“Damn,” Moosa groaned, looking very sorry for himself. “Damn and blastings. Have you told Gogol yet?”
“He doesn’t like kaffirs in his store who aren’t there to spend their money.”
Moosa sighed.
“A hard man, Sergeant,” he said. “A very hard man.”
Zondi allowed him to dwell silently on the ruthless nature of the greengrocer. And then he observed philosophically: “There is work and there is work.”
“What do you mean, Sergeant?”
“That there are many different things a man may do to earn his money.”
“Huh, money! That’s all that Gogol thinks is important. I tell him one, two hundred times, education is what makes a man. He just rubs his thumb.”
“Hau!”
“Yes, that’s the truth of it. He’s so mean that the other night I took one little bag of peanuts off the shelf downstairs and he wrote that down in his book, too.”
“So he is expecting you to pay him back then?”
This made Moosa laugh like a clown, one of the sad ones.
“But does it matter where the money comes from, Moosa?”
The Indian looked sideways at Zondi.
“I’m not mixed up in anything,” he said darkly-and showed his hurt when Zondi chuckled.
“You’re a man of education, right, Moosa?”
“I apply myself to my studies.”
“You have a quick eye and a good ear? You can think intelligently?”
“I have always done so.”
“Good. Then would you like a job where you decide your own hours-even what you’re going to do?”
“This is very interesting, I must say, Sergeant. What is it?”
“Ah, let us test your powers!” Zondi replied. “You guess.”
Moosa spent some time on it. Then he got it in a flash when Zondi took two Rand notes from his wallet and pushed them into the row of encyclopaedias.
“It’s good money and no tax either,” Zondi coaxed.
“Too damn dangerous. I’m a man of intellect, not a man of action, Sergeant-thanks all the same.”
“Rubbish, Moosa, you can take your time. Surely you don’t think a man with your mind is going to be outwitted by the types we’re interested in?”
Moosa shrugged.
“It happened once,” he said, flattered but wary.
“And couldn’t happen again, not with all the reading you say you’ve done. How about it? You could even have a little revenge if we can fix it.”
Moosa waddled over and examined the notes.
“But what are these for?” he asked.
“The tip-off about the Lesotho car.”
“Did that help you then?”
“Not so far-we need more about it and quickly. So you can call our small gift an advance if you like.”
While he was talking, Zondi took out a paperback and admired its cover.
“James Bond,” Moosa said. “Have you read any? Beautiful writing.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Zondi replied, casually handing the volume over.
Moosa took a long look at the blonde in Bond’s arms.
“Well, I must get back now,” Zondi said from the doorway. “We’re in a big hurry on this one. Maybe you could go out for a look this afternoon, Moosa?”
The reek of the flowers was overpowering. It began to sicken Kramer as he sat, ankle-deep in bouquets and tributes, at Mrs Johnson’s side in the store room and waited for her to stop weeping.
So he decided to go through and have a belated interview with Farthing. He might even take a statement.
“Is she comfy in there?” Farthing asked as he approached the counter. “I was so surprised when you said the showroom wouldn’t do. She doesn’t look it, does she?”
“Name?” Kramer asked gruffly.
“Jonathan Farthing.”
“Address?”
“I live here, I’ve a little flat round the back.”
“You took the girl from the cottage in Barnato Street?”
“I did the removal, yes.”
“By yourself?”
“We’ve got one of these clever new-fangled things with wheels on and handles.”
“I see. What can you remember of the occasion?”
“Just it was very straightforward. Bundled her in and shot back here.”
“You don’t seem to take your profession very seriously.”
“Frankly, Lieutenant, I’m not very interested in that side of things. I’m more-”
“ I’m not interested, Mr Farthing. Tell me what you saw at the cottage.”
“Well, it was all very tasteful, wasn’t it? Lovely curtains in the bedroom, I’ve been trying to find some of that material ever since.”
Kramer sighed and hoped his breath was bad.
“So sorry, I’m sure. The girl? It struck me she was very peaceful; the bedclothes were not disturbed or anything, apart from what the doctors had moved. Oh, yes, I’d almost forgotten-I switched off her bedside lamp.”
“Still burning?”
“Yes, but it was the only one. After that I noticed whether the others were out.”
“You didn’t leave any fingerprints-how was that?”
“The little difference between the old and the new schools, you might say. I always wear gloves.”
“Uhuh.”
Kramer closed his notebook.
“That seems to be all, Mr Farthing. But tell me one thing: why didn’t you fix up Miss Le Roux yourself and not leave it to Mr Abbott?”
“Oh, there’s no hurry once they’re in the fridge. Besides which-”
“What?”
“I personally prefer-not to do females.”
“And Mr Abbott?”
But just then three off-duty postmen of roughly the same height arrived to change into their pall-bearer suits and earn an afternoon’s beer money. They apologised on behalf of the other corner who could not come as he had the hiccoughs.
Kramer left Farthing panicking quietly at the thought of finding a replacement, and went back down the passage to see how Mrs Johnson was getting on. He found her sitting up very straight, her eyes dry and her hat off.
“Somebody killed my little girl,” she said as he entered.
“Yes, they did. Now, are you going to help us find out who?”
“If I can.”
“Thank you, Mrs Johnson.”
“The name is really Francis, sir. Johnson was my maiden name.”
“But Gladys stays the same?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, Gladys, that’s the style. Was your daughter trying for white?”
Mrs Francis smiled wanly.
“She was trying for white, as they say.”
“She made a good job of it,” Kramer remarked. “There wasn’t a trace of her past anywhere in her flat. A spy couldn’t have done better. The only thing I found was one tiny photograph.”
“Oh? Where was that?”
“In a heart-shaped locket.”
She bit her lip.
“That was Mr Francis, her dad.”
“Look, Gladys, maybe it would be better if we went back right to the very beginning.”
“Must we?”
“It could help me a lot in understanding.”
This obviously appealed to her.
Kramer sat down on the other chair that Farthing had provided from the chapel and prepared to write.
“You were born in the Cape?”
Her scornful laugh brought his head up sharply in surprise.
“Why do you people always think Coloureds are all born in the Cape?”
Again, that curious over-reaction on her part.
“Where then?”
“Durban.”
“And-?”
Kramer’s ballpoint hovered, ready to set the date down. But the pad slid unheeded from his knee a moment later.
“And I was born white,” Mrs Francis said. “We were all born white. The whole family. And we lived white, too.”
11
Over the years Kramer had taken down a great variety of formal statements. They had ranged from long, rambling allegations about neighbours’ dogs to short, pitiful admissions by parents who had failed to keep a proper eye on baby in his bath. More than once he had snatched his tiny cramped words from a dying breath.
This should have prepared him to function professionally under any circumstances but he abandoned the idea after the first ten pages. He just let Mrs Francis talk and jotted down what he could. His brain was bruised from doing somersaults, it needed a rest.