it tonight, Lieutenant. Is there any point in staying on here?”

  “Can’t have been vodka,” Kramer said with a slight smile. “Not if you could smell it.”<
br />
  As it turned out, the pilfered vodka did little for either of them. Exhaustion had Strydom snoring halfway through his first glass, and Kramer, who drank seldom and then never alone, lost crunched away at it as he pondered his next move.

  Perhaps he ought to have remained at the accident and supervised the sergeant’s tape measurings. But he really did not feel this was necessary—and had lost much of his determination to give the incident the full treatment. By doing so, he could well embarrass Colonel Du Plessis, but the cost was high. Perhaps, by the morning, he would have another plan.

  It was the morning, damn it. Four o’clock by the cuckoo clock unless the bird had the burps. No, four it was, and his mind beginning to slow down. It was also much cooler and a faint breeze was rattling the dry leaves on palm trees outside the window. Death-rattling them at an hour when, they said, the old passed away in their sleep. Sometimes he forgot there were folk like that, people who died peacefully in their own beds, just buggered off without a fuss.…

  Zondi. He would have to know what was in the wind, for Du Plessis had shown his dislike for the Kaffir before, and not in a nice way.

  Kramer reached for the telephone, then thought better of it; Van der Poel could still be hanging about, all ears and tittle tattle. So he rose, lifted Strydom like a sleeping child, and carried him through to the bedroom. Ma Strydom murmured an endearment as her spouse’s weight sagged the big bed, then rolled over with her face to the wall. And she stayed asleep while he was manhandled in under the single light covering.

  Before he left the room, Kramer paused in the doorway, looking back. It had never occurred to him that someday he might strip old Strydom naked and slip him beneath a sheet. The idea was amusing—but not quite as jolly as the thought of what the doc, whose pajamas were still under the pillow, would offer as an explanation in the morning.

  A false dawn was in the sky as Kramer finally reached the turn-off to Sunderland Avenue. He had had to walk back to all-night filling station for petrol.

  Thank God the Chev was still parked outside number 44, for it meant Zondi was still there. Van der Pod’s Land Rover had gone, another relief, and so had all the other vehicles, with the exception of the two bicycles.

  Kramer cut the engine and coasted in the last fifty yards, getting out and closing his door with care so as not to attract attention. Then he kept close to the hedge and walked up to the garage. It was empty.