them two at a time.
“Ramjut?” came his mother’s querulous voice from outside the door to the lean-to. “Ramjut, are you there? And, if you are there, why are you there? This is not a Sunday, not a day of rest, Ramjut. Ramjut, can you hear me …?”
“Go away, Mother,” he said rudely. “Go away and dropping dead.”
“What, boy? What did you say to me?”
“Please go away, Mother,” he sighed.
Then turned back to what he had been doing the whole night long, caught up in a fever of excitement mixed with uncertainty. He read, for the umpteenth time, the threatening letter on cheap blue stationery that described Naomi Stride as a “Filthey JUW bitCH” and, again for the umpteenth time, he wondered whether it hadn’t in fact been written by her killer.
Everything seemed to point to this being so. Each word of the letter was charged with murderous hatred, and there, quite plainly, was a promise that she would be made “to pay for it” through what the writer would do to her. And yet.…
“Ramjut!” came his mother’s voice again, quavering pathetically. “I’m an old woman, the sun is already hot, I cannot stand here many minutes longer, pleading for a word from you. What is the matter? What is going through your mind?”
“A postmark!” snapped Ramjut Pillay.
Monday’s postmark, to be exact, and this was where his half-formed theory foundered. Naomi Stride had been murdered on Monday night, before the letter could reach her. What sense was there in that? Obviously she had been intended to read the thing and to feel shame for what she had done. Just as obviously, the writer had wanted to gloat over the mounting terror she would feel while she waited for him to strike. Why jump the gun, and let her off somuch terrible punishment, when there was such hatred in your heart?
“Ah!” said Ramjut Pillay, with sudden inspiration. “Because, we must remind our dear selves, the aforesaid lady victim might take such colossal frights she will run away, or tell the police of her problems, thereby making it difficult to be executing such a devilish scheme!”
But, no, something wasn’t quite right about that notion, either, as logical and rational as it seemed.
“Ah!” said Ramjut Pillay.
Logic and rationality were not to be expected from the sort of madman who had written the letter. To have done so at all, risking the letter being traced back to him by the CID, showed he was not one for astute reasoning but a bloody foolish fellow.
Which did not necessarily make him a killer, though.
“Oh dear, oh dear, if only I am knowing of some proper link,” sighed Ramjut Pillay.
Kramer sipped his tea and tried not to think about Vicki Stilgoe. He concentrated instead on the fact that Theo Kennedy had seemed much calmer when he’d come sidling into the kitchen, a terrible hangover notwithstanding. It was obviously doing him good to have Amanda around, because her chirpy remarks made the poor bugger keep smiling. On top of which, Vicki was the perfect—
“Right, Mickey!” he said to Zondi, who was fitting a new lead to the electric kettle. “Enough of this pissing about, let’s have your ideas on where we should start today. With Carswell out of the way, that leaves four others on our list to see. Jesus Christ, this is a stupid bloody way of going about things.”
Zondi nodded. “The money in each case is now small,” he agreed. “And was it only to people here in Trekkersburg that Mrs. Stride left these presents in her will?”
“Ach, I don’t know, man—and I care even less. What I want are practical suggestions.”
“Then, to do this quicker, we split up, boss.”
“You crafty bugger,” grunted Kramer, picking up the list. “That means you get just the one—this Kwakona Mtunsi bloke—while I get the other three.”
“Are you not three times the man I am, O Great White Father?”
“
Six times
the man, kaffir,” Kramer replied. “Because, the way I feel right now, I’m
“Ramjut?” came his mother’s querulous voice from outside the door to the lean-to. “Ramjut, are you there? And, if you are there, why are you there? This is not a Sunday, not a day of rest, Ramjut. Ramjut, can you hear me …?”
“Go away, Mother,” he said rudely. “Go away and dropping dead.”
“What, boy? What did you say to me?”
“Please go away, Mother,” he sighed.
Then turned back to what he had been doing the whole night long, caught up in a fever of excitement mixed with uncertainty. He read, for the umpteenth time, the threatening letter on cheap blue stationery that described Naomi Stride as a “Filthey JUW bitCH” and, again for the umpteenth time, he wondered whether it hadn’t in fact been written by her killer.
Everything seemed to point to this being so. Each word of the letter was charged with murderous hatred, and there, quite plainly, was a promise that she would be made “to pay for it” through what the writer would do to her. And yet.…
“Ramjut!” came his mother’s voice again, quavering pathetically. “I’m an old woman, the sun is already hot, I cannot stand here many minutes longer, pleading for a word from you. What is the matter? What is going through your mind?”
“A postmark!” snapped Ramjut Pillay.
Monday’s postmark, to be exact, and this was where his half-formed theory foundered. Naomi Stride had been murdered on Monday night, before the letter could reach her. What sense was there in that? Obviously she had been intended to read the thing and to feel shame for what she had done. Just as obviously, the writer had wanted to gloat over the mounting terror she would feel while she waited for him to strike. Why jump the gun, and let her off somuch terrible punishment, when there was such hatred in your heart?
“Ah!” said Ramjut Pillay, with sudden inspiration. “Because, we must remind our dear selves, the aforesaid lady victim might take such colossal frights she will run away, or tell the police of her problems, thereby making it difficult to be executing such a devilish scheme!”
But, no, something wasn’t quite right about that notion, either, as logical and rational as it seemed.
“Ah!” said Ramjut Pillay.
Logic and rationality were not to be expected from the sort of madman who had written the letter. To have done so at all, risking the letter being traced back to him by the CID, showed he was not one for astute reasoning but a bloody foolish fellow.
Which did not necessarily make him a killer, though.
“Oh dear, oh dear, if only I am knowing of some proper link,” sighed Ramjut Pillay.
Kramer sipped his tea and tried not to think about Vicki Stilgoe. He concentrated instead on the fact that Theo Kennedy had seemed much calmer when he’d come sidling into the kitchen, a terrible hangover notwithstanding. It was obviously doing him good to have Amanda around, because her chirpy remarks made the poor bugger keep smiling. On top of which, Vicki was the perfect—
“Right, Mickey!” he said to Zondi, who was fitting a new lead to the electric kettle. “Enough of this pissing about, let’s have your ideas on where we should start today. With Carswell out of the way, that leaves four others on our list to see. Jesus Christ, this is a stupid bloody way of going about things.”
Zondi nodded. “The money in each case is now small,” he agreed. “And was it only to people here in Trekkersburg that Mrs. Stride left these presents in her will?”
“Ach, I don’t know, man—and I care even less. What I want are practical suggestions.”
“Then, to do this quicker, we split up, boss.”
“You crafty bugger,” grunted Kramer, picking up the list. “That means you get just the one—this Kwakona Mtunsi bloke—while I get the other three.”
“Are you not three times the man I am, O Great White Father?”
“
Six times
the man, kaffir,” Kramer replied. “Because, the way I feel right now, I’m
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