The Sunday Hangman

13

Constable Willie Boshoff, once known to his tormentors at the police college as Elvis, reined in under the great white rock above Witklip and wished he could believe that Friday was going to be exciting and drastically different.

His shoulders slumped. There had been a time, of course, a couple of years back when he was only seventeen, when all he had asked of life was a horse and a gun. A time when he would leap into his saddle and gallop off at the slightest excuse, even if it was only a Bantu female reporting attempted rape at a beer party. These sorties into the reserve had seldom come to anything-inevitably the party would have been disbanded before his arrival on the scene-but it had been showing a police presence that mattered, and the Bantu had appreciated this. On about as many occasions, they had tried to force roasted mealies and other small gifts on him, and, to a man, they had always praised his fine horsemanship. The bugger of it was, however, that every time Willie had gone off like this, in one direction, then something far more serious would have to happen in another direction, and he’d return to find Sergeant Jonkers climbing the wall of the charge office. And so, except for his early-morning exercise, Willie had cut right down on horse-riding, and had been bored almost to tears by a coincidental drop in the crime rate during the weekends he was on duty.

“Bastard,” he muttered, having reminded himself that Jonkers had suddenly fixed up an extra-long weekend off, starting the night before. “Lazy, selfish bloody bastard. What’s he want in Durban?”

The horse clopped forward a few paces, nibbling neatly on the new stalks of grass that stuck out of the burned stubble like green knitting needles. Its warm rub against his inner thighs had a pleasant yet aggravating effect.

That was another thing: after fiddling almost every weekend for himself, Jonkers still expected Willie to create some form of love life in the nearest town, fifty kilometers away. Very funny, if not hilarious. Brandspruit’s only bioscope wasn’t even a building, but a battered 16mm projector owned by the chemist and set up for viewing on Saturday nights in the meeting hall; the bars were-like every bar in the country-for men only, yet neither hotel had ever heard of a ladies’ lounge; and the nearest thing to a milk bar was run for and by bloody coolies. Overrun, you might say, if the matter weren’t so serious. Because if you didn’t own a car, this left you with nowhere to sit with a shy young girl, let alone sweep her off her feet, from Monday to Friday.

Willie sighed.

He knew damn well he was just making excuses. His landlord, Mr. Haagner, the Witklip butcher, had offered him the use of the van any evening he liked. And the lads stationed at Brandspruit had promised him a little goose any night he had to stop over for a court hearing. Even if he was pressed for time, they said, there was a red-haired nympho in the Bantu Affairs office who made short work of anyone in uniform. It was, in fact, just this sort of talk, which excited him and scared him all at the same time, that kept him well away from town except on urgent business. As to why this was, he still wasn’t sure.

With a harumph, the horse raised its head and listened, tipping forward its ears.

Willie looked across the valley to where the road from the south came through a notch in the far ridge; all he saw was a plume of dust left by some vehicle that had already dropped out of sight behind a fold of barren hillside. Then, almost stealthily, he allowed his eyes to sink to the farm that lay almost below that point, and he felt his loins leap. To think that she’d still be in bed, for it was not even eight yet, and that, in a perfect world, he could be in bed with her, coaxing a new awareness. Bringing her slowly, gently into the new day, urging her with small, exquisite thrusts of his body; while in each hand, cupped from behind, those sweet marshmallow breasts would be stirring. Then she would laugh, break free, and come back at him her way, shameless and inquisitive and eager, so hard here, there so soft.…

“Hey,” said Willie, checking himself with a chuckle, and being sure to banish the dangerous fantasy completely.

He clapped the horse on the shoulder and ruffled its mane. His mood had perked up suddenly, and the prospect of a whole weekend without Sergeant Jonkers hovering in the background, over at the hotel, took on a different look. He might even drop in on Ferreira himself for a change-or better still, attend the weekly barbecue, leaving Luthuli to give him a bell if there was trouble. Without Ma Jonkers getting her talc all over you every time she asked for a dance, and without his lordship making you grill his chops for him, a bloke could probably have a very nice time. And if Tommy the merc had returned, there might well be a chance of hearing his gruesome stories at first hand for once.

Again the horse harumphed.

Without his being particularly aware of it, Willie’s gaze had been following a car far below him; a car that had approached swiftly from the south, and was about to enter the last coils of the dirt road into Witklip.

Away in a corner of his mind, he now recognized the vehicle as the orange Chevrolet belonging to the tough CID lieutenant from Trekkersburg; the one whose boy had a limp, yet could strike at a fleeing chicken thief like a bloody black mamba. In an adjacent corner of his mind, he realized that, as acting station commander, he’d better giddy-up and get down there.

But Willie Boshoff just sat and stared, preoccupied by an idle fancy born of height and distance. Like a spark eating up a fuse, the glimmer of the car was turning the road behind it into billowing dust, into powder smoke, as it advanced through each twist and turn, hastening for the wattle-dark village.

“I’ve seen the Lone Ranger,” said Kramer, “but where the hell is his boss?”

Startled by this sudden inquiry, which had been made without warning or preamble, Bantu Constable Goodluck Luthuli placed his eye to the star-shaped hole in the privy door and peered out at him.

“Hau!” said Luthuli.

“Well?” Kramer demanded. “You’ve seen me before, so out with it! I haven’t got all bloody day! Christ, now where has this one got to?”

The eye had vanished.

“Luthuli is saluting the officer, sir,” translated Zondi, after some mumbled Zulu from within. “At attention.”

For an instant, Kramer’s high hopes for the day sagged, then he managed to say quite calmly: “For God’s sake tell him I salute him back-and to stand at ease as quickly as possible. Plus, repeat my question.”

Zondi did that.

“He not here, suh,” Luthuli replied in kitchen English. “He go last night on holiday all time to Tuesday next week.”

“The sod!” Kramer snapped.

And the eye, which had returned to the hole, gave a little twinkle.

“Maybe it will be easier like this,” murmured Zondi, showing more tact in his use of Afrikaans than in his suggestion. “Remember what you said about the red herrings last time.”

“Rubbish! I want a few facts on the locals for a quick elimination job, and I reckon he’d have known them off pat. I wonder who he cleared this leave with?”

“We have not informed headquarters of our-”

“Look, man-stop being so bloody reasonable, okay?”

Kramer started back up the path through the weeds to the station house, walking with his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. The sudden departure of the Jonkers couple sounded very like the consequence of a domestic crisis, and he had only himself to thank for that-however, as Zondi said, it wasn’t all that much of a catastrophe, and the day was still young. A comic thought dashed through his mind.

“Who are you smiling at, boss?” asked Zondi, catching up.

“Me,” said Kramer. “Has it occurred to you that Sarge Jonkers might have really got the wind up after our little conversation? That he might be part of all this?”

“Of course.”

They laughed and walked on.

“What shall I do this morning, boss? You will be working in the office, not so?”

“What you like, Mickey. Catch up on some sleep.”

“You will give me a shout?”

“I shouldn’t think it’d be before lunchtime.”

“Okay.”

Tossing him the car keys, Kramer turned and went indoors. It was the work of a minute to sweep everything irrelevant off the office desk into one of the drawers, and another ten seconds saw the cat in the Out tray on its way. In the same time again, he had put a call through to Trekkersburg.

“Morning, Doc,” Kramer said, taking the telephone over to the barred window. “It’s Tromp here. I’m in Witklip, looking for a gallows setup such as you started to describe the other day on the way back from Doringboom. Something about half-inch adjustments? A vertical space at least twenty feet high? Just give me all the details and procedure notes and have them Telex it up to Brandspruit. Thanks, hey? Bye.”

“I suppose you’d like specifications for the hangman as well?” Strydom asked caustically. “It wouldn’t be any trouble. Or are you coping all right in that direction?”

“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.

“Tea or coffee, sir?” asked Luthuli, hovering in the doorway.

“Coffee, I think-for three.”

“Tree? You want girl make rocky bun for visitor?”

Somebody, it seemed, had taught the man to regard himself as a bloody butler. “No, thanks. Plain coffee-that’s all.”

“Hau!”

“Three spoons of Nescafe, three cups-you’ve got the picture? Have yourself a quiet day.”

“Hau!” Luthuli exclaimed again, and disappeared mumbling.

Then Ferreira arrived with Willie, looking far less sloppy than he’d done the time before, and without those idiotic sunglasses. His smile lingered like the damp feel of his handshake.

“I’m told you want a list of everyone,” he said, taking the chair pointed out to him. “Is this some development regarding Tommy? Willie didn’t seem to know.”

Kramer saw no reason to start explaining anything at this stage either, and settled for what was immediately important. “I can tell you both this much, hey? I’m engaged in trying to trace where a certain woman and her young son stayed for a long weekend on a farm in this district about twenty-five years ago. That isn’t as impossible as it sounds, and when I get the answer, I’ll be a long way towards solving a serious case.”

“Of …? Please, sir,” said Willie.

“Call it suspected murder,” Kramer replied, being careful to keep within the framework he’d laid down for himself. “How many farmers do you reckon there are?”

Ferreira needed a second longer to function again. “Around two dozen. Taking those nearest, we’ve got Peter Crowe, George van der Heever, Gysbert Swanepoel, Karl de Brain, Mr. Jackson-”

“Write neatly,” ordered Kramer, sliding the sheet of foolscap across. “Full names, farm names, home language, approximate ages, any comments.”

The list was returned to him twenty minutes later.

“I wasn’t too sure what you meant about comments,” Ferreira admitted, having failed to make any. “Newcomers I’ve left out.”

“Thirty-two!” said Willie. “Phew!”

Kramer looked down the names with equanimity. Compared with some elimination jobs he’d done-like when one of 1,400 black workers had stitched up a bullying foreman in a boot factory-this was a walkover. Of those thirty-two names, none was foreign, but he had been expecting that. Twenty-seven of them had Afrikaans as their home language, and the rest English; he’d been expecting that, too. The five English-speakers would be his prime target.

“Not that I see how you’ll pinpoint this bloke,” Ferreira murmured deferentially, having had time to think. “Not if he’s mixed up in any way-which I can’t imagine for a start. I mean, he’s not likely to say, ‘Oh, ja; I was the bloke who had them to stay.’ ”

“There was a party,” explained Kramer.

Willie waited, then said, “And, sir?”

“Ach, I’m relying on people who were at this party to remember those two. When they do that, then we’ll know who the host was-and take it from there. From these figures I would conclude that if one of the English-speakers gave a party, he’d have to have Afrikaners among his guests, too, to make up the numbers.”

“Jackson’s the only stuck-up redneck in the district,” said Ferreira. “The rest of us-man, you wouldn’t know the difference. Was this party specifically for these people?”

“I don’t reckon so. But-”

“Then you’ll excuse me saying, Lieutenant, that having folk for the weekend is quite common out in the country, and twenty-five years is a long time to forget one little party.”

“I was thinking the same,” said Willie.

“Not if she was tempted to do her party trick,” Kramer told them, a smile quirking his lips. “The lady concerned was an Italian mamma mia who could speak some Afrikaans. That should jog a few memories-or do you get them here pretty often?”

Ferreira grinned his defeat and sat back. “Okay, you win. The only wops we’ve ever had here could only speaka da English.”

“ ‘We’ve’?”

“You know, at the hotel when I was a kid.”

Perversely, Kramer’s mind skipped sideways to investigate why he had always presumed that the Ferreira family were late on the scene and hardly an established part of it. Then he recalled the farmhouse-like architecture of the hotel-which wasn’t an uncommon feature in itself, of course-and tried to reconcile this with the fact that the building wasn’t very old. You surely didn’t design something one way to convert it almost in the next breath.

“Spa-kling Waters,” Willie said helpfully, in response to the uncomprehending silence.

“No, not then,” Ferreira contradicted him. “It was still Tobruk Guest Farm; my dad called it that when he made a mess of trying to be a farmer after the war. He’d dreamed too much in the desert.”

An unlucky family, mused Kramer, seeking distraction in the three changes of name for the grotty place he’d come across. A family of losers struggling to find the right words for the sign writer; the right spell, if you liked, to fend off their fate. None had worked so far, and yet here was the surviving son still mixing self-deception and bad magic, still trying to prove a point nobody else cared about.

“Right, Mr. Ferreira,” he said, rising in sudden restlessness. “Tell me all about the wops at your hotel.”

“What I remember best was my dad kicking up hell over having them to stay-I mean, he’d been sticking bayonets in their backsides not so long before-but my mum liked the lady and really put her foot down.”

“She had a son?”

Ferreira glanced at Willie, then went on: “Ja, and a husband. I played with the boy quite a bit, showed him round-y’know? He wasn’t bad for a banana boy; quite daring, in fact. Usually the kids we got were skits of horses and all that, y’know? And Jesus, could he swear! Which is why I nearly peed myself at the barbecue that Saturday night-when him and his uncle started singing.”

“Really?” said Kramer, sitting down again. “His uncle, you say? What was so funny?” He’d said nothing about an uncle to either of them.

“You had to be there, man! You know how soft these bloody farmers get? I mean, they all took it so seriously some even got tears on their cheeks; first stood as if they were in church on Sunday, then they started swaying-like this. I had to run with the coons to the peach tree by the barn or they’d have seen us laughing. Naturally, it was in Italian, being opera or something, and there these old fools were saying he was just like a little angel and pretending they knew the words. It was Ava-something-can’t remember, although I’ve heard it on the radio. Him a little-”

“Italian?”

“Of course,” said Ferreira, looking puzzled. “I mentioned they were wops at the beginning. This bloke off a ship, his sister, the husband, and the kid. There’s always a sing song once the party gets warmed up.”

Kramer nodded. “I see. Is it possible to say why they’d chosen Witklip of all places?”

“That’s what my dad kept on asking!” said Ferreira with a fond laugh. “While my mum kept on telling him it was the uncle-him and his sister looked like twins, hey? — who wanted to give the family a treat, show the kid what the country was like and all that. My mum said if you put adverts in all the papers, you had to take what you got-especially if you were just starting up and trying to make a go of it.”

“Off one of those Itie ships that used to go up the coast to Egypt?” Willie wanted to know. “Did he work on it?”

But Kramer cut across: “So you’re saying it was simply a matter of chance that they came here?”

“Sorry, Lieutenant?” Ferreira glanced again at Willie, who shrugged. “Isn’t that how they all come, one way or the other? Even if it’s only a friend making a personal recommendation?”

“True,” said Kramer, after a pause. “How very, very true.” He felt sick.

And saw nothing to laugh at when Goodluck Luthuli, in all seriousness, placed three spoons of Nescafe and three empty cups before them. That seemed to sum it all up.