The Steam Pig

2

A suspect in the next room screamed. Not continuously, but at irregular intervals which made concentration difficult. Then the typewriter unaccountably jammed. The report was not going to be finished on time; Colonel Du Plessis had stipulated four o’clock and it was already 3.55 with at least a page to go.

“So you can bloody well stick it, Colonel sir,” Lieutenant Tromp Kramer declared loudly. He was quite alone in the Murder Squad office.

And finally giving vent to a righteous anger. There was simply no sense in risking a hernia by hammering out the mundane events which had led to the sudden messy death of Bantu female Gertrude Khumalo. No sense at all.

Her killer, one Bantu male Johannes Nkosi, had resisted arrest just before dawn and was mostly in the intensive care unit at Peacevale Hospital. His chances of standing trial were minimal, the doctors said-which was one way of putting it. Okay, so there would be an inquest. But an inquest was nothing compared to a court case. Nobody would be interested in more than a brief statement from the witness box. Nor would there be any trouble from the families involved. Gertrude’s lot were more than satisfied with the way things had gone. Shanty town folk always relished a bit of rough justice administered in this world and the forensic niceties left for the next. As for Nkosi’s relatives, they had never heard of him.

Plainly a lot of totally unnecessary paperwork and fiddle could be avoided by shelving the matter overnight. And the Colonel knew this only too well, the bastard. He had not been called out at 4 a.m.

Worse still, he would not even bother to glance through the report when he got it; if you’ve read one Bantu murder you’ve read the lot, he inevitably observed. All he wanted was the sordid particulars converted into a docket of nice clean paper which he could delicately press fore and aft with his rubber stamp. That done, he would smugly add the job to his Crimes Solved graph and get back to arse-creeping the Brigadier-yet another triumph for law and order reduced to a colonic toehold. The four o’clock deadline was quite arbitrary, a crude manifestation of incipient megalomania.

Which somehow brought the time up to a minute after the hour and the telephone rang.

Oh jesus, the Colonel. The voice from the carpeted office above was petulant. Kramer swung the receiver away from his ear and ran a finger down the thigh of his calendar girl. She was delightfully brown.

The shrill squeakings stopped abruptly.

Kramer responded with practised contrition: “Sorry, sir-I’ll have it with you first thing tomorrow. Hey? ”

Something had upset the Colonel but it was nothing to do with the report, that much was obvious. Kramer grabbed a ballpoint and managed to get down three names before the line went dead. Damn, he should have asked for a recap. He had not the faintest bloody idea what was going on.

Still, he had the names. While he did not know Theresa le Roux from Eve van der Genesis, the old music-hall turn of Abbott and Strydom was all too familiar. It gave more than a fair indication of where a fruitful investigation could start and about time, too.

He buzzed the duty officer, booked himself out, and left the building on foot. Georgie’s place was just around the corner, behind the museum.

As Kramer turned into Ladysmith Street, he saw a taxi from the station rank draw up outside the funeral parlour. Almost immediately a great meal sack of a woman topped with ginger frizz launched herself at it from a side entrance, followed by an ageing cook boy dragging two suitcases. Then Georgie emerged cautiously into the street as if expecting sniper fire to do the soap-and-water bit with his hands.

Kramer sidestepped into a bus queue and watched the departure over the top of someone’s evening newspaper.

Georgie’s mute appeals were to no avail. Without sparing him a glance, Ma Abbott heaved herself aboard the taxi. It shuddered and then took off with a squeal of contempt from its tyres.

Somebody had been a naughty boy again. And this time the old bitch was not going to share in the disgrace. To give her credit where it was due, her loyalty had so far been remarkable, even at the height of the Sister Constance scandal. That was when Georgie had forgotten to finish off the eyes and had displayed the nun in the chapel with a lewd wink for her mourners.

The bus had been and gone and Kramer was standing alone on the kerb. Georgie had vanished. There was no more playing for time to be had-he would have to take a chance on his penchant for patterns.

The front office was empty apart from an elderly customer intent on a catalogue of ornate headstones. From the look of her, she had not a moment to lose.

Kramer went to the farthest end of the high counter and gave the service bell a pat. There was a responding clatter from somewhere offstage behind the curtains. Then nothing. Perhaps Georgie kept a cat-although Christ knew what mice would find to eat in the place.

He rang the bell again, twice.

Come to think of it, a satin-quilted de luxe model would make mice one hell of a boudoir. Maybe they came round at night to sleep and have their friends in. Hmm, premature burial was a risk. No doubt that could account for the frequent preoccupation of pallbearers processing with their ears pressed against the coffin side: they were evaluating the frantic scratching sounds from within.

But it would take some cat to tweak a peephole in the curtains five feet above their hem. And to creak the floorboards so loudly in retreat. Kramer found all this instructive and reassuring. Something was definitely in the air.

An impression which was confirmed almost immediately by the arrival of Sergeant Fanie Prinsloo, who was standing in as official photographer for the week.

“Come to take my little snaps,” he said cheerily, dumping an enormous gadget bag on the counter. Prinsloo could never resist bringing every damn bit of equipment with him; ordinarily he worked in Fingerprints and had to satisfy his artistic drive at weekends with a box camera.

Kramer greeted him guardedly.

“What gives, Lieutenant?” Prinsloo said after a pause.

“You try,” Kramer suggested, pushing across the bell.

Prinsloo was plainly puzzled by all this standing around on ceremony. But he grinned and thumped it with his sirloin of a fist. Still nothing happened.

So Kramer sighed and Prinsloo mistook relief for agitation. Not that the sergeant was stupid, simply new to CID and as yet poorly acquainted with the men in the Murder Squad-something which Kramer intended to exploit. His ploy was to invert the unwritten law No. 178/a which states it is an officer’s prerogative to pretend ignorance in order to establish the efficiency of subordinates.

“Right, Sergeant, what were your orders?” Kramer challenged.

Orders was a rather strong word to use in the context of a routine assignment, but Prinsloo recognised the ritual and replied very properly: “I was told to report to you here and to take what pictures seemed necessary.”

“Of?”

“Some dolly or other.”

“Name?”

“Er-something Le Roux, sir.”

“Theresa le Roux?” Kramer snapped, inducing the required degree of discomfiture.

Predictably, in an attempt to appease, it now all came out in a rush: “Look sir, I was in the darkroom when the chief starts yelling through the door that I’d better get down here quick because you are on your way and Doc Strydom has done a p.m. on the wrong body because Abbott made a balls and it’s murder.”

Kramer remained silent-which took some doing.

“That’s all he said, sir. Plus the name. But you-”

“No need to get like that, Sarge,” Kramer said soothingly. “Got to keep you new boys on your toes.”

So that was it. A murder. And for once it sounded like the real thing.

Prinsloo just had time to grab his gear before Kramer disappeared through the curtains. Beyond them was the chapel, which reeked of stale vase water, and then a passage lined with floral tributes waiting to be distributed to the sick. Stepping carefully, they reached a door marked mortuary and pushed it open.

Dr Strydom was alone. He turned sharply at the sound of the door slamming back on its spring and hurriedly waddled over.

“Ah, Lieutenant, I’m delighted to see you.”

“Doctor.”

“Got my little message, did you?”

“Sort of.”

“Ah.”

“What’s been going on here, then?”

Dr Strydom overtly looked round Kramer to see if there was anyone standing behind him.

“You’ve not seen Mr Abbott? Strange, I thought he was out there. This little affair is rather delicate.”

“Oh yes?”

A deep breath, then: “In a nutshell, Lieutenant, I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a muddle. Two cadavers, both female, and my official one got cremated this afternoon.”

Prinsloo clucked his tongue like a wog washerwoman finding pee stains.

“Where does that leave us?” Kramer inquired coldly. He had not moved since entering.

Dr Strydom paused to pick his words.

“You could say a lot better off-if not too much fuss is made.”

Now Kramer was certain that the district surgeon had been party to the little affair, as he called it. Georgie had not accomplished it all by himself. However, that side of it could be dealt with later when the old dodderer’s co-operation and self-confidence were not so essential. He shrugged negligently.

“Uhuh. Who went in the oven?”

“I took the liberty of checking while you were coming over,” Dr Strydom replied. “Some poor old dear found under a bush down near Mason’s Stream where the sherry tramps hang out. Just a routine. Age? Booze? Both probably. Somebody to sign the certificate. A right tart in her day I hear.”

Kramer turned his gaze to the table.

“And this one? Another tart?”

“I very much doubt it,” Dr Strydom answered, snapping the cuffs of his rubber gloves.

“But you’re sure it’s murder?”

“Oh, yes! Why not see for yourself?” His tone became curiously gleeful, rather like an amateur magician’s opening patter. Friends, I am about to utterly astonish you.

So the two detectives followed him over. On the way Kramer realised why the one place he hated seeing a stiff was a morgue. The trouble was the height of the table which gave you no opportunity to adjust to the sight by degrees on the approach. You had to be on top of it before you knew what it was all about.

Where Mr Abbott had last seen his Ophelia, Kramer now saw a life-size rag doll. Or so it seemed. Large knives, hardly scalpels, are used for opening a body. This one was now held together again by thick black thread in Dr Strydom’s erratic herringbone stitch with the surgeon’s tow stuffing protruding at intervals. It was also a patchwork of bright colours-the sun having shifted across to act like a giant projector lamp behind the stained glass windows. When Dr Strydom switched on the main light he heightened the illusion by rendering the hues in pastel, which better suited the form, and by making the untouched head and shoulders gleam like fine porcelain. Kramer noticed that a very tiny brush had been used to paint on such long eyelashes.

And he concentrated for a while on the head. One thing was certain: he had never seen it before-that was a face you would never forget. He bent to examine the hair roots.

“Yes, it’s dyed,” Dr Strydom said. “Brown eyes, you see. A common enough failing among nice young women, not only tarts.”

Kramer jerked a thumb crudely.

“Well, on a rough guess, I’d say she lost her virginity about a year ago,” Dr Strydom chuckled. “But that doesn’t amount to much these days either. You should see-”

“Any kids?”

“No, never.”

“Disease?”

“None.”

“Then the chances are she wasn’t sleeping around, just having it with a steady.”

“Right.”

“That gives us something to go on. Recently, do you think?”

“Possibly not within twelve hours of death. Although it would depend on precautionary method preferred.”

Kramer smiled wryly at the lapse into clinic jargon. The old bugger was more himself now.

“Well, Doc, what about the m.o.?”

“Like to take a guess?”

“After you’ve hacked her around? It looks like a Mau Mau atrocity. What did the death cert. say?”

“Cardiac.”

“And what was it?”

“Bicycle spoke.”

The words stabbed. Christ, this was really something. Bantu murdering Bantu was nothing. White murdering white was seldom any better, they just had counsel who could make a ready reckoner wring your heart. But mix Bantu and white together and you had instant headlines two inches high. It remained to be seen how much larger they could grow when it was known that a bizarre Bantu weapon had been used.

Kramer gestured impatiently for the district surgeon to turn the body on its side.

“Know what the Lieutenant’s up to?” Dr Strydom asked Prinsloo.

“He’s looking for puncture marks along the spine,” Prinsloo whispered, “where they put the spoke in to paralyse her-like Shoe Shoe.”

Dr Strydom smiled smugly.

“She’s dead, not paralysed, man. What’s happened here is along the same lines but the intent is quite different. Think for a moment. When the spoke’s used by the local boys they sterilise the point first with a match. Why? So there won’t be any infection. So the victim will live to regret his mistakes as long as possible. Like Shoe Shoe, as you said.

“Here, however, it is used the way I saw it done thirty years ago on the Rand, in the Jo’burg townships. Not often, mind you, and it’s so clever we probably missed dozens on a Monday with the weekend to clear up. Speciality of the Bantu gangs. Look…”

Dr Strydom pulled the left arm away from the body and propped it at right angles on the edge of the slab. He pointed.

“Tell me what you see there,” he said.

Kramer stopped. It was an armpit. A small, hairy armpit. The girl had not used a razor, unusual but without significance.

“Now look again,” Dr Strydom urged, parting the tufts with a retractor.

“Flea bite?”

“All quite simple if you have the stomach for it,” Dr Strydom explained. “You take your spoke, nicely sharpened up on a brick, and slide it in here between the third and fourth rib. Your target’s the aorta where it ascends from the heart.”

“Yirra, you call that simple,” Prinsloo scoffed.

“Oh, but it is. You just aim for the high point on the opposite shoulder. The artery is pretty tough so you know when you’ve hit it. An expert can do it first time, a novice may take a few shots-like trying to spear spaghetti round on a plate.”

Prinsloo backed off a pace. Big and paunchy, he looked a man who enjoyed his food.

“And then?” Kramer was engrossed.

“Man, the pressure in that aorta’s fantastic,” Dr Strydom continued. “I’ve seen blood hit the ceiling with an aneurism that burst during an op. But as you withdraw a thin thing like a bike spoke, it seals off, see? All those layers, muscles, lungs, tissue, close up. You just wrap a hankie or rag round the spoke in the armpit and that takes care of any on the way out.”

Kramer straightened up, patted his pockets for cigarettes and took one the district surgeon proffered.

“Not bad, not bad at all, Doctor.”

Dr Strydom attempted modesty: “Of course I tracked it down from all the blood loose in the cavities. One can’t really blame Matthews, I suppose.”

“Who’s that?”

“Her doctor, a GP out Morninghill way. The visible signs were identical to certain types of cardiac arrest. She had a history, I’m told.”

That was a slip. In Kramer’s experience death certificates never mentioned case histories. This meant that the DS must have already been in touch with Matthews. Pity, now he would have all his excuses off pat, but that was the medical brotherhood for you-more closely-knit than the Mafia and often as deadly. Still, he would let that pass, too. He had one or two questions to go.

“How long would it have taken her to die?”

“Ten minutes, fifteen at the outside; although if the shock itself was great enough I’d say almost immediately”

“Uhuh. Scream?”

“She could’ve but it’d only take a pillow to muffle it. There’s no facial bruising. Anyhow, with her brain starved of blood she’d be out pretty quickly.”

“What about this bruising on her arm?”

“Can’t be positive. Easily come by when you’ve been thrashing round in a convulsion.”

This association of violent action with the violently inactive Miss Le Roux had the subtle obscenity of a warm lavatory seat. Kramer decided he had had enough.

“She’s all yours, Sergeant. When you’ve finished the ones for your private album, I’d like a set of six head-and-shoulders not looking too glum.”

Dr Strydom accompanied him from the room.

“Where’s Abbott?” Kramer demanded in the passage.

“Here, officer,” came a meek voice from the chapel. And although Ma Abbott had gone, and Farthing was out doing a country removal, he insisted on being interviewed in his showroom, which had a soundproof sliding door.

At this point Dr Strydom took his leave, having suddenly remembered his daily appointment beside the triangle in the central prison. Those sentenced to strokes would already be lining up and waiting for him. He had to certify them fit for punishment, see the kidneys were properly protected, and keep an eye on responses. Buttocks are a common vehicle of abuse, but it is not prudent to abuse them overmuch.

“Okay, but I want the laboratory reports tonight,” Kramer said, turning abruptly away. He let Abbott see to the door while he chose the big chair behind the big desk. But he did not sit in it.

This caught Mr Abbott in a half-crouch as he was lowering himself into the sofa opposite.

Kramer smiled.

Mr Abbott tried to smile.

Then he straightened up with a little spring and went across to one of the coffins on display. He said: “Silly mistake.”

“A lulu,” said Kramer.

“Arabella,” Mr Abbott corrected, pointing to the easel card.

Kramer went round to inspect it. Then he leaned over to read the silver nameplate.

“False-I mean fictitious,” explained Mr Abbott.

“Uhuh.”

Kramer was pre-occupied with the reflection of his face in the highly polished lid. It was certainly a salutory experience to see how you would look some day. On second thoughts, though, death would not be able to make more of those sunken cheeks, deep-set eyes and protrudent front teeth. It was a hard face, an ugly face, a face which saved you a lot of beating about the bush. Kramer winked at it with his offside eye.

Then he returned to the big chair and sat down. This time Mr Abbott compromised by perching himself on the sofa’s arm rest.

“A lulu,” Kramer repeated sternly. “Colonel Du Plessis doesn’t know what to do with you-throw the book or pin a medal.”

Mr Abbott squirmed.

“I’m really most dreadfully sorry,” he whispered.

“Save it,” Kramer snapped. “I’m only interested in Le Roux.”

“But what about Miss Bowen?”

“For a court to decide, if it gets that far. She wasn’t much. Maybe you’ll be lucky.”

“Thank God.”

Mr Abbott slid down into the plush cushions.

“See it my way, Lieutenant,” he pleaded. “Farthing did both removals so I had nothing personal to go on. I thought I’d looked at the labels, but we then were rushed. It never occurred to me she was on the Trinity’s books.”

“Why not?”

“At her age? You could almost call it morbid.”

“Why?”

“You must have seen Trinity’s adverts, officer. They cater for the elderlies and the not-so-well-off. She was young and you could tell from the toes she had money.”

“Hey?”

“I know it’s a bit of a cheek, but I must say I’m a bit of an expert on toes. Just the length of the nails can tell you a lot. In her case it was the toes not being all scrunched up by shoes not made exactly for her. Most shoes have quite a gap between their sizes you know, and it’s only measured lengthwise.”

“Come on man, what’s this all about?”

“Well, I must admit it had me puzzled at first, then it struck me: either she had her shoes made by hand, or-and this was more likely-she could afford Clarks’ or some other expensive kind that come in widths as well. Most important, widths. Obviously, either way, she had money.”

Kramer was in no mood to audition for Dr Watson, but he managed to sound impressed.

“You must have spent quite a time on the body.”

“Oh yes.”

“Just the toes?”

“Well… there were the routine checks for rings, jewellery.”

“Yes?”

“Didn’t find any.”

“And you didn’t notice on the label she was a Trinity?”

“No.”

“I see,” said Kramer. “So you spent most of your time on the toes. Funny that, because I think she must have been quite a dolly before your friend got his knives to her.”

Mr Abbott shifted nervously.

“In fact, I would say there’s more to all this than you’re telling me,” Kramer added, his voice made sinister by a sudden intuitive insight.

And he watched with satisfaction as Mr Abbott blanched. He preferred him that shade. It went better with the furnishings. It ensured that there would be no more idle chatter.

“What exactly do you want to know, Lieutenant?” Mr Abbott managed to say at last.

“How come Doc Strydom didn’t check out the body for himself? Is he often filleting your customers by accident?”

“Have you asked him that?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Good, because I must take the blame,” Mr Abbott declared manfully. “All I said to him on the phone this morning was that there was a white female and I’d have it ready and waiting as usual.”

“But he has forms to fill in, right?”

“Normally we do the names and that afterwards-together, so to speak.”

“Uhuh?”

“You see, he comes in here and I provide particulars while we-”

“Yes?”

“Have a glass or two.”

The poor little sod, you would have thought Ma Abbott had the room bugged from the way he dropped his voice almost to nothing for the awful revelation. Kramer tried the drawer with the key in it and scored first time.

He poured a large one for himself and another, in a glass already suspiciously fragrant, for Mr Abbott. It was cheap medicinal brandy, no doubt a stock-in-trade in the event of graveside collapse. A quick calculation indicated somebody must have been spreading tales of mourners going down like ninepins out on Monument Hill. They sipped slowly and in silence.

But only for a minute.

“Let’s get this straight from the start,” Kramer said. “Farthing did the whatsits.”

“Removals, officer. The old woman from the State morgue-Sergeant Van Rensburg was up to his eyebrows after the derailment-and the girl from her home.”

“Go on.”

“Then he had the morning off. I was rather rushed so-”

“Yes, yes!” Kramer interrupted.

“What happened was we left for the crematorium before Dr Strydom arrived.”

“But there must have been forms.”

“Mrs Abbott always saw to that.”

“Who had them?”

“Farthing. That was it, you see. Miss -er, she was covered up with a sheet and the Trinity doesn’t allow for an inscription plate-that’s an ordinary Arabella over there. Farthing just saw a coffin.”

“Both women were about the same size?”

“Yes.”

“There was a minister at the crematorium? Didn’t he say the name?”

“I’d gone out again to park the hearse, they were expecting another right on our tail.”

“And this bloke Farthing?”

“In the crematorium office still, signing the book.”

“So it wasn’t until you got back here you knew you had made a mistake?”

“No.”

Ambiguity exercised its single virtue and a subtlety escaped Kramer. Mr Abbott finished his glass in a gulp.

“Okay, if you weren’t there at the start, were you inside at any stage?”

“The whole of the latter part.”

“Ah, then can you describe any of the mourners? Anyone that struck you as-”

“There weren’t any.”

Kramer put his glass down. This was unexpected. According to the medical evidence, there should have been at least one. A forlorn male wondering where his next was coming from.

Mr Abbott continued hastily: “I assure you it was advertised in the local papers as is required by Trinity under its policy, but not a soul turned up. And that’s another reason I didn’t expect anything was wrong: elderlies, especially the ones on Trinity’s books, often have no one. That’s why they join.”

Now came the moment that Kramer had been trying to avoid.

“Have you got Miss Le Roux’s papers handy?” he asked.

Mr Abbott pointed to a ledger emblazoned Trinity Records beside the telephone. Kramer began to leaf slowly through it.

“I see what you mean,” he murmured, “half these old crones have got one foot and a cornplaster in it already.”

Finally he reached the entry he was after and found it revealed nothing but the name, the policy number, the date and means of disposal, and the coding. He noted down the latter and then unfolded a document which had been tucked into the page.

It appeared to be the official go-ahead from the local branch of Trinity Burial Society, and there were a few details above a mass of small print about expenditure.

Name: Le Roux, Theresa

Date of birth: December 12, 1948

Race: White

Address: 223B Barnato Street, Trekkersburg

Status: Single Occupation: Music teacher

Next-of-kin: None

Instructions: Disposal as convenient

Well, that solved something. Or did it? Even orphans generally have someone to weep over them. And what about the people living at 223A? And-most significantly of all-what about the pupils? A teacher dying posed parents a problem they would be only too eager to smother under a mountain of wreaths. There was the time factor, of course; the Press notice had only run one day-the day of the funeral.

“No flowers?” Kramer asked.

“None,” replied Mr Abbott, pausing a moment to think visibly as he refilled his glass.

Very, very strange. For a single, unguarded moment, Kramer felt intense, almost affectionate, respect for whoever had set up this killing. For once a murderer had attempted to do a proper job. Most never bothered to give their deed any constructive thought-Nkosi had been a good example of this. With them it was a case of deplorable self-control followed by instant action with whatever weapon was handiest. Nkosi had snatched up a cane knife, slashed Gertrude thirty-two times in front of the neighbours, and then stood around wiping the blood from his hands on the seat of his trousers while the police were called. Some did try a little harder. They were usually whites or sophisticated wogs who had gone to mission schools. In either case, he was sure it was a question of reading. Do-gooders, who saw to stocking mission libraries, always seemed to have limitless private sources of second-hand Agatha Christies. This type of murderer felt a social responsibility to adopt the key role in an intricate game of skill-some would call it mischance. They were careful with alibis and fingerprints. They had answers for everything. They often took tremendous pains to eradicate the body. In the final analysis, though, they saw themselves ranged against the police-whether in the open or watching from a thicket of deceit. They knew that the very act of concealing their connection with the murder had incriminated them. They were committed to a battle of wits. Even if they succeeded in setting up a “missing person” situation, they never knew when the bugle might suddenly sound as a pet dog unearthed a delectable but forbidden bone. A perfect murder, however, owed nothing to this outlook. Its perpetrator made no attempt to disassociate himself from his deed-simply because he was totally confident his deed would never be recognised as such. He shed clues without a care because no one would ever seek them. He did not give the police any more thought than they an unfamiliar name in the Gazette ’s Deaths column. His way was Nature’s Way. A pedant might insist that some element of risk remained: a husband impregnating his wife could not be certain a mongol would not result. Yet in both cases only the odds were what mattered. And the odds against having a mongol would be considerably lower than those against a doctor doubting his own opinion on the demise of a known cardiac case-and astronomically lower than those against a professional undertaker switching bodies in the heat of some unspeakable passion. Yet the battle had begun.

“Well, Georgie, I must say you’ve really pulled one out of the hat this time,” Kramer remarked, affable on adrenalin.

“Thanks,” Mr Abbott muttered. He was well into his third glass and very, very much happier.

Kramer’s glands had, in fact, started to cause havoc with their secretions. It was like being love-struck; he felt lighter than air, eager and ready for action. All he wanted was to go charging out and get his man. Sick. It was altogether a condition to be profoundly distrusted. So he decided to sit back, talk a little, ponder a little, be nice to Georgie who was not bad for an English-speaking bloke.

“You see,” he said, “it was a case of all or nothing with the bastard who did it. You can bet your last cent he had a lot at stake. So what does he choose?-the ultimate weapon, a bloody bike spoke. Only, things have gone wrong and it’s like getting caught in your own fall-out. Anyone can shoot a gun, or stab with a knife, but very few can handle a spoke. That narrows it down.”

“I’d say.”

“Another thing: what was a white girl doing getting mixed up with kaffir gangster tricks? That’s a good one for you.”

“It is indeed, marvellous.”

“Go easy on that stuff, Georgie.”

“Never fear, old boy, Ma’s gone home to mumsywumsy. Even worse, she is. Still alive only because she doesn’t want me to get my hands on her.”

Kramer laughed.

“Tell you what, bring the bugger back here when you get him,” Mr Abbott offered, “I’ll see to him for you.”

His leer was frightening.

“Not a chance,” Kramer replied, standing up. “This one’s all mine. He won’t know what hit him.”

Mr Abbott raised his glass to toast the sentiment.

“Just you see he doesn’t get to hear of what happened today,” Kramer warned softly. “This gives us a good start as long as we keep it quiet. Understand?”

“Absolutely, old boy.”

Mr Abbott’s company had suddenly become tedious. Besides which, Kramer no longer felt rarin’ to go. So he went.