He escorted her to a vacant interrogation room, switched on the light, and left her to her thoughts. None of which could have been too pleasant.
Zondi had taken care to slop a good deal of coffee into Van Niekerk’s saucer. And so he was standing, pokerfaced but happy, listening to the recipient’s plaintive grumblings when Kramer spotted him.
“Food!”
“Yes, boss?”
“Go round to the Greek’s tea-room and fetch me one big curry with double rice.”
He handed Zondi his change.
“And while you’re there, get a pie for yourself and the old woman.”
“Thank you, boss. Coffee, too?”
“I’m not drinking the muck from the canteen at this time of the day. Make it two pots of tea as well, hey?”
Van Niekerk watched Zondi’s exit with some satisfaction and then went on packing his lunch things away in an airline bag.
“You’ve been there?” Kramer asked, pointing to the sticker which read: NEW YORK.
“No, you buy them like this,” Van Niekerk explained.
“Uhuh.”
“Do you want to hear now what I’ve picked up, sir?”
“Okay, go ahead.”
Van Niekerk rose from behind the desk and gestured at his vacated chair.
“You’ll be needing it for your lunch,” he said.
Kramer murmured his thanks, and sat down.
Assured now that he had Kramer’s full attention, Van Niekerk flipped open his notebook.
“I did these calls in alphabetical order, sir, as I took them from the directory. The last one of all was to Messrs Webber and Swart in Buchan Street. I spoke to Mr Webber himself and he told me he had prescribed a pair of contact lenses such as I described.”
“Make them himself, did he?”
“No, sir, he sent to Germany for them.”
“I see. Go on. Did the girl buy them from him?”
“The customer gave her name as Phillips, sir-but we’re pretty sure she’s Miss Le Roux all right. You did tell me to stay in the office and not go out.”
“Fine. I can drop in later with a photo. But when was all this?”
“She took delivery of them three weeks ago.”
Kramer whistled softly.
“So recently? Did she give any reason for wanting them?”
“She said she was a model, blue eyes were better for business purposes or something. Webber saw nothing wrong in this because she looked like a model. Anyway, he was pleased to be asked to do something so different for a change. It took him quite a bit of time to find the name of the German firm.”
“I’m sure Mr Webber was only too happy to be of assistance,” Kramer said drily. “These dollies. Tell you what, ring him and get him to come round here-that’ll save some bother.”
“Okay, sir.”
Van Niekerk was on the telephone to Mr Webber when Zondi returned with the food.
“Take a cup of tea and a pie down to Room 18 and then come back here,” Kramer instructed him. “There’s something I want you to hear.”
And two minutes later he gave his subordinates a resume of the Francis interview.
The chubby little fellow in the doorway appeared so awed by his surroundings that he could not bring himself to knock. This gave Kramer time to mop up the last of the curry before finally pushing his plate aside.
“Come in,” he said.
“I’m Mr Webber,” the visitor announced, not moving an inch. For a man of about fifty he was being very childish, but the place had this effect on some of the better class of person.
“Just the man! I’m Lieutenant Kramer and this is my assistant, Sergeant Van Niekerk.”
“How do you do?”
“Take a chair, Mr Webber.”
The optician scuttled across, sat and glanced all about him.
“Not at all what I expected,” he volunteered. “So bare and so ordinary; like a waiting-room-not that you’ve had to wait long for me, mind! Ha ha.”
“The torture chamber’s next door,” Kramer said.
“Pardon?”
“Haven’t you ever been in a police station before, Mr Webber?”
“No, not CID-not in this country.”
Van Niekerk looked interested.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Reading, it’s a place in England.”
“Very nice, very nice-and you like it here? Are you going to take out your papers?”
“I’m a citizen already,” Mr Webber replied smugly.
And the momentary tension in the room was eclipsed.
“You’ve no idea what they say about this country at home,” Mr Webber hastened to explain. “The stories I’ve read in the Sunday papers.”
“Well, now you know, Mr Webber,” Kramer soothed. “And some day, when we’ve got time, I’ll tell you what I’d like to do with the people who write such rubbish without understanding our problems.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Lieutenant.”
Kramer looked away. God knows what trouble the Government was having with its immigration programme if this was what was being allowed in. No guts at all.
“Here’s the photograph, sir,” Van Niekerk said, holding out one of the head-and-shoulders. Kramer took it and wandered round to Mr Webber’s side.
“Is this the same girl?” he asked.
“Yes, it is-that’s Miss Phillips all right. I’d know her anywhere.”
“Certain?”
“Yes.”
But Mr Webber still took the photograph from Kramer’s hands for a closer inspection.
“How did she pay for the lenses?”
“Cash. I must say she looks rather odd in this.”
“She’s dead.”
“Good gracious.”
Now he seemed entirely reluctant to give up the photograph. Kramer turned to Van Niekerk.
“Have you got the other ones handy? I think Mr Webber would like to see one or two.”
Van Niekerk frowned. This was most irregular. Nevertheless he handed them over.
Mr Webber got to his feet for his treat and became the first man Kramer had ever seen go green.
“But-but she’s been ripped right up the middle!” he gasped. “Who could have done a terrible thing like that?”
“That’s what we intend to find out,” Kramer said.
Mr Webber made a very swift exit.
“Ah, well,” Kramer said, pouring another cup, “that’s the way the cookie crumbles. I’d like to bet that only a bloody immigrant would have lapped up her story about modelling.”
“It sounds reasonable enough to me, sir.”
“Maybe.”
“How was she to know he was a redneck? Look at this list-she could have picked any one of them. They’re not all from overseas.”
“It’s just that I think this Tessa was no ordinary girl. She knew what she was doing. Picked her men.”
