The Song Dog (37 page)

“Just a minute, whose uncle is Herman’s?” asked Kramer, suddenly remembering something little Piet had once said to him. “Was it Hans?”

“Ach, no, Sarel Suzman.”

“Damn!” said Kramer, realizing how close he had come, what seemed like an eternity ago, to having first established a link with the murderer.

“You know what, Trompie?” the Widow Fourie added. “After a time, I think I knew what his game was: he was trying to hang up his cap in my hall, thinking all I wanted was another man to look after me and the kids, that I’d not be too choosy. I had to discourage him hard after that, and finally he stopped coming.” Then a horrified look crossed her face. “My God,” she said, “you’re not going to tell me he had anything to do with—you know, with what happened to my Pik?”

“Hell, no,” said Kramer firmly, knowing his denial would have the ring of truth because this was an issue which, thank Christ and H. Terblanche, had never been finally settled.

Then another spirit, entirely benign by way of contrast, although equally disturbing, had intruded. Kramer noticed the Widow Fourie had kept her eyes closed at first, when his palm skimmed lightly down her belly, then had flinched, as though caressed by a memory that had fooled her for a moment. After that, she had kept her eyes wide open, intent on him, craning to
see that it was indeed his hand she felt, and sometimes placing her hand over his hand, further reassuring herself.

But when they began to make love again in the morning, each slowly becoming aware of the warmth of the other, finding it fuse them together, arouse them, finding their limbs had minds of their own, moving, sliding, touching, thrilling in the singularity of their contact, there were only two people in that bed, and a smoothed-out dent in the pillow.

“Boss?” said Zondi, looking back at a vanishing signpost. “Did not that say it led to the place we are looking for?”

“Damn, I was daydreaming, man!” said Kramer, using the handbrake to effect an astonishing U-turn.

Within minutes, they were traveling down a rough track toward a small collection of buildings that lay huddled in a slight dip, built around a simple little church, the doors of which stood wide open.

“Listen, Mickey,” said Kramer. “Two shootings on two consecutive days, both by the same Bantu detective sergeant? People could start talking. But there is a way around this: I owe you one—I’ll do it.”

Zondi looked tempted, but shook his head. “My thanks, boss,” he said, “but that would please only the spirit of the law, not—”

“The spirits of your bloody ancestors! Ja, ja, I know! But at least borrow my PPK, so Forensic is fooled into thinking it was me, hey? How does that thought appeal to you?”

“Hmmmm,” said Zondi.

“Alternatively,” suggested Kramer, “last night was mine, today’s is yours—we swap guns and avoid a lot of bullshit and soul-searching on the part of the Colonel. White on white, black on black, no explanations to make to the Brigadier in Pretoria.”

“Done, Lieutenant!” said Zondi.

They continued down the slope and had just reached the first mission building when something made Kramer laugh softly. “I’ve just been thinking,” he said, “about the nonsense the bloody Song Dog tried to get us to believe: that we would be wrong and yet right about Maaties’ murder! Can’t see where we’ve ever been wrong in our deductions—can you, hey? Hell, the poor bugger just went to Fynn’s Creek to ask some bloody questions, got blown to buggery by accident, and forced Suz into making up every kind of allegation against him!”

“Uh-huh, boss,” agreed Zondi, shaking his head but keeping his eyes fixed on the church, now only a few hundred yards away, and smelling the scent of eucalyptus trees. “In truth, the Song Dog said quite a few ridiculous things; some so very silly I did not bother to repeat them to you.”

“Such as?” said Kramer, beginning to throttle back.

“The Song Dog said we must beware of the wife of the prisoner who was captured this week, Lieutenant.”

“Hey? What nonsense is that? We haven’t take any bloody prisoners—and certainly don’t intend to! Go on, tell me, what else?”

“Oh, the Song Dog also warned that one far-off night, Lieutenant, you and me would stand alone together, arm in arm in a black township, wearing red necklaces as bright as petrol flames, on the orders of that selfsame—”

“Necklaces?”
said Kramer, bringing the Widow’s station wagon to a juddering halt. “You and me?
Us?
Whoever heard of blokes in bloody necklaces? What the hell does it take us for, hey? A couple of bloody nancy boys and poofters?”

Zondi laughed and swung his door open, cocking Kramer’s pistol. “You’re right, my boss,” he said. “It is bad enough that the Lieutenant and me go picking the wild, wild flowers now.”