by Tony Park
Pip noticed that Catherine was slurring her words a little. She stayed standing close to Bryant, almost but not quite touching him, as if she needed his close physical presence to support her.
‘You won’t be coming into town any more?’ Bryant asked.
‘I won’t be coming to this part of the country any more. I’m leaving the ranch and getting rid of the town house. I’ve decided to move back to Salisbury.’
The surprise showed on his face. ‘What? When?’
‘I’m driving back to the ranch tomorrow, and then leaving for good on Monday, as a matter of fact,’ she said to him.
‘Why the rush?’
She looked him in the eyes and said: ‘I think you know. There’s nothing here for me now, Paul.’
‘But your things, surely you can’t pack that quickly. Give yourself time to –’
‘My staff are packing as we speak. I’m going to stay in an hotel in Salisbury – Meikles – and then with friends until my things arrive.’
‘Catherine, I hate to interrupt, but I was hoping to have a chat with Paul before I leave.’
‘Don’t mind me,’ Catherine said, her voice thick with sarcasm.
Bryant got between the two women, and said to Pip: ‘Actually, I also need to talk to you about the search for our missing kite – poor old Smythe’s Harvard. We’ve heard nothing from the coppers across the border, and our aerial searches haven’t found a thing. I wouldn’t mind going out to the place, just to see if there’s something the locals have missed.’
‘I’ll make some calls this afternoon,’ she said. ‘You’ll want to drive across the border?’ She realised her gaffe as soon as she’d said the words. She didn’t mean to dredge up his reluctance to fly, not in front of Catherine.
‘Yes,’ he said. The brief flash of embarrassment was plain for her to see. ‘The drive will take a couple of days, which means I won’t be able to go until later next week, after all of the flap over Jan Smuts’ visit is over.’
‘The Prime Minister of South Africa’s coming to the parade?’ Pip asked.
‘You hadn’t heard?’ Catherine interjected. ‘It’s the worst-kept secret in Bulawayo. Smuts and Huggy are both coming.’ Sir Godfrey Martin Huggins – Huggy, as he was known to his supporters – had been the prime minister of Southern Rhodesia for the past ten years, and showed no signs of flagging in that office. ‘Poor Paul and his men have been painting rocks and marching to and fro in preparation for weeks. I’m only sorry I won’t be there to see it.’ Pip noted another heavy dose of sarcasm.
It was the first Pip had heard about the dignitaries’ visit. She imagined, though, that others at the police camp were involved in the planning for it. It irked her a little she had found out this way. She wondered if Hayes had been trusted with the information. Smuts had fought the British during the Boer War, but had made his peace with his foes at the cessation of hostilities and gone on to serve as a general in command of South African forces during the First World War. Under his leadership, South Africa was ostensibly a strong supporter of England’s war and the Empire, although Pip knew there were many Afrikaners who would have rather have aligned themselves with the Swastika than the Union Jack. Having said that, there were thousands of South Africans of all backgrounds fighting the Germans and their allies.
‘It’s a big deal,’ Bryant said. ‘This is our biggest course so far, so the politicians are clamouring to be a part of it.’
‘I’ll be in Salisbury by then,’ Catherine said, ‘so you can give my invitation to someone else.’ She looked across pointedly at Pip.
Pip realised Catherine wanted time alone with Bryant. They had, after all, just buried a mutual friend. The questions would have to wait. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Again, I’m sorry for your loss, Catherine. I’m working Sunday, Paul. Give me a call tomorrow and we’ll see about your trip out to the wastelands.’
‘Will do,’ he said, and watched her walk away.
It was probably not Pip’s responsibility to organise cross-border investigations, but Bryant suddenly felt as though he wanted to spend some more time with her. He’d felt oddly calm after telling her about his experiences in Bomber Command, and he wondered if he might exorcise some of his thoughts about Felicity by talking with her.
Catherine interrupted his thoughts. ‘God, I’m hardly gone and you’re already looking for a replacement. Stop leering at her bum, Paul.’
‘What? Oh! No, not her. Don’t be silly, Cath,’ he said, hoping he sounded convincing.
‘I’ve seen the way she looks at you. She’s got more on her mind than police business. I wonder if she has her own handcuffs?’
‘Stop that,’ he said. ‘Now, what’s this rubbish about you leaving? This is the first I’ve heard of it.’
‘It’s not rubbish. Don’t take offence, Paul, but I meant what I said, there’s nothing here for me now.’
‘No offence taken. I know you weren’t expecting me to propose to you.’
‘You’ll be gone soon enough anyway,’ Catherine said.
‘Who says?’
‘It’s the war. People come and people go. If the air force doesn’t send you back on operations they’ll probably find some other godforsaken training base to park you.’
He shrugged. She was most likely right. ‘What do I say now? Thanks for the memories?’
‘That’s a nice start. Flick meant more to me than you’ll ever know, Paul.’
‘I’ve a fair idea,’ he said.
‘No, it was more than just that. We were like . . . it’s hard to describe. Almost like a couple.’
‘I understand.’
‘No, I don’t think you really can. There’s no way to say it that doesn’t sound perverse or tawdry. I wanted so much for her to stay at the ranch, to give up her silly air force job, but she wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘She loved the parachuting – even if she didn’t get on with the other girls here.’
‘Those bitches.’ There was no hiding her disgust. ‘They were jealous of her beauty, her spirit and her fame. Your eulogy touched a chord in me, Paul. I’ve also been wondering if there was something I could have done to prevent her death. I hope that black they’ve arrested goes to the gallows.’
‘It’s a pretty safe bet,’ he said, offering her a cigarette and drawing one for himself out of the pack with his lips. She accepted and he lit both of them. ‘I’ll miss you, Cath,’ he said.
‘Will you? I think I confused you, Paul. I don’t think you were ready for either Flick or me to complicate your life.’
‘I haven’t known a woman like you before. You’re so . . . so . . .’
She smiled, finishing the sentence for him. ‘So much like a man, is that what you’re trying to say?’
‘I don’t think that’s quite what I meant.’ He grinned.
‘I like sex. I like it whenever and with whomever I please. In that respect, I’m very much like a man. I wanted you, and I had you, and I enjoyed you. I’d like to think the feeling was mutual.’
He laughed. ‘Direct was the word I was looking for.’
‘There’s no time for coquettishness in war, Paul. You of all people should know that. Do you have to go to this silly wings parade on Tuesday?’
‘You know I do.’
‘Why not come to Salisbury, meet me at Meikles.’
‘I can’t take a day off when two heads of state are coming to the base! Besides, I couldn’t afford to stay at that hotel,’ he said.
‘I’d pay. Two days, two nights. Just you and me. Call it a farewell celebration.’
He smiled. ‘You know I have to be at the parade. I could visit you in Salisbury once you get set up?’
‘I’m not your popsy, Paul. I’m not going to be waiting breathlessly for you every time you get a weekend off. It’s a one-time offer, Squadron Leader.’
‘Then a handshake will have to do,’ he said, raising his beer bottle in a friendly toast.
‘I really wish you’d reconsider.’
‘Well, you’ve made your choice. If you’d rather have the air force than me, I understand completely.’
‘Don’t be churlish.’
‘Churlish? That’s a word for little girls. I’m treating you like a man would treat a woman. If we do it, we do it on my terms. I’ve had my fun with you, and now I’m leaving you to your policewoman.’
‘Don’t be angry. Maybe you should give it a few days. You’re still in shock over Flick’s death.’
‘I’ll be in shock over Flick’s death until the day I die.’
‘Do you want me to come to your place in town later?’ he asked her.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve just buried the love of my life, Paul. I’m not so much like a man that I’d be thinking about sex tonight.’
Pip stared at the list of names without reading it. It was stuffy in the police interview room and she was perspiring in her shirt sleeves.
She was annoyed at the way Catherine De Beers had interrupted her conversation with Paul, just when he was on the verge of telling her about Felicity Langham. Paul had slept with Felicity Langham – been intimate, as he had put it. She had so many more questions to ask him. How long ago? How many times? Did Catherine De Beers know he had slept with her best friend? It was an effort, but she forced herself to concentrate on the case. She looked across the table at Nkomo and said, ‘You’ve nice handwriting, Innocent.’
‘You still haven’t told me, Constable. Did my alibi hold up? Did the people I told you I was with confirm it?’
You’re a smart man, Innocent.’
‘Would you believe I was studying to be a schoolteacher, before the war started?’
‘I’d probably believe you if you told me you were the illegitimate son of Winston Churchill,’ she scoffed. ‘It’s your stock-in-trade, fast talking. You’re still charged with murder, until we see fit to release you.’
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he said.
‘And I don’t have to, so shut it.’
The list was long. The fifty or so names would take ages to track down. She would have to find out which of Innocent’s regular customers had recently passed on his code word and phone number to a man aged around thirty, with dark hair. The description of the man was as vague as that of the unknown woman to whom he had sold fuel before the man. He’d said she was tall and blonde and good-looking. Nothing more.
‘Are you sure there is nothing else you can tell us about the man you sold petrol to on the morning after Miss Langham’s death?’
He shrugged. ‘If I could, I would. I’ve told you what I remember about him.’
‘Yes, yes, I know’ She stared at the list and then at the ceiling. Something clicked in her mind. What he looked like. ‘I asked you what he looked like, but I didn’t ask you what he sounded like, did I?’
Innocent pursed his lips, then closed his eyes as he tried to remember the brief conversation they’d had.
‘What did he say to you, Innocent?’
‘I am trying to remember. It was not very much. We said good morning. I introduced myself and asked him his name. He was a rude man. He said: ‘None of your bloody business, just hand over the petrol.’ He gave me the money and I took the first can from my car and put it where he wanted, around the corner, in the alleyway.’
‘You said before you didn’t see his car.’
Innocent exhaled. He’d told the story so many times. ‘That’s right. He told me to take the can around the corner. Then, when I came back, he was lifting the second can out of the boot. If he is the killer of this woman, then that must have been when he put her things in my car.’
‘Yes, yes. I know that’s what you think. But let’s stick to the facts for now. What about his accent? Was he Rhodesian? Was he British? Think, Innocent, think.’
‘I am not sure. White people all sound the same to me.’
She shook her head. ‘Very funny. Your life’s on the line, Innocent. Face up to the fact that I’m about the only person in this police camp who believes you.’
‘I know,’ he said, his face serious again. ‘I worked in a filling station, while I was studying, you know.’
‘So?’
‘So, that is where I learned about fuel. How to find it, who runs the local market.’
‘Go on.’
‘You know, in all the years I worked in a filling station, I never once saw a white Rhodesian man so much as lift a petrol can or fill his tank or wash a windscreen. It wasn’t the customer’s job to do such things. It was mine.’
Pip sat back in her chair and folded her arms. She thought about all the men she knew. Rhodesian men were a breed unto themselves. They would gladly burn meat on a braai, but wouldn’t cook in a kitchen or wash or dry a plate. In poorer households, those without servants, the wife did all the housework. A Rhodesian man would light a fire and boil a kettle in the bush for tea, but would expect it to be prepared and served for him in the home. A white tradesman might own his own business, and do his fair share of hard physical work to get the job done, but if he went to someone else’s shop or business, he would not lift a finger. She couldn’t imagine Charlie, her husband, dirtying his hands or moving anything more than a wagging finger when there was a black man about to do it for him. In fact, she detested the way he would call one of the herd boys from the bottom paddock to lift a single bag of grain onto the back of the truck, rather than do it himself. ‘So what is your point?’
‘I am not sure. I am not being rude when I say this, Constable,’ Innocent said, ‘but I thought it was odd that this man would be helping me shift cans of fuel.’
‘Think again what he said to you.’
‘I just can’t remember. It was so quick, the meeting.’ Innocent laid his head in his palms.
She stood from the table and walked around to him on her way out. She put a hand on his shoulder and said: ‘Think harder, Innocent. Alibi or no, you’ll go to the gallows if some of the people around here have their way.’
‘That is not fair,’ he said.
‘Life rarely is, Innocent.’
12
Church bells echoed down Bulawayo’s broad, empty boulevards. Parts of the town, especially today when they weren’t thronged by people, reminded Bryant of country towns he’d visited in New South Wales. As in those bush towns, Bulawayo’s streets were wide enough to turn a bullock dray. The roadsides were decorated with purple-flowered jacaranda trees, another reminder of home. He eased off on the throttle of his Triumph motorcycle and caught the blossoms’ scent. It reminded him of perfumed English girls at squadron dances. He gunned the bike again and roared up the deserted street towards the police camp.
He’d risen early and gone to his office just after dawn, where he attended to a score of signals relating to the big parade. In Rhodesia, the war effort slowed at weekends, but it never really stopped. He had the final timings for the scheduled arrival of Smuts’ DC-3 Dakota aircraft at Kumalo on Tuesday and, as per the plan he’d drawn up, the South African prime minister would arrive on time, half an hour after his Rhodesian counterpart’s motorcade got in from Salisbury. There had been yet another parade rehearsal, postponed to Sunday because of the double funeral the day before, and this one had ended in fits of laughter when Isaac, a burly, well-liked Matabele cook dressed in his best Sunday suit, had been escorted out in front of the massed ranks and introduced over the Tannoy as The Honourable Jan Smuts, Prime Minister of South Africa. A scowling Flight Sergeant Henderson had stood in for the Prime Minister of Southern Rhodesia, Huggy Huggins, and while he and Isaac had taken the airmen’s grinning salute side by side, Henderson had been clearly unimpressed at Bryant’s use of the black man to represent such an important politician. The men had liked it, though, which was the important thing as far as Bryant was concerned. They’d had to endure more square-bashing than any previous course and, after the deaths of Langham and Smythe, he wanted to g
ive them something to smile about. Before dismissing them, Bryant had warned the soon-to-graduate flyers to keep their noses clean on their final weekend, and to save their urge to overindulge in alcohol until after the VIPs had departed on Tuesday afternoon. His work day was not over yet, though.
Even the police camp had a lazy, weekend feel to it as he passed through the gates. There was no one visible in the grounds and he parked the bike next to the one police car in the lot. He strode into the office and a lanky white police officer looked up reluctantly from the newspaper he was reading.
‘Can I help?’
‘I’m looking for Constable Philippa Lovejoy. She’s expecting me.’
The man straightened and grimaced, as if he had just swallowed something rotten. ‘Er, can I ask the nature of your business, sir?’
‘Police business,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve been assisting her with the investigation into Felicity Langham’s murder, and the disappearance of one of our aeroplanes.’
‘Oh, you’re air force?’
After the parade, Paul had changed into mufti, an old pair of khaki trousers, an open-necked white cotton shirt and a pair of locally bought veldskoen desert boots. ‘Squadron Leader Paul Bryant,’ he said, finding his air force identification card in his shirt pocket and laying it on the desk
‘Ah, yes. Very good, sir. She said you’d call.’
‘That’s right. Look, mate, is she here or not?’
‘It’s not good news, what’s happened, sir,’ the constable began.
‘What? Has something happened to her?’ He was suddenly alarmed. He’d awoken that morning feeling strangely refreshed and positive. He hadn’t had any nightmares and he’d felt relieved rather than sad that Catherine De Beers was leaving for the other side of the country. He realised, too, that he was genuinely looking forward to spending the morning chatting to Pip Lovejoy, and to the possibility of getting her involved in the search for the missing Harvard. Now, he felt dread.
‘Not to her. To her husband,’ the policeman said.
