Part 31 (2/2)
”The Loubert boys, Jan and Eugene,” said Anton. ”Then there was Louis Pretorius and, I believe, the Melmons' son, Jacob. I don't know about the Dutch boys out on the farms.”
”What about Hansie?” It was a ludicrous thought but Emmanuel had to cover as many bases as he could. Whittling down the suspect list by sc.r.a.ping together pieces of information on white schoolboys was a primitive science at best.
”Training,” Shabalala answered. ”The constable was at the police college during the last half of the year.”
”The boys who were away at school last year? Did any of them ever get caught on the kaffir paths after dark?”
”Louis and the Loubert boys,” Anton replied. ”They were using the path to obtain...um, things that the captain thought were unhealthy.”
”Liquor and dagga from Tiny? Is that right?”
”Ja.” Anton lifted his eyebrows in amazement. ”I thought only Captain Pretorius and the coloured people knew about that. It was kept pretty quiet.”
”Small town,” Emmanuel said. ”Which of those three boys would have access to the cleaner?”
”Louis for sure,” Anton answered again. ”The boy is always messing around with engines and fixing things up. He's good with his hands and Erich lets him have whatever he wants from the garage.”
”Was Louis home for the August and December holidays?” Emmanuel asked Shabalala.
”Yes,” Shabalala said. ”He came back for all the holidays. The missus does not like him staying too long away.”
That was three out of three for Louis. He knew the kaffir path almost as well as a native, he was home for the holidays, and he had easy access to the gum-scented cleaner. Those facts alone warranted an interview even though the idea of the boy as the molester still seemed ludicrous.
Emmanuel went back to the bit about Louis being good with his hands. On the first day of the investigation Louis had given the distinct impression that his father was the mechanical whiz. He'd said as much.
”I thought the captain was letting Louis help him fix up an old motorbike,” Emmanuel said.
”Other way around. The captain was helping Louis. There's not much that boy doesn't know about engines, but the captain was always asking for help after he'd stuffed something up.”
”You think Louis is capable of finis.h.i.+ng that Indian motorbike without help?”
”Completely.” Anton placed his precious supply of antigrease cleaner into the wooden bucket. ”Beats me why he went to Bible college when he should have been working at his brother's place. Being a mechanic suits him a h.e.l.l of a lot better than being a pastor.”
”Yes, but it doesn't suit his mother.” Mrs. Pretorius had a pretty clear idea about her youngest son's future: a future free of oil stains and overalls.
”The school holiday inquiry is an interesting one,” Zweigman broke in politely. ”But that does not explain why the attacks stopped in the middle of the Christmas holidays and have not recurred.”
”You're right. December twenty-sixth was the last reported attack. That still leaves how much of the holiday?”
”The first week of January,” Shabalala replied so softly that Emmanuel turned to him. The Zulu constable looked just as he had on the banks of the river the moment before they pulled Captain Pretorius from the water. His face carried sadness too deep to be expressed with words.
”The Drakensberg.” Emmanuel remembered Hansie's drunken ramblings out on the veldt. When had the captain sent Louis ”a long way away” after discovering the drinking and dagga smoking? ”Is that where he was, Shabalala?”
”Yebo,” the Zulu man said. ”The young one, Mathandunina, was taken by the captain on the first day of January to a place in the Drakensberg mountains in Natal. I do not know why.”
Emmanuel scribbled van Niekerk's name and phone number and a query onto a page in his notebook, tore it out, and handed it to Zweigman.
”Call this number and ask this man, Major van Niekerk, if he has an answer to this question. Constable Shabalala and I will be back within the hour. If not, look for us in the police cells.”
It was five past twelve and Miss Byrd was sitting on the back steps of the post office, chewing on a canned-meat sandwich made with thick slices of soft white bread. She was startled to see both the detective sergeant and the Zulu policeman walking toward her.
”The engine part that Louis Pretorius is waiting for? Has it come in yet?” Emmanuel said.
”It came the day before his father pa.s.sed. Tragic, hey? Captain not getting to ride the motorbike after all the hard work he and Louis put into it. To be so close and not...”
”I thought Louis was coming to the post office every day to check for the part?”
”No.” Miss Byrd smiled. ”He calls in to collect the mail for his mother. He's very considerate that way, a very sweet young boy.”
”Yes, and Lucifer was the most beautiful of all G.o.d's angels,” Emmanuel said. He and Shabalala walked back onto the kaffir path. They started as one toward the captain's shed. He'd told the Zulu constable about the attack in the stone hut and the mechanical rattle he'd heard just before pa.s.sing out.
”Looks like he dismantled the bike after he finished it, so no one knew he had transport.” Emmanuel took a guess at the sequence of events. ”I'm willing to bet that Pretorius didn't know anything about the engine part arriving from Jo'burg.”
”He said nothing of it to me.”
They picked up the pace and jogged in unison across the stretch of veldt that swung around the back of the police station and curved past the rear fence line of the houses facing onto van Riebeeck street. The noon sun had burned away the clouds to reveal a canopy of blue.
”You don't have to come in,” Emmanuel said once they'd stopped outside the shed door. ”Right or wrong, this is going to cause big trouble.”
”That one inside.” Shabalala hadn't even broken a sweat on the run. ”He is the only one who knew which kaffir paths the captain was running on. I wish to hear what he has to say to this.”
Emmanuel gave the door a shove with his shoulder, expecting resistance, but found none. The door swung open to reveal the darkened interior of the work shed. He stepped inside. Both Louis and the motorcycle were gone. Emmanuel walked over to the spot where the Indian had been resting on blocks and found a large oil stain but nothing else.
”The little b.a.s.t.a.r.d's taken off on his motorbike. You have any idea where he could have gone, Shabalala?”
”Detective Sergeant-”
d.i.c.kie and two new Security Branch men wrestled the Zulu constable from the open doorway, then shoved him back onto the veldt. Lieutenant Piet Lapping entered wearing a sweat-and ash-stained s.h.i.+rt and rumpled pants. Lack of sleep had made his craggy face look like a bag of marbles stuffed into a white nylon stocking.
”Lieutenant Lapping.” Emmanuel smelled the anger and frustration coming directly off Piet's sweat-beaded skin and concentrated on remaining calm. The Security Branch couldn't nail him for anything. Not yet.
”Sit down.” Piet indicated the chair in front of the hunting desk. d.i.c.kie and his two bulldozer pals followed and took up positions at either side of the door. Emmanuel did as he was told and sat down.
”d.i.c.kie.” Piet held out his hand and took a thin folder from his second in command, which he held up for closer inspection. ”You know what this is, Cooper?”
”A file,” Emmanuel said. It was the information folder delivered by special messenger on the day he'd gone to Mozambique.
”A file...” Piet paused and rummaged in his pants pocket for a cigarette. ”Sent especially to us by district headquarters. Have you seen this particular file before, Cooper?”
”No, I have not.”
Piet lit his cigarette and allowed the flame from his silver lighter to burn longer than necessary before snapping it shut with a hard click. He placed the file gently onto Emmanuel's lap.
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