The Blood of an Englishman by James McClure Read Free Book Online

being put in that boot. If you take a look at his shoulder here, you’ll see the clear impression of a bolt-head from the car’s bodywork.”
    The octagonal white shape was as decided as a paper cutout. Other pressure points along Hookham’s left side were similarly free of accumulated blood.
    “You say at least six hours, Doc, but what’s the upper limit?” asked Kramer. “You’ve taken his temp?”
    “Ja, but under the circumstances, it isn’t much help. It was like an oven in that boot, Trompie, and rigor must have set in damn quick—we’ve even got decomposition.”
    “No time of death then?”
    “I’d say within the last twenty-four hours.”
    “You’d say right. It happened last night.”
    There was very little fat on Hookham, corroborating what Jonty had said about his being an energetic type, although the only energy left in him now was kinetic. The face was rather boyish, quite pleasant, and dominated by a mustache that Kramer recognized as typically RAF, upswept and cocky, while the thin mouth looked made for laconic remarks.
    “Which bullet did he get first, Doc? This hole in his head?”
    “Possibly. I was just about to try probing these others in his chest.”
    “Fire away then.”
    Both entrance wounds were slightly to the right of Hookham’s breastbone. Each was about three-eighths of an inch across and had a dark collar of abrasion, giving them an overall width of half an inch.
    “One thing I can tell you right away,” said Strydom, “is that the shirt showed no sign of fouling by smoke or tattooing by unburnt powder grains, so all of these definitely came from over a meter away.” He paused and frowned. “That’s funny, I can’t seem to find the track on this one.…” He tried increasing the angle of the probe to the body, and moved it around gently. “Ah, in we go! It looks as though he took these lying on his back.”
    “So the first went through the forehead, and these were added afterwards?” asked Kramer.
    “From the angle they went in at, yes, I’d say that was a reasonable assumption.”
    “Don’t know why anyone would have bothered,” mumbled Van Rensburg. “The bloke already didn’t have any brain left.”
    “That isn’t a handicap to some people,” snapped Strydom, who detested the mortuary sergeant. “And it’s just as well the killer
did
bother, you clown, because there’s no slug for us to recover from the head wound—it went right through.”
    “You mean we might have something for Ballistics?” said Kramer, perking up. “No exit wounds in the back?”
    “Look for yourself, Tromp—come on, Van Rensburg, get your finger out!”
    While the body was being turned over, Prinsloo cleared his throat in the key of a man hoping to make amends. “Lieutenant, sir,” he said respectfully, “can I make a suggestion? There’s this talk that you think this business and the Bradshaw case could be connected. Now if that is so, and the killer made a mess of it with Bradshaw because he used only one shot, then maybe he has pumped in these extra ones this time just to make sure.”
    “Ja, that’s possible.”
    Strydom ran his hand lightly over Hookham’s back. “Do you know, I think we’re in luck!” he chuckled. “Put on that rubber glove and feel here, Tromp. Sort of a lump, like a cyst.”
    Kramer found it easily. “That’s one of the slugs?”
    “Pretty sure it is,” said Strydom. “As you know, after bone, skin offers the biggest resistance to a bullet—in fact, only about half those who try to shoot themselves in the heart are successful. The bullet just hits the sternum, and skids off round the rib cage under the skin.”
    “Scalpel?” promoted Van Rensburg, officiously, and held one out to him.
    Strydom disregarded it and chose another that was identical. “How many times have I got to tell you this isn’t a bloody operating theater, Sergeant? If I’d wanted that life—instead of peace and quiet—then I’d have made sure my chief