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Authors: James Mcclure
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in mind, rather a few days’ blissful concussion and some sick leave.
It was totally unlike him to think like this, but then it was equally unlike him to jump so quickly to conclusions. He tried to work out what had made him feel so confident that Shabalala presented a sitting target, and found some of the blame could be shared with the lieutenant, whose mood the night before lieutenant had not prevented him from making checks at the bus and railway stations, nor had he dissuaded him from alerting informers in the townships. He, Zondi, had himself decided on the dawn departure for Robert’s Halt. Because he, Zondi, could not wait to show them what a clever Kaffir he was. Slima!
This obscenity doubled its work load as Zondi diverted his anger to a blue Volkswagen that unexpectedly overtook him, shouldering the Anglia almost into the ditch. It was out of sight in seconds, but he got its number: NTK 4544. For the next kilometer or so, he drove on at a more moderate speed, preoccupied by wondering what a Trekkersburg vehicle was doing so far from home, and then by the puzzle of where it had come from in the immediate sense—he was still on the section that ended at Robert’s Halt. Then he recalled seeing a farm signposted and dropped the matter.
When his thoughts returned to the Shabalala affair, his mind was much calmer and prepared to negotiate. First of all, the nature of the mess had to be established: very simply, Shabalala was not where he had been expected to be, Zondi had no idea of where to look next, and time was being wasted with both his own and the lieutenant’s reputation at stake. Calling in help was out of the question. So that meant he had to somehow narrow down the search again to a specific, limited area. And the best way of doing this was by acting on information received—but from whom? The town wife, Lucy, perhaps, and maybe other servants in Sunderland Avenue. The bus-ticket clerk or the orange seller in Trichaard Street. All were potential sources of fresh leads, but all were a very long way away and it would take hours to reach them.
It would not take as long, he suddenly realized, as he turned onto the national road, to do as he had promised the missionaries and go to Jabula. If anyone was able to supply a list of relatives and other possible harborers of the fugitive, it was his family. Never mind whether they wanted to impart this information; he would get it. Oh, yes, and quickly, too.
Kramer rang in from a call box in the vestibule of the Bayswater Hotel, keeping one eye on Pat Weston at her table on the veranda. They had not as yet got down to business and she could not be left alone for too long.
“Hello, Lieutenant Scott? John? Tromp Kramer here.”
“How’s it, man?”
“Just giving you a bell about those drinks we were going to have. Is it still on, hey?”
“Okay by me. When?”
“Around five. Saloon bar at the Albert Hotel.”
“See you then, Tromp.”
“Hey, just a sec—how’s the case going?”
“You mean your bloke Zondi?”
Kramer tried to keep the deep breath he took to himself.
“Shabalala. Any news?”
“Only there’s no such place as Robert’s Halt.”
“Since when? Christ, I’ve been—”
“Since yesterday, Tromp.”
“Hey?”
“Black Spot removal. Saw it ten minutes ago on the daily report from up near there.”
This time Kramer just let his breath hiss out and the hell with it.
“So it seems your boy is having all the luck,” Scott said. “Man, it’s a problem. Colonel Du Plessis wants me to go up there myself, maybe organize a manhunt in the hills. What do you think? You know this Zondi—can he cope?”
“Ach, he’ll cope.”
“Sure? Colonel Dupe—”
“I’m certain, man, John. Anyway, I thought we’d fixed for some drinks. You want to go arsing about in the veld on this case to worry about. If I were you, I’d give Zondi till the day after Boxing Day to come up with something—nobody’ll be interested before then.
It was totally unlike him to think like this, but then it was equally unlike him to jump so quickly to conclusions. He tried to work out what had made him feel so confident that Shabalala presented a sitting target, and found some of the blame could be shared with the lieutenant, whose mood the night before lieutenant had not prevented him from making checks at the bus and railway stations, nor had he dissuaded him from alerting informers in the townships. He, Zondi, had himself decided on the dawn departure for Robert’s Halt. Because he, Zondi, could not wait to show them what a clever Kaffir he was. Slima!
This obscenity doubled its work load as Zondi diverted his anger to a blue Volkswagen that unexpectedly overtook him, shouldering the Anglia almost into the ditch. It was out of sight in seconds, but he got its number: NTK 4544. For the next kilometer or so, he drove on at a more moderate speed, preoccupied by wondering what a Trekkersburg vehicle was doing so far from home, and then by the puzzle of where it had come from in the immediate sense—he was still on the section that ended at Robert’s Halt. Then he recalled seeing a farm signposted and dropped the matter.
When his thoughts returned to the Shabalala affair, his mind was much calmer and prepared to negotiate. First of all, the nature of the mess had to be established: very simply, Shabalala was not where he had been expected to be, Zondi had no idea of where to look next, and time was being wasted with both his own and the lieutenant’s reputation at stake. Calling in help was out of the question. So that meant he had to somehow narrow down the search again to a specific, limited area. And the best way of doing this was by acting on information received—but from whom? The town wife, Lucy, perhaps, and maybe other servants in Sunderland Avenue. The bus-ticket clerk or the orange seller in Trichaard Street. All were potential sources of fresh leads, but all were a very long way away and it would take hours to reach them.
It would not take as long, he suddenly realized, as he turned onto the national road, to do as he had promised the missionaries and go to Jabula. If anyone was able to supply a list of relatives and other possible harborers of the fugitive, it was his family. Never mind whether they wanted to impart this information; he would get it. Oh, yes, and quickly, too.
Kramer rang in from a call box in the vestibule of the Bayswater Hotel, keeping one eye on Pat Weston at her table on the veranda. They had not as yet got down to business and she could not be left alone for too long.
“Hello, Lieutenant Scott? John? Tromp Kramer here.”
“How’s it, man?”
“Just giving you a bell about those drinks we were going to have. Is it still on, hey?”
“Okay by me. When?”
“Around five. Saloon bar at the Albert Hotel.”
“See you then, Tromp.”
“Hey, just a sec—how’s the case going?”
“You mean your bloke Zondi?”
Kramer tried to keep the deep breath he took to himself.
“Shabalala. Any news?”
“Only there’s no such place as Robert’s Halt.”
“Since when? Christ, I’ve been—”
“Since yesterday, Tromp.”
“Hey?”
“Black Spot removal. Saw it ten minutes ago on the daily report from up near there.”
This time Kramer just let his breath hiss out and the hell with it.
“So it seems your boy is having all the luck,” Scott said. “Man, it’s a problem. Colonel Du Plessis wants me to go up there myself, maybe organize a manhunt in the hills. What do you think? You know this Zondi—can he cope?”
“Ach, he’ll cope.”
“Sure? Colonel Dupe—”
“I’m certain, man, John. Anyway, I thought we’d fixed for some drinks. You want to go arsing about in the veld on this case to worry about. If I were you, I’d give Zondi till the day after Boxing Day to come up with something—nobody’ll be interested before then.
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