“Hau, hau!”
“And since then,” Marais went on, taking the Lieutenant’s chair, “it’s got worse. Look at this.”
Zondi examined the dental chart that had been sent spinning through the air for him to catch. Five extractions and two fillings; a wisdom tooth impacted.
“That’s a thing to show the teeth in the krantz case-the teeth in the skull, understand? The two black dots are where fillings had been put not so long before, and the crosses are teeth that had been pulled out. I got straight on to the old-to a Mrs. Roberts, and asked her what her son’s dentist’s name had been. Guess?”
“I could not do such a thing, Sergeant.”
“I’m not bloody surprised! He hadn’t got one! She said he’d always been poop-scared of dentists, and she had given up trying to get him to go to one. His teeth stayed perfect? Oh, dear me, no; some had been neglected so badly they’d had to be pulled out. Which ones? How many? Peterkins hadn’t told her-he’d just sneaked off and had it done. Fillings? She starts up all over again about how nervous and sensitive her little boysie was, and always left his poor teeth until they were completely buggered. You see what I mean?”
“Too difficult, this one.”
“So I start ringing round all the dentists she could think of”-Marais sighed, rising wearily-”but the receptionists all say the same thing. They say they don’t keep records of casual emergencies, if that’s what I’m talking about. Cheeky bitches.”
Zondi had been staring down at the chart and thinking, with some wry amusement, how like his own mouth it looked; not that fear kept him from the doctors who took turns at being the dentist down at the black clinic, but because they did only extractions, whatever shape the tooth was in. His gaze shifted to the black dots.
“A filling is plenty painful, Sergeant?” he inquired, with genuine curiosity.
“I don’t mind them-but my brother does. Hates the drill. It scares a lot of people.”
“Hau! Then maybe this skeleton boss was forced to have this filling done to him.”
“What?”
“He was forced,” Zondi repeated respectfully. “This treatment was not a matter of his own free will.”
Marais turned in the doorway, laughed, and said: “Forced? Trust a coon to think of that! Nobody forces you to do things with your teeth you don’t like, man! Have some bloody sense.”
Zondi laughed, too, then put his leg back on the table. He was sure he had something there, somewhere.
11
The best person to see about the unlamented railway foreman, everybody said, was good old Joep Terblanche. He’d hated the bastard. Hated him right down to his little blue socks, and then some. If, in fact, the good Lord hadn’t finally made Rossouw do the decent thing, then Joep would have seen him off personally. It had been as bad as that. And nobody could blame him.
Dear God, thought Kramer.
To find Joep, you had to try the bowls club, the jukskei pitch, the tennis club, and the fishing club’s stretch of trout water. Having run through all the amenities of the dorp of Olifantsvlei by then, there was just a chance he might be at home.
It started to rain heavily, so Kramer drove straight round.
The former station sergeant of Olifantsvlei, retired these three years on full pension, was living modestly in a tin-roofed bungalow overhung by tall pawpaw trees and their overripe fruit. The broad leaves shed by the Chinese fig tree lay undisturbed on the garden bench, and a pair of secateurs were rusting, forgotten, on a homemade sundial in the middle of the small, unkept lawn. It was also significant that the tracks down the clay driveway stopped at a point nearest to the front verandah, and that the garage, some ten yards farther on, had weed growing high against its dull green doors. Good old Joep, all this suggested, was a widower-and a fairly recent one at that, who hadn’t grown accustomed to his solitude.
Kramer made a dash for the verandah, and reached it with his hair plastered down. He gave the front door a rap. Something inside, either a ghost or a cat, set a dish clattering.
Then a battered Land-Rover chugged in at the gate and the whole feel of the place changed. Big and beaming, broad enough to wear a barrel without needing braces, Joep Terblanche came doubling across; two fish dangled from his left hand, and in his right he carried a six-pack.
“Caught in the act!” he said, tossing the fish aside onto a verandah table. “Lieutenant Kramer, here on business-am I right?”
The bush telegraph in Olifantsvlei was obviously not to be sniffed at. Kramer shook the outstretched hand, approved the firm grip, and told himself to come off guard. The man had a simple and tangible goodness as pronounced as freshly baked bread.
“I’m here to ask a few questions about one of your old cases,” he said.
“Ja, so I hear. Man, it’s a pity my sister has passed on, or she could really tell you a thing or two about Toons Rossouw! Like to come inside?”
They went through into a kitchen that had a strong under-smell of cockroach powder and very few signs of food. When Terblanche opened the cupboard to remove two glasses, only breakfast cereal packets were exposed, and it was reasonable to suppose that he now took his main meals with some family living nearby.
A sodden crash resounded loudly on the tin roof overhead, making Kramer glance up.
“Pawpaw.” Terblanche grinned. “The rain knocks them down.”
“Christ, I thought a bloody maternity stork had dropped its load.”
Terblanche frowned slightly, as though disapproving of that kind of humor-or perhaps it was that he just didn’t understand it. Then he smiled again, handing Kramer his beer and inviting him to be seated.
“Naturally, I’m curious to know why the interest in Toons Rossouw all of a sudden, Lieutenant.”
“You’re well rid of us now, man, so let’s make that ‘Tromp.’ ”
“I prefer ‘Joep’ myself.”
“Fine,” said Kramer, still stalling; his instincts were insisting that he play this one very cool. “Ever heard of Witklip?”
“Certainly. It’s that little place north of-y’know.”
“I’m involved in a murder inquiry there, and Rossouw’s name has cropped up in some of the past history. We don’t know exactly what it’s got to do with anything, so we hoped-by trying our luck this end-we might find out.”
“Witklip?” murmured Terblanche, twisting the tips of his graying moustache between thumb and finger. “I can’t see any connection either. Male or female involved?”
“Would you like to guess?”
“Huh! A woman, of course. But the railway doesn’t go anywhere near the place, and Toons stuck very much to this dorp, as far back as I can remember.”
“What was the story about him, Joep?”
“One you’ve heard before, that I’m sure of. He was a drunk, a fighter, a thief-when he got the chance-and a proper bad bastard all around. So who should agree to marry him? A little girlie he could crush the ribs of in one hand. Personally-and my sister Lettie also shared this opinion-the marriage was the minister’s fault.”
“Shotgun?”
“Hell, no!” said Terblanche, quite shocked. “Stefina came of a good family; poor like kaffirs, but good. He most probably thought she would reform him.”
This was indeed the old, old story. They clinked glasses and drank.
“Nobody can say that little girl didn’t try,” Terblanche went on. “Others in the community tried for them also. Oom Dawid let Toons rent a shack on his property, and Lettie went round collecting up old curtains and suchlike. The place wasn’t much, yet Stefina made it look as pretty as a picture from the catalogue. You could stop by there anytime, I’m telling you. The little black stove would be shining, there would be coffee in the pot, and always wild flowers in a jam bottle on the table given by the minister himself. I think you call it a card table, with folding legs; anyhow, it wasn’t fitting for his position.”
