But … a Coloured man… a dead white. A white officer?
Coetzee’s hands shook. For now, around him, the windows remain shuttered.
Dank God.
He took a deep breath, threw his arms around the man’s soft midriff and hauled him up onto the worn leather seat. He wedged the body upright in the corner. Though it was a pointless gesture, he loosened the officer’s tie.
Clip-clop.
Somewhere down below came the sound of another buggy. Momentarily, Coetzee’s breath was a still as the officer’s. But the vehicle was streets away. The sound soon faded. Slowly he exhaled …
Nie goed nie. Dit is nie goed nie.
“YOU!”
The word shot him through.
Out of the blackness, two mounted constables began to form. They were trotting downhill towards him. The onshore wind had muffled their approach.
“Stop what you’re doing!”
He did.
“Step back!”
Their horses clopped alongside. The men wore khaki tunics, their slouch hats secured against the wind by chinstraps. The one who shouted was young, cocky, straight-backed.
“What were you up to?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
The second officer, older, extended his crop and flipped back the canvas flap. His arm displayed three stripes, a sergeant. He pulled a face to his underling.
“Behold your British officer.”
They laughed. Should he laugh too? Coetzee smiled instead.
“Something funny?”
“No, sir.”
The young one was down now, out of his saddle. He thrust his own crop under Pinkie’s chin.
“You’re sweating. It’s not hot.”
“They say Coloureds have been arming themselves,” the sergeant cut in. “Got to be on our guard.”
“That wouldn’t be you, cabbie?” went the young one again, the other hand flitting to the revolver at his hip.
“No, sir. No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, baas.”
“Louder!”
“Yes, baas!”
Fok jou, baas.
The sergeant wheeled his horse round. The constable moved his hand from his gun to seek out a pencil. He took out a pad and noted the number above the fender.
“Name?”
“Coetzee.”
“Coetzee?”
“Pinkie Coetzee.”
“Pinkie?”
“P-I-N-K-I-E.”
He wrote it with disdain.
“You people …”
The mule, spooked by a male horse moving at her rear, whinnied and shuffled. Pinkie Coetzee willed his handbrake to hold.
The sergeant nodded. He had noticed something.
“Constable McDonald.”
The underling followed up: “What’s that in your hand?”
He had forgotten – the address.
The younger one – McDonald – snatched it.
“You take this from the officer?”
“No … I … It was …”
In a deft swipe his pistol was whipped up and rammed hard into Coetzee’s cheek. He could smell the oil. The hammer was cocked.
“You go through his pockets?”
The barrel pinched his skin. He could feel the circle of the muzzle against his gum. His knees began to buckle.
“N-n-no!”
“I can’t hear you!”
His voice cracked like an adolescent.
“NO!”
The constable grinned and passed the paper up. The sergeant studied it. He mused for a moment then bade his junior holster his weapon.
“You’re headed the wrong way,” said the sergeant.
“What?”
He pointed uphill.
“The Esperanza is at the top … Round the bend.”
Dank God.
The sergeant trotted off. The constable put a foot in his stirrup and swung a leg over the saddle. He gave a ‘click’. His horse followed.
Twenty yards away, one of them, Coetzee didn’t know which, threw back a ‘Merry Christmas’.
“Thank you, sir.”
The young one. The bastard.
“I was talking to your mule.”
Pinkie Coetzee spat again.
Fok … Fok, fok, fok!
* * *
Coetzee’s audience listened intently. When he had finished, he swigged more tea then slumped back again.
“Could you describe the dead officer?” asked Brookman.
“Ach, man … medium height, round face, moustache … Like every officer in the British Army.”
Brookman opened a cardboard folder and thrust a charcoal sketch in front of Coetzee – a hasty artist’s impression of the man now lying on Krajicek’s slab. Finch peered over Brookman’s shoulder. It looked nothing like Cox. Not the Cox he had known.
“Could be him. I couldn’t say. I’m not disputing the identity if that’s who you say it is.”
“If Cox was as drunk as you’ve described, how did he manage to climb into your cab? How was he capable of writing the address for the guest house?”
“He didn’t.”
“Explain.”
“It was someone else, a passer-by. He helped the man into my cab.”
Brookman threw Finch a glance.
“Tell us about this Good Samaritan,” he continued.
“How you say … a well-dressed gent, a civilian. Chucked the officer’s overcoat onto the seat then helped him aboard. He was a handful, all right. Then hopped out halfway.”
“Quite the gentleman,” remarked Brookman.
“Yes, baas. Paid up the full fare with a half-crown extra for me to escort the officer home. Half a crown. Shit man.”
“Hold it, hold it, you miserable vermin,” cut in Harmison. “You’re telling us that a mysterious gent, a ‘Good Samaritan’, suddenly lines your pockets with silver and then disappears into thin air. You sure you didn’t just nick it off the deceased?”
Coetzee rolled his eyes.
“There was not a tickey on my person, not a farthing that I did not earn … You can check my log … And I expect to get it all back.”
“And you will, Mr Coetzee, you will,” said Brookman, shooting Harmison a look. “It has all been inventoried. Corporal?”
The corporal rifled through some papers and handed Coetzee a chit.
“Can you describe him then, this Good Samaritan?” asked Harmison, less aggressively this time.
“A long coat. How you say, frock?”
“A frock coat, yes,” said Brookman.
“Ja, and a top hat. A soft one … made from felt or something. He had a cane. Silver-topped.”
“What about his face?”
“It was dark, difficult to tell. I carry hundreds of people every week. I’m sitting up high, they’re low. Last night, wind, drizzle, the hood was up. My fares were under cover.”
“A silver-topped cane? That’s pretty specific,” said Brookman. “You had good enough eyesight for that.”
“It was metal, ornate. A bird’s head, an eagle, I think. Yes, man, it was unusual. Glinted under the streetlight. That’s why I remember.”
“But you don’t remember his face.”
“Honestly, man, no. Believe me.”
“The clothes, the cane. Sounds like a gent with particular taste.”
“Now you mention it, he had a ring. A precious stone. A diamond? On the little finger of his left hand.”
“Seems like you’ve become overly familiar with this man’s jewellery,” said Harmison.
“Like the cane, I noticed it because I had climbed down. I stood next to him while he wrote the officer’s address.”
“You mean this?”
Brookman reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a piece of folded vellum with a tear down one side. The words ‘Esperanza, Atlantic View Drive’ were written upon it.
“Yes, baas. That’s it.”
Brookman turned to Finch.
“Captai
n, would you recognise Major Cox’s handwriting?”
“I believe so.”
He handed the thick piece of paper to Finch.
“This it?”
It was elegant and looped. Practised.
“No it’s not.”
“Wrote the address in a bound notebook,” said Coetzee. “Looked like crocodile skin, the pattern …”
“Our Good Samaritan’s shaping up to be quite the Fancy Dan,” said Brookman.
There was a sudden and inappropriate burst of laughter around the room at Brookman’s dubbing. Even Coetzee raised a smile.
“Inspector, may I ask something?” ventured Finch.
Brookman glared.
“If you must, Captain.”
“When was this?” asked Finch.
“When?” said Coetzee. “Around two o’clock in the morning, Mister Doctor. It was my final fare. But I’ve already told the police this.”
“Forgive me,” said Finch. “I mean, when did the Good Samaritan … Fancy Dan …”
More chuckles.
“… hand you the address? As he jumped off?”
“No. At the start,” said Coetzee. “As he helped the officer on board. Outside the club.”
“So you mean to tell us you stood there, right next to him while he wrote the address,” growled Harmison. “You noticed his clothes, his cane, his ring, but not his bleeding face?”
“I do not recall any blood.”
“It’s an expression, Mr Coetzee,” Brookman enlightened.
“I mean I couldn’t be certain. He was clean-shaven. In his 30s maybe. But anything more …?”
He shrugged.
“Funny, I don’t think he was too fond of the dead man. Seemed to help him … how do you say? … reluctantly. After he’d pushed the officer into my cab he stormed off, only to return a moment later. Change of heart.”
Brookman signalled for a pause. He took the lined ledger the corporal had been writing on and examined it.
“That’s ‘silver-topped cane’,” he corrected. “Shaped like an ‘eagle’s head.’”
“That’s what it says, sir.”
“Damn it, Pienaar, your handwriting’s like a five-year-old’s.”
Brookman stood, cleared his throat and began pacing, slowly.
“So let’s get this straight … At around two o’clock you pick up the officer at the docks. He is drunk and incapable and is helped on board by our Fancy Dan. You can’t identify Fancy Dan but he has on a frock coat, a felt topper and carries a cane.”
He turned to the corporal like a teacher testing an inattentive student before the class.
“What kind of cane, Pienaar?”
“A silver-topped cane shaped like an eagle, sir.”
“Thank you. You jump down. He produces a notebook upon which he writes the address of the officer’s lodgings and rips out the page for you. You notice his diamond ring. You can’t positively identify him but think he was in his 30s, clean-shaven … His build?”
“Build?”
“Height, weight.”
“I don’t know.”
He looked up at the two standing men.
“Shorter than Mister Doctor. About the same as the sergeant.”
“Your height, Sergeant Harmison?” asked Brookman.
“Five ten, sir.”
“Not fat, not thin,” said Coetzee. “Just normal.”
“But otherwise what I have just outlined is correct?” said Brookman.
Coetzee nodded.
“The man has second thoughts about escorting the officer personally but then changes his mind and climbs in.”
“One other thing,” said Coetzee. “He asked me to take a back route. Not to use Strand Street.”
“Why, do you think?”
“I thought to avoid embarrassment for the officer.”
“And then, some minutes later, he jumps out and pays you the full fare plus half a crown tip for the officer’s safe passage.”
“No.”
“No?”
“He paid me that upfront, too, when he gave me the address. At the club. When he hopped out, he just hopped out. Vanished.”
“And where did he hop out?”
“The Somerset Road Cemetery. By the wall that runs along from the main gate.”
“Very good,” said Brookman. “So then what happened?”
Coetzee repeated that, on arrival in the neighbourhood, although he had found the road, he couldn’t find the house. He was becoming uneasy in the uplands late at night. It was then that he decided he would have to rouse his slumbering passenger.
“And again, this was at what time?” asked Brookman.
“Just after half past two. I had a pocket watch.”
“It too will be returned.”
There was a slight flicker of remembrance on Coetzee’s face.
“What is it? Come on.”
“Remember how I said the officer fell out onto me? How I held him?”
“Yes.”
“The smell. Not just drink. Something else?”
“Another odour?”
“More like … like a chemical one.”
Brookman and Finch exchanged a look.
“I once worked in a photographer’s laboratory, sweeping the floor. The smell … it reminded me.”
“And then, after all that, after your little bit of play-acting, you just dump him on the stoep like a sack of potatoes.”
Coetzee hung his head.
“I panicked—”
“You mean when Hett and McDonald came by.”
“Who?” he asked.
“Your two police chums,” said Finch. He nodded at Coetzee’s swollen eye.
“Yes.”
His tone turned more pleading.
“I knocked on the door before I ran back to the buggy, I swear. I wanted someone to take him in … He was already dead … Man, what could I do?”
“You could have told the truth.”
“Come. You know how it is.”
“You lied before. You said the officer was drunk. Now you say he was dead. Why the hell should we believe you?”
Coetzee reached into his pocket.
“Because of this.”
With a flourish he pulled at his pocket and laid on the table a white silk men’s handkerchief. It was monogrammed with the initials “L.C.”
Chapter Twenty
The desert sun was setting, bathing the land a blood red. It was huge, bigger than anything Mbutu had ever seen, sinking rapidly now through the shimmering haze. Its descent on the horizon was a primal signal for the wildlife. A flock of long-legged birds flapped over, their wings making a whooping sound. A herd of bok stopped grazing and were suddenly on the move. From the bush came strange yips and yelps.
“There,” said Hendrik. “See?”
Mbutu shielded his eyes. Sure enough there they were, not far from the first line of quiver trees they had stopped at on their morning hunt – horses with riders. They were line astern, about eight to ten of them, the horses walking. They were too far away for any detail. As the light began to fade, they too seemed to react and picked up speed. They were travelling away from the rocky corral, probably heading back to where they’d come from, pondered Hendrik.
The man with the blunderbuss gave clicking commentary.
“West,” said Hendrik. “He says they are heading west.”
“Thank God,” said Mbutu.
“West means nothing!” Hendrik snapped.
Another of the men muttered something.
“He says it is a mistake … sheltering the mother and child.”
“So what do we do?”
“Tonight. No fire,” said Hendrik. “Must organise defence. In the morning we decide.”
There were eight men on the rim of the rocks, including Hendrik and himself.
Hendrik had his battered revolver tucked in his waistband. There was the man with the blunderbuss. The others, though, had no firearms, no weapons that could be used in a
nything other than close combat. Now Mbutu understood why they had been conserving their ammunition.
The corral was roughly circular. Hendrik conferred with the men, and six of them posted themselves equidistantly around the rim, either squatting or lying prone, each scanning the landscape.
There was no sense of ego or the individual, observed Mbutu. The Nama’s actions always seemed selfless, each man acting for the greater good.
Hendrik led Mbutu down to the others. He explained what was happening.
Inevitably there were questions. Though Mbutu understood not a word of it, he got the impression that Hendrik was doing his best not to let the blame fall too heavily on the white females.
Mbutu had positioned himself near them. The little girl looked up. He did not want to scare her but explained that they all needed to be cautious tonight.
The poor creatures have suffered enough.
With no fire to warm them, the Nama began huddling together. Emily and her mother were encouraged to join them. The rabbit broth was still hot, one of the women said. It was best that they eat it now.
Hendrik called for four more men. They, plus himself and Mbutu, would take the second watch. They would swap over in four hours.
None of them had a pocket watch. How would they know the time?
Hendrik merely pointed upwards. The stars.
A man returned with a bundle of spears. They took one each.
“Here,” said Hendrik, and handed Mbutu what appeared to be a crooked wooden club but was in fact an ancient flintlock pistol.
“Me?”
It was heavy, the metalwork fussily ornate.
“None of these men feels comfortable.”
Mbutu was not sure he was at ease either.
“Why not give it to one of the men on sentry duty now?”
“We must keep something in reserve,” said Hendrik. “If those on the rocks are overwhelmed, the fight is not lost.”
“You really think we’re in that much danger?”
Hendrik put his finger to his lips. They had to act quickly, the light was nearly gone. They must show Mbutu how to use the gun while they still could.
Loading the pistol was a complicated procedure, made even more so from the explanation by committee, during which each of the men prodded and poked the device to a chorus of their unintelligible language.
A small leather pouch was produced. In it were what looked like wrapped paper sticks. Cartridges. They were passed around for inspection. A ramrod was pulled out of the slotted holder beneath the barrel. Evidently it was an important part of the loading ritual.
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