“He won’t like this, he’s got a cold and he’s still staying in the Buttery. He was going to bed early.”
“Ring him. Now.”
The idea amused Kramer not a little. The Buttery was a private hotel over a restaurant right in the centre of town; it took commercial travellers and served business lunches, but its main income came from a twitter of decrepit widows who sat until all hours in the lobby watching life go by and waiting for the worms. They would get one hell of a kick out of Captain Johns shambling to the guests’ telephone box in his raincoat, hiding his face in a handful of tissues.
Grobbelaar turned from the phone: “It’s engaged.”
“Then hold on.”
Kramer spun the newspaper round. It was the Daily Post, once the Colonists’ weekly source of Government news and now an evening rag not worth putting in the cat’s sand-box. He checked the headlines carefully. Good, the Colonel had resisted temptation. Not a line about the case. He glanced over the inside pages, stopping at the sports section. Then he thought of the Stop Press on the back. He flipped the Post over and grinned.
Zondi moved to his side.
“Look at that, man!”
Zondi looked and saw a small item which read: MARKET RIOT Fifteen non-whites arrested in Trekkersburg market at noon following fracas. Policeman injured.
“You can try yourself,” growled Grobbelaar, dropping the receiver with a clatter. He was plainly annoyed at being excluded from the merriment.
“Give me the OB,” Kramer said.
Grobbelaar made no move towards the Occurrence Book, which lay on the table with the typewriter.
“What you want to know?”
“This business in the market-did you see who they got?”
“ Ach, no, a lot of kaffir s. Khumalo booked them.”
“Where’s he?”
“Khumalo!” Grobbelaar yelled.
The door to the verandah opened and Bantu Constable Khumalo put his head in.
“Yes, my Sergeant?”
“Come, CID wants to speak to you.”
“Suh, I have got five prisoners for the train out here.”
Kramer held up his hand.
“Just tell me, Khumalo, who did you book from the market?”
“All rubbish.”
“ Who? You bloody baboon!”
“Lily Francis, Bop Jafini, Trueman Sithole, Gershwin Mkize, Banana-”
“OB, make it quick this time.”
Grobbelaar could not help himself. The Occurrence Book slammed down in front of Kramer, open at the right place.
“By the bottom here,” Zondi said, “it says the Dodge was taken to the pound.”
Kramer read down to the entry, through the list of names. Then he looked up at Grobbelaar, who was trying to do the same upside down.
“Get me this man Mkize.”
“Khumalo is busy,” Grobbelaar replied. “Get him yourself.”
But he wisely threw the cell keys to Zondi.
Then, after a moment more of Grobbelaar’s company, Kramer decided to leave, too. He caught up with Zondi in the long corridor leading to the yard. It was unlit but its gloss-painted walls reflected the orange tungsten glow at the far end like a flare path. Their footfalls locked and echoed off the high ceiling. The headquarters had been built in the days of the old mounted police and the architect had apparently made whimsical allowance for a platoon to gallop through with lances elevated.
The young Bantu constable over on duty outside the cell block greeted them with the heartiness of a secret sleeper. He twisted the master light switch in the wall niche, took the keys and swung open the steel door. Then came the customary pause before stepping in out of the fresh air. Actually Kramer never found the odour within wholly unpleasant; the blend of vomit, urine and carbolic formed a nostalgic reminder of a certain nurse’s uniform often used as a pillow.
The three cells on the left had the extra bolts and padlocks which had become mandatory on the doors of political detainees since the Goldberg escape. No sound came from behind them.
Across the way were three others reserved for whites. The constable stopped at the second of these and grinned, poking his thumb at the inspection flap. Kramer pushed it aside and looked in.
A dishevelled man of around forty was sprawled on his coir mattress on the floor, moaning and cursing drunkenly. His belt had been confiscated and his trousers were down to his grazed knees.
“Black whore,” the prisoner pronounced with startling clarity.
The constable giggled, his eyes searching for approval. Presumably Grobbelaar had spent a hilarious half hour there earlier on.
“Love you, black whore, I love you,” sobbed the fool, rolling over to muffle his agony in the soiled ticking.
“Him contradict Immorality Act,” the constable needlessly explained. And he laughed elaborately the way Grobbelaar did, heaving his shoulders as if to dislodge an errant coathanger.
Kramer’s fists bunched. So Zondi performed a sly act of charity by grinding his heel into one polished toecap.
The prisoner was being sick. Kramer looked back in at him. He knew the man from somewhere. That was it: the railway ticket office. He was the clerk who never had to look things up. The one who always said he wished he were going with you and sounded good company. No more of that now for the rest of his life. No one would want to be seen with him ever again, certainly not in a public place like a buffet car. Fifty to one it had not been a prostitute either, more probably another of the big, fat ample ones with gentle faces all mothers were meant to have. If he was a bachelor it might not be so bad. He could have the money for top counsel and get off lightly. But even if the case was withdrawn after a remand in the morning, it would have smashed him for good. Stupid bastard.
“Gershwin Mkize,” Kramer said, letting the flap drop.
This surprised the constable. He dithered a moment before taking the cork off the tip of his spear and leading the way round the corner to the general non-white cell.
There were sounds of stirring within and the constable shouted that everyone should lie down and keep still. Then he undid the lock silently and stepped back. With a practised ease he used his spear to lift the latch as he jumped forward, kicking the door open.
There were over thirty prisoners in the cell and about half of them were sitting up blinking blearily in the light. One old lag, thinking it was morning, had already rolled up his grass mat. A slobbering snore was the only sound.
The constable stepped aside, pointing. His gesture was hardly necessary. Gershwin, the stooge and the driver, all in their yellow suits, stood out against the far wall like three traffic signs against a grey sky.
Kramer noticed several things immediately: that they were only feigning sleep, that Gershwin reclined on five mats while four youngsters nearby lay on the bare concrete, and the stooge and the driver, both bloodstained, had decided three extra mats befitted their station.
“Clear them,” Kramer ordered, nodding at the prisoners who lay between him and Gershwin.
Zondi motioned the constable to stand by the door with his spear and then dragged the intervening forms to one side. Small as he was, he had the strength of a stevedore-or perhaps it was just a knack.
Kramer stopped a foot from the pile of mats.
“Gershwin.”
The stooge fluttered an eye.
“Gershwin Mkize.”
There was a murmur of excitement among the other prisoners. The constable stamped for silence.
“It’s time to go, Gershwin.”
