The Sunday Hangman (24 page)

“Captain Theron here. Your answer is no.”

“That’s all? What about those other connections I asked you blokes to—”

“No,” Theron repeated.

Kramer looked, at Willie, who was standing with Zondi on the far side of the desk, and asked, “I have a few questions about hanging techniques I’d like to have verified, if possible. Could you tell me what procedure is followed?”

“Exactly as laid down.”

“Uh huh?”

“The judge says, ‘You will be hanged by the neck until you are dead,’ and we do it.”

Theron put his phone down.

“Bugger me,” said Kramer, “that was a great help. What have you to report? Zondi?”

“Dorothy Jele says many white bosses spoke to her about the sighting of Izimu. It would be impossible to—”

“But I’ve got something, sir!” blurted out Willie. “I was talking to my landlord—old Mr. Haagner—just casually, like you said I must do it, and he mentioned that Mr. de Bruin had been
among those who were away during the war. He knows it wasn’t fighting, but it had something to do with the government.”

“You didn’t push it too hard?”

“Hell, I hope not, sir. Also, I’ve been down to Spa-kling and all the committee’s there already. De Bruin, Van der Heever, Swanepoel, Crowe, Wantenaar, Fouche—the whole lot of them. They’re making up games for the kids, and George said it would take all afternoon.”

“Piet?”

“Er—he isn’t back yet.”

Kramer got up and adjusted the wall clock to synchronize with his own watch: it was now one o’clock exactly. He turned and was stricken to see Zondi’s leg shuddering in spasm—this had been hidden by the desk before.

“We move in one hour, so get Mamabola and Luthuli on standby. Show them your drawing. Is there anyone who can mind the shop?”

“Nyembezi, who’s on nights. Actually, he’s more use than old Goodluck.”

“Wake him and swap them round. Try the hotel and see if Piet’s back.”

“But I’ve only just—”

“Ring him, damn it! And you, Sergeant—outside.”

Zondi’s exit was painful to watch. Once in the area behind the charge office counter, Kramer steered him into the half-empty storeroom, closed the door behind him, and raised a fist.

“This is what you deserve, Mickey!”

“For, boss?”

“For behaving like a half-witted kaffir, you stupid bastard! What the hell are you doing to yourself? I’m phoning the DS at Brandspruit and Mamabola’s taking you in—and I don’t want any arguments. I don’t want to
know
. Got it?”

They looked at each other.

Kramer said, “All right, but here you’ll stay until this thing is over. I’ll get them to fix it up for you before we go. More brandy?”

“Hau, please not for me!”

“It’s no trouble.”

“You would not think that, boss,” Zondi murmured slyly, as he slid slowly down the wall, “if you had my headache.”

With a lopsided smile, Kramer left the room and gave instructions to Luthuli for a mattress and some blankets to be found somewhere. And then, realizing there’d be no red tape involved, he also told him to send for a good witch doctor.

“Sir?” interrupted Willie, displaying agitation. “Piet isn’t back and his barman wants to know about closing time.”

“Why ask me, for Christ’s sake?”

“Well—um—Sarge is on the committee, too, see? And when all the blokes have to be there for the afternoon, he sort of tends to look the other way, if you—”

“Fine,” said Kramer. “I’m not looking.”

Not there at any rate, and the happier the committee stayed for the afternoon, the better.

Z
ONDI KNEW HE
was dreaming. He’d meant to say many things to Dorothy Jele, and now he was saying them. He chided her for thinking that a careless mother was necessarily an uncaring one. He reminded her of the sweet fever turning to delirium as the search had drawn closer. He laughed at her virtues as a true Christian woman, a woman who couldn’t be made to tell a lie. She shrieked back that it wasn’t her, wasn’t her. She shrieked and shrieked and coughed and whispered and there was someone standing over him.

He had still to be dreaming. The man wore a lounge suit and there were inflated pigs’ bladders in his hair. His squint transfixed you, his breath was aromatic. Herbs. He was gone again.

Dorothy, Dorothy, Dorothy Jele.

Someone else in the room.

“Have I woken you?” whispered Goodluck Luthuli, “Are my eyes not closed?” Zondi snapped, noticing he’d succumbed to the peevishness of an invalid. “I am sorry, my brother. What time is it? Is the Lieutenant—”

“They have been away the whole afternoon, Sergeant. There is no sign of their return yet. I heard you were restless, so I brought you this.” Luthuli held out a small horn with a wooden stopper. “It is the medicine left by Jafini Bhengu. He was most painstaking in its preparation, and ground up the ingredients
to a special fineness. He says it would be better if you went to the nuns’ clinic, but this will bring you relief until then.”

Groggily, Zondi took the horn, uncorked it, and saw that it contained a gray powder. “All afternoon, you say? Then the sun is going down?”

“Soon. Is there anything else you would have brought to you?”

Zondi’s attention had been taken by the way Luthuli was tamping down the tobacco in his cheap black pipe. He glared at the pipe, annoyed by the insistence of its detail: it was the kind with a perforated metal cap which fitted over the bowl, and there was a little silver chain, attached at one end to the pipestem, to keep this cap from getting lost. When he began to hate the pipe, his own delirium seemed not far off.

“A farm is not hard to search. The workers will know all the far corners, and they will also know where they have been forbidden to go. If I—”

“Mamabola is helping your boss, and he is a bright one,” Luthuli said, replacing the silver cap. “Perhaps they visit many farms.”

“Mamabola! That puppy!”

With a grunt, Zondi tried to rise—only to discover he hadn’t the strength to take a grip on the ammunition box beside him … His head reeled and he slumped back.

“You must sleep,” Luthuli coaxed gently, pulling up the blankets again. “I will be in the charge office.”

The door closed. Zondi felt for his gun; it had been taken from him. He went limp. He thought about Dorothy Jele, and remembered how thin the walls of her room had been. Soon he was dreaming again, hopping frantically, seeing his children running fleet down a straight path to the barricades.

“Lieutenant!” shouted Zondi, this time waking himself up.

He fumbled for the medicine horn, tipped the whole lot into his mouth, and turned to the wall. Then his mind became
lucid and he began to smile. A moment or two later, he was laughing.

His sophisticated taste buds had just revealed to him the secret of Jafini Bhungu’s success. That gray powder was nothing other than wood ash and aspirin.

“I don’t get it,” said Kramer, as he and Willie finally boarded the Land-Rover. “That place definitely had a feel to it that wasn’t natural.”

“Where’s Nyembezi?” Willie asked Mamabola, who was sitting on the floor in the back.

“He is coming now, boss; he just sprung a leak.”

“Did you get the same impression, Willie?”

They looked back at the wide, low bungalow, at the barn and tractor shed and scattering of outbuildings. The large disused water tank had caused a brief flutter of hope. So had the milking parlor, with its pit between the machines, but by then things had been verging on the ridiculous.

“Can’t say I did, sir. That old cookboy was a bit funny, but otherwise it seemed normal to me. I don’t think he believed we were looking for an escaped prisoner.” And Willie laughed. “How did Mrs. de Bruin take to you going inside?”

“She didn’t bat an eyelid, went on doing her knitting. Of course, what I said was that I wanted to use the bog. Look, she’s still there now; bet she’s watching us.”

A lumpy figure in a black frock went on knitting and swinging gently on a cushioned bench suspended from the verandah rafters. Tortoise-shell spectacles gave a glint.

“Ja, took it all in her stride, asked no questions about the man we were looking for, whether he was a rapist or what. But it was little things, like the keys.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant?”

“When I was going through the rooms, checking the floorboards like you suggested, I noticed that there was a key in
every keyhole of every chest, cupboard—or else the thing was open. What I’m getting at is that nothing was locked; I could have gone digging in anything I liked.”

The back door slammed and Nyembezi’s weight settled heavily on the metal seat. Kramer started up the Land-Rover and drove out slowly to the gate, turned left, and began the descent to Witklip. They passed a sign reading
M. R. JACKSON—PRIVATE
. The next sign they came to was outside Gysbert Swanepoel’s place. Kramer swung in there, just missing a gatepost.

“Hey?” said Willie.

“Best we do one other,” Kramer explained, knowing damn well what he was up to. “If we just do de Bruin’s, that’s a bit of a giveaway.” It was like being in rut.

“But Jackson’s is in between!”

“He’s also at home this afternoon, in all probability, my friend. And not a very nice man, by the sound of it.”

“Hell, I.… Must I come in with you?”

The drive was relatively short and ended at the foot of some concrete steps ornamented with small palms set in tubs made from car tires.

“Must I, sir?” Willie repeated, very jittery, as the Land-Rover’s engine was switched off.

“We’ll make this a quickie,” said Kramer, now committed. “You take the outside, me the in. Tell Mamabola to see the head boy, the induna, and Nyembezi had better stay here with the van. Same prisoner story as before. Got that?”

“Fine; will do.”

“Then spread out, Willie, spread out.”

The door was opened by a shuffling crone with a face straight out of a prune packet.

“Boss Swanepoel not home,” she said, deeply apologetic. “Little missus she lie down.”

“That’s okay, auntie. You see my boy down there?”

“Hau, hau! Po-eesie?”

“Uh huh, police, But you’re not in any trouble. Just you go to him and he’ll explain.”

She hurried off. It was as well Zondi wasn’t around.

Kramer stepped into the house and took a glance into the living room. It had large sash windows and an enormous fireplace. The furniture was old, and so was the carpet; the effect was very homely. A muzzleloader hung over the mantel, pointing at the head of a dead buffalo on the same wall, and, above a homemade bookcase, was a faded world map. There wasn’t a photograph of her anywhere.

The house was very quiet. Every door onto the long passage stood ajar except one. He listened, tried the handle carefully, and found it was locked. But the key was on the outside, so he turned it, waited five seconds, then went in.

A low, green light, filtering through the drawn blinds, transformed a scene of mild chaos into the natural untidiness of a forest clearing. Scattered panties made vivid crinkles of fungi on the tree stump of a stool and around it; tights hung like torn spider web from chairback and mirror; other clothing and pop cuttings littered the floor underfoot, crackling and yielding. There was a faint, fecund forest fragrance, the sickly sweetness that tempts flies into fleshy petals, and the trapped, heavy air was sweat-prickle humid. Over on the far side, on a bank of mussed bedding, a slender figure was lying face down. Kramer circled the end of the bed. Her face was hidden by a fall of blond hair the right length for pigtails. Her arms were straight down at her sides and her hands underneath her. Her skin was tanned to the color of a young doe and there was a sprinkle of freckles on the near shoulder. She was wearing a sleeveless white blouse, a denim skirt which reached to midthigh, and was barefoot. Her legs were long and strong and very smooth. He wanted to touch them.

—

Willie kept as far as he could from the house. He expected the girl to come running out at any moment, followed by the Lieutenant, to accuse him of all the things he’d so often imagined doing to her. It didn’t matter how irrational he knew this notion to be—that’s what he felt. It had him scared and excited and sick to the stomach. He slunk into the vehicle shed and tried to get himself together.

There had been a time, way back in the home when the only rides he ever took were on buses, when he’d been mad keen on motor transport of any sort and had known all the names. But this chance of inspecting a diesel Mercedes saloon at close quarters was one he had no interest in taking. He pushed a finger along its dusty flank and wiped the muck off on an old refrigerator truck.

Then he noticed the blood. A spear-shaped splash on the mounting step at the back. He circled the truck and discovered that the cooling unit had been removed before the last paint job.

Puzzled, he swung back the elaborate latch—which someone had been modifying with a brazing torch—and opened the doors.

Vvvvvvvvvvvv
. Flies filled the stinking air, which was like a belch from a hyena.
Vvvvv
—
vvvvvmmm
. They settled again to continue their feasting. There was blood everywhere on the ribbed metal floor, and a row of hooks had been screwed into a reinforced strip that ran the length of the thick, insulated ceiling.

“Impofu,” said a grating voice behind him.

With a start, Willie swung round and found Mamabola and the farm’s headboy standing there.

“The induna explains,” said Mamabola, “that this is the conveyance used for the transportation of eland.” He asked the man some questions in Zulu, and then added: “Boss Swanepoel has now fifty head of buck on the poor pastures; no other farmer
in this district has so many. Boss de Bruin only twenty-nine and Boss Jackson thirty.”

“Ja, I bloody know,” Willie lied, feeling a terrible fool, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t be interested! How often does the boss shoot them? Doesn’t it matter if they get a bit bad?”

After some mumbling, muffled by the woolen cap the induna held respectfully in front of his mouth, Mamabola came up with a hesitant answer: “He says the white masters in the big cities eat only buck that is rotten.”