The Steam Pig (18 page)

Presently they arrived at Trekkersburg Bird Sanctuary. Apart from the water fowl on the lake, and a giant tortoise, it was deserted. The thousands of egrets which also lived there commuted to the countryside during the day—returning at dusk to shriek and squabble deafeningly in the trees. This was what brought the crowds; no show, no humans.

It was quiet.

The tortoise ignored Zondi. After one hundred and nine years, or so claimed the brass plate bolted to its shell, there was nothing new in the world.

Zondi dropped a burning cigarette stub in front of its head to see what would happen. Nothing.

But Kramer had to react to smoke when he sniffed it.

“Zondi!”

“I come, boss.”

The door was already open for him.

A black Oldsmobile made its way swiftly along De Wet Street. The driver, a tough, red-faced man with oiled grey hair, handled it well—braking neatly out of the flow of traffic and slipping into the parking-prohibited area in front of the main branch of Barclay's Bank. A freckled youth in shirtsleeves sat chewing beside him.

Van Niekerk paused to watch them.

The driver took a careful look around. Then he nodded to the youth and they got out. Both were armed.

A passing shorthand typist, hurrying back from a hair appointment, heard Van Niekerk's sigh and half-turned. But his eyes were on the men.

The driver had tucked his revolver into his waistband and was unlocking the boot of the Oldsmobile. His young companion stood self-consciously over him, the automatic in his hand really far too large to dangle casually by the trigger guard.

“You'd better look out how you handle that thing,” Van Niekerk reprimanded. “The safety's off and there could be trouble if it dropped.”

“Mind your own bloody business,” the driver said, heaving two bulky briefcases out of the car.

The youth insolently blew a bubble with his gum. It burst and stuck to the embryo ginger moustache.

Van Niekerk had to laugh.

“We'd soon change your ways in the Force,” he said mildly, turning his back on an outburst of apologies.

And then he sighed again.

Of all days, the Lieutenant had to pick a Friday to send him on a check of the banks. Friday when money was pouring in by the bagful, struggling out by the walletful, and every teller in the town had a queue long enough to buy the Mona Lisa.

Van Niekerk had been shrewd enough to ask the managers to accompany him to the counters in each case, but even this was not much help. They were harassed, too, and as impatient as their staff in trying to identify a customer from a photograph. Computers had made faces redundant.

“If only you could let us have an account number,” they repeated.

“Miss Theresa le Roux?”

“No.”

“Miss Phillips?”

“Not any of our Miss Phillipses.”

And so a long, tedious, fruitless task had come to an end. The main branch of Barclay's had not been able to help either.

Van Niekerk stepped back into the sun.

“I'm buggered if I know why people use banks,” he muttered to himself. “I wouldn't if I didn't have to.”

Then he realised there was no reason why the girl should use a bank—she didn't have a wife like his who enjoyed flashing a cheque book around.

He walked quickly down to the building society branch nearest to Barnato Street and went in. There were the usual three or four customers trying to make the tethered pens write.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, miss. CID. Just look at this snap, please.”

“Not her surely?”

“Who?”

“That funny Miss What's-her-name. Beryl, come over here a minute.”

There were times whenVan Niekerk felt that his church was quite wrong in what it said about the mini-skirt. The pleasure he experienced was supremely innocent and so, he felt sure, was Beryl.

“That's Miss Phillips,” she said firmly. “She always pays in ten-Rand notes. But she took them all out again last week and hasn't been in since.”

“Oh, Beryl, you can't say that without asking Mr Fourie first!”

“Never mind, I just wanted to know if you knew her,” Van Niekerk soothed. “I'll see Mr Fourie now, please, but I won't tell, girls.”

Beryl smiled and walked very innocently across to fetch Mr Fourie from his office.

A lone egret flapped slowly overhead. They watched it bank, identify a particular nest, and come in with its flaps down hard.

“Must have got the sack,” Kramer murmured.

Zondi frowned.

“Forget it, man. Just tell me what you're thinking now about what I said.”

“Hau, it can mean big, big, trouble.”

“And even bigger trouble if we're wrong, Zondi. That's the bugger of it. One mistake and it'll be the Brigadier for us this time. And the bloody chop.”

“Maybe it is best that this time you talk with Colonel Dupe.”

“It'd give him a miscarriage.”

“You whites,” Zondi shook his head. “Why is it when a man becomes a big boss like with the council you think he can do no wrong? With my people we make our chiefs by the blood, this way we do not get the skelms telling us what to do. No man does all this work for nothing, like you say this boss Trenshaw does.”

“It's called democracy, man. They don't do it for nothing though, many of them like to help.”

“By telling other persons what to do?”

“All right then, they're after the power it gives them.”

“You can like that thing too much, boss.”

“True.”

“There have been other gangs with a white boss, like the one robbing the stores in Zululand.”

“Joey Allen's mob? But he was white rubbish, not a bloody city councillor.”

“That's why they catch him so easy, I think. Could be this boss Trenshaw is a clever one. He is white—he knows the white people must respect him.”

“OK, man, OK. So what do I tell the Colonel?”

“He knows what Shoe Shoe's telling Gershwin about the bosses.”

“He doesn't believe it.”

“Tell him the other thing then.”

“Fine, I just walk into his office and say I've linked Councillor Trenshaw with the murdered girl. How? Oh, easy, sir. You see he did a strange thing. Right after going to a friend's funeral he went round the back and saw what he thought was the girl in question being burned up to nothing. He waited until she was nothing, sir, and then said how pleased he was with how things were going.”

“You're talking a silly way, boss.”

Kramer shared out the remainder of the meal they had bought in Durban at the pie-cart. Zondi took his portion gratefully.

“Let me try again, then. I'll say I have reason to believe that Councillor Trenshaw was seen and heard acting suspiciously at the crematorium on Tuesday this week. Asked to give an explanation for this allegation, I will state that whatever a man's sense of responsibility, there is a time and a place. I will point out that this girl's funeral was advertised in the Press that morning and that, according to information received from the superintendent of the crematorium, the aforesaid Councillor Trenshaw did not admit to a close relationship with the deceased party involved in the funeral which followed.”

He paused to take a bite from his fragment of pie.

“I will then add that, in my opinion, Councillor Trenshaw displayed an unnatural interest in the workings of the establishment—and an unnatural interest in the incineration of a body, believed to be that of the girl in the funeral advertisement.

“I will state that his interest went beyond the casual interest of a normal person observing such proceedings in that he insisted on staying until the body was totally destroyed.

“And at this point I will ask permission to introduce a hypothesis which may shed some light on the matter.”

Zondi snorted, showering crust flakes all over his suit.

“What's the matter? Do I sound like Sam Safrinsky?”

“Supreme court, boss! Not just Jewboy lawyer.”

“Thanks. Do you know what a hypothesis is?”

“Very dirty talk that, boss.”

The laughter did a lot for both of them.

“Listen and learn then,
kaffir
. My hypothesis is that Councillor Trenshaw is taking part in some illegal enterprise of a nature so serious that it involves the liquidation of certain of its members when they prove difficult or of no further use. Furthermore, I suggest that a man of Councillor Trenshaw's education and intelligence could well be the head of this enterprise. This is improbable but not, with respect, impossible.

“And on this basis, I suggest that Councillor Trenshaw went to the crematorium with the express purpose of reassuring himself that certain evidence had been satisfactorily destroyed—to use his own words.

“Furthermore, there is the question of the method used. If we allow this hypothesis to include the death of Bantu male Shoe Shoe, we will note that this was carried out by proxy. It was done badly but did not in any way provide an obvious link to this alleged enterprise. You could say that whoever ordered the killing was satisfied that the victim could not reveal anything specific—from this we deduce the victim had already been interrogated—and that it was much safer to have it done in this way.

“But then we come to the girl. There need be no scruples in killing her for she is a Coloured and they know her position. But as far as the world is concerned, she is a white. The gang, if I may call it that, takes the precaution of importing an assassin from the Rand. All goes according to plan but Councillor Trenshaw is understandably anxious there will be no hitches. How very natural for him to display such an interest in her final disposal.”

It was still very quiet beside the lake.

“You are right, it is no good, boss,” Zondi said after dusting himself down. “This ‘high' thing you are talking about does not put Tessa with Boss Trenshaw before she gets killed.”

“I know it doesn't, Zondi. It's all bloody bull probably. And we can't risk our necks on that. I'm not even sure that Byers bloke was telling the exact truth. He could have been building up his story to make it sound even better for him. Look, it's half past twelve now. Take me up there again quickly and then we'll get back to see what Sergeant Van Niekerk has found out.”

 

14

T
HE DOOR OPENED
cautiously. The Colonel put his head around it and beamed when he saw Van Niekerk was alone in the office.

“Ah, Sergeant, it is good to find a man who likes his work.”

Van Niekerk shot to his feet.

“Good morning—I mean good afternoon, sir.”

“I'm not disturbing you am I?”

“No, sir. I was just bringing the crime sheet up to date.”

“Very good. Do you mind if I see it? This is excellent. So clear. I must try and introduce this method to other members of the squad.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And what were you writing on it?”

“That entry there, sir, in green. I've just been doing a check on Miss Phil—er, Miss Le Roux's finances. I found that she had over two hundred Rand in a building society under a false name.”

“Had? In what sense?”

“She took it all out last week.”

“That's good. It ties in with Lieutenant Kramer's theory that she was about to leave us when it happened. But where is he now?”

“Out with Zondi—they've been gone all morning.”

“Hmmm. No idea where, I suppose?”

“Round the informers. He also said they might call at the crematorium.”

The Colonel bent over the crime sheet.

“What happened in Durban to make him want to go there? I see they didn't get this Lenny bloke after all.”

“No, sir.”

“Well, I won't ask any more questions until I see him tonight,” the Colonel chuckled.

“Tonight, sir?”

“Hasn't he told you? About my little plan? That's the Lieutenant for you.”

And the Colonel was gone, leaving Van Niekerk looking very vexed indeed.

There were a number of vehicles in the car park near the entrance to the crematorium building but no sign of a hearse anywhere.

“What's going on?” Kramer muttered as Zondi backed the Chev up beside them. “Must be it's all over and they're just coming out. The undertaker's boys have already burnt it home for lunch.”

He looked at his watch. It was almost one o'clock.

Then Zondi switched off the engine and they could hear the sound of organ music dimly through the thick stone walls of the chapel. There was a rapid fade on the last verse and Kramer smiled.

“Mr Byers is in a hurry for his lunch, too,” he said.

They waited for the mourners to emerge. Nothing happened. Then the organ started up again.

“This priest's got a lot to say for himself, hey Zondi?”

“It is their way, boss.”

When next the music stopped and again nobody came out, Kramer had had enough.

“We'll be here all day waiting for this lot,” he said. “Look, I'm going inside to see Byers in his control room. We haven't the time to mess around.”

He strode rapidly over to the entrance, pushed through the doors and headed for the small door at the far end of the hallway. But on his way down he paused for a quick glance through the windows of the chapel door.

It was empty.

“Back again so soon, old boy? Did you leave something?”

Kramer turned slowly to face Byers.

“I thought there was a funeral on,” he said.

“Oh, no, the people outside are here for some dedication service or other down in the Garden of Remembrance. A plaque, I think.”

“It was the music.”

“Don't tell me. I've had endless trouble ever since you left. You know those new tapes I mentioned? With a choral effect to help the singers along? I just couldn't get the balance right. That's what you must have heard, I've been juggling about with them in the lunch break.”

“You must think I'm a proper fool.”

“Not at all, old boy. But didn't you notice you couldn't hear the devil dodger's voice in between?”

“Who?”

“The clergy.”

“No, I wasn't expecting to.”

“Quite so—music carries much better than voices and it's louder for a start. Do you know anything about tapes, by the way?”

An odd look came over Kramer's face. He suddenly felt he knew something about one tape in particular—but he had to be sure.

The librarian at the
Trekkersburg Gazette
gave the impression of an irritable man with Right-wing views. Those that knew him well, however, realised that this was only his way of keeping the Left-wing editorial staff at bay. Given half a chance they would be yelling for files all day and never allow him time to bring his cuttings up to date.

In fact he was the sort of man who gave the African schoolmaster all the help he could possibly need in compiling potted biographies of the city councillors.

“I am most grateful,” Zondi told him. “My pupils will be delighted to make better acquaintance with the leaders of our fair city.”

And with that he opened the file on Councillor Terence Derek Trenshaw.

Kramer believed in expedience. It was expedient to put Zondi on to collecting background details, expedient to have the increasingly truculent Van Niekerk confined to the office, and expedient to have Mrs Perkins wake her dear little Bobby although he did not get up until three.

Bob Perkins was delighted.

“So the tape's important after all?” he asked, hunting about for it. “I didn't think so, with your leaving it with me.”

“Have you got a portable?”

“Oh, this thing can plug in anywhere, I'll take an adapter. Here you are.”

He handed Kramer the tape.

“Fine, then let's go.”

Mrs Perkins went out to the garden gate to wave them off. She flinched nervously when Kramer let out the clutch and left some tyre tread behind with her.

“Going far?”

“Just around the corner.”

“Barnato Street?”

“Ja.”

“Smashing. What do you want me to do?”

“Play the tape.”

It was Bob's turn to flinch as Kramer began braking outside No. 223 and then changed his mind so abruptly that the delivery boy ahead of them owed his life to a decimal point. The Chev finally stopped four houses down on the far side of the old night-cart lane.

“How about some real detective stuff then, Bob?”

“Great! What must I do?”

“You see that lane there? It leads up the side of the property we're interested in. All we have to do is go up it very quietly until we get to a gate in the wall, on the other side is a cottage—I'll go first and open the door. Then you come. Nobody can see you until you are right by the door because there are some high bushes. Step across that part smartly and I'll tell you the rest.”

“Check.”

Kramer hid a smile as they got out.

And it all went exactly as planned, with Bob making the leap into the cottage like a true Springbok.

Kramer looked through the lace curtains at the kitchen windows on the far side of the garden. Miss Henry was hovering about the maid Rebecca. They were sharing the washing-up.

“Okay, now all you've got to do is get that recorder of yours going and we're away.”

“Over here?”

“Just push the sofa from the wall if the plug's hard to reach.”

Bob gave it a shove with his knee and it rolled aside on well-oiled casters. Then he knelt down to fit the reel.

Miss Henry was pouring water from a kettle into a tea pot over the sink.

“Hurry it, if you can, Bob.”

“Won't be a sec. I suppose you noticed someone else has had a deck here before?”

Kramer spun from the windows.

“Where?”

Bob pointed to an area of the carpet which had been covered by the sofa. There were four slight impressions in it like those made by the rubber cushions at each corner of a tape recorder.

“Run it to the last piece, where there isn't so much missing.”

“Right. Fast forward wind coming up.”

Miss Henry was still in the kitchen.

“One more thing, Bob: can you play it loud as a piano?”

“If you like. I've got one hell of a wattage on this.”

“Like a piano.”

“That's set. I made a note about volume on the box.”

He talked too much. Miss Henry had gone. Kramer swore silently.

“Countdown?”

“Zero. Let's have it, Bob.”

Kramer started as the first faltering notes of Greensleeves plunked out. Then he sat down on the carpet beside Bob to listen.

The sound he had expected began very softly in a very high key. It gradually built in strength and then started wavering from one side of the scale to the other. It did not come from the amplifier.

Rebecca was having the shrieks in the kitchen.

The pianist's fingers tripped over a chord and there was a pause. The chord was repeated slowly and then the tune went on.

Rebecca was in the garden now and so was Miss Henry, almost crushed in the Zulu maid's terrified embrace.

The tape snapped.

“Hell, I'm sorry. That was a lousy splicing.”

“Perfect, my friend.”

Kramer rose and opened a window on the two women edging compulsively towards the cottage.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said cheerfully.

Rebecca covered her head and ran, squealing like a black sow.

Miss Henry was made of sterner stuff.

“I knew it couldn't really be her,” she said.

“Why not, Miss Henry?”

“Because she's with the Lord—and
He
doesn't allow it.”

That brought Kramer's head back through the lace curtains. He pressed a fist to his lips and then went outside.

“I'm sorry that we've upset your servant. It was just a little test we had to carry out.”

“All I can say is that it's just as well the old lady is in the front room. A shock like this could have done terrible things to her. I must admit I don't feel quite myself either.”

“I'm sorry about that, too.”

Miss Henry subsided into the garden seat conveniently behind her.

“It was uncanny, you know,” she said.

“The music?”

“Dear old Greensleeves. The number of times we've heard that in the past. Always the same mistakes, too, the silly things. And the way it goes boomp-boomp-boomp like a train coming out of the station. Who was playing? One of her nice gentleman pupils?”

“Which exactly do you mean, Miss Henry?”

“Oh, they all looked about the same from where we were. Two were on the tall side, one middling and there was rather a stout gentleman, too. None was any better than the other at it. A shame, too, because an hour's lesson isn't cheap.”

“They always stayed an hour?”

“From eight to nine. You could set your watch by it.”

“I know I've probably asked you some of these things before, Miss Henry—you don't mind?”

“It's only you're always on about my poor gentlemen. They haven't done anything wrong, have they?”

“Why do you keep calling them gentlemen?”

“Because of their clothes and the way they held themselves. I can always spot one, it's my upbringing, you know.”

“Last time you said there were five of them.”

“Gracious, did I? Perhaps I was counting that gentleman who called about her life insurance.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I almost bumped into him one night as he was coming out of the lane and I was coming back from a late meeting at church. He said ‘excuse me' so politely I had to mention it to her.”

“Why didn't you mention it to me, then?”

Miss Henry caught the change of tone and her brows quivered in an anxious arch.

“You did ask about regular callers, sir. He only came the few times.”

“Did she say what insurance company?”

“I think it was—Trinity? Does that sound right?”

“Is this the man, Miss Henry?”

“I haven't got my specs with me, if—”

“Just take a look.”

“Goodness, that's him. I know by the shape of the head. A Mr—?”

“Francis, Leon Francis.”

This went down well with Miss Henry. She put her head to one side and whispered it over.

“That is a nice name. Now you aren't being nasty to him, are you?”

“Come on, Miss Henry, I've told you how sorry I am we gave you a fright. We didn't do it on purpose, you know.”

“Now you've gone and reminded me again. The awfullest part was when the music stopped. Rebecca and me both thought we could hear the poor thing talking.”

“We weren't making a sound in there.”

“How silly! You never could hear her anyway, even from up close, and she always pulled the big velvet curtains for our sakes.”

“We all make mistakes, Miss Henry,” Kramer said, taking her arm.

And he led her, just like a real lady, all the way down to the kitchen door.

There was nothing like a stroll by the river, especially in the spring. Love was everywhere you looked if your ears were sharp enough.

Then Moosa made the mistake of uttering an emphatic gasp and the big black lover spotted him from his position in the tall grass.

“Churra! You wait!”

Moosa could not bring himself to—he fled. And stumbled right into another unhappy circumstance.

“What do you want, coolie?” the hobo snarled, looking up from the suitcase of new shirts he was packing.

Moosa lifted his shoe delicately off the open lid.

“A thousand, two thousand pardons! My stomach is giving me hell, master.”

He nodded towards a clump of bushes right down at the river's edge.

“Got the runs, have you?”

The hobo laughed nastily and his companion, who had been urinating behind a tree, came round grinning.

“You know what, Clivey boy? I'd say the churra's been putting some of that hair grease of his in the curry.”

This joke went down even better. Moosa joined in the laughter with a will.

“What's so funny, coolie?”

“He's being cheeky, Clivey boy. Shall we?”