The Blood of an Englishman (34 page)

“Phew! You’ve really got yourself one here, haven’t you?” Du Plooi remarked jokingly to Kramer. “A properly perverse little—”

“Perverse?” echoed Kramer, determined that his homecoming was not going to be soured by an argument. “Christ,
Mickey here is the head of our Bantu Perversions Squad—am I not right, hey?”

Zondi turned away from their laughter and gave an extra tug to his seat belt.

Then the world fell in on Kramer, and he didn’t have so much as a smile left in him. The note lying open on his lap behind the wheel of the Chevrolet was hurried and brief.

“I want to thank you for more than you will ever know.…” he repeated aloud, trying to make the words have some meaning. The passenger door opened and Zondi ducked his head into the cab. “I have telephoned your message to the duty officer, Lieutenant, and Colonel Muller is being informed about last night at the earliest—”

“I’ve got a message for you too,” said Kramer bitterly.

“Boss?”

“She says—no, come on, kaffir! Get in!”

Zondi slipped into his seat and closed the door. “What is wrong, Lieutenant?” His voice was very concerned.

“It’s nothing,” said Kramer, crumpling the sheet of paper in his fist. “It’s bugger all!” Then he laughed as a white rage burst deep in his belly, barging aside the sob that had been
building up there. “Let’s get going to the Bradshaws’, hey? I feel just in the mood to grind that bastard’s face in what he’s done!”

“Done, boss? Done how?”

Kramer knew he was being irrational, but even that had its bitter-sweetness. He started the Chevrolet and swung it hard out of the car park, clipping a bollard and almost running down Robert du Plooi, who was returning to his own vehicle from the flying club’s hangar. No, he was being quite rational in another way, Kramer told himself, as he opened up down the still sleepy streets of outer Trekkersburg. Almost from the moment the call had come through about Archie bloody Bradshaw being shot, his life had never been the same. One failure on top of another, one humiliation after another—and finally this. The bastard had left him nothing; little wonder he had produced that feeling of revulsion in him. But now the boot was on the other foot, and with Mrs. Bradshaw out of the way, he would relish the impact of what he had to say. God, he would be cold. Hard. Ruthless.

“Like father, like son, hey, Mickey?”

“I’m not sure what you are talking about, boss,” said Zondi, flinching as a milk-float nearly turned into Cleopatra’s bathtub. “Do you speak of Boss Bradshaw?”

“Right! And of what you were saying on the plane—you know, how that little bastard had still gone for me when he could hear and see my gun was empty.”

“Did I say that?” queried Zondi.

“It’s what you were leading up to, only Du Plooi was too thick to see it.”

Zondi received this oblique apology with a small smile. “I don’t think Boss Du Plooi was too thick, Lieutenant. I saw a very troubled look come into his eyes, and that’s why he made a joke. He did not want to know more.”

“Well, I do. What else were you going to say?”

“Only this, Lieutenant: what instinct makes a boy like that see a police officer as an enemy?”

“A criminal instinct, man—and that can be taught.”

Zondi nodded. “That is so, boss. I do not claim to have found any big answer, but I think we have now come right round to the place we started. Perhaps it was for a criminal act that Boss Bradshaw was marked down to be killed—and Boss Hookham plus the schoolgirl were only for a cover-up when we came too close to the persons responsible. I have also been pestered all night by a page from Boss Hookham’s diary for May the twenty-seventh.”

“He was still in England then.”

“True, Lieutenant. He took his wife to a hospital in Southampton.”

“Uh huh? But what does that connect with?”

“Hau, if only I could catch again what gave me this picture of the page so vividly,” sighed Zondi, scratching the side of his head. “I can see it all—the appointment, and where he speaks of the suffering of Albert, her family and then of herself.”

“We’ll have to leave that for now then,” said Kramer, and dropped his speed abruptly, bringing the car under icy control. “What I’ll do is use this message I’ve got for the Bradshaws to see whether, without breaking any rules if you’re wrong, it could make him open up. Logically, if he committed some crime against his attackers, he ought to know who they are—right?”

“Check, boss.”

“Lucky I got Grobbler to give me some Polaroids of the body, wasn’t it?” Kramer added wryly, still so angry it was like being drunk. “And it was only out of the kindness of my heart, you know; I thought Doc might like them for his collection.”

At 7.55 a.m. that dreary morning, Zondi climbed back into the Chevrolet outside the Bradshaws’ undistinguished property in
Kitchener Row. He had just seen the Lieutenant give the front door a miss and go straight up the side entrance with a pair of fingers crossed behind his back.

For a moment or two, Zondi stared at the Audi saloon owned by Archibald Meredith Bradshaw, which was parked hard into the curb just ahead of him, and then he reached for his atlas, disturbing a crumple of paper that was lying on top of it.

“Poor Lieutenant,” he said to himself, without opening it out, “but the Widow will be pleased.”

Then he turned to the map of France once again, and gave a snap of his fingers.

It was nothing like being drunk, Kramer corrected himself, as he reached the wooden gate into the Bradshaws’ back garden. It was simply the effect of the adrenalin still coursing through him that made him so clinically detached, and instead of things being hazy and vague, every detail of his surroundings imposed itself on his mind with vivid clarity.

“Tish,” he said once, as a cynically administered booster to his contained rage, before lifting the latch.

Looking back on that moment an hour later he would be tempted to dismiss the extraordinary sequence of events which followed as simply a case of arriving at the right place at the right time. And yet he would have to admit that almost everything he sought had been there from the very beginning, and what had made the real difference was his state of mind.

The gate swung back, and through the mulberry trees he glimpsed a bikini-clad figure. He closed the gate and walked towards Mrs. Bradshaw, who was engaged in arm-swinging exercises that undoubtedly did her magnificent breasts a great deal of good. He stopped beside the first tree. Totally absorbed, Mrs. Bradshaw tossed aside the pair of old Indian clubs she had been using, then stooped and picked up a skipping rope. It was
no common or garden skipping rope, but a properly professional length of blue cord that had varnished wooden handles. She began to skip, counting the number of times she left the ground, and her finely turned thighs took each successive shock on landing with barely a tremble. Then the skipping rope was also tossed aside, and she placed her hands on her hips to begin rotating her torso. A body like that was no accident of nature, certainly not in a woman of her age, but the result of regular, carefully planned routines, carried out until she dripped with perspiration. Round and round her head went, showing glimpses of the plain little face she could do nothing about. All the clues had been there that first day, mused Kramer, the problem being that he had not seen a physique but what the Widow Fourie called a sex object. Mrs. Bradshaw turned and dived into the swimming pool, swam two fast lengths and climbed out.

“Why, Lieutenant Kramer!” she said, squinting at him with her weak blue eyes. “Back so soon again?”

“What do you mean by back so soon?” rumbled her husband, tipping himself out of a hammock, where he had been reading the morning paper.

Kramer saw that the hammock had been drawn up by a system of crude pulleys.

“Keeping fit, Mrs. Bradshaw?” His voice was frozen over.

She giggled nervously. “Well, I do think one should, don’t you? I’ve been doing it for years! Haven’t I, Archie? I even tried to get you to join me! And Darren! But you’re both such naughty boys! Do you know, Lieutenant, I bought Darren everything he would need when I was last in Johannesburg—granted it was in a sale, and it didn’t cost the earth—but has he used it?”

“Some of it,” said Kramer.

“Look here, Lieutenant,” growled Bradshaw, “have you any idea of the time? Do you usually barge in on people before they’ve had their breakfast?”

Kramer stared at him, interested in the effect this might have.

“I know what it is!” said Mrs. Bradshaw. “Lieutenant Kramer has tried to be here early to sell you some tickets. He came last night while you were out and we had such a lovely long chat about Darren. You asked me all sorts of questions, didn’t you, Lieutenant?”

Bradshaw shot a worried glance at his wife, and began folding his newspaper up very tightly.

“Can I see that?” asked Kramer.

“What? The
Gazette
?”

“The
Gazette
,” said Kramer, taking it from him. “What’s on the front page this morning? Any news of Basil Benson being found dead in Meerkat Marais’ flat?” There was in fact a small paragraph in the stop press—all it gave was the flat’s address. “You know Marais, don’t you, Mr. Bradshaw? Skinny, nervous type with long fingernails?”

“No, I don’t,” replied Bradshaw.

“Long fingernails? But I thought Darren’s friend was called Wee Willie something-or-other?” said Mrs. Bradshaw gaily, then brought her fist to her mouth as she realized the slip she’d made. “Oh dear, don’t be angry, Archie!”

Bradshaw looked from his wife to Kramer. “What the hell’s going on here?” he asked. “I haven’t understood a word of this conversation, and I don’t like the attitude you’re showing, Kramer!”

His wife tittered. “You’re dreadful in the morning,” she said. “Now don’t take on so, Archie! The nice Lieutenant looks like he’s been up all night, so you can’t expect him to be bright and breezy either! Shall we get tickets for Sonja and Darren as well? It would be nice if we could make up a little foursome for the policemen’s ball.” She flushed slightly as she said that.

“So that’s it?” said Bradshaw. “You’ve come to sell tickets to a ball?”

“No, I haven’t.”

The Bradshaws looked at one another.

“But you said last night,” Mrs. Bradshaw began.

“I was lying,” said Kramer. “I came here with only one purpose: to discover the whereabouts and associates of your son.”

“What?” exclaimed Bradshaw, trembling. “My God, when I get hold of Colonel Muller, I’ll have him—”

“I thought then that his life was in danger.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Bradshaw clasped her mouth. “But is he all right? Whatever was the matter? Why couldn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to embarrass you, Mrs. Bradshaw. I’m afraid the news I bring this morning isn’t good.”

“Didn’t want to embarrass me? I don’t understand!”

Kramer felt his icy edge in danger of being blunted. “I wonder if I couldn’t have a word with your husband first?” he asked. “Perhaps you would like to go and put some clothes on.”

“Yes, Myra, I think you’d better,” said Bradshaw, going over to her and touching her arm. “Please, my love.”

She started slightly and looked at him in surprise, as though unused to any display of tenderness. “But not till I know Darren’s safe!”

“He’s safe and sound where he is,” said Kramer, wishing she would get the hell out before he damned his soul any further. “I think what I’ve got to say is man talk.”

“Man talk? Oh, he
hasn’t
! Is her father—?”

“Your husband is the only father involved,” Kramer assured her.

“Thank goodness!” sighed Mrs. Bradshaw, giving one of her scatty smiles. “Yes, it is rather chilly, and I’m in need of my cup of tea. Will you call me when it’s over?”

Kramer nodded, then turned to Bradshaw. He was not watching his wife’s retreat into the house, but staring at him, gray about the cheeks.

“Do I gather it’s bad news, Lieutenant? Is that why you’ve been acting so strangely?”

“I wanted to find some way of getting Mrs. Bradshaw out of hearing.”

“I’ve realized that. How bad is it?”

“From your point of view, Mr. Bradshaw, I don’t think it could be worse. But don’t you think we’d better go inside as well? Into your study, maybe?”

“But you’ve got to—”

“Please,” said Kramer firmly.

Bradshaw led the way, walking in a swift stumble. He was cracking badly, as might be expected of any man fearing the worst of his son, but what was interesting was the fright there had been in his face before Darren had become the focus of the conversation. There were yellow daisies in the lawn.

“My study?”

“That would be the ideal place,” agreed Kramer, playing all this by instinct and letting the vicious juices run.

“Step inside, man! Step inside!”

But Kramer wanted him right on the edge before he said another word, so he paused to wipe his feet on the doormat just inside the covered-in verandah. He did this meticulously, and while studying his shoes to gauge the effect, he noticed, as distinctly as green confetti on a black-tile floor, the little leaves of a water plant stuck to his shoe leather. He looked up with something close to murder in his eyes.

“We’ve got Darren, Mr. Bradshaw,” he said.

“Meaning?”

“We’ve got him at Dargle police station. He’s locked in a small brick building round the back.”

The truth, phrased carefully, could be a terrible weapon, and it was satisfying to see the way it made Bradshaw sag at the knees. He shuffled into one of the leather armchairs. Kramer entered the study and perched on a corner of the desk. His phrasing probably no longer mattered, for he felt
certain Zondi’s insight would carry the day without any complaints being made to higher authorities, but he couldn’t resist breaking Bradshaw with a few more slaps of the velvet glove.