afforded an idea of what a Sunday joint went through. The steering wheel felt like a boiler pipe. The seat was warm enough to set his bowels fidgeting. None of this improved his mood; there were times when even a man’s body was unwanted company.
Kramer took off hurriedly and the artificial breeze caused by the Chev’s motion helped a little. His destination was the Boomkop Lower School, only half a mile off, but he knew a long detour he could take. He had to think.
Starting with the Widow Fourie…
The radio squawked. So much for the sodding privacy of a public servant.
“Yes?”
“Control here. We’ve got Colonel Muller on phone link-up for you.”
“Ta. Hello, Colonel?”
“No fingerprints on the bike, other than Boetie’s own, and nothing in Juvenile Records, Lieutenant. Bit of a long shot, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. But you know how these ministers are sometimes; they get a bit carried away. Any luck with the check on the local station?”
“No, not tried it yet. I think you’d better drop that one before word gets back to the family and we have some unnecessary problems on our hands.”
“Okay, sir-it doesn’t really add up anyway.”
“What doesn’t?”
“The idea Boetie could have been mixed up with a bad lot. They’d have knocked him off in an accident and no bother. This way, if there was any police history, we could trace them pretty easily.”
“What I was thinking. So now how do we go about finding a reason?”
“By finding out more about him. I’m still not satisfied with what I’ve got. I’m going round to the school now to see his friend Hennie Vermaak. News of last night isn’t common knowledge yet, so he’s probably there.”
“That’s the kid he was with before it happened?”
“Uhuh. I’ll get my questions in before he knows why.”
“Tread carefully, Lieutenant.”
“As always, sir.”
“Hmmm.” The Colonel rang off.
Kramer found he had driven directly to the school after all. It was coming up on his right and a lorry, assuming from his position he was about to turn, was overtaking him on the inside. So he had little choice but to enter the gates over the carpet of old bus tickets.
Mindful of how headmasters felt about these things, he did his swearing in the car before going round to the office. The secretary there, a proper old bag in a black dress, was taking her spinsterhood out on the typewriter. She totally ignored him until, out of the corner of a downcast eye, she noticed the intruder wore long trousers.
“Yes?” she said. “Have you come about the smell?”
“Not exactly,” Kramer replied. “I’m from the CID. I want to see the principal.”
“What about?”
“Can I see him?”
“Mr. Marais is down at the Education Department this morning. The deputy’s got chicken pox.”
“I see. Well, I want to have a word with one of the pupils-Hennie Vermaak. It won’t take long.”
“Break is just over.”
“Fine. It’d be better alone.”
“Do the parents…?”
Kramer seemed to nod.
“Has Hennie…?”
He shrugged.
Her imagination took over and the result seemed to delight her in a predictably unpleasant sort of way. She slit open a smile.
“What was the name again?”
“Vermaak, Hennie. He’s twelve.”
She waddled over to the door.
“I’ll get Miss Louw; she teaches the twelves. Please take a seat.”
Kramer sat down in her chair and read the letter she had been working on. From it he learned that all the school’s attempts to get an English teacher had now failed. Then he looked through the desk drawers.
“Damn.”
There was no correspondence whatsoever concerning Boetie Swanepoel, not even in the file marked STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL.
Footfalls had him at the window admiring the featureless playing field. A dozen or so Bantu prisoners knelt weeding it under the supervision of a warder armed with spear and club. They wore the regulation white shorts and red-and-white-striped jerseys and looked like a soccer team who had lost the ball.
Christ, his mind was all over the place.
On the other hand, every part of Miss Louw was precisely where nature had intended. It made her one of those young women who always pause in a doorway because a doorway has a frame and a frame sets off a pretty picture. One rendered prettier still in this instance by strong sunlight shining through the light summer frock from behind to define the long legs in gentle silhouette. The glare from the quadrangle also gilded a rim around the bounce of blond curls, and cast a shadow that crossed the floor to smooth itself up against Kramer. If only it had reached high enough to shade his eyes, he might have been able to see the face properly.
“Hello,” she said.
“Miss Louw? I’m Lieutenant Kramer of-”
“The secretary told me and we’ve discussed it,” she cut in. “I don’t really see why not. So I’ve put Hennie in the remedial classroom because it isn’t being used today. Third door down as you go out of here. Sorry, I must get back to my class.”
“But-”
Kramer was caught off guard. For a moment he considered chasing after her, and then vetoed the motion on the grounds that she had already made him feel old and enfeebled. Miss Louw was young in a way that hurt.
So he got back to business and tracked down Hennie Vermaak.
The boy was short for his age and not very bright by appearances. His hair had been cut so close he was almost bald, he had a snub nose, and under the small brown eyes, teeth like maize pips. He also bit his nails.
“Catching up on your reading, Hennie?”
The boy dropped the placard with dog printed on it.
“Who are you?” he asked gruffly.
“Just a policeman.”
Hennie edged away but Kramer moved with him, placing an arm around his shoulders.
“What’s the matter, then? Don’t you like cops?”
“Yes.”
“Hey?”
“Yes, I do. They keep the communists away.”
“That’s what pa told you.”
Hennie inclined his head.
“Good boy. So it’s all right if I ask you a few questions?”
“What about?”
“Your mate Boetie Swanepoel.”
The small shoulder blades squeezed together.
“He isn’t at school today.”
“I know. He isn’t at home either.”
Hennie looked up warily.
“Where is he, then?”
“They say you’re his best friend. But do you know if he has any other friends he might go and visit? Special friends, like you.”
