The Gooseberry Fool (23 page)

Kramer took the chair pointed out to him; caught and lit the small cheroot tossed across. He was enjoying all this.

“Tromp.”

“Sir?”

“I intend taking this matter all the way,” said Muller, holding his smoke.

“Uh huh.”

Muller exhaled to avoid choking.

“Minister. Pardon. To the Minister himself.”

“Hell.”

“Hell nothing! I’m not having anybody play silly buggers with my men’s time! Bloody cheek!”

There was nothing Kramer could usefully add. He had said it all already, with maximum effect. So he simply nodded a few times.

“I mean, Tromp, it would have been different if they’d asked for our cooperation. Quite different. But to treat us as though we can’t be trusted—that I will not have! Huh! What do they think we are? Russia-trained spies?”

“No, sir, just not so special as they are. We’re dog-license cops.”

“Bastards.”

The internal telephone bleeped.

“Muller. What gives? Then get me his home number. Of course it isn’t in the book, you—”

He slammed down the receiver again.

“Waste of breath. If that man’s brains were dynamite, they wouldn’t blow his bloody head off. And the same for some others we know.”

“The thing that gets me,” said Kramer, “is that you’d think chucking Swart in solitary would have been enough—hundred and eighty days to change his ways and come across.”

“They must have been in a hurry then. Or have wanted to properly frighten the rest off. It was nice, though, you’ve got to admit: the public will always suspect the coon, but Swart’s friends would know that a liberal like him isn’t going to be carved up by his own kitchen boy. You said he spoiled the Bantu Shabalala?”

“Well, he didn’t make him wait on the table longer than eight or something.”

“There you are, you see? Pampered coons don’t do things like this. Deterrent, bait—call it what you like, the idea was good.”

Kramer reserved opinion. In his reckoning, the affair had all the hallmarks of the bumbling Du Plessis. God, it had been a shock to realize that the man had not been succeeded by Muller because of his own incompetence, but must have moved up in the world. Right to the top, in fact: security. State security, which, as every cadet learned, was the most important aspect of police work. Again, the mind boggled.

Bleep.

“On their way? Ta, De Kok. Now I don’t want any interruptions—understood? Hey? No, she won’t be.”

Muller kept the receiver in his hand after the line went dead, testing its weight as though assessing its possibilities as a blunt weapon—his mood was very nasty. Then he snapped out of it and dropped the thing with a thud, chipping off a piece of plastic. His phone was a mess.

“Here goes, Tromp. Now you just leave the talking to me. Okay?”

“Pleased to, sir.”

A double knock and, without waiting, Du Plessis poked his head around the door.

“Morning! What’s the panic? Missed my kidneys on toast.”

“Come in, please,” said Muller.

Du Plessis raised his brows to Scott and the two of them entered the office, taking seats without invitation. Then Muller stood up, very tall against the high window, and his face difficult to see because of the light.

“I know what,” said Scott. “There have been some sudden developments. Right, Colonel Muller?”

“Quite so.”

“Have to be in the Wallace case then,” chimed in Du Plessis, the sort who would enjoy party games.

“No.”

“But it can’t be the Swart!” Du Plessis said.

“It is.”

“Involving who?”

Muller flipped another cheroot to Kramer and lit the last of the packet. His actions owed less to histrionics than they did to a full appreciation of an irrevocable word he was about to utter.

“You,” he said. “Both of you.”

Fools might have tried a laugh or two, a wink and slap on the back; it was sobering to observe how well Du Plessis and Scott controlled their responses. One went yellow and one white, but neither said anything. It was a silence to be measured in heartbeats, to be felt pressing on the eardrum, to be endured. It lasted a very long time.

Then Du Plessis stirred, reaching into his hip pocket for a white handkerchief. He used it delicately on his nose and then for jaunty display in his shirt pocket.

“Colonel Scott? Would you like to say anything to this gentleman?”

Colonel next! How the plot thickened. Muller and Kramer concurred in this, wordlessly.

“All I have to say,” said Scott politely, “is to ask you to explain yourself, Colonel Muller. I’m sure you would not make such a statement without arming yourself with a suitable allegation.”

Muller might have wavered at this moment, had Scott not missed out on the obvious question as to the nature of the involvement, and so made their complicity implicit.

“Would you deny,” began Muller, discarding the cheroot, “that on the night of December the twenty-third, you deliberately removed one of my officers, Lieutenant Tromp Kramer, here present, from the scene of a killing in Skaapvlei? That you did not wish this officer to make his characteristically thorough investigation? That you wanted the murder treated as nothing more than a routine case involving a Bantu?”

“But how did we do this, Colonel?” asked Scott, a small smile at odds with a frown.

“Unfortunately for you, Colonel, there was not another murder in Trekkersburg that night,” Muller continued, his voice steadier. “If there had been, perhaps this deception would never have come to light. But you had no murder. You had to settle for any violent death, and then, by throwing suspicion on the circumstances of this death, make it seem worthy of the lieutenant’s attention. What the English call sending a man on a wild-goose chase? Am I right?”

“The boy Zondi remained on the case,” Du Plessis said.

“Exactly, the boy Zondi. A Bantu. A Kaffir who would do what he was told.”

Du Plessis looked across at Scott. They read off the same message in each other’s eyes and shrugged.

“We deny nothing of this,” said Scott.

And Muller gasped, despite himself.

When Zondi heard that plans had changed and he was to take a taxi, he took it first to Kwela Village, where Miriam and the children were pleased to see him alive. He showed them the cast on his arm, and they showed him the unwanted books that white youngsters had donated to their school’s Christmas tree. Then he had a big mug of tea with his wife, and told her what he remembered of the accident. She took up the story at Peacevale Hospital, giving him a full description of the morning she had been called to his bedside, and of the visit paid to her by the lieutenant. He left almost immediately, waiting only long enough to change into his other shirt and a clean pair of slacks.

Now, back in the office unofficially shared with Kramer, Zondi paced it restlessly, impatient to learn what was going on. But the duty man down at the entrance had told him that the lieutenant was in conference with Colonel Muller and could not be disturbed. This conference had been in progress for over an hour so probably he should not have long to wait.

Zondi looked at his watch again and put it to his ear to make sure it was still ticking. Shockproof, as the Indian trader had assured him.

But Zondi could tolerate only so much inactivity and then got a gut ache. So he sat himself down in his corner with two dockets taken off the lieutenant’s desk. One had to do with Boss Swart; the other—astonishingly—with a man called Wallace, who had died in a motor accident.

The Swart docket was almost empty. It contained a few quite unremarkable photographs of the murder scene, plus forms filled in by Fingerprints, the laboratory, and Dr. Strydom. No statements, no list of suspects, nothing to engage the mind. But Zondi read every word all the same.

Then, after another look at his watch, he opened the Wallace docket. The first page had been prepared by the Traffic section, and was all very straightforward: race, name, age, address, occupation, time, manner, place, measurements, observations, and assessment. Several statements, also prepared by Traffic, followed this, giving the time of the accident in the estimation of residents who had heard the crash. The post-mortem findings were mundane. The photographs were just that. So far so boring. Next came a small surprise: a report on the car by Fingerprints—negative, as it happened, but an extraordinary procedure all the same. Zondi wondered why the lieutenant had bothered to request such a thing—and, indeed, why he was bothering at all with such a matter. The equally unexpected laboratory report that followed was also an enigma for, apart from grouping the blood, giving the high alcohol level, and making a faintly sarcastic remark about glass fragments, it said nothing. But most astounding was a preliminary report by the lieutenant, a man not given to paperwork, based on an interview with a colleague of the deceased: three whole pages describing how Wallace had arrived at the Old Comrades’ Club and drunk far too much. This was dated December 24. All in all, what looked like a fine waste of time. Colonel Du Plessis.

He carried the dockets back to the other desk and put them side by side just as he had found them. Then he used one of his skeleton keys on the middle drawer, helped himself to a Lucky Strike, and locked it again. His first three puffs in days made him very dizzy and he had to sit down right where he was, in the lieutenant’s chair. Which put a different perspective on things, and he saw what was happening and how he could make himself useful instead of just hanging about.

Because of his arm, he had first to find a driver, but was soon on his way out to Skaapvlei with the pictures.

The shoe was on the other foot now, and poised for a kick into Kramer’s ribs.

“Man, I must say it was ingenious,” remarked Scott, accepting a cheroot from the fresh pack Muller had produced.

“Yes, Tromp, always said you were one of my best,” agreed Du Plessis, “only inclined to go off half cocked.”

Kramer stood up, angry.

“First you say you don’t deny taking me off the Swart case, don’t deny God knows what else; now you tell the Colonel that we’ve got it all wrong. How’s that?”

“Easy, man, easy,” said Muller, motioning Kramer to be seated again. He had got right to the end of the accusation before the security man laughed in his face. It had hurt and confused him.

“The funny thing is,” Scott went on, smug as ever, “that only last night Colonel Du Plessis actually suggested maybe we should come to you for the use of your special talents.”

“Hey?”

“What is going on?” asked Muller, advancing a stage to exasperation. “Just tell me that, Colonel Scott! Explain how these facts don’t add up.”

“And they are facts,” stressed Kramer.

“I don’t deny that either,” Scott said, “just as your nose is a fact. But you go down to that fun fair place on Durban beachfront and look in the mirrors there. What happens? You can see your nose, and your eyes and your mouth and your chin, but they’re all twisted out of shape. Same thing happened when you held up these facts.”

“Thanks.” Patronizing bastard.

The internal line bleeped and Muller quickly answered it.

“What? Oh, that? No, don’t trouble—I don’t want it anymore.”

Scott looked amused, as if he knew what the Pretoria call had been about. He went over to fetch an ashtray from the windowsill, and remained there, slightly behind Muller, making him very uncomfortable. “The thing that has impressed me,” said Scott, “was how often you were right, Lieutenant—only you kept coming to the wrong conclusions. Would you admit to some sort of personal prejudice toward either Colonel Du Plessis or myself? Something that could affect your excellent judgment?”

Kramer made no response whatever.

“I see; well, then, my guess was a good one. When you had your suspicions aroused by my lack of a tan that morning in the swimming bath—an oversight which embarrasses me, but it had been very hot—you quite rightly decided I was not the person I claimed to be. But then you went on to assume that Colonel Du Plessis and I could only be engaged on something shady; you ruled out any idea of our motives being good ones. Your first mistake and the one which colored all the rest. You felt that in some way you were being exploited, and decided to find out how. Frankly we never thought there would be any contact between you and the Bantu woman Miriam Zondi, and yet our motives again were good. You were right—and here I think you did a first-class job—in the deductions you made about the hearing aid, but very wrong in your conclusions.”

“All bluff and bullshit,” said Kramer, unmoved. “What do you say, Colonel? Is this an explanation?”

He looked hard at Muller, who looked hard at his ankles.

“Ach, may as well tell them,” said Scott to Du Plessis. “Got nothing to lose now.”

And he came back to his chair and gave Du Plessis a nod to begin.

“Well, Tromp, my old friend, I’m sorry to find you would think so badly of me,” said Du Plessis. “Your theory is that we waited until Colonel Muller took his Christmas holiday so that we could bump off a subversive passing secrets to a priest with leftist tendencies. You regard this—um—assassination? as a deterrent and possibly a way of flushing out a few others in the long grass. And you’re angry because you were not let into the secret, but made to waste your time—and your boy’s time—chasing wild ducks. Now that isn’t nice, man, not from an old mate. But I suppose you pay me a compliment.”