“Okay, you get it then,” Kramer said, disenchanted with tills as a source of incriminating fingerprints.
But thought he had better see that Da Gama didn’t paw everything, so he went over to the balcony railing. The thing extended farther than he had realized and, without actually leaning over it, all he could see was the counter and a bit of unoccupied floor. He was grateful for these limitations, as the sound of the old woman being dragged away was quite enough.
He concentrated instead on the crown of Da Gama’s curious blond mop, and on where the man was putting his hands, but it seemed all proper care was taken.
“Well, how does it look?” he asked, when the record of the morning’s business arrived.
“Not a good day, Chief. Twenty-one rand-plus float. Come inside.”
They went into the small office, which was stacked with old invoices and other stuff that should have been thrown away years before. Their weight made the thin floor seem even more likely to give suddenly.
Da Gama started small avalanches on the cluttered desk in his efforts to find the cashbook, and hurt himself when he slapped a hand down to prevent a wad of slips on a wire spike from falling, too.
Kramer sat astride the larger of the two chairs and waited, looking around at the pictures of bleeding hearts and bloody lambs, and wondering what the water in the dish screwed near the door would taste like.
“Eighty-seven rand, maybe fifty cents,” said Da Gama, circling his grand total on the back of the telephone directory.
Kramer could not help a short laugh. That was peanuts. The crazy bastards had done it again.
Marais had been charmed by Shirley’s manner.
Usually an accent like that set his right foot on edge and not, he thought, without reason. Once, as a very new man on the beat, he had responded to a break-in report at a big posh house, only to be told the occupiers weren’t going to be disturbed twice in one night, and he’d jolly well better come back in the morning. Some people…
But Shirley had been quite the opposite on the phone: polite, friendly, and very happy to be of assistance with routine inquiries, although he could not imagine how. The only snag had been finding a suitable time to meet, as he already had a number of unbreakable engagements planned for the afternoon. Then they had hit upon the idea of making it a date for four-thirty, when Shirley would be popping home to do a quick change before cocktails at Justice Greenhill’s-yes, of the Supreme Court, the very same.
So, feeling far less daunted now by the thought of having to mix in Trekkersburg high society, Marais decided to pay surprise visits on the rest of his list; the post office had been very helpful in giving him addresses to match the business numbers he had collected.
If they were all like that, he could not go wrong.
Da Gama, now apparently maudlin with grief, was insisting on telling Kramer his whole life story-or something like it. Kramer was not really listening, but intent on what Strydom might be able to tell him when the examination was finished. What he did gather was that Uncle Jose, apart from being a lovable old eccentric who owned nine tearooms and still felt a need to work in the most humble, had lived in South Africa practically all his life. In contrast, pathetically painted, to Da Gama, who had wasted his years in Mozambique before being driven out. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Uncle Jose, who had no sons of his own, and whose daughters were all nuns, Da Gama would not have known where to turn. But the old man had taken him to his heart, had put clothes on his back, and had even found a little job for him. Truly the man was a saint.
“Uh-huh,” said Kramer, thinking the old bugger had at least made a start in the right direction.
“So what happens now, Chief?”
“You show one of my men how you want the place locked up, and then you’d better get along to the family.”
“It is not our custom,” mumbled Da Gama, turning his hat around in his hands by the brim. “Also the priest is coming. I must wait for him.”
“Then wait in your office, okay? Sorry, but this officer here has got pictures to take, and you’ll be in his way.”
“Okay,” said Da Gama, and went upstairs.
“How’s it?” asked Gardiner, stopping by while he changed lenses.
“How do you think, man?”
“I heard Wessels maybe had an ident on one of them.”
“Ja, but he says they were in heavy shade all the time. Still, I’ve sent him back to CID to look through the books.”
“And Zondi?”
“Zero.”
“So we go through the motions,” said Gardiner, and wandered off behind the counter to take a wide shot.
But Kramer refused to succumb to the shoulder-sagging apathy that had begun to pervade the place. Perhaps a proper look at the corpse might restore a sense of purpose.
He walked over briskly and stood beside Strydom, careful not to get in his light.
Jose Funchal had a hole where his thick eyebrows met that looked like a jab made with a red-hot poker. After that you noticed the deeply bruised eyelids, the cigarette burn on the broad upper lip, and the stubble on the bull- mastiff cheek. He wore a gold signet ring, bearing the same design as the one Da Gama had, and no other jewelry. His clothes were freshly laundered, but obviously bought at a bazaar. Which all fitted the legend.
“Losing faith in me?” asked Strydom.
“Always.”
“It’s the twenty-two again.”
“Uh-huh. Nice neat hole, hey? Perfect round shape.”
“The bullet must have struck at right angles almost precisely, level with the ground, which may give you some idea of the assailant’s height. The shot must have been fired sighting on the eye.”
“Same again then, Doc? Around five-eight?”
“Ja, that should narrow things down by a few million,” said Strydom, closing his notebook and pointing with his pen to the area around the wound.
“No tattoos from powder, no smoke marks. Range the usual three feet to thirty.”
“Say four, with the counter taking up two of them.”
“Say what you like, Tromp, but this isn’t how we’re going to catch them.”
Strydom stood up and made a face to convey his apologies for that remark.
“True, but it just shows what cold-blooded bastards they are. No warning, no struggle-just bam. And another thing I don’t get: they’re damn crack with their guns. Where did they practice?”
“Now you’re just trying to add to your problems.”
“No, I mean it.”
They moved over to a table and sat down, waiting for Kloppers to arrive. Strydom began to thumb through his notebook.
“What you really mean is they fire one shot and they’re away.”
“They have to, for the speed,” said Kramer.
“Ja, but in the matter of accuracy, take the butcher, for instance: that twenty-two was fired inches from him and went in at an angle. In Lucky’s case, they hit him as he was turning away, and the thirty-eight traveled just inside the skull up the left-hand side. Only one of the others came near to being a fluke like this one, and then it wasn’t nearly as good.”
“Uh-huh? And what’s a fluke? Getting something right and then letting it become a matter of opinion?”
Strydom laughed and threw down the paper napkin he had been fiddling with.
“Okay, you win on words,” he said. “But in practical terms, could you guarantee the same result with a twenty-two in your hand-even four feet away?”
Kramer shook his head.
“But tell me, Tromp, there is something behind this nonsense of yours. What is it?”
Kloppers had clumped in with his metal tray before the right reply had been found-or something close to it.
“Doc, if crime was a sport, what would these buggers be? Champions?”
