A Sailor's Honour by Chris Marnewick Page A

silence. ‘Three thousand one hundred and twenty, all in crisp new banknotes,’ PC Crosthwaite said.
    â€˜Do you have a bank account?’ PC Jones asked.
    De Villiers shook his head.
    He watched as PC Crosthwaite put the notes back in the belt and opened the next compartment. PC Crosthwaite splayed the travellers cheques like a deck of cards. ‘Let’s have a look,’ he said. He opened the passport at the signature page and compared the signature with that on the cheques.
    â€˜It’s yours, alright,’ he said. He replaced the cheques in their compartment.
    â€˜There’s something wrong here,’ PC Jones said. ‘You look like a tramp but you have lots of money and this room is as clean as a whistle. I’m sure if we dusted it for fingerprints, we wouldn’t find any. You say you don’t have a job, but you have all this money on you.’
    De Villiers took a deep breath. His explanation would either make no sense to them or require further explanation.
    â€˜And you were limping,’ PC Crosthwaite said. ‘Why run when you’re limping?’
    De Villiers shrugged. ‘I told you I wanted some exercise. I hurt my leg and I’m trying to get it strong again.’
    â€˜What are you doing here?’ PC Jones asked. ‘You’re not working. You’re not a tourist. And this room is as bare as a billiard ball. You look like someone who’s just come out of prison.’
    â€˜See it from our view, it looks suspicious,’ PC Crosthwaite said.
    De Villiers looked about the room. It was no more than three metres by three, with a single bed which was too short for him, an old oak wardrobe, a small table and chair, and a bucket with cleaning materials in the corner. The door was of steel with two heavy-duty security bolts on the inside as well as a standard lock. The small window was high up, almost flush against the wall of the next building, and let in little light. The steel bars on the outside threw faint shadows on the glass.
    PC Crosthwaite ran his finger across the light fitting. There was no dust there either.
    â€˜What are you running from?’ PC Jones asked. ‘Or who, to be more precise.’
    How could he tell these men that at night, when the demons got too much for him, he scrubbed the floor and walls and wiped all the other surfaces with a rag dipped in disinfectant? Would they understand if he told them that he washed himself and his clothes in the same bucket? Would they understand if he said that he never felt completely clean?
    PC Jones read his thoughts. ‘What are you trying to wash off here? Have you been in prison? This place looks like a prison cell.’
    â€˜I’m recovering,’ De Villiers said. It was a mistake. He knew it as soon as he said it.
    â€˜Recovering from what?’ PC Jones wanted to know.
    De Villiers sighed. The two policemen stood over him, waiting for an answer. ‘From what?’ PC Crosthwaite said.
    De Villiers stood up and undid the top buttons of his shirt. He pulled the shirt to one side. ‘From this,’ he said. The bullet wound was clearly visible.
    He turned his back. ‘It came out here.’
    When he faced the two policemen again, PC Crosthwaite asked, ‘And the leg?’
    De Villiers tugged at the leg of his cargo pants. ‘And here.’
    The two policemen stooped to get a closer look. ‘Where did it happen?’ PC Jones asked.
    â€˜Pretoria,’ De Villiers said.
    â€˜Are the police back home looking for you?’ PC Jones asked.
    â€˜No,’ De Villiers said. ‘They’re looking for the people who shot me.’
    â€˜You’d better come with us to the station,’ PC Jones said suddenly. ‘So that we can check out your story.’
    They led him to the door. PC Jones carried the passport and the money belt. De Villiers locked the door behind them and followed them. They opened the door and De Villiers got into