The Caterpillar Cop

12

The report Kramer received from the laboratory at eleven o’clock the following morning enabled him to be philosophical about Pembrook’s misfortune.

“Jo’burg CID say he should be all right by tomorrow,” he told Zondi, “so I said not to trouble themselves with the matter. Anyway, once we’ve seen where this lipstick thing leads, we might get a lot more out of that interview with Miss Sally.”

“But what were you laughing at, boss?”

“Some cock-and-bull story about him being arrested. By the way, he’ll be coming back by bus this time and so we’ll have to fix for a van to pick him up at the station.”

“When?”

“Late tomorrow night.”

“Okay. You were going to tell me what was in the report.”

Kramer opened it with a flourish.

“It says here that the sample of lipstick I took from the girl at the dance-Penny Jones-was a cheap brand on sale at bazaars, shops, and most chemists. Now, the lipstick on the cigarette looks the same color in artificial light, but is a much more expensive make and you can see the difference in daylight. It’s called Tasty Tangerine. The maker’s name is Rochelle.”

“And so?”

“Rochelle is one of those swanky firms that make a big fuss about who sells their products. Their agent in Durban says the only outlet in Trekkersburg is the chemists’ on the corner of De Wet Street and the Parade. That’s where I’m going right now.”

“And the cigarette?”

“Read that part for yourself, you lazy bugger.”

From his high window, the Colonel stared down at the street and saw nothing. He had problems. Big ones.

A reporter had just left after spending half an hour coming as close as he dared to being forthright. It appeared his editor was receiving an unusually large mail concerning the police. Anxious as always to act in the public good, the Gazette had so far published none of it on the grounds that space was currently very restricted. But the leader-page columnist was getting fed up at having to churn out so many extra paragraphs-and, anyway, it would soon be obliged to use at least one or two. If only there was something about either the sex killing or the fire tragedy that was new they could print. People were getting the idea there was political significance to be found in the absence of news. Rumors about terrorists were even doing the rounds. The reporter himself had been informed in a certain bar that the Swanepoel boy had been found with the insignia of a guerrilla movement carved on his back. And as for the Indian burned in the police van, the grandfather had been in to the news editor to say he had heard the child was alive and well; which, when taken with the story that the charred body was that of a Nigerian midget trained to incite school children, made one think.

It had made the Colonel laugh-as it was supposed to have done. Not very heartily, though, because the message was still there, and such fears had a rational basis.

He was also able to deal with the matter of the Govender boy by declaring it sub judice as a departmental inquiry was being held that very afternoon. But all he could say about the other case was that a senior officer had it well in hand and particularly requested the press’s cooperation in not interfering with the families involved.

In the end, all he could offer the reporter was an official denial that politics were involved-insisting, at the same time, none of the rumors were printed. Result: a muted howl of dismay.

The Colonel was not accustomed to being under pressure from a newspaper. It annoyed him considerably and yet he could not deny things were proceeding very slowly. How unlike Kramer this was. He hoped the man’s sex life with the teacher at Boomkop Lower School was not distracting him.

Speak of the devil, there he went now, moving like six feet of whirlwind-towards the Parade.

The Colonel decided he could afford to concentrate on his own work for another day, half of which was unavoidably going to be taken up by that idiot Constable Hendriks.

Zondi spoke to the Widow Fourie for ten minutes when she rang. Then he copied down a message and stuck it in the dial.

The report’s findings with regard to the cigarette end were understandably limited. The Texan bore traces of Rochelle cosmetic, had gone out before having to be stubbed, and was-according to a test of the tobacco’s moisture content-perhaps about a month out of its airtight packaging. The technician added in parentheses that the crinkling of the paper was the result of the handling received subsequent to being smoked. How obvious. A small amount of tobacco was also missing for the same reason.

Pity there were no such things as lip prints.

Then a really practical idea struck Zondi that occupied him for the next half hour, at the end of which he called in a Bantu detective constable to make an express delivery. He gave him a verbal message and said it came from the lieutenant-anyway, that was what he had to tell the doctors.

It was noon when Kramer came hobbling back into the office with a grin like a nymphomaniac’s at a love-in. He waved a receipted invoice at Zondi.

“Got it,” he said. “We had to go through every bloody carbon, though, because the Rochelle girl is on leave. A delivery made to the Jarvis home six weeks ago included an order for a stick of Tasty Tangerine.”

“And how many other people have been buying it, boss?”

“Christ, don’t give me that! What other people did Boetie know who were loaded enough to afford the stuff?”

Zondi laughed, moving out of Kramer’s chair and back onto his stool.

“You know who you are like, boss? There was this old priest by the mission who used to tell us that God was the great spirit behind everything. With you it is Jarvis.”

Kramer knocked his hat off as he passed.

“That’s called faith, you bloody pagan. You’ve got to have it if you want to get anywhere in this world.”

“The priest was eaten by a crocodile.”

“You don’t say.”

His lacerated foot hurt so much from all that fast walking he had to rest it for a while. When he had more time, he would get Strydom to put in a few stitches.

“Well, what can you tell me?” Kramer said over the top of his shoes propped on the desk.

“It was as you said, boss. Sergeant Frans took a message from the tennis boy; he did not go back into the glade where the body was.”

“Fine! Now all we have to do is sort out how the thing got there. Remember it had rained that afternoon for a short while. I think we can discount the actual murderer for a start: women don’t kill like that and-”

“It was fake, though.”

“Even so, the chances are nil. Also that branch where the sickle was left would make her about six feet tall to reach up. They would remember her at the chemists’ if she was so big, but they don’t.”

Zondi had begun linking paper clips into a pair of miniature leg irons, and generally behaving nervously as if he was waiting for something.

“ Ach, don’t fidget, man! What was I saying?”

“That the murderer had to be a man.”

“Ah, yes, and a careful one, too, because he took care not to leave anything behind. But what if he had an assistant?”

“Never, boss!”

“Stranger things have happened, I know that for a fact, Zondi. For example, they caught a young couple in England who had murdered about six kids altogether-and in much the same way. Got sadistic kicks from it. Just picked them up in the street and took them into the veld.”

“But did they ask them to their house?”

Kramer was about to snap back at Zondi when his jaw mutinied.

“Holy Jesus,” he said, “that’s exactly what happened with the last one-they got careless! Even had a friend there. A couple not much older than this bloke Glen and the eldest daughter. Man, it could have been a proper sex killing after all. Only…”

“Boss?”

“No, it can’t be! Why have we been pussyfooting all round this case? Because we’ve got to be sure we’re on the right trail, that’s why. The Jarvis bunch are a respected family, not rubbish like these English ones, and there would be a hell of a stink if Boetie leads us into making a wrong move. What do you think? You haven’t put forward anything so far.”

“There are those who would say it is not my job,” replied Zondi.

“Come on, you’ve got your hoof in something!”

Before Zondi had to reply, the Bantu detective constable clumped in and deposited Boetie’s shirt on the desk. He handed Kramer a note.

“What’s this? You had it dry-cleaned?”

The shirt was indeed very neatly folded inside its plastic bag.

Kramer read the note and dismissed the messenger. Then he walked over to Zondi and knocked his hat off again.

“You cheeky kaffir! Sitting there, listening to me suck all that out of my thumb, and all the time you knew there were specks of tobacco in the little bugger’s pocket!”

“Texan, boss?”

“Naturally. And the microscope picked up a tiny smear of Tasty Tangerine.”

Ye Old Englishe Tea Shoppe off De Wet Street was crowded by office girls buying roast beef sandwiches with luncheon vouchers-and the smoothies who preyed on young lamb. There were also the usual parties of intrepid elderly shoppers who built laagers of parcels around them as if anticipating an attack by the Zulu waiters.

However, the Widow Fourie had booked a table, so Kramer was able to sit down and ease his extremity while waiting for her. It had been sly on her part to leave simply the time and the place, and the rest to his conscience. Not that guilt had brought him there; it was more the excuse of having an engagement which would postpone confronting the Jarvis household.

For he still lacked the clincher. Some spark of insight that would arc between Boetie and Andy, galvanizing him into action.

Zondi, who had done well solving the Texan riddle, was understandably impatient for him to proceed. But he chose to largely ignore the fresh questions his deduction presented. While Kramer could accept that Boetie would hardly carry the Texan around unless he thought it important, and that it was probably a vital clue in the child’s estimation, this did not account for the fact it had been found six yards from where the T-shirt lay. Zondi’s argument that it fell out during the struggle was too feeble, as the pocket was deep and the T-shirt tight-fitting. Besides which, the medical evidence canceled out any rough stuff.

“Hello, Trompie.”

Kramer pushed out her chair.

“Thanks. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long. We’ve got a sale on.”

“Keeping busy, then?”

“Oh, yes-and you?”

“Never stop.”

“Still on the boy up at the country club? There’s been nothing in the papers.”

“How are the kids?”

“Fine. They ask after you.”

“Uhuh.”

The waiter asked for their order.

“I’ll have an omelet,” the Widow Fourie said without consulting the menu. “A cheese one with no tomatoes. Bring the boss a rump steak, very rare, with some tossed salad and potatoes in their skins.”

Kramer smiled.

“So you haven’t forgotten my little ways?” he asked, watching her burrow in her handbag.

“After three years, I’ve got a lot to remember, Trompie.”

She opened an affectionately inscribed cigarette case and held it out. He made no move to take one. What a dirty trick.

“Come on,” she said. “Your steak will be ages.”

Perhaps there was no guile.

“What’s this, then?” he asked flippantly, noticing she had changed her brand. “Smoke a Texan and cough like a cowboy?”

The Widow Fourie laughed.

Then frowned, bewildered. Kramer’s chair was empty-he had left without another word.

The headmaster’s secretary had the afternoon off, so Lisbet was at liberty to speak to Kramer as intimately as her waning modesty would permit-and for as long as she liked, too.

But when she got through, an unfamiliar voice answered the call in his office. The name was impossible to catch.

“Are you a Bantu?” she asked finally.

The reply was in the affirmative.

“Then where is your boss? It doesn’t matter who I am, boy, just tell me what I ask. Oh, it’s an order he’s given you, is it? I’m Miss Louw from the school. Are you satisfied?”

Completely, and with apologies.

“ Ach, don’t waste time. Just tell me where he is and how long he’ll be. Three hours? What’s that?”

She listened attentively, occasionally interjecting a question.

“Thanks,” she said at the end of it. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell him. You’ve done me a favor.”

There was no point in stopping off for Zondi-the investigation had moved outside his terms of reference. But Kramer did manage a telephone call from the nursing home where Caroline Jarvis had had the cyst removed.

“So there weren’t any messages? Fine. Well, I’ve made the breakthrough and now I’m on my way up to the Jarvises’ place. No, she isn’t-discharged this morning, but still must stay in bed for a few days, so she’ll be home for sure. Argyle? That’s good. Bugger off and see him if you like. Ach, I haven’t got time, man, but I’ll give you a clue: the word ‘cowboy’ in the first code was Boetie’s way of recording an exhibit. Exhibit A! Work it out for yourself.”

He smiled nicely at the matron, who had insisted on vacating her office while he spoke, and limped fast for the car park.

Damn, there had been another point he wanted to try out on Zondi: his theory as to how the Texan came to be found six yards from where Boetie’s clothes lay. It was based on the reasonable assumption the boy regarded it as a vital clue-and that, as the killer had not removed it from the scene, its presence must have remained undetected. Put the two together and it was plausible that Boetie, sensing he might be facing danger, had ditched the Texan to prevent it being found on his person. A simple test had shown he could have thrown it that far. However, this left him trying to explain how it was that such a throw had been missed by the killer, who surely kept a careful eye on his victim, and why, in the first place, Boetie had taken the clue along with him.

Kramer entered Redneck territory with a large locust riding shotgun on the Chev’s bonnet. It had no difficulty maintaining a grip because, back yonder in the last of the skyscraper canyons, he had slowed right down to figure the odds for the last time. After all, he was about to risk his scalp. But they still looked pretty good now ten minutes later, provided he avoided shortcuts and went the long way round.

Having made his decision, Kramer pulled up outside the house at 10 Rosebank Road and rested the horses.

Captain Jarvis himself answered the door after the third clatter of the brass knocker.

“Damn maid was due back half an hour ago,” he grumbled. “Didn’t expect to see you again, old boy.”

“Always a good sign,” Kramer replied, not waiting to be invited inside.

“Can I be of service?” Jarvis asked stuffily.

“Your daughter Caroline-I’d like that interview.”

“But if it’s about that Swanepoel lad, I’ve already-”

“It isn’t, Captain. I’ve handed that case over to a subordinate. I’m conducting further investigations into the death of Andrew Cutler.”

“Good Lord! I thought that whole wretched business was over.”

“So did we-until we caught this housebreaker who’s been doing the rounds up here in Greenside. He’s got some funny stories to tell.”

Jarvis patted his pockets and drew out a gnarled pipe. He poked the stem at Kramer.

“But how does this involve Caroline?”

“It involves everyone in this house, Captain,” Kramer answered solemnly. “But I’d like my first statement from her.”

With a surprisingly swift movement, Jarvis positioned himself across the foot of the stairs.

“You will not proceed beyond this point, Lieutenant, until you make yourself perfectly clear. This is worse than the confounded Gestapo!”

Kramer had heard that one before.

“Has it not occurred to you, Captain, that Cutler’s death was strangely sudden for someone his age-just falling in your swimming bath like that?”

“According to the police surgeon, your police surgeon, it could have happened if he had simply rolled in. A matter of chance.”

“But he could have been pushed.”

“By whom, sir?”

“By a housebreaker trying to make a getaway and finding the boy barring the path.”

The ramrod snapped, causing Jarvis to subside suddenly onto the bottom step.

“This is appalling, Lieutenant. It never once crossed my mind that

…”

“Ours neither. Until this suspect made us think twice. For a hard case, he seemed a bit too worried we had caught up with him-carried on as if there had been aggravating circumstances.”

“I’m sorry, old boy, not quite with you.”

“That’s when housebreaking can become a capital offense. We checked back and discovered two interesting things: the first was he had not burgled a house since the night of November the fifteenth-”

“The night Andy died?”

“Yes, although it tied up only after we’d checked out our crime sheet for that week. The other thing was a lipstick found among the recovered property; it is not a common brand, and we were able to trace the sale of a similar lipstick to this house.”

“That’s a damn funny thing to steal!”

Of course it was. Kramer, who had almost begun to believe the story, struck himself an invisible blow. But no harm done.

“You could say this wog is a damn funny bloke,” he went on. “A bit crazy, if you ask me. He agrees to anything you say.”

“Have you asked him if he did it?”

“Naturally.”

“And what does he say?”

“I told you, he agrees to anything-but the prosecution expects me at least to attempt to find some actual proof.”

“Will he hang either way?”

“Who knows? Personally, I think he’ll be locked away safe in the loony bin.”

Jarvis got his pipe alight.

“Then you might say this was nothing much more than a formality?”

“Off the record, yes.”

“No real need to bother Caroline, then?”

“I would have thought, sir,” Kramer said, “that you would realize that when the Colonel gives an order, you do your utmost to carry it out.”

That brought Jarvis back on parade. He straightened up and nodded curtly.

“Quite so. I’d forgotten you chappies were really a paramilitary outfit. And a damn good thing, too, if I may say so. I’ll tell Caroline you’re here, and then you can go up to her.”

Kramer clicked his heels together.

And spent the wait on a closer examination of the curious brass plates decorating the roof beam.

Pembrook had been so much better since lunchtime that he found himself given a clean bill of health just to get him out of the place. The decision was taken by the assistant district surgeon, who obviously thought his superior overcautious in ordering a day’s rest.

“There’s a good Rugby match at the Station Ground,” he advised. “Go and get some fresh air.”

“I will,” Pembrook answered, heading straight for the car pool and cadging a lift to 39 Woodland Avenue, which turned out to be the biggest house he had ever been inside.

Not that he was allowed further than the hall until the mistress had been summoned by a Bantu maid of infuriating superiority. The black bitch had given him the very distinct impression he should have presented himself at the back door, and he deeply resented that.

But she must have been new and not the usual carbon copy of her employer, because Sally Jarvis’s grandmother, Mrs. Trubshaw, was exceptionally hospitable-despite her natural concern that he should call. She ushered him into the drawing room and sent another maid for her granddaughter, adding an order for tea. “And now,” she said, taking up her embroidery, “ do tell me about yourself. It’s so unusual to come across one of us in your profession.”

She had to be joking.

The girl lying demure and dainty between the candy-striped sheets might have made it a lasting impression if Kramer had not noticed the hockey stick and shin guards under the window. She had to be tough, to play goalie. For the rest, she was-her head at any rate-a typical adaptation of the current debutante ideal now the State President had permitted such things: shoulder-length blond hair, plucked eyebrows, pert nose, and arrogant chin. The eyes were green and unabashed. The mouth ever so slightly sorry for itself.

“Hello, Caroline, I’m Lieutenant Kramer of the CID.”

“Hello.”

“How are you feeling-any better?”

“It only hurts a little, thank you.”

“Uhuh. Mind if I sit here? I’ve got just a couple of questions to ask you.”

“Daddy told me.”

She was nervous despite appearances-it showed in her voice. But curiously, not as much as he anticipated.

“What did your father tell you, then?”

“You know, about Andy. Something to do with a burglar.”

Kramer opened his notebook and wrote her name at the head of the page.

“The medical evidence suggests that Andy was drowned somewhere around eleven o’clock-where were you at this time?”

“I’ve already-”

“Please, miss. It’s best we start from scratch again. Just answer my questions.”

“I was here, asleep in my bed. I got in just before ten, had a shower and listened to pop on Springbok Radio. I must have dropped off before the advertisements because I don’t remember hearing them.”

“Say about ten-thirty, then?”

“Yes.”

The old, old story: much too glib, much too swiftly phrased, much too earnest. She was lying. Gold dust at the first turn of his shovel. And the ready means to assay it.

“But what if I told you there wasn’t any pop on Springbok that night? If you remember, it was the day of General Marais’s state funeral-all stations were playing solemn music.”

“Then it must have been Lourenco Marques. I didn’t really notice. Does it matter?”

He put a tick in the margin.

“ Ach, no! Us blokes just get in a habit of examining the facts. So you were asleep here. Did anything wake you? Did you hear any sounds?”

“Nothing at all until Jackson brought in my orange juice in the morning.”

“Dead to the world,” Kramer said, as he made a note.

“Pardon?”

“I said, Did you like him?”

“Who?”

“The American. Did you like him? Yes or no?”

“No,” she said spontaneously, and then looked appalled at herself.

“Don’t worry, your father’s already said he was a bit of a you-know-what.”

“Hell’s bells!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Daddy’s a jolly sight cleverer than I thought. Me and my friends thought Andy was effeminate until we found out.”

Kramer played for time by demonstrating his nasty smoker’s cough.

“But surely he wasn’t as bad as that?” he croaked.

“He was, though! A proper sex maniac with hands like hairy spiders running all over you.”

“I don’t believe it, miss.”

Which made it his turn to lie; Caroline sounded entirely, perplexingly genuine about her allegation. He began to share the confusion of a snake in a tuba.

“It’s true!”

“Then prove it. Tell me some more.”

“Are you going to write this down, too?”

“No, and I won’t repeat it either if you like. But it’ll help to give me a picture.”

The way she regarded him was probably the same as when she summed up a school friend before parting with a piece of juicy gossip. Even Lisbet had not managed to make him feel as young.

“Well,” she said, “promise not to let my parents know, but one night I even found him waiting in my bed! Honestly, I’m not bluffing. And what was really awful was that I’d started to undress before I noticed him. I’d come in rather late and I didn’t want to put on the light in case Daddy saw it under the door and there was a row. He’s terribly strict about being in bed by ten-none of my friends have to be. It’s really unfair.”

“But what happened when you saw him?”

“You’d never guess. He pulled his trousers out from under the bedclothes and asked me to hang them over a chair!”

“Did you?” Kramer chuckled, showing willing.

“I’d jolly well think not! I clouted him as hard as I could with a hanger-that made him scoot. I had to throw his pants after him, he went out of the door so fast.”

They both laughed.

“But why didn’t you tell your parents, Caroline? He sounds like he was dangerous.”

“You don’t know them, obviously. There would have been a terrible scene. Worse than that, they’d have gone mad at what people would think if we got rid of Andy without an explanation. My father’s spent half his life thinking about the Regiment and the other half about the Family Name. He can’t see a difference. He said ‘Welcome to the mess’ on Andy’s first night here and this made him a guest. Oh, something very special. It would have been a disgrace to the Family Name if he had gone, because people would think the thing was really our fault.”

“So you didn’t feel too bad when he drowned?”

She gasped.

“What a horrible thing to say! Of course I was upset-although it still doesn’t seem real and I forget when I’m talking.”

“My apologies.”

“You see, he was much better when he knew where he stood with me and my friends. And, in some ways, you couldn’t really blame him. America’s so different to us. He got a letter one day from Puerto Rico and in it was a picture of his girl friend pregnant in a bikini! ”

“Hey?”

“Yes, his mother, no less, had taken her down there for an abortion.”

“What about the girl’s ma?”

“Andy said she was too fed up to bother. It had happened once before.”

“These Americans.”

“Oh, they’re not all like that. Tracey Williams, she’s staying with the Flints, is quite different. She doesn’t go in for free love and smoking dagga and all that; in fact, she said Andy wouldn’t have had anything to do with her set at home.”

“How was he chosen to come?”

“I think there was a bit of a mistake.”

“I’ll say.”

But this was getting a little too cozy for Kramer not to have his suspicions. He put down his notebook and went over to the window. Jarvis was out there on the lawn, remonstrating with a garden boy.

“You don’t seem to have had much luck with your guests,” he murmured casually.

“You mean?”

The voice was apprehensive again.

“Boetie Swanepoel. He seems to have made a real pest of himself.” Kramer swung round in time to see an expression of cold indifference on her face. “Your father also had a few words to say about him.”

“Oh?”

“Were you surprised to hear what happened up at the country club, Caroline?”

“I think it’s shocking.”

“Apart from that? You seem pretty perceptive for a teenager. How do you suppose he was lured there?”

This forced her into making a reply.

“Well, he was the sort of kid who’d never miss an opportunity. A chancer, like Mummy says. He only took any notice of poor Sally because of the swimming bath, that stuck out a mile. Of course, we couldn’t tell her. She was so defensive about him, especially because he-wasn’t English.”

“What did he do that particularly annoyed you?”

“I’ve told you, treat Sally like an admission ticket. And he was always prying about the place. I caught him here in my room once, going through my dressing table.”

“Haven’t I heard this story before?” Kramer said flatly. “Or did he keep his pants on?”

She blushed-but with anger.

“Well, really!” she said. “I think you’d better fetch Daddy.”

“A joke. You don’t have to laugh if you don’t want to. Did Boetie tell jokes?”

“No.”

“Then let’s have your father up. He said Boetie told you a dirty story the last time he was here. Is that true? Or is everything you’ve been telling me just lies?”

“He’ll kick you out when he hears!”

“Give me an answer or-”

“What?”

“He might be very interested in what was allowed to go on under his nose.”

Caroline literally cowered-Kramer had never seen it done before in such surroundings. It gave him a warm sense of the brotherhood of man. Fear was the second great leveler, and a lot more practical.

“It wasn’t a joke, just something-”

“Go on!”

“Something crude and horrid he said to me. It came out of the blue, too, and didn’t even make sense.”

“The exact words, please.”

“He-he said he’d seen me fighting with Andy. In the garden. At night. I was sitting on him-and I hadn’t had any clothes on.”

“Fighting?”

She nodded, keeping her moistening eyes averted.

“When did he say this was? Caroline, I want an answer!”

“Do you think I’d stand for any more than that?” she flared. “I went straight to Daddy-but I didn’t say exactly what happened because he’d have exploded. He took Boetie into his study and told him never to come back.”

“And why do you think Boetie said this to you?”

“Because he was a nasty, dirty-minded bit of scum, that’s why! I’m not at all surprised what happened to him.”

“Young lady,” said Kramer, “I’m sorry I’ve had to push you like this, but you’ve just given me an insight into Boetie Swanepoel that nobody else could have done. It’ll help me a lot with the case.”

Caroline could not help glancing round.

“But I thought you came to see me about Andy?” she said in a whisper. “Was it a trick?”

“Oh, no, a coincidence. The boy’s none of my business but I’ll pass on the information without naming names. Now I’ve taken up enough of your time when you’re not feeling well. I’ll say thanks and get going. There’s nothing else about Andy to add?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Fine. Now if you’ll just give me the address of this boyfriend of yours.”

She sat up, wincing at a pain but not caring.

“What’s Glen got to do with Andy?” she asked.

“Routine-corroboration of your statement.”

“Please don’t ask him! I’d rather tell you myself.”

Kramer sat down and stretched out his legs. He signaled for her to proceed.

“You see, I wasn’t being truthful about the night of Andy’s accident. I wasn’t here-I sneaked out again when Daddy thought I’d gone to my bedroom. Glen was waiting in his car in the road. There was this party for Tracey-Sally let me in the back door.”

“And that’s the truth?”

“Yes, I promise. Honestly.”

“Suppose I ask Sally?”

“You can, she’ll say the same thing. I woke her up by chucking stones up at her window at about three and-”

“I believe you, Caroline.” Kramer sighed and meant it. “Forget what I said about telling your father anything. Your secrets are safe with me.”

Poor bloody kid. He tried to reach the door before gratitude engulfed him.

“Just a moment, Lieutenant,” she called.

“Uhuh?”

“Weren’t you going to ask me about my lipstick? That’s what Daddy said.”

“Oh, that.”

“Mine did disappear that night because I wanted to wear it at the party. But it couldn’t have been the burglar because I missed it before supper.”