Kramer, reaching the Nkosala road. “So far, so good, but what
was
the great weight that you lifted from ‘little Annika’s’ shoulders, making her seem a changed woman? It sounds to me very like she let you share in some dark secret and you promised to do something about it! Furthermore, what made you return to Fynn’s Creek at midnight? Did someone else, over a curry supper at which you discussed this conversation, suddenly give you a fresh insight into what Annika had told you, sending you hurtling out there? Uh-huh, it certainly sounds that way …”
Kramer was perfectly aware that talking to himself could be construed as the slippery slope to raving insanity, but what else was a man to do in bloody Natal, for Christ’s sake, if he felt the need of intelligent conversation?
Still turning over the events of the day, and kicking himself for ridiculous oversights—he should, for example, have remembered to ask Moses if he knew how the young madam had got those bruises on her upper arm—Kramer continued his musings. Not simply all the way back to Jafini, but right to the address where, if memory served him correctly, Terblanche had rented him a room for his stay in Jafini.
Still preoccupied, he was barely aware of taking his suitcase from the Land Rover, and quite without thinking, thumped loudly on the freshly painted front door of 23 Jacaranda Avenue as though leading a police raid.
A fragrant, dressing-gowned silhouette opened up and scolded: “Shhhhhhh, you’ll wake the whole neighborhood!”
“Sorry, lady,” muttered Kramer, belatedly checking the address on the scrap of paper Terblanche had given him. “But you are the Widow Fourie, hey?”
“For your sake, I certainly hope so,” she said.
10
K RAMER SLEPT BADLY that first night in Jafini.
He had several dreams that woke him with a start, and then, once awake, he was unable to go straight back to sleep again, having so much pressing on his mind. None of the dreams had dogs in them, which was something. The most disturbing dream of all, however, kept repeating itself: in it, a slight, shadowy figure walked jauntily down a twisting road, and then turned to shout something he couldn’t quite catch.
After waking, and between attempts to get his plans for the day ahead in order, Kramer kept going over again and again his first hour in his new lodgings, during which the Widow Fourie had made him a light supper of scrambled eggs. She had said hardly a word as she moved about that small kitchen, but had appeared content with his silence as he’d sat at the table, drinking her in; she was a heady peach brandy, matured to bloody perfection.
Bullshit, Kramer had admonished himself, she’s simply a big blonde with a good figure—just as Terblanche had described her. Moreover, Kramer had added, just remember, Tromp, that the only other female you’ve been near
in a whole month
was lying around in the nude but in about four hundred pieces, old son.
All of which went by the board when, by accident, the Widow Fourie brushed the back of his hand as she set his plate down, making her drop it with a thud in front of him,and sending a shock through Kramer as decided as any cranked in an interview room. Immediately, she had turned, listened with her head tipped, and then disappeared down the corridor.
Left alone in the kitchen, he tried to review the events of his day, but couldn’t, not for the life of him.
“I heard a noise and thought one of my kids had fallen out of bed,” said the Widow Fourie, on her return. “But it wasn’t that. It was your colleague, going through to gargle in the bathroom. He says he’s developed a really bad sore throat.”
“If it shuts the stupid bastard up for a change, who are we to complain?”
“That’s not very nice!”
Kramer shrugged. “Hans Terblanche tells me that you’ve got kids—how many?”
“Three boys and a girl.”
“Really? Exactly the same number as—” And there he bit his tongue,
was
the great weight that you lifted from ‘little Annika’s’ shoulders, making her seem a changed woman? It sounds to me very like she let you share in some dark secret and you promised to do something about it! Furthermore, what made you return to Fynn’s Creek at midnight? Did someone else, over a curry supper at which you discussed this conversation, suddenly give you a fresh insight into what Annika had told you, sending you hurtling out there? Uh-huh, it certainly sounds that way …”
Kramer was perfectly aware that talking to himself could be construed as the slippery slope to raving insanity, but what else was a man to do in bloody Natal, for Christ’s sake, if he felt the need of intelligent conversation?
Still turning over the events of the day, and kicking himself for ridiculous oversights—he should, for example, have remembered to ask Moses if he knew how the young madam had got those bruises on her upper arm—Kramer continued his musings. Not simply all the way back to Jafini, but right to the address where, if memory served him correctly, Terblanche had rented him a room for his stay in Jafini.
Still preoccupied, he was barely aware of taking his suitcase from the Land Rover, and quite without thinking, thumped loudly on the freshly painted front door of 23 Jacaranda Avenue as though leading a police raid.
A fragrant, dressing-gowned silhouette opened up and scolded: “Shhhhhhh, you’ll wake the whole neighborhood!”
“Sorry, lady,” muttered Kramer, belatedly checking the address on the scrap of paper Terblanche had given him. “But you are the Widow Fourie, hey?”
“For your sake, I certainly hope so,” she said.
10
K RAMER SLEPT BADLY that first night in Jafini.
He had several dreams that woke him with a start, and then, once awake, he was unable to go straight back to sleep again, having so much pressing on his mind. None of the dreams had dogs in them, which was something. The most disturbing dream of all, however, kept repeating itself: in it, a slight, shadowy figure walked jauntily down a twisting road, and then turned to shout something he couldn’t quite catch.
After waking, and between attempts to get his plans for the day ahead in order, Kramer kept going over again and again his first hour in his new lodgings, during which the Widow Fourie had made him a light supper of scrambled eggs. She had said hardly a word as she moved about that small kitchen, but had appeared content with his silence as he’d sat at the table, drinking her in; she was a heady peach brandy, matured to bloody perfection.
Bullshit, Kramer had admonished himself, she’s simply a big blonde with a good figure—just as Terblanche had described her. Moreover, Kramer had added, just remember, Tromp, that the only other female you’ve been near
in a whole month
was lying around in the nude but in about four hundred pieces, old son.
All of which went by the board when, by accident, the Widow Fourie brushed the back of his hand as she set his plate down, making her drop it with a thud in front of him,and sending a shock through Kramer as decided as any cranked in an interview room. Immediately, she had turned, listened with her head tipped, and then disappeared down the corridor.
Left alone in the kitchen, he tried to review the events of his day, but couldn’t, not for the life of him.
“I heard a noise and thought one of my kids had fallen out of bed,” said the Widow Fourie, on her return. “But it wasn’t that. It was your colleague, going through to gargle in the bathroom. He says he’s developed a really bad sore throat.”
“If it shuts the stupid bastard up for a change, who are we to complain?”
“That’s not very nice!”
Kramer shrugged. “Hans Terblanche tells me that you’ve got kids—how many?”
“Three boys and a girl.”
“Really? Exactly the same number as—” And there he bit his tongue,
Similar Books
