The Steam Pig

16

C ONFESSION DID A lot for the soul but little for the prosecution. It could not proceed without evidence and there was none. Everything had been arranged too thoughtfully for that. All Kramer could offer the court so far was an earful of hearsay. There had to be a link.

“I want Jackson.”

Trenshaw smiled. In the short lull he had been thinking.

“I suppose you must do.”

“But you don’t?”

Trenshaw looked across at his companions. Ferguson had been apparently taken ill suddenly and the other two were adjusting his clothing in an attempt to lessen the lividity of his face. They were totally preoccupied.

“Speaking for myself this time, no.”

“Why’s that? You don’t want to be the only ones who get it.”

“Ah. Get what?”

So this was the obverse side to Trenshaw, this was the electronics manufacturer who had set the company geishas such a formidable task. All he ever needed was a chance to clear his head.

“You know.”

“Don’t you find, officer, that speaking to someone about your problems is often such a help? There they are, all bottled up inside you, and nothing seems to go right. So you spread them out-”

“What’s all this bull about, Trenshaw?”

“Perspective. That, together with the little law I know, tells me you’re on rather shaky ground. You see, all you’ve heard from us is something we could quite easily forget by tomorrow. And then again, we did take all those precautions-that wonderful little tape of the music lesson, for example.”

“Tape? There are other tapes, and the films.”

“But Jackson has them. While I could once see them reaching you in an anonymous parcel, I don’t think he would consider such a move prudent at this stage.”

“Who would tell him? How would he know about this?”

“Jackson is not alone in this world, officer. He made that quite clear.”

“Where is he?”

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“You’re not going to help me?”

“Sorry. It’s a bit much to ask.”

“Then you’re making one hell of a mistake, man, let me tell you that.”

Trenshaw raised a black caterpillar eyebrow. He was surprised by the way Kramer spoke, lightly and almost with regret.

“I can’t see it.”

“Well, the fact is we’ve got you and your mates already,” Kramer said softly. “Certain tapes and film material came into our possession this afternoon. Your face-your voice with Greensleeves playing in the background. What do you think gave me the idea of coming here in the first place?”

“Jesus Christ! But Jackson-”

“Is not alone in this world, as you said yourself only a moment ago.”

Down he went. Practically fracturing his spine in an uncontrolled descent on to the carved teak chair. The groan was a trifle theatrical.

And the best part of it all was that Kramer was more than certain that the audio and visual recordings had never existed. They simply had not been necessary-any more than a real orgy in Durban had been necessary. It just was not Jackson’s way of doing things. He always cut his risks to a minimum to achieve the desired result. Having the equipment in the Barnato Street cottage could have caused quite an embarrassment if there had been a blaze and gallant firemen had extracted it together with the reluctant couple-neighbours lived for the night they could dial Emergency. Film had to be processed and with movies this was not a job you could do in the bathroom. Besides which, such evidence could cut both ways and the girl would have taken rather a lot of persuasion. Jackson had been aware all along he would never need to use it. His secret was knowing his man-all down the line from the avaricious Shoe Shoe to the bumbling Dr Matthews. However, Jackson had deviated from his policy of caution in one respect: he had killed the girl. Now this had been most unnecessary-she could only jeopardise her own freedom by a rash act in the name of justice. Something must have gone seriously wrong somewhere. He meant to find out what.

“Look, Fergy’s in a desperate way-we must get a doctor!”

Da Silva was tugging at Kramer’s elbow. He shook him off.

“Come on, Trenshaw. We’ve got one of them, we’ve got you lot-where’s Jackson?”

“He-”

“Yes?”

“He was going to meet me.”

“Where?”

“Here, tonight. After the party.”

“Jesus-when?”

Trenshaw tried to focus on his watch. His whole arm was shaking.

“About ten minutes from now.”

“Description?”

“What?”

“Tall? Fat? Clothes?”

“A bow tie. He always wore a bow tie. With spots on.”

Da Silva was making for the Assembly Room doors. Kramer vaulted the table and shoved him back against the wall.

“You bloody brute! That man’s dying!”

Kramer parried the blow and hit him. Official cautions took time, so he hit him again.

And then he said one word: “Phone.”

It was Ford who looked up from gazing at his friend Ferguson’s protruding tongue to point to the town clerk’s podium beside the mayoral seat.

Kramer found the instrument hidden underneath the writing surface on a shelf.

“Switchboard? Call an ambulance, there’s a critical heart case in the-just a moment.”

He covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

“I want you all out of this top floor before Jackson gets here. Where can you go?”

“You can’t move Fergy in this condition!” protested Da Silva, who was much tougher than he felt to the knuckles. “Besides, he’s too heavy.”

“I’ve seen you in action on film, Fat Boy-you’ve got the strength. Now, where to?”

Trenshaw stood up shakily.

“Say the gents at the rear of the stage. There’s a service lift.”

“Hello, switch? The heart case is in the men’s lavatories behind the stage. That’s right. Police. So-what’s that? Urgent? Are you sure? Please, and put it through on this number.”

Da Silva and Ford already had Ferguson supported between them.

“Better take his feet,” Ford said to Trenshaw.

“I’ll open the door first.”

“Not that one, Trenshaw. The side door into the passage. I’ll see to the ladies. Just you stay with him until the ambo comes.”

“What then?”

“Hurry, man!”

His call came through.

The general run of conversations conducted on the twenty-eight lines connecting the Trekkersburg City Hall with the telephone exchange were not worth putting down Women’s Own to listen to. They were polysyllabic marathons about main drainage which could have been curtailed considerably by the appropriate use of four-letter words.

This one, however, warranted plugging in an extra set of headphones for Mavis, the caretaker’s wife, who always saw the late shift had a nice hot cup of tea.

“Kramer here.”

“Lieutenant?”

“Make it snappy, Van Niekerk.”

“Hell, how did you know it was me straight off, sir? Having a nice party?”

“I said snappy!”

“Just a minute, sir-the Colonel wants to say something. Oh, it’s just he hopes you’re not giving the ladies too much-”

“Shut up and get on with it-they said it was urgent.”

“Did they, sir? It wasn’t as urgent as all that. I hope I haven’t taken you away from something important?”

“Sergeant, I’ll give you ten seconds to give me the message or I’ll come round and kick your bloody balls off. Now speak!”

“Yes, sir. Well, it’s that coolie making trouble, again.”

“What coolie?”

“Zondi’s mate-Moosa.”

“So?”

“He rang up three times jabbering all kinds of rubbish about some shirts that were stolen and this bloke Lenny.”

“Where from?”

“The call, sir, or the shirts?”

“Two seconds-”

“I thought you’d like to know, sir. Anyway, I’ve sent Zondi down to investigate. I got sick of it.”

There was a long pause.

“Sergeant, did I hear right? You get a tip-off regards Lenny and you send Zondi down? By himself?”

“ Ach, it was real churra talk-maybe it was a tip-off. I don’t think so.”

“Did Zondi speak to him?”

“I was detailed to handle the calls, Lieutenant.”

There was a long pause.

Kramer’s next seven words whipped off two pairs of headphones and spilt the tea. But the eavesdroppers made miraculous recoveries.

“Yes, Sergeant Van Niekerk, that’s exactly what I mean. I’ll do it personally.”

“What for?”

“Because you’ve not only probably buggered up this entire investigation, you’ve also sent-”

“Yes?”

A receiver was replaced.

“Sir?”

What a pity, a moment’s pretended prudery had made them miss what had obviously been the best bit.

Kramer walked slowly around the table to the double doors leading back into the Assembly Room. He listened for the sound of women’s voices from the other side and heard nothing. But then the doors were specially made to prevent civic secrets leaking out, and like everything else, it worked both ways.

He turned suddenly right and headed for the side door into the passage: the hell with Jackson. He turned about: the hell with Zondi.

As Kramer slipped out of the council chamber into the Assembly Room, immediately closing the door behind him, he realised that councillors’ wives had a rough deal. And that they grew very used to being left high and dry without explanation and only their delinquent servants to talk about.

The hen party broke up with a great clucking of mild recrimination.

“Whatever have you boys been doing in there?” Mrs Trenshaw chided. “Did you sneak dear Phyllis van Reenen in there without our knowing?”

So they were not altogether as stupid as they seemed to their husbands.

“Sorry, not tonight, ladies.”

It helped to get them laughing. Paved the way, so to speak.

“I’m afraid something very important has cropped up,” Kramer said. “None of your hubbies had the courage to ask you so they sent me: do you think you could all make your own way home? They said take the cars.”

“I should hope so!” snorted a peroxided shrew with long nails who was strangling her silver fox. And her companions echoed the lack of sentiment.

Kramer smiled charmingly as they walked to the exit-he had one minute to go.

Then Mrs Trenshaw swung round.

“Oh, you might tell my husband,” she said, “that there was a man looking for him a little while ago. We told him where you were but he just took a peep through that big keyhole and said it looked a long business and he couldn’t wait.”

“What man?”

Kramer stepped forward.

“Pardon? Oh, he didn’t give his name. Said it wasn’t important.”

“I still say bow ties suit some men,” the shrew added firmly, as if having the final word in an argument.

Then she and the other women gasped, for they had never seen a man move so fast.

Van Niekerk was right, the Salvation Army Men’s Hostel had seemed a most unlikely place to find Lenny. It was almost enough to convince you that Moosa had run amok. But as Kramer pressed his foot to the floorboards, it all suddenly made very good sense. The sort of sense that Jackson had displayed on other occasions.

Going back to what the waiter at the pie-cart had said, Lenny had been picked up by several men in a Trekkersburg car. Point Two: he had not been back to his flat since then. Conclusion: Lenny was staying in Trekkersburg. If he had moved into any non-white area, however, the presence of a stranger would have been noted, and particularly so by police informers. The alternative was a white area, and that would also have attracted attention anywhere but in the hostel. Ensign Roberts was always pointedly indifferent as to where a man came from or why. Nor would his suspicions be aroused by a man claiming the rights of a white while looking very much on the borderline: an accident of pigmentation was a common reason for men taking to the road rather than spend lives producing written evidence of their statutory status.

The hostel was, in fact, the ideal place for Lenny to lie low within Jackson’s call.

And this meant that Zondi could now be in far greater peril than it appeared when the call from headquarters came through beside the mayoral seat. That area of the chamber had been right opposite the keyhole. If the mysterious Jackson had known a policeman when he saw one, or conceivably recognised Kramer, then he would have immediately set about destroying whatever evidence there was. This just might include Lenny Francis-and Zondi would doubtless try to prevent that happening.

Unlike Jackson, he would be all alone in the world at the time.

The hostel was around the next corner to the right, coming up fast.

Moosa had the shakes. And a suspicion that he had wet himself, ever so slightly. But Moosa was not afraid.

He had never felt such curious excitement; it tickled its way right down him, even into his loins. His eyes felt fat with their looking. It was simply that to maintain his watch on the hostel he had been forced to stand on his toes for well over an hour, enough to give any mature man of sedentary habits quivering muscles. Singh had been adamant about putting up his steel window guards after nightfall as he always did to protect his property. He offered Moosa a box but it had proved too high and exposed too much of the watcher. So Moosa had no choice but to put a cruel strain on his legs and back.

Despite the discomfort, he had left his post only four times and then to make brief telephone calls. As it was, he missed the arrival of a big black car with dirty number-plates that now stood parked right outside the hostel gates.

At first Moosa had mistaken the white man seated over on the far side in the passenger seat for Zondi’s boss. The trouble was he kept his back turned as he stared into the yard. But the lights of a passing bus had shown he had dark hair after all. Obviously he was waiting for the driver to return from calling on Ensign Roberts. Well, he would have to be very patient. This was the hour during which Bible reading took place and Ensign Roberts permitted no interruptions-nor would he allow anyone who had supper in the hostel to leave until it was over. Moosa wondered if it was significant that he had not seen Leon Francis leave the rehabilitation dormitory when the meal bell rang.

This brought him back to that fourth and last call he had made to the CID headquarters. It had been surprisingly cordial. He had been assured most politely that Bantu Detective Sergeant Zondi was already on his way down, and that Lieutenant Kramer himself was taking an interest in his information.

What was beginning to bother Moosa was that he had been back at the window for another twenty minutes and yet had seen no sign of either of them.

It took Kramer more time than he had supposed to slink through the gardens that backed on to the hostel. There had been dogs and rose bushes and hard-arsed gnomes to contend with. His shins were a mess but luckily nobody heard or saw him.

The corrugated iron fence had also posed a problem, being very difficult to climb quietly if at all. Finally, however, he came across an avocado tree with branches as orderly as the rungs of a ladder. And up he went.

Better and better-right in front of him now was some scaffolding that carried on around a chapel which was being built in the hostel yard behind Ensign Roberts’s house. Kramer swung over to it with little trouble.

The builders, presumably drawn from the rehabilitation group, had reached the eaves, and so the scaffolding afforded a good high vantage point. Only there was nothing to see. The yard was completely deserted. All the dormitories were in darkness, as the regulations required when not in use. The sole light came from the dining-room-and with it the sound of someone reading Scripture in a deep monotone.

Kramer rose slowly to his feet and looked over the last course of bricks to the road. He drew in his breath sharply.

There was a big black car at the hostel gates, with a white man seated at the passenger window. The traffic’s lights did not reach round to his face, and anyway from that distance it would have been impossible to distinguish the features, or even the type of clothing he wore. Except that whereas a conventional tie would have made a vertical blur, a bow tie made a dark blob under the chin.

Jackson.

Kramer was sure of it. He was searching for the way down to the ground when he thought again. According to the councillors’ wives, Jackson had left in a hurry. Now he was sitting there as if he had all the time in the world. This was so eccentric it was dangerous. More than that: potentially lethal.

There had to be a reason. Kramer forced himself to ponder it although his whole body strained on a poodle leash. Logic demanded that he began with what was known: Jackson was a cautious man; Jackson kept himself out of trouble; Jackson was not alone; Jackson had sent a man in for Lenny Francis.

Kramer started to crawl on all fours along the scaffolding to look down into the yard again. He had been on the property for perhaps two minutes-in itself more than long enough for a messenger to fetch Lenny to the car. It was no messenger that Jackson had dispatched but a killer.

The yard, fifteen feet below and in deep shadow, still appeared empty. To his left, flanking one side of the chapel, was the corrugated iron fence behind Ensign Roberts’s back garden. Directly in front of him, the bare earth stretched away for twenty yards until it met the old age pensioners’ wing running across at right angles. On his right the wing housing the rehabilitation and hobo section protruded to within a few feet of the chapel. He could almost reach out to touch it.

Then he heard a sound. It came from two doors down.

“Christ. Oh, bloody hell. What’s happening?”-the voice was soggy with sleep.

Click.

“You kaffir bastard!”

The answering laugh was one Kramer would recognise anywhere.

“How long have you been sitting there?”

“Shhh! CID.”

Zondi was in his playful mood.

But this was no time for games. He would lead his prisoner only a matter of ten yards before they could be seen from the gate. Jackson would be off like a flash. Or he might fire first and then flee.

Kramer had to stop that door opening, and there was no longer the time to look for ladders. He calculated that by swinging from the edge of the scaffolding, he would be left with a drop of nine feet. He could make it safely.

But before he could move, someone else did. The figure slipped out of the door nearest to him and began to edge towards the next one up the line-the one from which Zondi would emerge at any second.

The. 38 Smith and Wesson was in Kramer’s hand and levelled when it struck him that Jackson would react to a shot like an Olympic sprinter to a starting pistol.

The figure stopped moving. Like Jackson, it was waiting.

Cramp bit Kramer in the left calf. He rocked on his haunches, putting out his free hand to steady himself. It touched something hard and cold: the blade of a trowel honed sharp by coarse mortar. He grasped it tightly by the handle.

The door opened, a fraction too soon.

Lenny Francis stepped out into the night with a gun in his back and Zondi behind it. They took three paces. The figure sprang. There was a glint. A small cry came from Zondi. He sprawled, tripping Lenny.

Then as the figure raised its knife hand again, Kramer sprang. Not feet first but in a long dive with the trowel held at the apex of his arrowed body.

There was nothing calculated about it. Pure chance provided the perfect trajectory that tore open the throat of the hired killer. Gravity did the rest of the damage.

Kramer landed badly and Zondi’s skull, so hard against the ground, drove the wind from him. He curled up, gasping, retching, helpless.

Lenny, untouched, recovered Zondi’s automatic and trained it on them.

The engine of the big black car was running. The man had slid across and started it a minute ago. Now he was revving it gently.

Moosa had lost all patience. If this was how the CID responded to two good tip-offs, they were not worth his time and trouble. He would tender his account and sell cabbages.

Then the car was switched off again. The white man with a bow tie got out and stood on the pavement, his right hand closed over something in his trouser pocket.

Just a minute, this could be a detective after all. Moosa decided to keep watch for one minute longer.

Van Niekerk slammed down the receiver and turned to Colonel du Plessis.

“It was just that churra bastard to say there’s nothing doing down at the hostel.”

“Moosa?”

“He wanted to bugger off home.”

“Why tell him to stay on then?”

“Why not, sir?”

The Colonel dearly loved a dry wit. Their relationship deepened.

“He took a hell of a time to get that out, Sergeant.”

“Oh, he also talked a lot of crap about us having a bloke down there.”

“And so?”

“I didn’t say anything. Two seconds later he’s changed his mind and thinks it’s someone paying a visit.”

“He was sure it wasn’t the Lieutenant?”

“Positive.”

“But where is he then? And Zondi?”

Van Niekerk shrugged. The movement could not have been made more expressive by Don Quixote’s mother-in-law.

“ Ach, it can wait, Van. We’ll give him until eight and then take over the case, meantime let’s get your complaint about his conduct on the telephone down in writing. I can’t have my officers speaking like that. Paper?”

Van Niekerk had an idea as he drew the foolscap from its appointed place.

“I suppose there’s not a chance he’s in trouble, sir?”

“Some bloody hope,” the Colonel muttered.

Kramer laughed and found it personally reassuring.

But it disconcerted Lenny.

“What’s so bloody funny?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper, jabbing at him with the automatic.

For a start, Lenny was. His actions were absurd. Only a fool would handle a loaded firearm like an interviewer’s mike. Only a fool would dither around instead of getting the hell out while the going was good.

And then there was that soft trickle coming from Zondi’s mouth down there in the dust-each obscure Zulu obscenity a delight in itself, although the joke was really on Jackson.

“I was thinking of Jackson,” Kramer said.

“Don’t worry, I’ve seen him.”

So that was it. Lenny must have stepped back a couple of paces and caught a glimpse of the watcher by the gate. Yet this should not have deterred him. He could have got out the back way. Better still, he could have shot from the shadows at close range and made off for the wide blue yonder in the big black car. There had been more than enough time for all this.

As it was, Kramer had already recovered both wit and wind and made a cursory review of the proceedings. There was a fine irony in the fact that Jackson had finally revealed himself to be a man cautious to a fault. If only he had taken a chance and hired an amateur to deal with Lenny, things might have been so different. The thing was that every killer-however deprived his childhood-had his qualms. The novice suffered most in this respect, being inclined to over-react out of a sense of insecurity. But what had happened was no accident and Jackson would have made sure of hiring a true professional. In this he had overlooked that while an expert virtually ensured a proper job being done, he was also confident enough to employ one of his lesser skills when assailed by some inner misgivings. The tsotsi, now languidly losing body heat beside them, had clearly baulked at something-in all probability the very human dread of a bad name. And there was certainly no surer way of getting one than by needlessly killing a policeman; it inevitably brought out the very worst in the forces of law and order, who would then disrupt the entire twilight fraternity, implicated or otherwise, with a process of elimination which was often just that. If at the end of it the dead officer’s colleagues failed to get their man, the private sector would. It was enough to give any psychopath a social conscience-and make him twist a knife to strike an artful blow with the hilt.

Zondi sat up, shook his head, and felt behind his ear for blood. There was none.

“What now, boss?” he said.

Kramer shrugged and then looked expectantly at Lenny. He saw a changed man.

“Get up slowly,” Lenny ordered, as though he had been waiting for just this moment to assert himself. “Put your hands on your head and go round to the kitchen.”

Kramer and Zondi set off immediately. When a hypersensitive young thug held your life in the curl of his trigger finger, it paid to humour him until a realistic alternative suggested itself. Even if you were somewhat vague about the kitchen’s exact location.

“The next one along,” Lenny corrected them.

The kitchen door was slightly ajar. Kramer pushed it wide open with his foot and stepped inside.

Only a fool would accompany him and Zondi into a darkened room and so, having new regard for Lenny’s character, he was not surprised to find it relatively well lit. He was taken aback, however, to note that the light which passed through the big window came from the street and that he could see what had to be Jackson down there leaning on a gatepost. He had certainly got his mental plan of the hostel a little confused.

“Over there,” Lenny said, pointing.

Again they obeyed without hesitation and found themselves boxed into the far corner with the window wall on their right, another wall behind them, an Aga cooker to their left and the end of a double-sink unit before them. The latter had been pressed out of a single sheet of stainless steel so that when Lenny heaved himself up on the far draining-board, they felt the vibrations carry through to their end.

Ordinarily the draining-board might have seemed a somewhat eccentric place to sit, but in the circumstances it was nothing more than strategically sound: it allowed Lenny to keep one eye on Jackson and the other on the pair in the corner, it was too far for a quick rush and too near for a bullet to miss.

But this on its own fell short of explaining precisely what Lenny had in mind by bringing them there in the first place-or indeed why he felt it necessary to prolong the association. Kramer realised now that he had been more seriously affected by his fall than he had so far conceded; his thoughts had been engaged on all manner of frivolities and, like the prisoner debating his final menu in the death cell, had been avoiding the real issue. It had to stop.

“Your arse is getting wet,” he cautioned politely.

Lenny frowned.

“Those splashes of water on the sink-they’re seeping up into your pants.”

“You don’t say.”

“Just thought you ought to know.”

“Thanks.”

“Can we talk then? You don’t mind?”

“If you like, Mr Detective. Just keep your voice down.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to frighten him away.”

“Jackson’s coming here?”

“He will, by-and-by.”

“To see what happened to the tsotsi? ”

“That’s the idea.”

“Uhuh. What then?”

“I’ll shoot him.”

The raw stupidity implicit in this statement gave Kramer mental indigestion. There was simply no place for it alongside the obvious fact that Jackson could have been dropped at the gate with the minimum of fuss. He could take no more.

So it was left to Zondi to get down to brass tacks.

“You’re going to shoot us, too?” he asked.

“Police? Don’t make me laugh!”

But Lenny should have delivered the line with more conviction. Such patent insincerity worked faster than a double dose of fruit salts-Kramer’s blood fizzed and his brain burped. Suddenly he was thinking clearly again.

Of course, the little bastard had had it all worked out from the start. And what hurt now was that he had used some of Kramer’s own logic to perfect his plan; a shot ringing from the yard would have Jackson sprinting for the border, two shots would have him hurdling the Customs post, but three shots all coming together would wrap things up very nicely-the three shots he would fire as Jackson came poking around the kitchen area looking for his missing employee. Why he wanted to kill them, too, was academic at this stage.

And here was the inevitable flaw: Lenny was banking on their co-operation by pretending he meant them no harm.

Zondi must have come to a similar conclusion simultaneously for he inquired: “And if we start to make a noise now? What then?”

The muzzle of the pistol lifted to meet his eyes.

“Let’s not talk about what won’t happen,” Lenny said.

It was not such a flaw after all: a score of two out of three was not bad.

So the only hope now lay in a chance diversion. There was some likelihood of this in the direction of the door leading to the dining hall but not while the sound of a piano accordion continued to come from behind it. Ensign Roberts, squeezing the good life into his errant singers with the application of an anaesthetist using bellows-resuscitation, was indeed a versatile man-further evidence of this stood within reach on the draining-board: an old-fashioned electric toaster with flap-down sides having new elements fitted.

Lenny had noticed the sequence of Kramer’s eye movements.

“Roberts never finishes his sing-song before eight,” he said. “That’s twenty minutes from now and nobody will make a move until then.”

“You think Jackson won’t wait that long?”

“He knows about Roberts’s habits, too. He’ll come before then.”

Kramer shrugged and picked up a screwdriver.

“Watch it,” Lenny warned.

“Christ, I’m not likely to try anything with this! Anyway-”

“Yes?”

“We haven’t any proper evidence on Jackson, so you may be doing us a favour.”

That threw Lenny-and so did the next move.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snapped.

“Mending a toaster.”

“Hey?”

“Here, boy, gimme ama-pliers.”

“Yes, my baas.”

Lenny could only watch dumbfounded as Kramer and Zondi slipped whimsically into their old routine of electrician and electrician’s mate, an act perfected in dozens of unsuspecting homes. Within seconds the illusion was complete-right down to the feeling that the black man, obsequiously responding to gruff requests for tools within easy reach, could have done the job much better himself.

“You bastards are mad,” Lenny muttered.

“Ama-screwdrife.”

“Here, my baas.”

“Where’s the ee-element, you stupid kaffir? ”

“By your hand, my baas.”

“Don’t bugger around, how am I supposed to see it there? Hey?”

It had its touches of comedy, too, but Lenny could not be totally distracted from the window. This was a pity because it meant that Jackson had little chance of taking the initiative and saving more than his own life.

“My baas is sure the wire he going by that bottom side?”

“You know a better way of doing it?”

“No, my baas.”

“Then shut your flaming trap and use your brain, if you’ve got one.”

Zondi looked in surprise at Kramer, as if the line was not in the script he knew. Then he scratched his head, thought hard, and grinned sheepishly.

“Hau, sorry, my baas.”

“Okay, cut it out-that’s enough,” Lenny said.

“Bloody hell, we’ve just finished the job,” Kramer protested, closing the side flaps. “Can’t we at least see if the thing works now?”

And he reached casually for the wall switch, flicking it on before Lenny could raise an objection. Nothing happened. Kramer tugged at the plastic knob on the nearside of the toaster and opened the flap slightly to inspect the elements. They remained dull.

Lenny could not help a small smile. It showed his dimples.

“What’s your next trick?” he asked.

A good question-especially as Kramer had quietly turned the tables and was now armed with a weapon more swift and certain than the Walther PPK. And a question of choice: knowing that there would be no escape from the room without killing Lenny, he had to decide whether to do it immediately, while the little bastard was still unsuspecting, or to take a chance on getting a number of things cleared up first. He opted for the latter, although it made the speed of his reactions to any sudden move a critical factor.

That settled, all he had to do was unsettle Lenny and see how much he could learn from him in the time remaining.

So he said: “Aren’t you frightened, son?”

“Me? Why should I be?”

“Because your little plan isn’t going to work, you know. It’s a proper balls-up.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. You should have got us while you could out in the yard.”

“I’ve told you both, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Come on, man! You were just too scared to get in close enough for a knife. You didn’t know how much we were putting on and you’d heard of our judo tricks.”

“That’ll be the day.”

“Admit it. You’re going to blow holes in us straight after Jackson.”

“Crap.”

“Even waited for old Zondi here to come round so there’d be no problems getting him into this room.”

“It was only a minute at most. Anyway, give me one good reason.”

“Simple. The way things are going now we’ll be witnesses to a murder-Jackson’s. I’m sure you don’t want that.”

“True.”

“My point is that your first shot will bring the buggers flying through the door over there. You haven’t a chance of getting away.”

“True also-if you weren’t going with me when I leave. That’s why I waited for the kaffir to stand up.”

“Well, well, hear that, Zondi? Sonny boy here’s been reading the papers, he wants us as hostages. What are his chances?”

“I think bad, boss.”

Lenny began to look very agitated, as well he might. Time was running out and Jackson still had not budged. Granted, there were about ten minutes to go before Our Father broke up the meeting, but now a hint of mutiny was stirring in the corner. His two captives were finding the loopholes in hastily improvised explanations for their continued existence and soon there would be no accounting for their actions. The suggestion he was holding them as hostages had been too obvious a fabrication-he could quite easily shoot whom he liked and then escape by holding the rescue party at gunpoint until he reached the door. His dilemma was very similar to that faced by Kramer and would force him to the same conclusion: somehow he had to keep the chat going long enough for him to achieve his ends. It would have to be one hell of an engaging topic.

Kramer nudged Zondi.

“Well, I’m buggered if I’m going to stand around here all night,” he said. “This kiddo’s been too clever by half and it’s time he realised it. In fact, I bet he has already. So what do you say to our giving a little yell for the boys next door?”

Zondi opened his mouth.

“Want to know who did it?” Lenny blurted out desperately. “

Kill your sister? As if we didn’t already. Come on, kaffir, together now.”

“It wasn’t Jackson.”

“We know-he hired a spoke, but he did it all the same, legally.”

“No, he didn’t!”

“Someone did.”

“Sure. But how did you lot-”

“We all make mistakes.”

“Hey?”

“I suppose you must know or Jackson wouldn’t be trying to get you. He hates evidence lying about.”

“So that’s what you think?”

Zondi broke wind.

“He’s trying to waste time, boss,” he added.

“You’re right, man.”

Lenny made a quick check on Jackson’s position.

“For jesus’s sake, I did it!” he said.

And Kramer sighed. Honest to God, his sense of timing was inspired.

“I sodding did, you know!”

“Oh, piss off. Don’t try and act tough, it’s too late.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“How did you get the spoke man down here-smuggled him in a bike?”

“He got a job for the weekend in a furniture van.”

“You don’t say, that was clever.”

“Long distance removal, a whole house of things, Pretoria to Trekkersburg and back early Monday morning. The firm gets them the passes.”

“Name?”

“I don’t know. The wogs I fixed it up with didn’t say.”

“Description?”

“Never saw him. Wrote her address in the phone box by the City Hall.”

“Shoe Shoe saw you do this?”

Lenny faltered.

“No, he’d copped it before.”

“Why?”

“He tried to get money off Trenshaw-blackmail. He didn’t know what he was talking about but he was a security risk. We got Gershwin-”

“I know, but go on, I’m interested. How come a brother murders his own sister? Even for a gamaat, that’s pretty low.”

“I’m not a bloody-”

Lenny stopped short of his denial and in that moment Kramer knew he was winning: the poor bastard was going to any lengths to keep things going until Jackson appeared.

“She was a bitch, a whoring filthy bitch who thought she had a right to get out of this sodding country and leave us.”

“You and your mum?”

“Yes. Oh, she’d be okay anywhere with her bloody music and junk. That’s all she cared about.”

“But it seems you were helping her, sonny. Were you her ponce?”

Lenny laughed.

“I was her ponce all right. Knew Jackson wanted a dolly for the township job and lined her up. I never said who she was, mind.”

“But how did you find her in the first place?”

“She found me, man. Contacted me through an old schoolmate-”

Lenny paused.

“Durban High?” Kramer asked softly.

“Never you bloody mind. Anyway, she said she wanted my help to get a passport.”

“A forged one?”

“Natch-only I didn’t tell her that was out of my class.”

“And that’s why she did it? Not just for the money?”

“Ja, lay there on her back thinking of Merrie stuffing England.”

Whatever the Race Board said, Lenny didn’t talk like a Coloured, or think like one, either.

“The contact lenses were for the passport then?”

“Some bull I slung her to keep her happy. Make it more authentic.”

“Why kill her though? Jackson must have been pretty pleased with the set-up. And with you.”

“I’ll say.”

Then Lenny stiffened.

“The bastard’s just taken something out of his pocket,” he whispered.

“Boss!” Zondi said urgently.

“No, man, not now. I want to hear-”

“But boss…”

“He hasn’t started walking yet,” Lenny said, keeping his voice very low. “It went wrong you see. I got a big kick out of what those creepy council freaks did to her for their ten Rand and then, when it was all over, I checked in at Barnato Street one night when we had them, and said no-go on the passport. Hell, that bloody backfired, all right. She did her nut-weeping and yelling and saying she’d go straight round and tell you buggers all about it and take us all inside with her. I started to make promises, I promised a passport for Sunday night-then I fixed up with the spoke. I had to do something. Christ, I had to!”

“But I thought this was all Jackson’s idea? A bonus for the contracts was having her knocked off?”

“Huh! That’s a joke. Who said this?”

“Trenshaw.”

“No, man, that was Jackson trying to keep them happy. Got the bloody shock of his life when he saw it in the paper that she had died. He planned to have her around for years to pressure them. And then when he saw the article, he really went mad. He sussed it was something to do with me, me being the contact, and sent his boys down to Durban. They gave me the business but I saved it up for the end. I told him she was my sister.”

“But he’d have known that already from the papers he showed the councillors.”

“Passports I can’t fix-those things I can. They had Le Roux on them.”

“So Jackson didn’t see you doing your own sister?”

“He said he couldn’t, but he wasn’t sure. He told me to stick around, sent me to this place. I had to or it would have been suspicious. Something must have happened for him to twig.”

“I told you: we got Trenshaw-and the others.”

But Lenny was not really listening any longer. He was taking aim through the window “

Lenny, is Jackson the big shot in all this?” Kramer asked softly.

There was an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

“Then who is the bloody Steam Pig?”

Too late-Lenny’s finger was already tightening in the steady squeeze he had been taught as a cadet on Durban High’s rifle range.

Any second…

So Kramer let go of the plastic knob which allowed the side of the toaster to drop and make contact with the stainless steel sink unit.

The spark was unexpectedly small. But the effect of the 220-volt charge on Lenny was as anticipated; he gasped mightily, his body arched back, and his fingers-thank God-stiffened out nice and straight. For an instant longer the current passed down the flex to the toaster perched on its little insulated feet, through the crude connection improvised on the hinged side flap, out along the draining-board, and up through the highly conductive wet trouser seat. Then the kitchen’s fuse blew in a box over near the dining-hall door.

Kramer heard the pop and abandoned caution as he scrambled to catch Lenny before he could topple into a pile of dishes. He just made it.

A moment later Zondi was at his side. Together they gently lowered Lenny’s upper half sideways so that his head dipped beneath the washing-up water and his curious little sounds became innocuous bubbling.

That done, they looked out of the window.

It was rather shocking to see Jackson carrying on out there in the yard as if nothing had happened. He had his back turned and was stooping to examine the tsotsi. But they would get to see his face soon enough.

Kramer and Zondi spun and started for the outside door, going up on their toes ready to sprint round and make the most of an attack from the rear.

Then it happened. Lenny died. And his own body current was discharged totally, blowing his mind and causing a sinew-snapping spasm that put a bullet into Mrs Beeton.

The shot did not echo but everyone seemed to listen to it for a very long time.

At least that was how it seemed until the door to the dining-room crashed open. Ensign Roberts, who had the advantage of having the light coming from behind him, took one glance at the slumped form on the sink. The fight was spectacular.

But Jackson did not stay to watch.

Kramer’s right elbow hurt like hell, worse than his groin. He flinched.

“So you think this is bad?” Strydom murmured, removing another fragment of spectacle lens.

Kramer made no reply. He had said nothing about his injuries except to use them as an excuse to get him into the hospital without attracting undue attention. It was just that the District Surgeon always made a point of cheering up his patients by comparing their sufferings favourably with those of others.

“Christ, you should take a look at Ensign Roberts in D Ward,” he said. “He’s got a right eye like a squashed guava.”

“Stupid bastard.”

“ Ach no, Lieutenant, that’s not the attitude. He was trying to help. He thought-”

“We’ll never bloody get Jackson now.”

“The Colonel seems to think different.”

“He would. Him and Van Niekerk dancing round at HQ, organising their ruddy roadblocks and slapping each other’s bum. They haven’t a hope.”

“Why not?”

“They don’t know what he looks like.”

“What about his car?”

“Moosa chucked a brick through the back window-he’ll have it changed anyway.”

“Who?”

“Just a churra we know.”

“Pity it wasn’t the windscreen. But that’s coolies for you-no guts.”

“Uhuh.”

“Anyhow, you should have no worries. You got the brother-and a few others besides, I hear.”

“Oh yes?”

“No, I’m not trying to get anything out of you. The Colonel said it was hush-hush but he was very pleased.”

“Big deal. He won’t have a scrap of evidence when that little lot he’s questioning see their lawyers and lose their memories.”

“Look, what more can you do?”

“Get the bastards behind it.”

“Oh, so there’s not just Jackson?”

The sister in charge of the casualty department came over and cleared her throat in A minor.

“Excuse me, Doctor,” she said, “but there’s a boy outside who wants to see this patient.”

“Zondi?” Kramer asked.

“He says he’s from the CID.”

“Fine, send him in, Sister. I’m almost finished.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Zondi entered with his eyes respectfully averted and handed Kramer a slip of paper. On it he had scrawled: “Colonel telling Van that Ferguson can die soon. 2100 hrs.”

This was just what Kramer had been waiting for-and his only way of getting the information without arousing suspicion. Now that Lenny was dead and Jackson had fled, he knew of only five men remaining who had plainly registered something when he had mentioned the Steam Pig. Four already disclaimed any knowledge of the phrase but they had their lives to live. The fifth had not.

Kramer winked his gratitude at a good and faithful servant and then dismissed him.

The drag of the next five minutes was a greater agony than anything Strydom’s clumsy fingers could inflict. In fact it seemed a full hour of missed opportunity before Kramer arrived in the side-ward and began to browbeat the nurse at Ferguson’s bedside into allowing them to be alone. As an only son, he claimed that right.

She was touched and left. There was only the one bed in the room.

“I’m dying,” Ferguson said, looking awed, then giggled.

Kramer could just catch his words by bending low over him. Actually Ferguson did not look all that bad, but he had the right idea if he was going to be of any assistance.

“Remember me?” Kramer asked.

“Hmmmm?”

“Any ideas?”

“Specialish?”

“Try again.”

“Brother-Jack?”

“Shall I tell you?”

Ferguson nodded with the eagerness of a child anticipating avuncular delights.

“I’m from the Steam Pig. Remember?”

This brought a strange smile to the candle-wax lips. It broadened jerkily into a leery grin.

“Give her. My love.”

“Who?”

“Her. Little piggy.”

“I said Steam Pig.”

Ferguson brightened.

“She’s dead,” he observed with satisfaction.

“Who? Peggy is it?”

“You are a bit thick,” Ferguson scoffed, becoming lucid all of a sudden. “We all called her the Pig after Derek said it first. What a laugh! A dirty pig all right-the things she’d let you do. Oh my.”

“Holy jesus.”

“Nobody knew who the Pig was, you see. We could talk about her in the club and nobody knew.”

“But steam? ”

“Very clever. I said Steam Pig. Chuff, chuff, chuff. It was like a steam engine. Chuff-chuff-chuff she’d go in time to the music. We added Steam just for fun. Like a code.”

And Ferguson began to hum Greensleeves with a distinctive locomotive rhythm that Kramer recognised instantly.

“You poor bloody sod,” he said.

“Steam Piggy thought it such a joke!”

“I bet.”

Kramer left abruptly.

“Holy jesus,” he said again, in the passage. The nurse, returning with her cup of tea, stared after him with the utmost sympathy. He looked ill.

He was sick to the stomach to think that of all the types of names he had considered, not once had the idea of a nickname occurred to him. No wonder nobody had ever stopped to explain it before-the topic had always been the girl and they must have supposed he understood what such a trifling thing meant. It had never been important.

Except to Shoe Shoe and he had missed the point as well. Look where that had got him. God, the consequences could be almost as devastating if this ever got into the Colonel’s after-dinner joke book.

Oh sod him. He’d never catch Jackson and so he’d sodding well never know. The sod.

Kramer stepped out into the night heading briskly on foot for the Trekkersburg Tudor Tavern. It had been a lot of trouble to go to for a whore, a steam-driven Coloured whore from Durban at that, but it bought steak.