maker’s name is Rochelle.”
“And so?”
“Rochelle is one of those swanky firms that make a big fuss about who sells their products. Their agent in Durban says the only outlet in Trekkersburg is the chemists’ on the corner of De Wet Street and the Parade. That’s where I’m going right now.”
“And the cigarette?”
“Read that part for yourself, you lazy bugger.”
From his high window, the Colonel stared down at the street and saw nothing. He had problems. Big ones.
A reporter had just left after spending half an hour coming as close as he dared to being forthright. It appeared his editor was receiving an unusually large mail concerning the police. Anxious as always to act in the public good, the Gazette had so far published none of it on the grounds that space was currently very restricted. But the leader-page columnist was getting fed up at having to churn out so many extra paragraphs-and, anyway, it would soon be obliged to use at least one or two. If only there was something about either the sex killing or the fire tragedy that was new they could print. People were getting the idea there was political significance to be found in the absence of news. Rumors about terrorists were even doing the rounds. The reporter himself had been informed in a certain bar that the Swanepoel boy had been found with the insignia of a guerrilla movement carved on his back. And as for the Indian burned in the police van, the grandfather had been in to the news editor to say he had heard the child was alive and well; which, when taken with the story that the charred body was that of a Nigerian midget trained to incite school children, made one think.
It had made the Colonel laugh-as it was supposed to have done. Not very heartily, though, because the message was still there, and such fears had a rational basis.
He was also able to deal with the matter of the Govender boy by declaring it sub judice as a departmental inquiry was being held that very afternoon. But all he could say about the other case was that a senior officer had it well in hand and particularly requested the press’s cooperation in not interfering with the families involved.
In the end, all he could offer the reporter was an official denial that politics were involved-insisting, at the same time, none of the rumors were printed. Result: a muted howl of dismay.
The Colonel was not accustomed to being under pressure from a newspaper. It annoyed him considerably and yet he could not deny things were proceeding very slowly. How unlike Kramer this was. He hoped the man’s sex life with the teacher at Boomkop Lower School was not distracting him.
Speak of the devil, there he went now, moving like six feet of whirlwind-towards the Parade.
The Colonel decided he could afford to concentrate on his own work for another day, half of which was unavoidably going to be taken up by that idiot Constable Hendriks.
Zondi spoke to the Widow Fourie for ten minutes when she rang. Then he copied down a message and stuck it in the dial.
The report’s findings with regard to the cigarette end were understandably limited. The Texan bore traces of Rochelle cosmetic, had gone out before having to be stubbed, and was-according to a test of the tobacco’s moisture content-perhaps about a month out of its airtight packaging. The technician added in parentheses that the crinkling of the paper was the result of the handling received subsequent to being smoked. How obvious. A small amount of tobacco was also missing for the same reason.
Pity there were no such things as lip prints.
Then a really practical idea struck Zondi that occupied him for the next half hour, at the end of which he called in a Bantu detective constable to make an express delivery. He gave him a verbal message and said it came from the lieutenant-anyway, that was what he had to tell the doctors.
It was noon when Kramer came hobbling back into the office with a grin like a nymphomaniac’s at a love-in. He waved a receipted invoice at Zondi.
“Got it,” he said. “We had to go through every bloody carbon, though, because the Rochelle girl is on leave. A delivery made to the Jarvis home six weeks ago included an order for a stick of Tasty Tangerine.”
“And how many other people have been buying it, boss?”
“Christ, don’t give me that! What other people did Boetie know who were loaded enough to afford the stuff?”
Zondi laughed, moving out of Kramer’s chair and back onto his stool.
“You know who you are like, boss? There was this old priest by the mission who used to tell us that God was the great spirit behind everything. With you it is Jarvis.”
Kramer knocked his hat off as he passed.
“That’s called faith, you bloody pagan. You’ve got to have it if you want to get anywhere in this world.”
“The priest was eaten by a crocodile.”
“You don’t say.”
His lacerated foot hurt so much from all that fast walking he had to rest it for a while. When he had more time, he would get Strydom to put in a few stitches.
“Well, what can you tell me?” Kramer said over the top of his shoes propped on the desk.
“It was as you said, boss. Sergeant Frans took a message from the tennis boy; he did not go back into the glade where the body was.”
“Fine! Now all we have to do is sort out how the thing got there. Remember it had rained that afternoon for a short while. I think we can discount the actual murderer for a start: women don’t kill like that and-”
“It was fake, though.”
“Even so, the chances are nil. Also that branch where the sickle was left would make her about six feet tall to reach up. They would remember her at the chemists’ if she was so big, but they don’t.”
Zondi had begun linking paper clips into a pair of miniature leg irons, and generally behaving nervously as if he was waiting for something.
“ Ach, don’t fidget, man! What was I saying?”
“That the murderer had to be a man.”
“Ah, yes, and a careful one, too, because he took care not to leave anything behind. But what if he had an assistant?”
“Never, boss!”
“Stranger things have happened, I know that for a fact, Zondi. For example, they caught a young couple in England who had murdered about six kids altogether-and in much the same way. Got sadistic kicks from it. Just picked them up in the street and took them into the veld.”
“But did they ask them to their house?”
Kramer was about to snap back at Zondi when his jaw mutinied.
“Holy Jesus,” he said, “that’s exactly what happened with the last one-they got careless! Even had a friend there. A couple not much older than this bloke Glen and the eldest daughter. Man, it could have been a proper sex killing after all. Only…”
“Boss?”
“No, it can’t be! Why have we been pussyfooting all round this case? Because we’ve got to be sure we’re on the right trail, that’s why. The Jarvis bunch are a respected family, not rubbish like these English ones, and there would be a hell of a stink if Boetie leads us into making a wrong move. What do you think? You haven’t put forward anything so far.”
“There are those who would say it is not my job,” replied Zondi.
“Come on, you’ve got your hoof in something!”
Before Zondi had to reply, the Bantu detective constable clumped in and deposited Boetie’s shirt on the desk. He handed Kramer a note.
“What’s this? You had it dry-cleaned?”
The shirt was indeed very neatly folded inside its plastic bag.
Kramer read the note and dismissed the messenger. Then he walked over to Zondi and knocked his hat off again.
“You cheeky kaffir! Sitting there, listening to me suck all that out of my thumb, and all the time you knew there were specks of tobacco in the little bugger’s pocket!”
“Texan, boss?”
