No Ordinary Killing

by No Ordinary Killing (retail) (e

  Mbutu had never seen such a weapon but thought he understood. It was a crude contraption, but worked on the same principle as a modern firearm.

  The cartridge, about four inches long, contained gunpowder and a ball of shot. To load, the pistol was held vertically while the top was bitten off the paper cartridge and the black, pungent powder poured straight down the barrel. The shot was removed from the cartridge, the paper was chewed up as wadding, which was then rammed down on top of the gunpowder. Last came the shot, squashed down on top.

  To fire the gun, the sculpted hammer had to be cocked. It had been oiled in recent times but was difficult to click back in position – a spring or catch was faulty. When it cocked, the trigger nudged forward into the firing position. To fire it required a good pull. The hammer had a piece of flint held in place, screwed in position between clamps, like a small vice. Pressing the trigger released the hammer, which sprang forward, sparked against a plate and, through a small hole, ignited the gunpowder within.

  “Use two hands. Hold steady. It kicks,” warned Hendrik. “Aim at the body.”

  “Do you think I’ll need to?”

  Hendrik looked him in the eye.

  “Let us hope that none of us has to fight.”

  Hendrik scrambled up the rocks and conversed with the man with the blunderbuss. He came back down.

  “The cavalry continued west until they could no longer be seen. Now all is quiet.”

  The four Nama of the second watch prepared to bed down. Mbutu studied them as they each dug a tiny pit to relieve pressure on their hip bones. Why had he never thought of that?

  “Tonight will be cold,” said Hendrik. He made a sleeping gesture, palms pressed together, his cheek laid against them. “But you must try.”

  Mbutu nodded.

  “If anything happens, someone will wake us. But be ready.”

  He raised his revolver.

  This time Mbutu loaded his pistol for real. It was fiddly. Reloading it in combat – were it to come to that – would be tricky. One cocked the hammer only prior to firing, he understood. He laid it on the ground next to him.

  Mbutu pulled his jacket around him. It was not the cold that kept him from sleeping but his racing mind.

  All was deathly still in the camp, but beyond it the Karoo was alive with noise – the squeaks and squawks and shrieks, the odd howl of a carnivore. And then he heard it again, the sound that had nearly chorused his departure from God’s earth – the growl of a leopard.

  He suddenly felt something at his side, but it was warm and human. The little girl.

  “Don’t be frightened child … See there, around the rocks.”

  She looked up.

  “Men to protect us through the night.”

  He tucked his jacket around her. She snuggled in closer.

  With the girl’s head on his shoulder, Mbutu looked up at the stars, the unbelievable, magical spray across the heavens.

  Thanks be to God.

  He felt her breathing lapse into a gentle rasp. Though she could not hear, he whispered to her.

  “Back home in Kimberley, I have a little boy, the same age. I cannot look after him so I will look after you.”

  * * *

  He didn’t know how long he had been asleep, but he awoke with a start.

  Emily had gone. But he looked over and saw that she had returned to curl up with her mother.

  No, that was not it.

  He heard bird noises. A coo and a whistle.

  That is not a bird.

  He glanced up. Against the silver moon he saw the silhouette of a man moving around the rim of the rocks.

  A man in uniform.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Brookman, Finch and Harmison entered the inspector’s office. Brookman shut his door behind them. He brought the monogrammed handkerchief to his nose and inhaled.

  “Chloroform?” he asked.

  “Maybe. Maybe not … I’m not sure,” said Finch.

  Harmison looked confused.

  “Chloroform?”

  “An anaesthetic.”

  Finch sniffed again. The odour was still discernible. Unfortunately so was Cox’s bile.

  “Has a hint of cough medicine about it. Codeine or something similar.”

  “Codeine?” asked Harmison.

  “Sergeant,” said Brookman. “I need to apprise you of a little more detail. I just require a moment with the doctor. Will you kindly inform the suspect that he is released on his own recognisance. Ask Pienaar to run the handkerchief over to the deputy coroner.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure, Sergeant?”

  “About letting the darkie go?”

  “I am.”

  Harmison took the handkerchief and exited. The door was closed more forcefully than it ought to have been. Brookman rolled his eyes, then went and stood behind his cluttered desk.

  “So, Cox was killed with his own kerchief,” said Finch.

  “Unless the killer has the same initials and takes to leaving a souvenir.”

  The detective nodded towards the door.

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Harmison?”

  “No, Doctor … Coetzee.”

  “Oh … I believe so.”

  “Lifetime on this job you can tell within seconds whether a man is lying. Or a woman for that matter. Though not quite so easily.”

  Finch smiled.

  “That, in there, seemed to be the truth,” agreed Brookman. “About 80 per cent truth anyhow.”

  “He’s holding something back?”

  “I’m convinced enough he’s told us the main facts pertaining to Cox, which is what matters here.”

  The inspector produced a silver cigarette case and offered one to Finch. He took it. Brookman popped one between his own lips, took out a flint lighter and sparked them both up.

  “And anyway,” said Brookman. “Why would Coetzee make it up? Way too elaborate.”

  “You’re happy for him to be released, though?”

  “I have a sneaking feeling there’s some small detail he’s neglected. Something he’s embarrassed about maybe. But he needs reassurance from us, a sense that we trust him. What better demonstration of that than letting him go? If Coetzee’s up to mischief, and my hunch is he isn’t, he’s of better use to us back in play … Short-staffed as we are, we’ll keep tabs on him. It’s Christmas, he’s not going far. If he behaves out of the ordinary, has a mysterious rendezvous with someone or starts splashing the cash, we’ll bring him in.”

  The tobacco was coarser than Navy Cut. It was rough on Finch’s throat. He coughed.

  Brookman bent to unlock his desk drawer. As he did so a small medallion on a silver chain dangled out between his upper shirt buttons. A Star of David.

  “Plus, I have this …”

  He pulled out a typed sheet of paper and slid it across to Finch. He tucked his star back in. The document was headed ‘Witness Statement’.

  “The sworn testimony of a Mr Julius Januarie.”

  He pointed it out at the bottom.

  “A work colleague of Coetzee’s … fellow cabbie. Neither has any idea that the other has been in for questioning so they haven’t been able to confer.”

  The first couple of paragraphs was in Afrikaans, with an English translation underneath.

  “To save you the pain of Pienaar’s illiteracy – although give him credit, he’s unintelligible in two languages – the statement declares that Mr Januarie also picked up a gentleman broadly matching the description given by Coetzee …”

  “Our Fancy Dan?”

  Brookman nodded.

  “… at the same location, the Somerset Road Cemetery, about an hour later. Around half past three. This time Fancy Dan was heading back into Cape Town.”

  “How did you get this information?”

  “Quite simple. Telephoned the description of our man down to the taxi controller this afternoon … Wonderful device, the telephone. Wonderful …”

  He w
as lost for an instant in admiration.

  “… The controller asked every cabbie who passed through the depot whether they recognised the man. Mr Januarie did right away.”

  “Are you sure he got the time right? Not just a case of Fancy Dan hopping out from Coetzee’s cab and hailing the next one back down to the waterfront? Didn’t Januarie mean two-thirty not three-thirty?”

  “Januarie was absolutely positive. Didn’t clock on until three. And anyway, there’s another interesting detail.”

  “There is?”

  “This time our Fancy Dan wasn’t quite so fancy. He was dishevelled, dirty.”

  “This could be easily explained.”

  “Of course it could. And in my experience the law of Ockham’s Razor will out.”

  “That the simplest explanation is usually the most likely?”

  Brookman beamed with the wide-eyed pride of a father whose toddler had just taken his first steps.

  “I’m impressed … But until such time—”

  “We must not make assumptions?”

  “Captain, you have the makings of a true detective.”

  Finch grinned.

  Brookman locked the statement back in his drawer.

  “Does Harmison know about this?” enquired Finch.

  Brookman shook his head. There was a mischievous glint in his eye.

  “Seems Coetzee wasn’t the only one withholding information,” Finch quipped.

  Brookman looked at his pocket watch.

  “Which is why I need to have a chat with our esteemed MFP sergeant right away. He will be taking over the case after all.”

  Finch extinguished his cigarette and stood. He put his hand out to shake.

  “Glad to have been of service …”

  The inspector remained seated. He gestured for Finch to return to his chair. He came right to the point.

  “How well did you know Cox? Really.”

  “Not again … You’re not seriously—”

  “As I’ve told you already, Captain. You’re in the clear … clear as you’re ever likely to be.”

  “Then—?”

  “Then it’s like this.”

  He took a moment to find the right words.

  “The way I see it, dead or alive, in this town, you’re the best friend Cox has got.”

  “I am?”

  “We’ve itemised his particulars so no need to keep anything, which means there’s a cardboard box lodged with the desk sergeant containing his possessions. Would you be a good fellow and take care of them for us?”

  “I don’t have a lot of room in my kit … I’m back at the Front in four days.”

  Brookman ignored him.

  “There are a few things also at the guest house.”

  He began filling out a form. He handed it to Finch – a requisition order.

  “It’s not much altogether. A few items of clothing really. It’s just that here it’ll get swallowed up, end up stuffed in a municipal warehouse. You, you’re better placed to return it to the RAMC, send it on to his family or whatever needs to be done. You can post on anything you need to before you leave town.”

  The family. Despite his earlier intentions, Finch had been losing sight of them. Brookman hadn’t.

  “And another thing. I’m guessing the army will be writing a letter or sending a telegram to the bereaved. I’m guessing too that it will curt, impersonal.”

  He handed Finch a business card. It contained Brookman’s own police contact details. On the reverse, in pen, was written the name and Punjabi address of Mrs Isadora Cox.

  “It would be comforting for them to receive something from someone who served with him.”

  This time Brookman stood. He thrust out his hand. Finch shook it.

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Mindful of Brookman’s religious proclivities, he tempered his festive adieu.

  “Season’s cheer, Inspector.”

  * * *

  Finch walked back to the front desk, past the chaos of the cells and the interview rooms. There, the desk sergeant retrieved a cardboard box, about the size of a fish tank, which he dumped on the counter. It had ’Cox dcsd.’ scrawled on the lid. The sergeant handed him a clipboard with a pencil attached to it by a piece of string. On it was an itemisation of what was within:

  Dress tunic, serge

  Dress trousers, serge

  Cotton shirt (khaki)

  Knitted tie (khaki)

  Riding boots, one pair (brown)

  Leather gloves, one pair (brown)

  Peaked cap

  Sam Brown belt w/holster

  Wristwatch

  Leather wallet

  Finch flipped open the flaps

  “Browning pistol and clip of ammunition were removed, sir. Quartermaster’s orders. Deceased’s identity card was retained. Undergarments were destroyed in the post mortem.”

  The clothes hadn’t been folded, just stuffed in. But on first glance all seemed in order.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  Finch reached for the clipboard but stopped. He checked again.

  “Something wrong, sir?”

  “Yes Sergeant. Says here ‘leather gloves, one pair.’”

  He held up a single right-hand one.

  The sergeant rummaged around.

  “Someone’s obviously made a mistake.”

  “Or lost the left one.”

  “Unlikely, sir.”

  “Even so …”

  The sergeant corrected the entry. He would ask Inspector Brookman to initial the adjustment, he said.

  Wait a minute, Finch thought. Wasn’t there an overcoat? Didn’t Pinkie Coetzee say something about the Fancy Dan throwing Cox’s coat onto the cab seat?

  “No overcoat?”

  “None listed, sir.”

  “Sergeant, will you excuse me for a moment?”

  He turned and headed back up the corridor. The door was closed. He could hear Brookman and Harmison in deep discussion. He felt sorry for Brookman. He was just getting stuck into this case. Now he was going to have to relinquish it. And to Harmison.

  Finch returned to the desk and wrote a note explaining about the glove and the coat.

  “Please, will you ensure that the inspector gets this the minute he comes out?” he asked the sergeant.

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  It was dark outside. Christmas Day had practically been written off. He hadn’t even been to church, his annual ritual, though he had had lunch with a cleric who had uttered a drunken prayer. Finch supposed it counted.

  Back at the Belvedere, Finch was about to loft Cox’s box upstairs when the bellboy called to him. While Finch was out, he’d had a visitor.

  “Yes, sir. A gentleman. Left you this.”

  It was another calling card, printed with the name and Wynberg address of someone called ‘Albert Rideau’.

  “Did he say what it was concerning?”

  “No, sir.”

  The bellboy lingered. Damn, he must keep more small change about his person. Finch rooted in his pocket and came up with some pennies.

  The bellboy uttered a sarcastic: “Thank you, sir.”

  Finch felt embarrassed to ask for assistance and struggled upstairs alone. Inside his room he put the box on the table and lit the gas lamp. Once again, he went through the ritual of removing his boots and pouring himself a generous tot of Talisker. Christ, his knee was hurting.

  He took out Cox’s items one by one, hanging the clothes on the back of the chair and placing the boots next to each other on the floor. It somehow seemed more respectful.

  The watch was a quality timepiece. Zeiss, German. It had fine black roman numerals on a white dial. The casing was silver, shiny, barely scratched. The crocodile strap, a dark greenish-brown, was still rather stiff, rather new.

  Finch flipped it over. On the reverse, it had an engraved inscription: ’All my love, V.’

  ‘V?’

  Finch reached inside his breast pocket an
d pulled out the two business cards he had acquired. He set the one from Albert Rideau aside and turned over the one from Brookman. Cox’s wife was named Isadora. Though ‘V’ may have been her middle name or a pet one.

  He prised open the popper on the battered, scuffed wallet. Inside was ten shillings in cash, just as Brookman had said. There was, too, a receipt from a chemist’s shop printed on pale green paper, around a shilling’s worth of postage stamps and a scrap of paper, ripped from a lined sheet, on which was scrawled, in pencil, the word ‘Shawcroft’.

  Finch sipped his scotch and lit a Navy Cut.

  He changed his mind about Cox’s clothes. It was too unnerving to have them hung out like that. Plus there was a hint of Cox’s cologne in the air. He put the boots back in the box and went to fold the garments away on top of them.

  On a whim, he examined them. He started with the pockets. As he expected, the police had emptied them. But there was something odd about the jacket. On the inside, on the right, below the interior pocket, was a rip in the dark green silk, about ten inches long, running horizontally.

  No, not a rip, an incision, a cut, a slash, made by something very sharp. A few inches above it, parallel, was a more ragged gash of about the same length, which had been sewn up, rather crudely by hand with black cotton thread.

  When he held the jacket up he could see it was stretched out, a little misshapen on the right-hand side above the belt loop. Had Cox sewn something into the lining? Was the slash underneath the work of someone intent on removing it?

  Whatever it was, it was no longer there.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mbutu rolled over. The man next to him was curled in a foetal position, snoring lightly. Mbutu pressed his hand over the man’s mouth and shook his shoulder. He spluttered hot breath and saliva into Mbutu’s palm. Mbutu gestured up to the rocks, then pressed a finger to his own lips.

  Mbutu’s heart pounded at a rate he did not know it was possible to reach. He grabbed the flintlock pistol and the leather pouch. The other man wakened his neighbour who, in turn, roused the man next to him. The first man picked up his spear. Within seconds the six had been raised.