the drink? For a promise that was suddenly no longer a promise?
She had someone else. He knew it. He was a bloody detective; he could put two and two together.
It was her way of getting rid of him. And he wasn?t going to fall for that. He wasn?t going through this hell for fuck-all. No, damnit, not the way he felt now. One glass and the headache would be gone. Just one. Saliva flooded his mouth and he could already taste the alcohol. Two glasses for energy, for gas in the tank, for running the assegai task force. Three, and she could have as many toy boys as she liked.
He knew it would help. It would make everything better. Nobody need ever know. Just him and that sweet savor in his flat and then a decent night?s rest. To deal with this thing with Anna. And the case. And the loneliness. He looked at his watch. The bottle stores would still be open.
When he arrived at his door with the bottles of Klipdrift and Coke in a plastic bag, there was a parcel on the threshold wrapped in aluminum foil. He unlocked the door first and put the bottles down before picking up the package. There was a note stuck to it. He unpeeled the sticky tape.
Charmaine? What was the woman?s case? He unwrapped the foil. It was a Pyrex dish with a lid. He lifted the lid. The fragrance of curry and rice steamed up to his nostrils. Boy, it smelt good. His hunger overcame him. Light- headed, he grabbed a spoon and sat down at the counter. He dug in the spoon and filled his mouth. Mutton curry. The meat was tender under his teeth; the flavor seeped through his body. Charmaine, Charmaine, whoever you are, you can cook, that?s for sure. He took another spoonful, picked out a bay leaf with his finger, licked it off and put it aside. He took another mouthful. Delicious. Another. The curry was hot and fine beads of perspiration sprang out on his face. The spoon fell into a rhythm. Damn, he was hungry. He must make a plan about eating. He must take a sandwich to work.
He looked at the bottle of Klippies on the counter beside him. Soon. He would relax in his armchair with a full belly and take his drink as it should be: slowly, with savor.
He ate like a machine down to the last spoonful of curry, carefully scraped up a morsel of meat and a last bit of sauce and brought it to his mouth.
Damn. That was good. He pushed the dish away.
Now he would have to take it back to Charmaine at 1
6. He had a mental picture of a plump young woman. Why was that? Because her food was so good? Somewhat lonely? He got up to rinse the dish in the sink, then the lid and his spoon. He dried it off, found the foil, folded it neatly and placed it inside the dish. He fetched his keys, locked the door behind him and walked down the passage.
She knew he was a policeman. The caretaker must have told her. He would have to tell her he was a married man. And then he would have to explain why he was living here alone . . . He stopped in his tracks. Did he really need to go through all that shit? He could just leave the dish at her door.
No. He must thank her.
Perhaps she wouldn?t be in, he hoped. Or asleep or something. He knocked as softly as possible, thought he could hear the sound of a television inside. Then the door opened.
She was small and she was old. The wrong side of seventy, he judged.
?You must be the policeman,? she said, and she smiled with a snow-white set of false teeth. ?I?m Charmaine Watson-Smith. Please come in.? Her accent was very British and her eyes were large behind the thick lenses of her spectacles.
?I?m Benny Griessel,? he said and his intonation sounded too Afrikaans to him.
?Pleased to meet you, Benny,? she said and took the dish from him. ?Did you enjoy it??
?Very much.? The inside of the flat was identical to his, just full. Crammed with furniture, lots of portraits on the walls, full of bric-a-brac in display cabinets, on bookshelves and small coffee tables: porcelain figurines and dolls and framed photographs. Crocheted cloths and books. A giant television set with some or other soapie on the go.
?Please take a seat, Benny,? she said and turned the sound of the television completely off.
?I don?t want to interrupt your program. I?ve actually just come to say thank you very much. It was very nice of you.? He sat down on the edge of a chair. He didn?t want to stay long. His bottle awaited him. ?And the curry was fantastic.?
?Oh, it was a pleasure. You not having a wife . . .?
?I, uh, do. But we are?? he searched for the word??. . . separated.?
?I?m sorry to hear that. I sort of assumed, seeing your children yesterday . . .?
She didn?t miss much. ?Yes,? he said.
She sat down opposite him. She seemed to be settling in for a long discussion. He didn?t want . . .
?And what sort of policeman are you??
?I?m with the Serious and Violent Crimes Unit. Detective Inspector.?
?Oh, I?m delighted to hear that. Just the right man for the job.?
?Oh? What job is that??
She leaned forward and stage-whispered conspiratorially: ?There?s a thief in this building.?
?Oh??
?You see, I get the
every morning,? she said, still in that exaggerated whisper.
