“Doc who?”
“Don’t ask me-the local district surgeon, whoever he is.”
“Uh huh.”
Kramer stared at this new man, and then decided that he was not going to be an asset to crime detection in the division. Shyness made some people cocky, and so did being the minimum required height of five foot six, but here was an object that was neither of those things: if anything, he was almost as tall as Kramer himself, a lot bulkier, and his swagger showed even in the way his greasy quiff was combed back.
It was curious how the unbelievable had this effect, tempting you into thinking about petty irrelevancies, while, deep inside, certain adjustments were made.
“Are you offering?” the new man asked, nodding at the drink in front of Kramer.
“Why not?”
“Um-I think I’d best be getting back,” said Marais, edging away. “Um-see you, hey?”
They watched him go.
“By the way, I’m Klaas Havenga,” the oaf announced, snapping his fingers for the Indian barman. “A brandy and orange, no ice, and the officer here is paying for it.”
“The same,” Kramer added, noting how automatic his responses had become.
He took out the picture for another look at it.
“So what’s this all about?” Havenga asked, after using his first sip as a mouth rinse. “Marais was trying to tell me as we came across, but you know how that bugger talks, nineteen to the dozen like a bloody coolie.”
The barman, a sensitive soul, moved to the far end of the counter, taking his newspaper with him. He’d been writing some interesting names into the crossword when the two jokers had arrived, armed with their bombshell.
“I was looking for him,” said Kramer, feeling nothing as yet.
“Oh, ja? Is it true he tried to take a pot shot at you once, only your boy went and buggered things up?”
“Three months ago,” Kramer replied, taking some ice from the plastic barrel. “We got a late tip-off there could be a raid up on that rise in Peacevale where there’s a line of Bantu business premises-ach, you know, along that dirt road that runs parallel to the dual carriageway. They were trying out the idea of a small bank there at the time. Right on noon, our informant said, but when we rolled up, the bloody thing was already in progress.”
“Yirra!”
“Not that it looked like it. The people outside didn’t even know at that particular moment, he was so quick. They were used to seeing armed whites going in, carrying the bank’s money-and the same went for the bank employees. The stupid bastards took him right up to the safe and opened it. Anyway, Erasmus comes running out with his gun up before we realized the position. Mine was still in under here, so Zondi spins the car around, to give me time to draw. As he comes on to Erasmus’s side, he gets a thirty-eight in the leg, straight through the bloody door. That was it.”
“How do you mean?” asked Havenga, frowning.
“The leg went stiff, onto the accelerator, and we went into the front of this fruit shop-glass, grapes, cabbages everywhere. The owner was killed outright.”
Never, so it seemed, had the man heard anything funnier. Kramer smiled indulgently as he came up for air.
“Jesus Christ! C-c-cabbages everywhere!” Havenga gasped, rejoicing in such a vision. “Man, you’ll have to excuse me a sec.”
And he used the back of his inky hand to smear the tears from his eyes, before beckoning for the barman.
“Same again,” he ordered. “Only this time I pay.”
“Like hell,” said Kramer, and the matter rested there.
While the barman saw to their refills, a bright splash of reflected light began to flutter across the bottles and glasses on the shelves behind the counter.
“Who’s
Nobody could answer him, so he slid off his stool and went over to the mullioned windows behind them, which gave the bar its spurious look of a Tudor tavern. But the frosted panes defeated his attempts to peer through, and he went out onto the pavement to do some shouting.
“So go on,” Havenga invited Kramer, clinking glasses. “While your boy was making a damn fool of you in all those grapes and bloody mangoes, Tollie got clean away?”
“Uh huh.”
“This is the first time you’ve heard of him since?”
“The first. His home town was Durban, but he didn’t go back there. We’ve had a running check going in all the big centers-Joey’s, Cape Town, P.E.-without any joy so far. What plates did he have on his car?”
But Havenga was distracted at that moment by the return of the old misery from the pavement.
“Who was it?” asked a visiting farmer, who’d apparently ordered them both fresh lagers in the meantime. “Some kid left in-”
“No, some insolent little black bastard, waggling his tobacco tin or something about over the other side, just grinned at me-you know the type. Dressed up like a dog’s dinner in a bloody suit he must have swiped. I don’t know. This for me? Very good of you, old chap.”
“If you like, I’ll go and kick his backside,” the farmer offered, being a much younger man.
“No, no; I’ve sent him packing! Best of health!”
Havenga grinned cynically and turned back to Kramer.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“I asked you about his sodding plates.”
“Ach, I never saw them. Don’t these bloody English kill you?”
The splash of light crossed Havenga’s face even as he spoke, slipping from it to move like a butterfly from the Oude Meester brandy over to the till.
“What’s he playing at?” exploded the old man, banging down his tankard. “Just who the devil does he think he is?”
Suddenly Kramer came to, and realized he knew the probable answers to both those questions. Not only this, but that he’d now made his adjustments, and the time had come to act.
“Duty calls?” asked Havenga, puzzled to see him rise so purposefully for no obvious reason.
“Duty, Sergeant? I came off duty officially at six o’clock this morning.”
“But I … you mean, Marais …?”
And the new man in Fingerprints looked at the glass in his hand, before coming the old comrade with a slightly uneasy laugh: “You aren’t going to report me, hey, sir?”
“Naturally,” said Kramer, just for the hell of it.
Over on the other side of the street, just as he’d supposed, leaned the jaunty figure of Bantu Detective Sergeant Mickey Zondi, still overcoming his problem of access to the bar with the aid of a spare 9mm magazine, angled to catch the sun. An instant later, however, this had stopped, and the fly little sod was on his way across.
“How goes it, Mickey?”
“Not so good, boss-and not so bad. I was two hours with Mama Makitini, but she swears to God she never had one drop of that vodka in her shebeen. Then, by chance, I find Yankee Boy Msomi round the back of Pillay’s place, and I get a tip for us to watch where the Mpendu brothers go tonight, because maybe there is a connection. I am sorry you had to wait so long.”
“That’s okay; just got a bloody gutsful of the office. I’ve been talking.”
“Who with? The old guy with the fine command of the Zulu language?” Zondi joked, waving a shaky fist. “Only it would be a kindness to explain to him the difference between bhema and bhepa. He crudely told me to go and smoke myself.”
“Hmmm.”
“Boss?” asked Zondi, quick to match moods.
