“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.”