Read Online Killer Country by Mike Nicol - Free Book Online

smiled. ‘I do that,’ he said. ‘I like to be sure of the facts. But don’t worry, Mr Bishop, I don’t know how many traffic fines you have outstanding and I don’t know how much money you owe on your house. Although I do know it is very modern, very angular, at least from the street.’
    The judge had a small black bag in his lap, leather undoubtedly, the sort of handbag that had almost become a fashion accessory but never quite made it. The thought occurred to Mace that maybe Telman Visser was gay.
    ‘If you’re interested,’ the judge was saying, ‘mostly I got positive responses: family man, doesn’t drink to excess, doesn’t smoke, keen swimmer, good at his job. On the right side in the struggle, even trained in the guerrilla camps. I know you met your wife in Malitia. I know she is a ceramicist trained in Paris. I know you were gun-running in Malitia. Although I am not sure if arms trader is an advantage on a CV. To some people it might be off-putting. I am neutral. If there was a downside it was that you shoot too quickly. That you’re ruthless, even. I don’t know, is that a downside? Probably, in the eyes of the law these days. But I wouldn’t hold it against you. Oh yes, I know about your court case too. A nasty business.’
    Mace thought, enough of the crap, judge, let’s cut to the detail. Said, ‘That’s reassuring.’
    ‘And, a colleague tells me you have a weakness for unconventional methods. Like threatening to hang people. He found the incident amusing. Then again, once upon a time, he, and others I know, had a penchant for hanging people. Personally I am against capital punishment.’
    The judge manoeuvred his chair to face the photograph. ‘Have a look at this.’
    Mace did. It was a large composite made up of smaller squares: five down, five across. The foreground almost at the photographer’s feet, at the top a distant horizon. Each photograph linked to the adjacent pictures like pieces of a puzzle.
    ‘The photographer,’ said the judge, ‘is a man called David Goldblatt. You’ve heard of him?’
    Mace shook his head.
    ‘Excellent photographer. Done some extraordinary work. I have three of his photographs. Four counting this one.’ With his left hand, the judge wheeled closer to the photograph. ‘What’s important, from your point of view, is what’s happening in the middle.’
    Wasn’t much happening in the photograph as far as Mace was concerned. Nobody hanging around. No cars. No trace of a house. What it seemed to be was the slope of a hill, grass, rocks, clumps of bushes down to a road then the plain sliding off to the horizon. Looked like bushveld. Thorn trees. Good kudu country.
    The judge pulled back slightly. ‘Here, on this fence beside the road is the important detail.’
    Mace leaned forward. The fence was adorned with wreaths and crosses.
    ‘Those were placed there by farmers,’ said the judge, ‘as a protest at the farm killings. Perhaps you didn’t know that last year alone a hundred and fifty farmers and their wives, if the women were unlucky enough to be around when the killers came in, were murdered. For no reason. No one was robbed, except of guns, food, liquor. Always the women were raped. In many cases the people were shot execution-style. They kneel. They feel a gun at the back of their heads. End of story. They are the lucky ones. In most cases people are tortured. Husbands and wives. No one is arrested. No one is even suspected. The killers come out of the night and disappear back into the darkness. They may as well be ghosts. The farm labourers do not see anything, they do not even hear anything.’
    ‘I’ve read about it,’ said Mace.
    The judge backed his wheelchair away. He pointed at a bench. ‘Please sit down so that we can be eye to eye.’
    Mace obliged and the judge positioned himself a metre off. ‘That,’ he gestured at the photograph behind his back, ‘makes a powerful statement. More powerful than the farmer’s protest. We