The Blood of an Englishman (31 page)

“On the night Boss Hookham died, Lieutenant, Boss Darren went to fetch his father from the fishing cottage, but I think you said he arrived there very late.”

“He certainly didn’t look all that strong to me,” muttered Kramer, still trying to pull all the different strands together.

“Why not start with the night the schoolgirl was shot at?” suggested Tish. “Your policeman at the Bradshaws’ house should have some idea of Darren’s movements.”

“Where does the strange accent fit into all of this?” asked Kramer. “And am I also being asked to believe that Bradshaw wouldn’t have recognized his own son?”

Tish lost patience. “Look, will you stop all this pondering and
do
something? What on earth’s holding you back?”

Kramer nearly said the feeling in his bones was wrong, but answered instead, “Okay, I’ll ring Schoeman—that can’t do any harm.”

The telephone was on the tawdry bar in the living room, balanced on the open telephone directory. Kramer dialed the CID number, asked for the Murder and Robbery extension, and found himself in luck.

“Can I help you, Lieutenant?” asked Schoeman.

“I hope so, Stormtrooper. You know the night Classina Baksteen was given a fright? Where was Darren Bradshaw?”

“Oh, you mean the—let me think. I’ve got it: that’s the night I finally got him to get out of the house and go to the drive-in.”

“How long was he gone?”

“About three hours. He left at a quarter to seven, and came in around ten with lipstick on his shirt. God, there was so much of the stuff you’d think he’d been smearing it on himself!” Stormtrooper Schoeman laughed. “I said something to him about it, just as I was knocking off, and he nearly bit my head—”

“His mood then?” asked Kramer. “What was it like?”

“Very agitated, sir. She probably hadn’t let him finish the job properly. Why, don’t tell me he’s finally got a parent to make a formal complaint against him!”

“There has been some talk,” said Kramer, evasive and still unsure of all this. “Anyway, thanks for the help, hey? I’ll probably need you tomorrow to help with the keys.”

“Fine, sir. Good night, hey?”

Kramer replaced the receiver and stood staring at it. Then he could not help noticing that the directory had been left held open for easy reference by the weight of the telephone at a page that began with Bradnock, J. F. and ended with Branch, P. C. Somewhere in between would be an entry for Bradshaw, A. M.—and suddenly that was one coincidence too many.

Zondi and Tish waited in the Chevrolet outside the house in Kitchener Row, and kept their eyes on Kramer who had just knocked for the second time on the Bradshaws’ front door.

“I wonder why they had their telephone disconnected?” murmured Tish.

“Maybe cranks are still worrying them, madam.”

“Please, Mickey, don’t call me that! It makes me feel as though I’m running a brothel! Now we know each other, plain Tish would be fine.”

Impossible, thought Zondi. “The Lieutenant’s going to try round the back,” he said. “It could be they are out.”

“There isn’t a car parked outside.”

Zondi nodded, and took another surreptitious sniff at his atlas.

Mrs. Bradshaw was listening to the radio under a mulberry tree by the swimming pool. She had on a long black evening dress which went well with the music, classical but romantically light, and the garden itself seemed twice as enchanted, being lit here and there by carefully placed floods. She was so much in a world of her own making that it took a few seconds for her to notice she had a caller.

“Lieutenant Kramer!” she said, smiling a welcome. “How awfully nice! I didn’t think we’d be meeting again now that horrible business is over.”

Kramer shook her languidly extended hand. “I wouldn’t be worrying you, Mrs. Bradshaw, only I couldn’t get through on the phone.”

“Archie had it disconnected you-know-when and has decided we probably didn’t need one at home anyway. It saves quite a few pennies, you know!”

“Uh huh. Is Mr. Bradshaw in?”

“It’s his Masonic night, I’m afraid.”

“And Darren? I suppose he’s back in Jo’burg?”

Mrs. Bradshaw turned her radio down. “He went back weeks ago, but this weekend he’ll be at our fishing cottage near the mountains. We’re driving up to see him and his new girlfriend tomorrow. We were going to go up tonight, actually, to have a supper waiting for them, but as I say, it’s Archie’s Masonic night and—”

“He never misses one?”

Her smile tried to be bright, but had that sadness which Kramer had noticed before. “Never, nor a flying club social. Have you time for a drink?” And she uttered the trite phrase earnestly, the way lonely people often do.

“I can sit a minute,” said Kramer, taking the other deckchair. “So Darren is up at your fishing cottage tonight?”

“Well, not quite yet, I shouldn’t imagine,” Mrs. Bradshaw replied, trying to see the time on her tiny wristwatch. “They were driving down from Jo’burg after lunch. He doesn’t have any classes on Friday afternoons, you see.”

“Oh ja?” Another piece in the jigsaw had just gone click.

“Goodness, it’s later than I thought,” said Mrs. Bradshaw. “Eight o’clock—is that right?”

“Uh huh. Where is the cottage exactly? Very far off the national road?”

“It’s on a farm in the Dargle area—Twin Falls Farm, owned by a dear old couple we’ve known for years. They divided it up, gave one half to their son, and are really in semi-retirement these days. They’re wonderful people; polite, warm, terribly friendly and yet they leave one alone to enjoy the blissful isolation. When Archie and I are up there, we sometimes pop over for tea on Sunday morning, but otherwise that part of the valley could be all our own. Darren should be almost there now, as a matter of fact, and I can just imagine his new girlfriend’s excitement when they come to the end of our little track and she sees what a sweet little thatched cottage it is. Exactly like a piece of Old England, you know, Lieutenant Kramer—I copied
the design from one of the antique magazines Archie subscribes to, and we found a terribly clever native builder who put it up. I do hope she likes it.”

“Mrs. Bradshaw,” said Kramer, “why sound so anxious?”

“Well, Darren’s been so unlucky with so many girls he’s fallen in love with,” she said, reaching for a long gin and tonic that had been hidden by the radio. “Every mother has the same sort of hopes and ambitions, I suppose! You do so want your children to marry the right person, and not to.…” She gave a light laugh that tinkled like a broken champagne glass. “I’m hoping that this time he’ll be lucky, that’s all. Sonja sounds an absolute poppet.”

Kramer watched her drain the gin and tonic right down to the ice cubes. “Ja, I’m sure you’re no different to any other parent,” he said. “They all have their worries. How well does he get on with his dad?”

“Marvelously well. They had their differences, of course, but when all is said and done, those two are very close.”

“Uh huh? Serious differences?”

Mrs. Bradshaw shook her head. “Nothing that couldn’t be sorted out. Archie did become a little worried by some of the friends Darren had at one stage, although it was only to be expected that such a manly, daredevil sort of boy would attract all sorts of people to his leadership, but that was solved when we decided to send him up to the business college in Johannesburg. He’s very happy there and doing frightfully well, he tells us. He’s been there almost a year now—how time flies!”

Another click. It was almost a year since the suspect silver had been discovered in Bradshaw’s antique shop.

“What was he doing before then?” asked Kramer, relieved that it took very little to keep a proud parent talking about her child. “Was he on the business course at the tech?”

“Oh no, Archie had him in the shop, showing him the ropes, but it really was more sensible to give him this proper
grounding in commercial techniques first. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink? Not even a teeny-weeny one? Because I—”

“Let me get it for you,” said Kramer, standing up and taking her glass. “Where do you keep your—?”

“It’s all in the fridge, but—”

“Sit and relax,” said Kramer. “Look at the lovely big moon there is tonight.”

He needed a moment to think. But his concentration was broken when he reached the kitchen and saw, left on the draining board of the sink, a short stubby spirits glass with a heeltap of whisky in it. Bradshaw, he remembered, had been a beer man—and then, almost unbidden, like one of Zondi’s pop-up ideas, he recalled something Tish had said about Jonty and a dowdy little woman with a sexy figure. Jonty liked nothing more than a neat tot of Scotch after dark. He refilled Mrs. Bradshaw’s glass, also remembering now how Jonty had denied ever having had her in his salon, and made his way back across the lawn.

“It’s a double,” he said, handing the glass over. “I see I’m not your first caller tonight, hey?”

She gave a surprised little laugh. “However did you—?”

“There’s another glass on the draining board, ready to be washed up.”

“You’re as bad as Detective Constable Schoeman, Lieutenant. Although he never
said
anything, I always had the feeling he was deducing things about us—and I know it made Archie very edgy at times! He was terribly polite, but it was a relief when he and the others left.”

“Ah well,” said Kramer, sitting down again. “You know how things become a habit?”

“Actually, I’m glad you reminded me it’s there—I’d better get rid of it before Archie gets back, or he mightn’t be too amused.”

“Mrs. Bradshaw, you surprise me!” Kramer said with a wink.

Even in the moonlight, it seemed that she blushed. “You are being naughty!” giggled Mrs. Bradshaw, shocked but pleased. “No, it wasn’t anything like that! It was simply that one of those awful old friends of Darren’s popped in, hoping he’d see him this weekend, and I was able to tell he’d be up at our cottage, thank goodness.”

“Did you know him?”

“Not from a bar of soap, but he obviously knew Darren, and was so eager to hear all my news about him, that I couldn’t be rude and shoo him away. A nervous, twitchy little man, probably a year or two older than Darren, but really quite sweet despite his appearance. That’s where I think Archie is sometimes wrong, you know, he
will
be such a snob about certain classes of people, but I suppose that comes with dealing with the Morninghill set and the—”

“It sounds like Wee Williams,” said Kramer, making the name up. “That bloke who plays the guitar?” he added. “Long fingernails?”

“You are clever!” said Mrs. Bradshaw, toasting him with her glass before taking a quick sip. “He didn’t tell me he was an entertainer, or even his name, but I did notice the fingernails. Oh yes,
and
the cat fur on his jacket! Musicians are often scruffy, aren’t they? It’s odd; I can remember when they played in tuxedos and wore black bow-ties.”

Kramer was back on his feet, feeling sick at the time he had wasted—he’d never supposed for an instant that Meerkat Marais would risk making an appearance at the house, but it just showed how hellbent the bastard had become on exacting his vengeance.

“Now I’ll tell you what
I
deduced!” said Mrs. Bradshaw, with a very slight slur. “I worked out that he must own
two
cats. How? Because the light in Archie’s study was good and
strong, and I could see that some of the fur was white and some was ginger. You don’t often get them combined in one animal, do you?”

“I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Bradshaw,” said Kramer, as he began to edge away, utterly convinced now that his guesswork had proved correct. “Enjoy the moon and the music, hey?”

“You’re not going?”

“Well, I thought you might be wanting an early night,” he replied, trying to find the right feedlines without sounding too clumsy. “It must take you how long to drive up to the cottage?”

“Oh, only two hours or so. But isn’t there some message for Archie? Here I’ve been yattering away, not giving you a chance to explain why you called!—please forgive me.”

“Ach, nonsense,” said Kramer, “it’s been a pleasure, and my errand can wait until another time. Or can I get your husband on the phone tomorrow at the cottage?”

“I’m afraid we like to cut ourselves off from the world while we’re up there, and the farmhouse is so far away that—”

“Nevermind then, another time, as I say. It was just I was hoping to sell him a few tickets to our dance next month.”

She giggled again and looked archly at him. “I know a funny story about holding a policeman’s ball—not that I could tell it to you
or
Colonel Muller!”

“Mrs. Bradshaw, you surprise me,” said Kramer, who hadn’t intended that as a feedline as well. “In fact, being with you out here has been one tingling shock after another.”

She loved that, poor woman.

“But this means you’re in one hell of a fix,” said Tish, as Zondi drove away from Kitchener Row after a quick résumé of the situation. “You can’t possibly hope to make up the hour’s start he has on you, Tromp—if it isn’t much more than that! I don’t understand why you didn’t use Mrs. Bradshaw’s phone to ring the local police and get them to—”

“There’s something you don’t know about Meerkat Marais,” interrupted Kramer. “Going on his past record, when he’s in this sort of mood, he doesn’t like to rush things once he gets his victim in his sights. He enjoys savoring the—”

“Even so, boss,” Zondi cut in, picking up speed on the main highway back into the city center, “one hour is a long time. It’ll have to be Uniform from Dargle that takes the first action.”

“No, kaffir. Those two bastards are mine.”

“Mickey, pull up at the next public phone box you see,” ordered Tish, leaning forward in the back seat to tap his shoulder. “You’re just going to be sensible about this, Tromp. That girl’s life is also in danger.”

“Ach, I don’t think Meerkat’s going to
kill
anybody—he isn’t that much of a fool. His style is to leave them so they’ll never dare to cross him again, which is why we’ve never got a conviction on any of his—”

“Why are you being so pig-headed?” Tish demanded angrily. “Why? When you can see Mickey’s as—”