“Ta. Now tell me how it was Andy Cutler really died.”
“Cardiac inhibition,” said Strydom, relaxing in his chair, “results from stimulation of the vagus nerve and, in drowning, this can arise in one of several ways.”
“You’re quoting, of course.”
“Naturally. All you need is a sudden rush of water into the nasopharanx or larynx, it stimulates the vagus, and phut! Imagine the vagus is a brake on your heart you push down just so much to keep the revs right. If you cut it, that’s like taking your foot off-the heart speeds up until it just burns out. On the other hand, if you stimulate it, that’s the same as slamming on anchors: it clamps down, the heart stops, and loss of consciousness is usually instantaneous. Death comes at the most a few minutes later. There are none of the usual signs of drowning.”
“Such as?”
“No foam at mouth or nose, great veins not engorged, no asphyxial hemorrhages, the skin’s pale.”
“What do you look for, then?”
“A good point-all these are negative findings. With Cutler I checked for barbiturates, injuries, other primary causes.”
“And there were none?”
“Only small grazes on the elbows and heels-consistent with the rough surface of the surrounding area including the bottom of the bath. Ah, another important thing is the element of surprise or unpreparedness. It can happen ‘duck-diving’-if someone splashes your face.”
“Or if someone creeps up behind you and gives a sudden shove?”
“I told you: there was no indication of violence, however slight.”
“It wouldn’t take much if he was near the edge.”
“Perhaps not-but would you expect to kill somebody that way?”
Kramer almost shuddered at the thought of how many childhood friends he had sent screeching indignantly into the deep end.
“A joke, Doctor?”
“By whom? The family were all in bed and the place was locked-the gates, everything. Don’t tell me it was Boetie playing the arse!”
The Security Branch man left with a secret smile. He moved like a shadow.
“There’s one other bloke we’ve been overlooking,” said Kramer, reminded of something.
“Who’s that?”
“The burglar himself.”
“If Andy had tangled with him the old fright-and-flight would have been working. You know, adrenalin-it would have boosted his heart so hard the vagus wouldn’t have stood a chance. He’d have done ten lengths easy.”
“What I had in mind was the bastard suddenly seeing this young guy out in the garden after all the lights have gone out. So he makes a run for it but his bunkhole-probably the same one Boetie used-is visible from the patio. What does he do? Creeps up behind Andy, chucks him in, and escapes in the confusion.”
Strydom raised his glass and studied Kramer through the refractive distortion of his liquor. This made the eye that was not screwed up appear hideously large from the other side.
“If that was what Boetie saw happening, Lieutenant,” he murmured, “why didn’t he come running to you blokes for his medal?”
There Strydom had him.
At last came a diversion; the scuffling and shouts in the passage had Johnny Pembrook on his feet and across the room in two strides. He whipped open the door.
And was irrationally enraged by what he saw there: a bandy-legged Indian boy in a T-shirt being dragged along between two members of the Housebreaking Squad.
“We’ve got him,” they both said together.
“Who?” asked Johnny.
“The Greenside burglar.”
“Him? That thing? You’re joking!”
“Caught him red-handed.”
“What with?”
“A spade.”
Johnny slammed the door on their laughter. Then he opened it again.
“Where in Greenside?”
“Orange Grove Road, trying to hide with his bike when we went by. Won’t tell us where you got it, will you, you bugger? We’ll find out, never you mind.”
“Big deal. Anyone seen Kramer?”
“Right behind us.”
So he was-but thankfully absorbed in thought.
“Evening, sir!”
“Who the hell? Ach, so you’re Pembrook. Got the statements?”
“Sir.”
“Good lad. Here’s money; I want you to go round to the pie cart and fetch two curry suppers, coffee, and ice cream-just the one. I’ll give you until I’ve finished reading through your bumf. Go.”
There was a message waiting, propped up against the telephone. It gave the Widow Fourie’s number and asked “Please ring.”
Kramer sat down and opened the docket. Resting his head on the first page of statements, he closed his eyes and dozed. Dreaming.
Lisbet stood before the wardrobe and considered her bare body from another angle. How strangely remote it seemed, caught cold as a cameo in the oval glass.
The last time she had done such a thing was the day she discovered that breasts had started to grow. What wonder there had been in the realization That’s me! Yet as she gazed at herself now, at a full-length profile far more varied in outline, she felt no sense of personal involvement at all. If that was her, so be it.
But there had to be some reason for the examination. She kept looking.
Lisbet twisted full-on.
Her face she knew of old. It was there every morning at the dressing table like a dollmaker’s first task of the day. All it needed was a steady hand and five touches of color. Then it disappeared for hours at a stretch, popping up now and then, just a section at a time, in the lid of her powder compact: details from a portrait of a pedagogue.
The neck did its job; lifting the head well clear of the trunk and providing secure mooring for a coil of pretty beads.
The shoulders could have been less square. They made her arms begin rather suddenly and not know quite where to finish up when she was flustered.
A deeply tanned skin was always attractive.
She stared at her breasts. They stared back, with an albino’s pink eyes through the white mask left by her bikini top. Neither blinked. The confrontation finally ended when, pressing them in at the sides to assess volume, she accidentally induced a squint.
Lisbet giggled. She and the image had communicated and now she felt self-conscious. It made her snatch up a petticoat.
Then her mood changed abruptly. She was entirely alone and yet had an audience. She would shock it a little.
By setting her legs well apart and having her hips experiment with a slow, clockwise motion. They balked, swung jerkily, then got rhythm with a grind that could clean tar barrels. The bump was born of a momentary loss of balance. Amused, she put the two together: three left, three right-bump! bump!
Her audience raised an eyebrow.
The petticoat came next. It had turned her from naked to nude and now suggested a few other sly little
