Part 9 (2/2)
”When's my backup getting here, sir?” Emmanuel asked. He'd reached Major van Niekerk at home: a redbrick Victorian mansion nestled on vast grounds in the posh northern suburbs of Johannesburg. ”I can't run this investigation on my own.”
”No backup,” van Niekerk replied over the sound of a whistling kettle. ”The commissioner has told me to step away. The Security Branch is in control now.”
”Where does that leave me?”
”Alone,” the major replied. ”The Security Branch wants you replaced but I've convinced the commissioner to keep you on. That means you'll be a very unpopular addition to the team.”
”Why not replace me?” Emmanuel asked.
”You're not a Security Branch stooge,” van Niekerk informed him. ”You'll make sure the right person hangs for the crime.”
Despite what he said, van Niekerk wasn't big on the pure justice element of policing. The ambitious major was making sure that a detective loyal to him was on the ground to represent his best interests. Van Niekerk wasn't going to hand over the headline-making murder of a white police captain to the Security Branch without a fight. Fine, Emmanuel thought, except for the fact that van Niekerk was in Jo'burg sipping tea while he was about to go toe-to-toe with the hard men of law enforcement.
”What are they like?” van Niekerk asked with mild curiosity.
”They look like they can beat a confession out of a can of paint.”
”Good. That means you can turn the whole thing around on them.”
”How do I do that?” Emmanuel asked drily.
”Find the killer,” van Niekerk said. ”Find him before they do.”
Outside the captain's office, the Security Branch officers rifled through the contents of the police station's file cabinet. Their faces made two sides of an ugly coin. They turned to him and Emmanuel felt their hostility radiate outward. ”Unpopular addition to the team”? Major van Niekerk had a talent for understatement.
”We can relax, d.i.c.kie,” the older, leaner officer instructed his hefty colleague, his smile a bare stretch of his lips over yellowing teeth. ”G.o.d is with us. Finally.”
”You must be the smart one,” Emmanuel said, and threw his hat onto Sarel Uys's vacant desk. He waited for the second salvo. The Security Branch boys were going to give him a kicking just to let him know who was in charge.
”G.o.d?” d.i.c.kie's brain was straining to keep up.
”Emmanuel,” the senior officer said. ”That's what his name means. G.o.d is with us. According to Major van Niekerk, Detective Sergeant Cooper here can walk on water. He's a real miracle worker.”
Emmanuel let the comment ride. If the Security Branch wanted a fight, they'd have to land a few more solid punches.
”Where are you off to, Cooper?”
”I report to Major van Niekerk,” Emmanuel said. ”No one else.”
”That was yesterday. From today you report to me, Lieutenant Piet Lapping of the Security Branch. Your major was informed of that fact by my colonel.” He paused to let the full weight of the information sink in. ”Now, where are you off to, Cooper?”
”A farm,” Emmanuel said.
”You sure you want to do that?” Lapping asked. ”Farms are dirty places. You might get cow s.h.i.+t on your shoes.”
d.i.c.kie, the muscle of the outfit, rested his beer-fed rump against the edge of Hansie's desk. ”That's what we heard, hey, Lieutenant? That Manny here likes to keep himself neat and tidy. Always with the ironed s.h.i.+rts and polished shoes.”
Piet lit a cigarette and threw the packet over to his sergeant. ”That's probably why his friend Major van Niekerk promoted him so quickly. Neat bachelors like to stick together.”
”Truly?” d.i.c.kie asked conversationally.
”Ja.” Piet blew a cloud of smoke out from between bulbous lips. ”They meet in secret and starch each other's underpants till they're good and stiff.”
Emmanuel ignored the urge to shove Piet, headfirst, into the rubbish bin. Security Branch intelligence was becoming legendary, but pockmarked Piet and his partner had only a few days' worth of it to draw on. They knew he'd been promoted quickly: too quickly for some senior detectives' liking. His personal hygiene habits and the ugly liaison rumor came from deep inside the district Detective Branch. Somebody had talked.
”Where does a man learn such unnatural things?” d.i.c.kie's hippo-sized head tilted to one side as they continued their routine.
”The British army,” Piet replied. ”That's probably why Manny here did so well during the war. Foot soldier to major in a few years, plus all those s.h.i.+ny medals to pin onto his pretty uniform.”
Emmanuel sifted through the ranks of his detractors and came up with a name. Head Constable Oliver Sparks: a bitter twig of a man due to be pensioned off the force after twenty years of indifferent service. The h.o.m.os.e.xual liaison rumor was his doing, payback for van Niekerk's refusal to offer up the high-profile cases.
”How is Head Constable Sparks?” Emmanuel asked. ”Still planting evidence and drinking on the job?”
The porridge flesh on Piet's face tensed noticeably and he took a long drag of his cigarette and exhaled. Emmanuel knew he'd scored a hit with Sparks's name. The lieutenant's pinp.r.i.c.k eyes darkened.
”Whose farm are you going to?” Lapping continued the previous conversation and Emmanuel felt a rising uneasiness. Lieutenant Piet Lapping and his sidekick were not the ”hard man/hard man” combination he'd picked them for at the funeral. Beneath the lumpy facial mask and the concrete-reinforced body, Piet had a brain that worked at above average capacity.
”Elliot King's farm,” Emmanuel said. ”I'm following up a rumor that King cheated Captain Pretorius on a financial transaction. There might have been bad blood between the two.”
”You're chasing the personal angle?” Lapping made it sound like a fool's errand.
”Is there another?” Emmanuel asked.
”None that I can discuss with you.” Lapping waved a hand toward the front door. ”Go off to your farm visit and report to me immediately when you get back to town. I am in charge of all aspects of this case. Understand?”
Emmanuel got the feeling that the Security Branch was way ahead of him. They were searching for specific information. ”The personal angle,” as the lieutenant put it, was at the bottom of their list of motives.
”Back again so soon, Detective?” Zweigman was wrapping a parcel in a length of brown paper. ”Are you perhaps interested in our special on apricot jam? Top quality. You won't find better. Not even in Jo'burg.”
”The funeral's put you in a good mood,” Emmanuel said. ”Planning a party for later?”
”Just a quiet drink with my wife,” came the deadpan reply.
”I though you never hit the bottle, Doctor.”
”Only on special occasions.” Zweigman tied the parcel up neatly and laid it with a pile of others on the counter. ”Do you plan to join the funeral reception at the Standard Hotel, Detective? I hear Henrick Pretorius is serving up half-price drinks until sunset.”
Emmanuel imagined the Pretorius brothers and their Boer brethren singing Afrikaner folk songs late into the night. Someone might even pull out a squeezebox for good measure. His blood ran cold.
”Not my kind of gathering,” he said. ”I'm supposed to give King's housekeeper and her daughter a lift to his farm. He said they'd be here.”
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