The Gooseberry Fool by James Mcclure Read Free Book Online Page B

said Kramer, lighting up.
    Strydom let the water run, then sliced open the spongy organs, scraping at their interior with his scalpel.
    “Well, where’s our friend then, doc?”
    “Third table along.”
    “That thing?”
    “I hinted as much last night, Lieutenant. Proper human concertina. Propped the top over there so it wouldn’t roll off.”
    Van Rensburg had been busy with his water spray and—it seemed—with a comb. For Mark Clive Wallace, white male aged forty, had both a clean face and a part as he stared across at Kramer from a shallow bowl on the instrument cabinet. He looked a friendly sort.
    “Hello, old mate,” said Kramer, stooping to look Wallace in the eye that was open. “Tell me, what did you get up to?”
    “One hell of a lot of booze in his belly, for a start, Lieutenant. Not so much in his blood, though. Must’ve belted down a few very fast just before it happened.”
    “I’ll find something to fit that then. What else?”
    “I’d swear his hands weren’t on the wheel when he hit the guard rail. You see, you’d normally expect at least fractures of the thumbs, here at the base. My guess is that he had them over his peepers.”
    “What’d make him do that?”
    “A bright light?”
    “Not bad, doc. Or maybe he just didn’t want to see where he was going.”
    “Suicide?”
    “A theory.”
    “The only other thing I can tell you is that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.”
    “How was his health?”
    “Not bad at all. Nothing terminal—and no ulcer either, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
    Kramer continued his examination of the three-dimensional mug shot, noting the parentheses of smile lines bracketing the wide mouth, and the ebullience of the upswept mustache. It was not the face of a man who lightly took his own life.
    “Could be he just misjudged and panicked, doc,” he murmured.
    “I’ll go along with you on that.”
    “But still that fool Du Plessis—”
    Strydom would doubtless have been sympathetic had not Van Rensburg entered at that moment with a clipboard ready to take notes.
    “Morning, Lieutenant! Another scorcher of a day, hey?”
    Van Rensburg tipped his head, listening, and Kramer noticed the tin roof had begun to plink as it expanded under a fierce sun. He wondered what the weather was like upcountry, wherever it was Zondi had gone. And he hoped to God all was going according to plan.
    Zondi had sat for a long while in the spiked shade of the aloe, watching the police party ensure the total destruction of Robert’s Halt. He watched them dispatch abandoned dogs and then sit down to a picnic tea. He watched the horseplay that followed. He watched a dung beetle carve a perfect sphere from a pile of droppings near his feet.
    Finally he decided there was nothing to be gained from going across, identifying himself, and asking about Shabalala. Nobody would know anything: personal details were never the concern of eviction squads. He also encountered problems when asking favors of officers unknown to him. Besides, they were unlikely to believe his story of having been sent out alone to catch a white man’s murderer.
    But the basic reason behind his reluctance to involve others rested on the fact that being allowed the initiative was a true compliment—one he intended repaying with a nice neck for the gallows.
    There were now signs that the squad would soon be returning to base. The officer in charge kept looking around to the west, where, above the wooded escarpment, cloud was massing with astonishing swiftness, piling up like shaving cream from the lieutenant’s aerosol can. In another hour, sky drums would beat and long legs of lightning begin their dance, stamping death into the dust. Nobody who had a choice wanted to be around for that.
    And this included Zondi, who also then realized that the sight of the Anglia beside the road might bring complications. So, with a final glance at what had once been a simple solution, he began back up the hill through