“You gave her name?”
“Well, that’s all I knew-wasn’t it? And I told him her age because Farthing had mentioned it to me in passing.”
“I see. Well, it takes all kinds. I don’t think I’d have stayed around in that room. Too morbid for me.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that with your job. Councillor Trenshaw wasn’t the least troubled. Why, he waited there to see the procedure when we opened the doors again. It gave me an excellent opportunity to press for some more up-to-date equipment.”
“You could say then, Mr Byers-and don’t get me wrong-that Councillor Trenshaw enjoyed his visit?”
“I would rather say that he seemed very satisfied with everything he saw. He congratulated us all.”
Mr Byers glanced up at the clock.
“I must be mad. Here am I, gabbling away about nothing, and I’ve got the new tapes to put on. You must excuse me.”
Suddenly there were a lot of questions that Kramer wanted to ask. Far more than he knew would be prudent. So he left.
And all the way back to town he remained silent.
Zondi was changing down for the turn into De Wet Street towards the office when Kramer ordered him to carry straight on. He did so without question. He understood.
Presently they arrived at Trekkersburg Bird Sanctuary. Apart from the water fowl on the lake, and a giant tortoise, it was deserted. The thousands of egrets which also lived there commuted to the countryside during the day-returning at dusk to shriek and squabble deafeningly in the trees. This was what brought the crowds; no show, no humans.
It was quiet.
The tortoise ignored Zondi. After one hundred and nine years, or so claimed the brass plate bolted to its shell, there was nothing new in the world.
Zondi dropped a burning cigarette stub in front of its head to see what would happen. Nothing.
But Kramer had to react to smoke when he sniffed it.
“Zondi!”
“I come, boss.”
The door was already open for him.
A black Oldsmobile made its way swiftly along De Wet Street. The driver, a tough, red-faced man with oiled grey hair, handled it well-braking neatly out of the flow of traffic and slipping into the parking-prohibited area in front of the main branch of Barclay’s Bank. A freckled youth in shirtsleeves sat chewing beside him.
Van Niekerk paused to watch them.
The driver took a careful look around. Then he nodded to the youth and they got out. Both were armed.
A passing shorthand typist, hurrying back from a hair appointment, heard Van Niekerk’s sigh and half-turned. But his eyes were on the men.
The driver had tucked his revolver into his waistband and was unlocking the boot of the Oldsmobile. His young companion stood self-consciously over him, the automatic in his hand really far too large to dangle casually by the trigger guard.
“You’d better look out how you handle that thing,” Van Niekerk reprimanded. “The safety’s off and there could be trouble if it dropped.”
“Mind your own bloody business,” the driver said, heaving two bulky briefcases out of the car.
The youth insolently blew a bubble with his gum. It burst and stuck to the embryo ginger moustache.
Van Niekerk had to laugh.
“We’d soon change your ways in the Force,” he said mildly, turning his back on an outburst of apologies.
And then he sighed again.
Of all days, the Lieutenant had to pick a Friday to send him on a check of the banks. Friday when money was pouring in by the bagful, struggling out by the walletful, and every teller in the town had a queue long enough to buy the Mona Lisa.
Van Niekerk had been shrewd enough to ask the managers to accompany him to the counters in each case, but even this was not much help. They were harassed, too, and as impatient as their staff in trying to identify a customer from a photograph. Computers had made faces redundant.
“If only you could let us have an account number,” they repeated.
“Miss Theresa le Roux?”
“No.”
“Miss Phillips?”
“Not any of our Miss Phillipses.”
And so a long, tedious, fruitless task had come to an end. The main branch of Barclay’s had not been able to help either.
Van Niekerk stepped back into the sun.
“I’m buggered if I know why people use banks,” he muttered to himself. “I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.”
Then he realised there was no reason why the girl should use a bank-she didn’t have a wife like his who enjoyed flashing a cheque book around.
He walked quickly down to the building society branch nearest to Barnato Street and went in. There were the usual three or four customers trying to make the tethered pens write.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, miss. CID. Just look at this snap, please.”
“Not her surely?”
“Who?”
“That funny Miss What’s-her-name. Beryl, come over here a minute.”
There were times whenVan Niekerk felt that his church was quite wrong in what it said about the mini-skirt. The pleasure he experienced was supremely innocent and so, he felt sure, was Beryl.
“That’s Miss Phillips,” she said firmly. “She always pays in ten-Rand notes. But she took them all out again last week and hasn’t been in since.”
“Oh, Beryl, you can’t say that without asking Mr Fourie first!”
“Never mind, I just wanted to know if you knew her,” Van Niekerk soothed. “I’ll see Mr Fourie now, please, but I won’t tell, girls.”
Beryl smiled and walked very innocently across to fetch Mr Fourie from his office.
A lone egret flapped slowly overhead. They watched it bank, identify a particular nest, and come in with its flaps down hard.
“Must have got the sack,” Kramer murmured.
Zondi frowned.
“Forget it, man. Just tell me what you’re thinking now about what I said.”
“Hau, it can mean big, big, trouble.”
“And even bigger trouble if we’re wrong, Zondi. That’s the bugger of it. One mistake and it’ll be the Brigadier for us this time. And the bloody chop.”
“Maybe it is best that this time you talk with Colonel Dupe.”
“It’d give him a miscarriage.”
“You whites,” Zondi shook his head. “Why is it when a man becomes a big boss like with the council you think he can do no wrong? With my people we make our chiefs by the blood, this way we do not get the skelms telling us what to do. No man does all this work for nothing, like you say this boss Trenshaw does.”
“It’s called democracy, man. They don’t do it for nothing though, many of them like to help.”
“By telling other persons what to do?”
“All right then, they’re after the power it gives them.”
“You can like that thing too much, boss.”
“True.”
“There have been other gangs with a white boss, like the one robbing the stores in Zululand.”
“Joey Allen’s mob? But he was white rubbish, not a bloody city councillor.”
“That’s why they catch him so easy, I think. Could be this boss Trenshaw is a clever one. He is white-he knows the white people must respect him.”
“OK, man, OK. So what do I tell the Colonel?”
“He knows what Shoe Shoe’s telling Gershwin about the bosses.”
“He doesn’t believe it.”
“Tell him the other thing then.”
“Fine, I just walk into his office and say I’ve linked Councillor Trenshaw with the murdered girl. How? Oh, easy, sir. You see he did a strange thing. Right after going to a friend’s funeral he went round the back and saw what he thought was the girl in question being burned up to nothing. He waited until she was nothing, sir, and then said how pleased he was with how things were going.”
“You’re talking a silly way, boss.”
Kramer shared out the remainder of the meal they had bought in Durban at the pie-cart. Zondi took his portion gratefully.
“Let me try again, then. I’ll say I have reason to believe that Councillor Trenshaw was seen and heard acting suspiciously at the crematorium on Tuesday this week. Asked to give an explanation for this allegation, I will state that whatever a man’s sense of responsibility, there is a time and a place. I will point out that this girl’s funeral was advertised in the Press that morning and that, according to information received from the superintendent of the crematorium, the aforesaid Councillor Trenshaw did not admit to a close relationship with the deceased party involved in the funeral which followed.”