Part 2 (1/2)
”Time to go,” Emmanuel said. ”We'll take the captain to hospital, get the doctor to look him over.”
”We're taking him home,” Henrick stated flatly. ”My ma's waited long enough to see him.”
Emmanuel felt the force of the brothers as they turned their gaze on him. He held their stare and absorbed the tension and rage, now doubly fueled by alcohol and fatigue.
”We need a medical opinion on the time and the cause of death. And a signed death certificate. It's standard police procedure.”
”Are you blind as well as f.u.c.king deaf?” Erich said. ”You need a doctor to tell you he was shot? What kind of detective are you, Detective?”
”I'm the kind of detective that solves cases, Erich. That's why Major van Niekerk sent me. Would you rather we left it to him?”
He motioned to the fire where Hansie sat cross-legged, a plate of Koeksisters on his knees. The thin sound of his humming carried through the air as he selected another sweet pastry.
”We won't agree to a doctor cutting him up like a beast,” Henrick said. ”He's G.o.d's creature, even if his spirit has departed his body. Pa would never have agreed to it and we won't either.”
True Afrikaners and religious with it. Wars started with less fuel. The Pretorius boys were ready to take up arms for their beliefs. Time to tread carefully. He was out on his own with no backup and no partner. Some access to the body was better than none at all.
”No autopsy,” Emmanuel said. ”Just an examination to determine time and cause of death. The captain would have agreed to that much, I'm sure.”
”Ja, okay,” Erich said, and the aggression drained from him.
”Tell your ma we'll get him home as soon as possible. Constable Shabalala and I will take care of him.”
Henrick handed over the keys to the police van, which he'd found in the captain's pocket when they hauled him out of the river.
”Hansie and Shabalala will show you the way to the hospital and then to our parents' place. Take too long and my brothers and I will come looking for you, Detective.”
Emmanuel checked the rearview mirror of the police van and saw Hansie following in the Packard with Shabalala's bike lashed to the roof. The boy was good behind the wheel, tight and confident. If the killer was a race car driver, Emmanuel noted, Hansie might get a chance to earn his pay packet on the police force, possibly for the first time.
The vehicles entered the town of Jacob's Rest on Piet Retief Street, the town's only tarred road. A little way down, they turned onto a dirt road and drove past a series of low-slung buildings grouped together under a haze of purple jacaranda trees. Shabalala directed Emmanuel into a circular drive lined with whitewashed stones. He paused at the front entrance to the Grace of G.o.d Hospital.
Crude icon images of Christ on the Cross were carved into the two front doors. Emmanuel and Shabalala slipped out of the police van and stood on either side of the filthy bonnet. Mud-splattered and sweat-stained, they carried the smell of bad news about them.
”What now?” Emmanuel asked Shabalala. It was almost noon and the captain was doing a slow roast in the back of the police van.
The doors to the hospital swung open and a large steam engine of a black woman in a nun's habit appeared on the top stair. Another nun, pale skinned and tiny as a bantam hen, stepped up beside her. The sisters stared out from the shade cast by their headdresses.
”Sisters.” Emmanuel lifted his hat, like a hobo practicing good manners. ”I'm Detective Sergeant Emmanuel Cooper. You know the other policemen, I'm sure.”
”Of course, of course.” The tiny white nun fluttered down the stairs, followed by her solid black shadow. ”I'm Sister Bernadette and this is Sister Angelina. Please forgive our surprise. How may we be of service, Detective Cooper?”
”We have Captain Pretorius in the van-”
The sisters' gasp broke the flow of his words. He started again, aiming for a gentler tone.
”The captain is-”
”Dead,” Hansie blubbered. ”He's been murdered. Someone shot him in the head and the back...there's a hole...”
”Constable...” Emmanuel put the full weight of his hand on the boy's shoulder. No need for specific information about the case to be sprayed around so early. It was a small town. Everyone would know the b.l.o.o.d.y details soon enough.
”Lord rest his soul,” said Sister Bernadette.
”May G.o.d have mercy on his soul,” Sister Angelina intoned.
Emmanuel waited until the sisters crossed themselves before pus.h.i.+ng ahead.
”We need the doctor to examine Captain Pretorius to determine cause and time of death, and to issue the death certificate.”
”Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear...” Sister Bernadette muttered quietly, her Irish brogue now thick. ”I'm afraid we can't help you, Detective Cooper. Doctor left on his rounds this morning.”
”When will he be back?” Emmanuel figured he had four hours at most before the Pretorius brothers showed up to claim the body.
”Two, maybe three days,” Sister Bernadette said. ”There's been an outbreak of bilharzia at a boarding school near Bremer. Depending on the number of cases, he might be longer. I'm so sorry.”
Days, not hours. Country time was too slow for his liking.
”What would you do if Captain Pretorius was badly injured but still alive?” he asked.
”Send you on to Mooihoek. There's a doctor at the hospital full-time.”
He didn't get his hopes up. The situation was fubar, as the Yank soldiers were fond of saying. f.u.c.ked up beyond all recognition. He tried anyway.
”How long?”
”If the road is in good shape, just under two hours.” Sister Bernadette delivered the good news with a weak smile, then cast about for a friendlier face, one that understood geography. ”Isn't that so, Constable Shabalala?”
Shabalala nodded. ”That is the time, if the road is good.”
”And is the road good?” Emmanuel asked. The headache suddenly pulsed red and white behind his left eye socket. He waited for someone to answer the question.
”Good until ver Maak's farm.” Shabalala spoke up when it became obvious no one else was going to. ”Ver Maak told captain there was a donga in the road, but he drove around it to come to town.”
The collapse in the road was pa.s.sable, but it would add time to the journey to Mooihoek. He didn't want to risk breaking the case open like this. A police van with a dead police captain was sure to get noticed, especially in Mooihoek, where a phone call would bring the press swarming down on them in no time.
”Detective Cooper...” Sister Bernadette touched the silver cross around her neck and felt the comforting sharpness of Jesus' ribs against her fingers. ”There is Mr. Zweigman.”
”Who is Mr. Zweigman?”
”The old Jew,” Hansie said quickly. ”He runs a dry goods store down by the bus stop. Kaffirs and coloureds go there.”
Emmanuel kept his gaze steady on Sister Bernadette, G.o.d's black-robed pigeon ready to take flight at the smallest sound.
”What about Mr. Zweigman?”