“The truth of the matter is, Trompie, that you wanted this Tollie Erasmus for yourself. And now you can’t get him, you want someone else to take the stick.”
Kramer shrugged.
“Furthermore, it’s no use you and me jumping to wild conclusions, and saying Tollie was too psycho to ever think of such an idea, because we aren’t qualified to make that kind of judgment-I would go so far as to say that nobody is. Let us keep to the facts, and both our feet on the ground. I don’t want you going to Doringboom and forcing a confession out of Dr. Myburgh, for instance; or some other bloody thing, equally typical of you in a frustrated state. The facts, the hard facts, and how they concern us as of now-understood?”
“There’s the money, sir.”
“Just what I had in-”
“I meant: would you kill yourself if you had twenty thousand rand still to spend?”
“God in heaven!” protested the Colonel. “Since when was that known to you as a fact?”
“Ach, sir; we’d have at least heard as much, if Tollie had been giving it a tonk. It’s obvious that he was waiting for the pressure to come off first. Probably shacked up in a flat somewhere with a little goose to do the cooking and run errands for him.”
“Ja? The same little goose who maybe ran away with his golden egg one night? After doctoring up the curry? That has happened before-and it can leave a man very depressed.”
Much to the Colonel’s evident satisfaction, the telephone rang at that moment, creating the right sort of pause.
Or so he thought.
“Hey, when are you going up to Doringboom?” the Colonel asked a few moments later, cupping a hand over the mouthpiece. “Your old pal’s on the line, wondering if there’s a lift for him available. I thought it wouldn’t be long before he wanted to get his nose in there! You know how Doc is about these matters.”
Kramer frowned; he also knew that Strydom had an official car of his own, which made the request seem rather odd, and that he didn’t like the idea of being tied down to bringing the silly sod back again.
“Tell him I’m sorry, Colonel, but I’m not even waiting for lunch. We’re leaving straight away at one o’clock.”
“Hello, Chris? He’s charging out of my office right now.”
The Colonel listened for a second or two longer, chuckled, and then replaced the receiver with a flourish, thereby regaining Kramer’s undying loyalty and respect.
“All fixed up, Tromp,” he said blithely, flicking the rest of his tobacco juice at the wood paneling behind him. “You’ll find Doc waiting on the corner of Parade and Ladysmith Street on your way round the block. And the next time you try to cut short a briefing with me by saying you’re leaving town at one o’clock sharp, make sure that it isn’t already after bloody ten past.”
A total adjustment, it seemed, had been asking too much.
3
The veld all around them was as parched as an old tennis ball and much the same color. Apart from some thorn scrub, there were no trees except those gathered together for a definite purpose: to shade a tin-roofed homestead, or to provide a trading store with its windbreak. The sort of God’s own country where every farmer began his day with a very deep sigh.
Wearied simply by looking at it, Kramer turned his gaze back on the road ahead. Puddles of mirage water shimmered across the asphalt, putting a wobble into the broken white line, and, a long way off, an oncoming bus glinted like a pinhead in the bright sun, before looming huge. Then the buffet and shake of their passing was over, and a distant Volkswagen entered the lists. Soon it, too, was left cross-eyed behind them, and the one-horse town of Doringboom drew that much closer. Mickey Zondi was driving as he always drove: not as though the Chevrolet were a taut extension of mind and body, but like a man who has given his bolting horse its head, being content to merely rake it in the ribs now and then, Kramer personally found the technique stimulating, yet he could tell-from the awed silence on the back seat-that their passenger thought differently.
“Do you get up this way often, Doc?”
“Er-not what you would call a lot.”
“Then it must be nice for you, hey? Especially when you can just sit back and enjoy the scenery.”
“Very nice,” said Strydom, whose narrowed eyes never left the road. “It was one of the main reasons I asked the favor.”
Not that he’d put forward any other reasons so far, the devious old bastard. He had mumbled something about a radiator and water leaks and then let it trail. However, once you had a few minutes to reflect, it was simple enough to guess his strategy: by actually traveling with the investigating officer, he felt able to gate-crash Myburgh’s morgue party, and no ethical questions asked. That young bloke had better watch himself, or he’d find a paper being poached from right under his nose.
A signpost flashed by: DORINGBOOM 22 KM.
“Look, sir,” murmured Zondi. “This is maybe the place.”
The road had just twitched into a straight and level section that arrowed across a bleak plain, brushing a dark smudge at about the halfway mark, before disappearing into the drifting haze of distant grass fires. And the vulture-eyed bugger was right: in no time at all, the smudge had resolved itself into three concrete picnic tables, a large refuse bin, and half a dozen flat-topped thorn trees-plus a police Land-Rover, parked with its doors left open. Two Khaki-trousered Bantu constables were crouched with a tape measure, while a white constable, in his blue tunic and shorts, made notes on a clipboard. As a roadside attraction, it was too good to be missed.
They came to a sliding halt, waited for their dust to clear, and climbed out. The white constable approached, treating them to a full measure of rustic caution. He was a scrawny lad, knobbly at knee and elbow, and heavily reinforced by the revolver sagging at his side.
“Lieutenant Kramer?”
“That’s right-and this is Dr. Strydom, senior DS.”
“Van Heerden, sir,” said the youngster, shaking hands with the civilian. “Hell, you were quick! When Sarge warned me to get down here and finish my plan, instead of finding those sheep, I didn’t see what the panic was about.”
He had an engaging innocence that wouldn’t get him very far in the force.
“Let’s have a look, then.”
“Please, sir, it’s only in rough. If you will wait a minute, I’ll-”
“Ta,” said Kramer, jerking the clipboard from him. “I see what you mean: lots of nice sums and pretty letters, but no bloody plan begun-let alone finished. You are an idler, aren’t you?”
“Very idle, sir. Only there’s this sheep business to worry me, and the tape’s got no meters, so I’m having to convert. My boys brought the wrong one.”
“So relax,” Kramer grunted, handing the board back.
Then he went over to where the dirt met the tar, and looked to the right and to the left. You could see a considerable distance in either direction, and at night, any approaching vehicle would give at least sixty seconds’ warning before its headlights became effective.
“How about the whatsit itself?” suggested Strydom, who was showing a decided stubbornness regarding precedent.
“Doc, you think of everything.”
“Out of the officer’s way!” barked Van Heerden, bustling through a wide gap between his black assistants. “This is the tree in question, right here. And to be strictly fair, sir, if you give my plan another look, you’ll see that I have called it A.”
The tree called
