The Caterpillar Cop

14

Battle stations. The klaxon sounded precisely at 10:30 a.m. the following day outside the CID buildings, bringing Pembrook scrambling to his feet. Kramer saw him take a quick glance out of the window and then emerge seconds later from the main entrance. The nearside front door was already hanging open. He revved the Chev’s engine again.

The door slammed and they were away.

“Where’re we going, sir?”

“Country club.”

“Did you read the statement from Sally?”

“Before you got in this morning, drunkard.”

“Find anything useful, sir?” Pembrook persisted, still somewhat aggrieved that his devotion to duty had not won any acclaim.

“Bugger all, apart from her saying that she overheard Boetie talking back to her father and what she called a sarcastic line about his having to find himself another girl. What you picked up from the bloke in the sports car was a lot more to the point.”

“I’m glad, sir. I worked the lift thinking I might be able to pump him a bit.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Sir?”

“That sort of gossip is the easiest thing to get out of the buggers up at Greenside. We’d have got it anyway if we’d asked. I did just that this morning after I’d been to the Jarvises’. ”

“But what happened at the Jarvises’, sir?”

“A lot.”

“Is it in the bag?”

“Almost.”

“Then you know who the mystery girl was?”

Kramer raised his head slightly to catch Zondi’s change of expression in his rear-view mirror.

“It wasn’t a girl,” he said. “Now just keep quiet until we’re clear of this traffic.”

Over on the other side of the valley, three African gravediggers crouched behind a hedge and passed a cigarette between them; not one rolled from newspaper such as laborers made do with, but a genuine Peter Stuyvesant that came to them ready-lit. It was one of the perks, this being able to salvage the shower of good tobacco that fell when mourners arrived without an opportunity to finish their smokes.

They made sounds of deep content as each took his puff, and argued in low whispers over whether it was less work to make a hole for a child’s coffin. The one who had been to school said it was obviously easier as there was not as much to shift. But the foreman pointed out that the more confined space made getting through the layer of shale more arduous. Their colleague sought a compromise by calling their attention to the fact there was less to put back in again. It was accepted and they looked forward to finishing the job by twelve and taking an early lunch. The hot sun had made them feel excessively lethargic. They saved the other cigarettes for the afternoon and dozed against the spade handles held upright between their thighs.

As their instructions were to keep out of sight at all times, they had not taken any interest in the funeral proceedings after their snatch-and-grab raid on the area where the cars parked. So the salute fired by a full platoon of cadets from the high schools, which was both deafening and alarmingly ragged, came as something totally unexpected: all three of them immediately fled down the hill, brandishing their spades like spears and yelling in fright-not knowing quite why.

Mrs. Swanepoel cheered.

This utterly astonished everyone but Dominee Pretorius. He, better than any, perhaps, knew what a terrible state her mind was in; and besides, the woman had a wonderful, deep-rooted sense of her historical heritage.

It moved him more than anything that day.

Pembrook could restrain himself no longer. He rounded on Kramer and begged to be put out of his misery.

“Then let this be a lesson to you,” Kramer replied. “Always make a point of seeing everyone who might conceivably be involved in a case, however unlikely that possibility. Ah, that’s better.”

They had reached the dual highway.

“And another thing, Pembrook: beware of the mistake Boetie made when he tried to be a detective. Our job requires us not to make assumptions based on class, color, or religious belief. His set ideas cost him his life.”

“But, sir!”

“I want that in your head before we start to confuse you.”

Zondi gave a snort.

“Hey, you back there-stop that listening!”

“Straightaway, boss.”

The Chev moved over into the slow lane behind a wattle truck and dropped down to thirty.

“Well, it was like this, Pembrook man. I left that note in the office for you and then went to Greenside. As I was coming up the drive at No. 10, I see Caroline out there in the garden cutting some flowers. Hell, I think, that’s a quick recovery! So I stop and go over. Guess what? It’s her ma.”

“No!”

“At a distance, they’ve both got that wiry sort of body that never changes much. Hair style’s the same, same color, and eyebrows all buggered about to nothing.”

“Age?”

“Around thirty-seven. She must have reached desperation pretty fast wherever it was she met Jarvis. But that isn’t the point, is it? She jumps nearly out of her pants when I say who I am, and that I’m investigating the Cutler case. Then she says, ‘But it was an accident!’ Why are you so sure, lady? I ask. She can’t tell me but keeps on that I’m wasting my time. Hell! She should have known what big jumps my mind was taking.”

“I’ll bet! Did you-?”

“Stick around. When I was last at their place I told the Captain that we’d caught a loony housebreaker who admitted pushing Andy in. So when I ask her why she’s so anxious it was accidental, she says she doesn’t want the bloke to hang for nothing. That’s all right, I tell her, we know it wasn’t him. And then I say, all calm-like, ‘What happened, Mrs. Jarvis, did you and Andy roll over the edge?’ ”

“Christ!”

Zondi made a muffled sound.

“Next thing she’s laughing crazy but quietly and asking me how I know. That was a good moment to get the hell out, but I waited. Then she asked me what happens next and I tell her, Nothing. Like she says, it was an accident. No sense in dragging up evidence that would not alter the court’s verdict. I explain that was why I was calling by. Her relief, it was fantastic. The Captain had said he would kill her if it ever got in the papers.”

“But wait a minute, sir; if the two deaths are connected, then what the hell did she think she was doing?” Pembrook said.

“She felt guilty about the mad kaffir she thought we’d string up.”

“Since when has guilt been stronger than self-preservation? She could have left well alone. All this implicates her in the other.”

“Only if she connected them also. Think about it.”

Pembrook looked round at Zondi. All he saw was the crown of a straw hat tipped well forward.

“Be fair, sir,” he entreated. “You must have asked more than one question.”

“ Ach, yes, I’d forgotten. Just as I got back into the car, telling her not to worry, I said, ‘Do you ever wear trendy lipstick when you want to feel younger?’ And she answered, ‘What woman doesn’t?’ Enough for you now?”

The wattle truck, laden with bark and a loll of plantation workers, one of whom was playing the concertina, slowed down even further as the long climb up the escarpment began. Delighted to discover he had a following, the musician turned on a special performance. Kramer found it amusing for three bars and then put a mile between them.

“Slow down a bit, sir. I want to know what’s on or I won’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“Let me just tell you then and no hard feelings. A lot of this is still shots in the dark, but we’ll be able to verify it before long-that much I promise you.

“We’ll start with this bloke Andy-Randy Andy, according to the girls, but not getting any from them. We add to him our dear Sylvia, who sounds, from your mate’s description, in much the same boat. What have we got? A bit of whatnot without any too great a stretch of the imagination. Follow?”

“Surely the Captain-”

“Go back to Jackson the cook. He told us they slept in different rooms. Caroline felt safe to sneak out again after ten so you have a fair idea of when the old man hit the sack. This left a lot of night for lovin’ in-yes? And one night they’re down at the swimming bath, probably had an hour of it already and trying out a few variations. I think a psychologist friend of mine might even say that Sylvia would go for ‘reversal of roles’ after being married to that bullying bugger for eighteen years. Anyway, there she was, sitting on Andy, right near the edge-”

“Why?”

Kramer shrugged.

“Maybe for a bit of extra excitement. Kicks? Or they could have moved across without noticing. Anyway, they climax and fall in. Andy doesn’t see what’s coming. The water slams into his vagus, he’s dead. Now, don’t start on adrenalin because, if you know anything about the subject we’re discussing, you’ll know how fast it sends you to sleep afterwards. Besides, it’s been proved scientifically to my satisfaction.”

“In America, I bet.”

“Uhuh. Can you imagine what it must have been like for her? The boy was dead in an instant. That’s why she didn’t even try to get him out: the fact was so obvious that all she could think of was to run for help. She told me the Captain had said he would kill her if it got out. So she must have gone right to him, or had hysterics, or something, but the fact remains he was aware of the situation. He covered up, not for her sake, you can be sure.”

“I know: the family name. Remember he got drunk and banned soon after?”

“You’re learning fast. Now tell me, where does Boetie come into this?”

A short pause followed as Pembrook prepared himself for the test. He was sweating all of a sudden.

“Accepting what you have said as basically correct, sir, then we can start when Boetie was crouching behind the tennis court watching something going on between a male and a female on the patio. From the fact he made a mistake in his identification, we deduce he could only distinguish rough forms, length of hair, and so on. Suddenly they…”

“Heave?”

“Yes, heave, and roll in. Well, he sees the female surface and run away.”

“She could have dived a few times but he’d think she was pressing her attack.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go on.”

“Boetie expects to-”

“Just a minute, sorry to interrupt, but I’ve just realized how I hit on the ‘rolling in’ idea. Jarvis quoted Strydom as saying so and it struck because the DS didn’t-never mind.”

“Naturally Boetie waits a little for her maybe to come back. By the time he gets to the patio, he is sure the male is dead. He looks around for clothing to identify the female with-all he can find is a cigarette.”

“Gone out in one of the oyster shells.”

“Hey? He takes it and zooms home, wondering if he should tell the police. Like someone said, he decides they will sort it out. But come Monday and the inquest verdict, he is sure a mistake has been made because-more than that-people are lying and that means something sinister is going on.”

“What proof did he have?” Kramer asked.

“He knew one thing for absolute certain, and that was Andy had someone with him when he fell in.”

“Be careful now and think as though you are Boetie-remember everything you know about him.”

Pembrook, made irritable by so many interruptions, fought to keep a civil tongue in his head.

“Lying, to Boetie, implies evil. He appraises the situation again. His confidence in the police drives him to have his doubts about what he’s seen happening-perhaps there is another explanation. It crosses his mind that it might have been a shameful act and hence the silence, but he’s never heard of it done like that. Being a good detective, he checks this out with the Dominee.”

“First class!”

“The dates made that one easy, sir,” Pembrook said, very heartened. “The Dominee flips his lid and ‘puts him right’ and we all know what that means. Boetie comes away convinced he had seen a death struggle. Convinced he’s a pretty smart cookie after all. Still, there is a little doubt remaining. If he tells the police and hasn’t more than his story to back him up, then there could be trouble. He was a great one for the trespass laws himself.”

“I favor the idea he did it to win the Midnight Leopards a big pat on the back.”

“Or himself.”

“Certainly. Thank God we didn’t pull the magazine in on this-it didn’t have any responsibility, the more you think about it. And then?”

“Boetie gives Hester the shove, chums up with Sally, and tries to identify the female. The lipstick on the cigarette makes Caroline Suspect Number One. You know, sir, that ciggie must have been still warm or something for him to link it so strongly.”

“With Boetie, you can bet your boots on it. Caution all down the line.”

“That’s really shown in what happened next, sir, I would think. We know there was nothing between Caroline and Andy, so he hits trouble straightaway in trying to connect them. But he keeps at it for a whole month before trying out a bit of the old head-on attack to see what she does.”

Kramer gestured for him to steer while he lit up a Lucky. The turn-off to the country club was just beyond the next rise.

“No doubt, Pembrook, our friend Sally must have dropped a few hints about Andy’s morals.”

“I grant that could keep him hoping, sir, but-hell, that’s as far as I can get. Sorry, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m buggered if I can see why Boetie didn’t notice the same thing as you right at the start-the similarities between Mrs. and Miss.”

“He could have done.”

“Hey? And not thought about it?”

“Unthinkable. What if it was unthinkable?”

“Sir?”

Kramer yanked the wheel over and the Chev skidded to a halt on the gravel shoulder.

“What the hell did I tell you to do, boy? I said keep your thoughts about Boetie characteristic! Were you brought up Dutch Reformed?”

Tact made Zondi spring out to relieve himself behind a portable lavatory dumped in the grass by a road gang.

“Many thanks, boss,” he said as he climbed back in again, timing it all to a nicety.

Kramer drove on before addressing Pembrook in kinder tones: “It seems I must spell it all out. You have the Dominee’s word that Boetie was a good little churchgoer who actually listened to his sermons. You have evidence that his parents are good, virtuous folk, who keep their house free from evil influences. And you have the Trekkersburg Gazette from the day before yesterday.”

“Sir?”

“You must learn to read, man. Then maybe you would have seen what the synod is asking the government to do. There’s a whole list but two are enough: it wants to have all Sunday papers banned-you know bloody well what I mean about their back pages, all those film star bust-ups-and it wants living in sin made a criminal offense. All right, so that was this week, but I bet you the Dominee’s been preaching that stuff for years. Ever since Boetie was big enough to come out of the babe-in-arms room at the back. All in dark hints, mind you, that only the grownups properly understand. So what did he know of what went on in the world? Only one thing: you mustn’t do anything to a girl until you’re both married and the Lord gives his blessing.”

“A good world to grow up in, I suppose.”

“Boetie was very lucky. But in freak circumstances like this, it cost him his life.”

The Chev slithered off the main road, clattered over the cattle grid, and started up the last stretch through the wattles, making a brace of guinea fowl catapult into the undergrowth. An approaching Mercedes and then a Peugeot pulled over to allow them to pass.

“ Ach, no,” said Pembrook, “even then I find it hard to believe. He must have heard somewhere that married women fool around.”

“But is that how he saw Mrs. Jarvis? That’s the crux of it. Whose statue stands outside the Voortrekker Monument? A mother’s. Heroic mothers fill the history books in primary schools. And when you are still a kid, what woman is the one you can least imagine doing wrong?”

“Your mother?”

“And what was Mrs. Jarvis?”

“Sally’s mother,” Pembrook responded, very peeved with himself.

“Unthinkable.” Kramer chuckled and stopped the car.

He had parked again above the third and last hole of the pitch-and-putt course. Straight across the other side were the trees in which Boetie had been found; to their left, and cutting off their view of the rest of the golf course, was a windbreak of firs.

“Maybe that was staring me in the face, sir,” Pembrook said, “but do you know more?”

“We can guess. Here is Boetie; a month gone by, no corpse left to prove anything different from what Strydom found, and Caroline giving him a hard time. So, like we said, he challenges her and ends up on the carpet in Jarvis’s study. Gets the balls chewed right off him and is told to get the hell out and not come back. Note, Jarvis did not know at this stage what Boetie had said to his daughter.

“Right; by now, I reckon, Boetie has had enough. Kids can fight bloody dirty when you push them and Jarvis’s patronizing attitude towards Afrikaners no doubt got a showing. Also Boetie’s personal investigation has been brought to an end: he had to hand the matter over to us or forget it. What would be more natural than for him to hurl the lot in Jarvis’s face? Tell him what he saw his daughter doing. Tell him about the Midnight Leopards. Threaten him with what was to come when he got down to the station.”

Pembrook, plainly pained to disagree once more, drew in the dust on the dashboard.

“If he’d done that, sir, Jarvis would have more than chewed the balls off him.”

“Right.”

This time Zondi’s excuse for an exit was seeing a butterfly settle on a distant arum lily. He darted off after it.

“You must ride two horses at once, Pembrook,” Kramer said, surprisingly mildly. “Jarvis knew that despite the fact Boetie had the wrong female, the substance of what he said was correct. The real police would not necessarily make such a mess of it.”

“Hell, sir, but then why let him go?”

“Because silencing there and then could have led to a lot of suspicion-and have been very difficult. This man was once a police chief, your friend said. However ropey the force he was in, he would know how a detective’s mind works: two fatal accidents so close together, well…”

“Accidents happen-”

“In the best-regulated families,” Kramer said, continuing in English. “He also knew that a sex-killing investigation is generally conducted differently…”

“I don’t see why Boetie didn’t tell us, though. How could he have kept him quiet in between?”

“You gave me the idea with what Sally overheard. The one when Jarvis said he’d help Boetie find another girl. Don’t you see? Probably dragged out an old picture of himself in his police gear and offered to lend a hand. He could even claim to having been investigating quietly on his own. It couldn’t have been difficult to convince Boetie he was barking up the wrong tree. And that’s also how he could get him to meet secretly in the woods-by playing up to a twelve-year-old’s sense of melodrama, especially this one’s.”

Kramer got out and beckoned Zondi over.

“I know what you’re going to say next, Pembrook. You’re going to say that he was mad to do it up here at the country club-he could have gone to any number of places in the bush.”

They began walking towards the club entrance. The secretary, Pipson, who had been chattering to a member, sidled indoors. It was a wonder he did not take the welcome mat in with him.

“I think I’ve got the answer to that,” Pembrook said suddenly. “He was banned from driving. He couldn’t go anywhere unless his wog took him.”

“Or his wife. But she wasn’t to know anything about this, and he couldn’t take the chance of being found driving-or having an accident himself-on the way back from the deed. This was the simplest, cleverest solution. There is only one thing left to decide.”

“Sir?”

“If it was possible.”

The inquiry was adjourned at the Colonel’s request and he hurried to the radio room to get through a call to Kramer. Having already failed to get him on the phone in the CID building, his only hope was the car.

“Sorry, Colonel, but there is no response,” the chief radio operator told him.

“Then I want a call put out every five minutes to him, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Make it two-minute intervals.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell him I have information to do with the conversation I had with him at eight this morning.”

The operator wrote it all down.

“You wait till I get hold of those buggers in Housebreaking,” the Colonel said, apropos of nothing.

Or so the operator thought.

Pembrook preoccupied the club secretary with perplexing questions-his instructions were simply to ask any nonsense that came into his head-while Zondi tracked down the African caddy who had carried the Captain’s clubs on the day Boetie died.

It was not a difficult job, as the Captain was notorious for favoring an old-fashioned, heavy leather bag. Kramer watched them talking from the terrace in front of the clubhouse. The view of Trekkersburg was truly magnificent and the air so clear he could pick out the mosaic of white headstones on the farthest hill. He wondered how the funeral had gone off and if someone should not have been there to note any odd behavior. He still had nothing but theories.

The caddy came across, dragging his heels behind Zondi.

“He says Boss Jarvis was here middle of the afternoon and played all the way round the course,” Zondi said.

“Did he play well?”

It was translated, mainly for effect.

“Not very, boss. This kid says he can do much better. He just play by himself for practice. There are few people on Monday.”

“When did he finish?”

“Half-five,” the caddy replied in English.

“Half-past five,” Zondi informed Kramer.

“Then did he go into the clubhouse or home?”

There was a long conversation in lisped Zulu, a subdialect Kramer had never mastered.

“No, he was very angry that he had not played well. He went on to play on this little course here.”

“Pish-n-putt,” prompted the caddy.

“And did you carry his bags?” Kramer asked.

“No, suh. Boss meningi angry. No tip.”

“Uhuh!”

The caddy whispered something and giggled.

“He says Boss Jarvis never wants them to take his bag up to the club because then people can see he gives no tip. He always does it himself.”

“No time for jokes, Zondi man! Did he see him playing on the pitch-and-putt?”

More giggling.

“It seems, boss, that he had a bit of an argument with the chief man of this place before he started.”

“The secretary?”

It was a relief to be spared the comedy and given a neat nod.

“No tip,” said Kramer and stalked off.

Pembrook rose from the cane chair on the veranda and held out a long glass of lager.

“Yours, sir.”

“With the club’s compliments,” added the secretary.

“Mr. Pipson? Yes, we should have met the other night. Just a few questions, please.”

The drawn little man sighed silently.

“I believe, sir, that last Monday afternoon you played a round of pitch-and-putt?”

“Oh, God,” Pipson replied. “I’m beginning to think-”

“Did you?” Kramer demanded, slamming his fist down on the tabletop. His foot was agony.

“I-er-always do of an evening, before the rush in the bar starts. Just a quick three holes with my nine iron-the committee don’t mind. Yes, I played on Monday.”

“Was there anyone else on the course?”

“That’s difficult to say. I mean…”

“Have an argument with anyone?”

“Definitely not. Our members are-Do you mean the few words I exchanged at the first hole?”

“Who was that with?”

“Captain Jarvis.”

“Who’s he then?”

“One of these retired military wallahs. A bit of a rough diamond, but a good enough chap if you want a reliable partner in a foursome. See him here often, has shares, you see. Wonderful couple of girls he’s got. Pretty wife.”

“Why did you have words? Just as a matter of interest.”

“Damn silly really. I was teeing up when he arrived and insisted I let him play through. Something about having to pick his family up. But I had my bar to get to. It was over in a second.”

“I suppose you let him through?”

“One has to, hasn’t one?”

“See anyone else on the course?”

“Just the Captain. I had to wait for him to hole first, of course. Same thing again on the second. Rather irritating. The obvious answer was to play two-up but it wasn’t my job to suggest it.”

“So you followed him right to the end?” Kramer asked casually, adding with a sympathetic laugh, “How was his game on a liver like that? Pretty rough?”

“First two weren’t bad. As I said, he-”

“What about the third?”

“You’ve never played here, I suppose, Mr. Kramer?”

“That hasn’t been my pleasure.”

“Ah, well, the third is up the terrace through the windbreak. You can’t see a damn thing from the second. I arrived just as he was walking off the last green. I called out to offer him a drink-you know how important good relations are-but he just waved and went up the steps to the car park.”

“As you’re facing the windbreak, is the wattle plantation off to the left there?”

“Butts on to it actually.”

“And the last you saw of Captain Jarvis from the second was him going up through the firs?”

“Heavens no. He was lugging this ridiculous golf bag of his, so he went the way the ladies do-steady the Buffs! What are you getting at?”

Kramer pressed him back into his seat with just the tip of his right forefinger against the checkered waistcoat. Pembrook went round behind him.

“I’m not getting at you, Mr. Pipson,” Kramer soothed. “That’s all you have to worry about. Now tell me about the way the ladies go.”

Pembrook cracked his knuckles dramatically.

“Don’t do that, it’s a nasty habit.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“It’s not so steep, you see, Mr. Kramer. You go round the edge of the terrace, so to speak. Just a few yards into the wattles and out again on the top level. Quite a natural thing to do with a weight to carry.”

“And did you see Captain Jarvis on his way through the wattles?”

“I couldn’t have. There are a lot of saplings there; they tend to swallow you up.”

“But you saw him again on the last green, after he’d gone round this way. How much later was that?”

“Let me see… Three, four minutes, I suppose. The second’s the shortest hole and I managed it in two. I give myself about quarter of an hour to get round.”

“If it’s the shortest hole, weren’t you surprised to see Captain Jarvis had already finished? His hole should have taken longer and left you waiting like before.”

“That didn’t strike me. My handicap’s very poor and he could have had a lucky drive right up to the flag. Hole-in-ones are common enough anyway.”

“Okay, back to the time element again. Captain Jarvis was out of sight for a maximum of four minutes-right?”

“Perhaps five.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, the time I took to get up through the firs. Although I suppose it would take him even longer round the other way. Say four.”

“Got a nine iron handy, Mr. Pipson?”

“Y-yes.”

“Fine, I’d like you to do the second hole in two for me. Have as many tries as you like.”

Central Control were receiving complaints from every car and van within a ten-mile radius.

“I’m sorry, Major,” the chief operator apologized. “These are Colonel Muller’s orders. The call must go out every two minutes. I’ll see the ambulance is sent immediately.”

He swiveled around in his chair and called over a subordinate.

“Dawie, you have a turn now, I’m bloody sick of all the trouble this is causing. Come on, man, I’m going for a pee.”

“What is the Colonel’s message, sir?”

“Don’t try that one! If you’re stuck, just call in any one of them; they know it off by heart by now. Get Major Dorrell if you prefer it loud and clear. Won’t be long.”

What a sod the chief operator was. He was gone until long after Major Dorrell had come all the way in to make a personal matter of it.

Kramer’s foot gave him a perfect right to make Pembrook do all the running under the hot noon sun. Zondi had been disqualified in the first heat for having too short a stride. But the man really suffering was the secretary, who, he confessed, always played damnably badly on an empty stomach.

In the end, however, it was established that the secretary took five minutes to complete the second hole in two and reach the trees for the third. And Pembrook proved that it took a total of five to reach the glade, wait there two minutes, and then walk to the final green. He did it in four on one occasion but was sent back for moving too fast, without making allowance for a load. Which was all very surprising, as the distances themselves seemed quite considerable until Kramer realized that five minutes from a cigarette machine on a wet night was a very long way.

“Well, sir, where does that leave us? Any good?”

“Manners, please, Pembrook. Thanks very much for your help, Mr. Pipson.”

“I can go?”

“You’re a free man in a free country.”

The secretary made sure Kramer knew he was amused. They shook hands in a most friendly way.

“Ah, one thing, though, Mr. Pipson. Please keep our little game to yourself. I don’t think Captain Jarvis would care to be told about it.”

“I wasn’t going to phone him, if that’s what you mean!”

“Hey? That didn’t enter my head. I just meant when he next came up. Just cause needless trouble, perhaps.”

The secretary beamed with relief.

“I see,” he said. “I’m so pleased. The club’s suffered enough as it is. You must come up for a proper game sometime. Cheers.”

Pembrook grinned as he watched him retreat with a spring in his step.

“That was neat, sir,” he said.

“But I meant what I said,” Kramer replied grimly. “Jarvis is out of the running.”

“Oh, bloody hell, no! Why’s that?”

Zondi moved in closer.

“Did you think,” Kramer asked, “that Jarvis took advantage of the secretary for a nice little alibi? I did at first. But the problem is that he just didn’t have enough time to get it all done and be certain of being in sight afterwards. Not unless he knew, down to almost a split second, how long it would take to have Boetie dead, mutilated and in the right place for the ritualistic touch. The bloke who did this wanted the job to look right-he couldn’t take the risk of a rush job. Strangle, slice with the sickle, and prop in the tree? He’d never have tried it unless he did a test run.”

“A practice, sir?”

“No, a test, I said. And if he had, there’d be two bodies on our plate, not one.”