James Mcclure - The Sunday Hangman

“I’m doing fine, only I’m in a bit of a hurry right now. Anything you can let me have will be much appreciated.” Kramer killed the line. “Luthuli!” he yelled.

The tiptoeing in the charge office became the businesslike clumping of size-twelve boots, there was a knock, and the door opened. It wasn’t Luthuli but a Bantu constable still in his teens, flat-featured and bright-looking.

“Mamabola, sir,” he said, introducing himself.

“Lieutenant Kramer, Trekkersburg CID. I’ve taken over while the sergeant is away. Understood?”

“I understand, sir,” Mamabola said in Afrikaans.

“Can you drive?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take the Land-Rover to Brandspruit and wait there for a Telex I’m expecting. I want that Telex before it arrives.”

Mamabola smiled, saluted, and withdrew in his size eights.

“Cheeky sod,” Kramer said, enjoying the joke. “And now for his lordship.”

But it was a little too early to catch Colonel Muller in his office. Kramer compromised by leaving a message to say where he was, and that he’d be calling back later in the day, with any luck. Then he heard a horse come clattering into the yard behind him.

It must have done that by itself, because its rider arrived at the office door almost simultaneously, tugging a trouser crease out of his backside, and otherwise trying to assume the dignity of an acting station commander. The face was much as remembered, although the frown seemed more a matter of shortsightedness than personality, and the rest-with the exception of the strong, thick wrists-was nondescript.

“What do they call you?”

“Willie, sir. I mean-”

“Sit. Explain the absence of Sergeant Jonkers.”

“Um-well, it was his weekend off. He’s gone down to Durban-ja-because his mother or some relative was sick.”

“Do you know his address there?”

“He didn’t leave one, sir.”

Willie plainly didn’t believe the story he was giving any more than Kramer did, but there was nothing to be gained from dwelling on the matter. “Make me a list, commander, of the names of every farmer around Witklip, starting in the north.”

On the bank of a river about one kilometer south of Witklip, Zondi was giving Mr. Rat a nice long rest in the shade of some willow trees while he waited for the local girls to begin flirting with him. They were still at the giggle-and-peep stage, very conscious of the well-dressed stranger above them, yet wholly intent-or so they’d have the world believe-on the clothes they were washing in the silt-soupy water.

He had made the steep walk down from the village because he was after gossip, and this was where most gossiping was done. Then again, while his city bearing had an intimidating effect on male rustics, such as those to be found hanging about the general store, it invariably excited curiosity among their wives and daughters, making them very ready to strike up a conversation. And of course, as it always took time to win the confidence of strangers, Zondi liked to think that not a moment need be entirely wasted.

With unflagging pleasure, he watched the washing being slapped down on the flat rocks and rubbed so hard that breasts bounced and bracelets jingled. He laughed softly when someone knocked their packet of soap powder into the current and had to wade hastily after it; he clucked his tongue when a buxom maiden lost her footing, soaked herself through, and rose in a shift dress that had become skin tight and revealing.

“Have you no shame?” the others teased her.

“She would surely need no shame,” observed a coarse-faced woman, grinning up at him, “if all she desired was to be mounted by a lame dog-what do you say, stranger?”

“Hau, mother, that is true! But would not a dog prefer to mate with a bitch?”

Shrieks of delight followed as Zondi beckoned to the woman and patted the grass in front of him. Then the banter began, with the womenfolk speculating loudly and pessimistically on his worth as a lover, and, in return, being treated to the best repartee he could offer. The coarse-faced one enjoyed all this hugely, although she still managed to get through more work than any of the rest.

“Now, if I were seeking a wife,” Zondi hinted craftily, nodding at the clean washing she had been tossing up near him, “then I would wish to know your name, my mother.”

“My name you could have for nothing! But would you have enough cattle for ilobola? My husband gave my father twenty head of perfect stock for me!”

“And how long was it before he stole them back?”

Little by little, Zondi won her confidence, and when that was done, the rest of them felt free to join them under the willow trees. How they giggled.

“You are a wicked woman,” he whispered, giving Mama Coarse-face a nudge. “Can you not see how your lustful talk has put ideas into the minds of the young ones?”

“Is a fire to be blamed for what cooks in a pot?” she answered, nudging him back in matronly glee.

There was a pause. Toes wriggled, and river clay was poked from between them with stalks of grass; the rat also wriggled, annoyed by the elbow that had bumped against the leg. Zondi slipped a hand into his inside jacket pocket and felt for the picture of the white tramp.

“And now to a serious matter,” he said, pleased with the progress he was making.

Kramer was standing at the window of the station commander’s office, gripping the bars very tightly and trying to get an equally strong grip on his temper. After all, he’d not asked for much, simply a list of fanners, which any half-wit should have been able to provide in a twinkling, but Boshoff was still stuck on the seventh name thirty minutes later.

“This is too bloody much, man!” Kramer snapped, spinning round and thumping his fist down on the desk. “How long have you been here at Witklip? Since police college?”

“Twenty-six months and three weeks, sir,” replied the abject acting station commander.

“And you can’t do better than this? Christ, Witklip’s a place for getting away with murder, all right!”

Then Kramer realized how precise that count had been and, despite himself, he had to smile; obviously, Willie Boshoff wished that the duration of his stay had been a great deal shorter.

Encouraged by the smile, the youth said, “I just never get many jobs outside the reserve, Lieutenant. If a farmer has a complaint, then he sees Sarge at Spa-kling, or if he phones, then I’ve got to fetch Sarge to speak to him. They don’t really know me, you see-and someone has to look after the Bantu.”

“They don’t have Bantu on their farms? What else have they got to complain about?”

“Ach, what I mean is that I’ve never got on a personal level, if you understand, sir. Naturally, I raid the compounds from time to time, but nobody wants me to go banging on their front doors to tell them about it! They’re all friends of Sarge’s and so-”

“Hold it, Willie.”

“Well, he likes to do favors, sir.”

“Shut up.”

Kramer was searching for an alternative, and in no mood to have his shoulder wept upon.

“Favors? What about Ferreira? Don’t they all use his bar and come to the barbecue!”

“That’s brilliant, sir! He must know them at least as well as Sarge does. Shall I go and ask him to come?”

“No, Willie,” Kramer said patiently. “Unless you want to be in Witklip all your life, you will go and tell him to come.”

He began to root in the filing cabinet, just on the off chance of finding something interesting. What he did find was an accident report on Mr. and Mrs. P. W. J. Ferreira and their daughter-in-law, Mrs. P. E. Ferreira, who had all been fatally injured in a level-crossing collision near Brandspruit some six years back. The report gave their home address as Rest Haven, formerly Happy Valley Hotel, Witklip , and said that their son, Pieter Eugene Ferreira, had been at the wheel. No charge was going to be preferred, Jonkers had added in his own handwriting.