James Mcclure - The Sunday Hangman

“Why was the door locked?” Kramer asked, half guessing her answer.

“He thinks I’ve been naughty.”

“I thought it might be that. And were you?”

She looked down to do up two of her buttons, tightening the fabric so that the swell of her breasts showed; they were as big as shop buns, each with a currant-sized bump in the center. The action seemed unthinking. She giggled.

“It’s the second weekend running I can’t go out. I’m meant to learn this stuff.” She nudged a book on her pillow.

“What about the barbecue tonight?”

“I’m not allowed,” she said with indifference, making a face. “Still, I think they’re boring. You should see the barbecues we have at school sometimes!”

Kramer sat on the edge of the bed, down where her feet were. He was conscious of his own warmth, of her warmth, of the room’s warmth. They mingled together somehow, touching.

“Better games?”

“Hey? Oh, ja, much better. Was that you who came after lunch time?”

“No; just arrived.”

“I thought it was Pa, which just proves it. I wanted to ask him if I could have the radio-but he never takes any notice on purpose.”

She drew back her right foot, scratched at a mosquito bite, and then replaced it so that her toes were gently touching him. She didn’t seem to notice. But he did.

“Your pa has quite a temper, has he?”

“Not really,” she said, appraising him as though wondering what his personality was like. “Pa’s very strict, that’s all. He does nice things, too, like he reads me books, turning it straight into Afrikaans from English sometimes. He’s clever, my pa. Also, he’s promised me a horse if I’m good now.”

Kramer smiled. “What are your chances of getting it?”

Her toes wriggled.

The stimulus wrought a minor change in his circulation. The child had a self-proclaiming sexuality that would probably frighten her half to death if she were aware of it; it came over in the lazy movements of her limbs, in her need for casual contact, in the scent of her. His own awareness of this gave their touching an edge of irresistible tension; he knew he should go now, but couldn’t see the harm in it. Her face was still a mystery to be solved, too, he told himself.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On who.” She laughed.

Her toes were kneading his thighs like cat paws, taking their rhythm from the rise and fall of her breasts. She was watching him slyly. He couldn’t believe it.

“I know a secret about you,” she said with a smile.

“Which is?” Kramer waited, his blood racing.

“From your eyebrows I can tell your hair’s the same color all over. I’m the same if you look.”

She had drawn her feet up again, shiny knees parted.

“I must go now,” he said, keeping his eyes on her face. “That must be some boarding school you go to.”

“Go on, stay-please. You can see how bored I am.” Her foot came back to lie across his thigh, the toes reaching. Then she gave a little kick.

“Push off, big man!” She giggled. “You’re looking at me like my pa does! I want my horse more than a ride with you, you know. Although I wouldn’t have minded till you did that.”

“Jesus!”

“Can’t take a joke? Now tell me what Pa does, that I’m the lost generation.”

“You’re a whore,” he whispered. “Where did you learn this?”

“That would be telling, hey? Now push off like I said, or I’ll call the girl. I don’t like you anymore.”

“Thank God for that,” said Kramer with icy control. Shaken, he rose and gave her a curt nod, forgetting there were things about himself over which his control was limited. She looked at his loins, saw what her power had conjured, and burst into schoolgirlish laughter. He didn’t move until her face had a sulk on it. Then he walked round the bed and to the door, where he could not help pausing for a last look back. She had rolled over again and was lying very straight, with her hands hidden beneath her.

“Hey, Lieutenant!” Willie called out, beckoning him to the lean-to garage beside the barn. “It just could be something.”

Blinking against the aching brightness of the afternoon, and with his head full of pus, Kramer strode across to see what the excitement was about. He saw a beaten-up refrigerator truck which had been converted to carry game in; one very like it called occasionally at the hotel across the way from the office. In fact, for all it mattered, this could be the same one.

The truck was filthy.

“What could be something?” he managed to say.

“He could be using his one like this-in fact, the induna says there are at least four in the neighborhood. The garage in Brandspruit made them up and-”

“Like this ?” Kramer exploded, slamming one of the heavy doors shut. “Jesus bloody Christ almighty! What was the point in getting you to read all Doc’s bumf? A clean death, hey?”

“Whitewashed walls and new rope and scrubbed boards-look at that sodding floor! That’s not just metal on top, but eight inches of bloody insulation underneath. Height? Nine foot? Eight? From the wheels to the top? Eleven?”

“Ach, no!” said Willie, gaining color. “I’m not such a fool. Be fair, sir!”

The kid was right to stand up for himself. Kramer took a deep, silent breath and then turned calmly to the awed black onlookers. “Mamabola and Nyembezi into the van. Tell the induna we’ll be moving on to search for the prisoner down the valley.” Then he said, “Carry on, Willie; I’m listening. My problem was that it struck me like a very messy murder, which isn’t what we’re dealing in at present.”

Willie’s grin was instantly forgiving. “You should have been here when I opened it, Lieutenant, hey? No; my idea was that here could be an ideal vehicle for transporting the bodies in to where he dumps them. In the notes it says that the blood wouldn’t have all drained to the feet if the corpses hadn’t-er-”

“Quote ‘been maintained in a vertical or semivertical position’?”

“Ja, that’s right. There’s another thing, too: nobody notices these trucks moving at night or early in the morning, because of the time the meat markets open.”

“And the loading hours around the hotels and restaurants. De Bruin’s got one of these, you say?”

“A blue one on a Bedford chassis. I didn’t look inside it when we were-”

“Willie,” said Kramer, “I like it.”

“So shall we go back up there?”

“I think the English would say that’s putting the cart before the horse, my friend. And I can guarantee it won’t be in the same condition as this one. God, Swanepoel is a pig.”

“It’s really the induna’s fault. He should have had it cleaned on Tuesday. I told Mamabola to kick his arse for him. But why aren’t we going just to take a look? We didn’t find sod all else there.”

Kramer suddenly knew what he’d felt about the de Bruin homestead. “You’ve put your finger right on it! They had nothing to hide-right? Why not?”

“Because it isn’t them?”

“Because it isn’t there , man! It’s somewhere else. And I think I know how we can find it.”

“Sir?”

“Time to put some pressure on, Willie. Let the bastard know what we’ve come to Witklip for. Either he’ll crack and we’ll see it, or he’ll keep cool and try to sneak away to destroy it-providing he isn’t madder than we realize. As soon as he makes his move, we nail him.”

“What sort of pressure?” Willie asked, as they started back to the Land-Rover. “A Wanted notice?” But he was only joking, as his wink indicated.

“Something subtle. Something to really put on the mental thumbscrews, even if he’s blocked out to the usual pressures. Something he can’t resist reacting to.”