The Redbreast

106

Police HQ. 19 May 2000.

Harry had just placed his feet on the desk and found the perfect sitting position when the telephone rang. So as not to lose his position, he stretched forward while using his backside muscles to balance on the new office chair with the treacherous well-oiled wheels. He was able to reach the phone with the tips of his fingers. 'Hole.'

'Harry? Isaiah Burne in Johannesburg speaking. How are you?'

'Isaiah? This is a surprise.'

'Is it? I'm ringing to thank you, Harry'

'Thank me for what?'

'For not starting anything?'

'Starting what?'

'You know what I mean, Harry. For not starting any diplomatic moves for a reprieve or anything like that.'

Harry didn't answer. He had been half expecting this call for a while. The sitting position wasn't comfortable any longer. Andreas Hochner's begging eyes were suddenly present. And Constance Hochner's imploring voice: Do you promise to do what you can, Mr Hole?

'Harry?'

'I'm still here.'

'The sentence was passed yesterday.'

Harry stared at the picture of Sis on the wall. It had been an unusually warm summer that year, hadn't it? They had gone swimming even when it was raining. He felt an inexpressible sadness wash over him.

'Death penalty?' he heard himself ask.

'With no right of appeal.'