The Blood of an Englishman Read online

  ALSO BY JAMES McCLURE

  The Steam Pig

  The Caterpillar Cop

  The Gooseberry Fool

  Snake

  The Sunday Hangman

  Copyright © 1980 by Sabensa Gakulu Limited

  First published in the United States in 1980 by Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc.

  This edition published in 2011 by

  Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  McClure, James, 1939-2006.

  The blood of an Englishman / James McClure.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-1-61695-108-5

  1. Kramer, Trompie (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Zondi, Mickey (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Police—South Africa—Fiction. I.Title.

  PR9369.3.M3B5 2012

  823′.914—dc23

  2011051858

  v3.1

  For Arthur Maling

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Author’s Note

  Fee, fi, fo, fum,

  I smell the blood of an Englishman.

  —The Giant in Jack and the Beanstalk

  1

  DROOPY STEPHENSON HADN’T been a dirty old man all that long. He was still adjusting. He was weighing up the pros and cons, and trying not to allow it to affect his work.

  Which wasn’t easy.

  “What’s this I hear, Droopy?” asked Sam Collins, his boss, crouching beside the Land-Rover from which Droopy was removing the sump. “Man, I’m shocked at you!” And off he went with a laugh, slapping his thigh.

  Droopy extended a hand for a No. 8 ring spanner, and Joseph, his intuitive Zulu assistant, wiped the grease from its shank and placed it gently in his grasp. Then for a while Droopy just lay there on his back on the crawler board, staring up at the sump’s drain plug.

  Three days ago, he had gone into the little fruit shop on the corner, a few yards down the back street from the two-bay garage where he worked, and said to the proprietress, “Another scorcher, hey, Mavis? Okay if I feels your tomatoes?” He liked his tomatoes crisp. And Mavis Koekemoor, who had known Droopy for years, hadn’t even bothered to nod. Instead, she told him that her feet were killing her, and that while the heatwave lasted she had a good mind to get her young niece along to look after the counter side of things. As the shop had only a counter side of things, the idea, had seemed promising to Droopy, and he had said as much. He had also asked politely after Mavis’s young niece, whom he remembered vaguely as having helped out in the shop during school holidays, and had learned that she was waiting to start a job as a hair stylist. “Ja, she’s a big girl now,” Mavis Koekemoor had observed with satisfaction, giving the bag of tomatoes a quick flip, closing and sealing it all in one operation. Droopy had tried to repeat this neat trick after enjoying two of the tomatoes with his lunch-time sandwiches, and had lost the rest of them down the lubrication pit.

  “The boss wants Number Six?” Joseph enquired uneasily, having heard no sounds of activity from beneath the vehicle.

  “Ach no, an Eight’s about right.”

  After applying the spanner to a couple of bolts, Droopy fell once again into a reverie, going over and over the events leading to his new image of himself.

  Two days ago, he had gone into the little fruit shop on the corner to be confronted—there was no other word for it—by a pair of amazing bosoms, and a hair style like an electric shock. “You know Glenda,” Mavis Koekemoor had prompted from a comfortable seat in front of the fan. “And will you just look at her? I ask you! That’s this young madam’s idea of ‘catching a tan, Auntie’!—she’s red all over.” Notwithstanding his normally shy and retiring nature, Droopy was already looking. In fact he was staring fixedly at Glenda, rather less awed by the fiery ravages of the sun than he was by changes of a more permanent order.

  “Hi, Droopy,” Glenda had said, with such a sweet, innocent smile. “Well, do you see anything you’d like?”

  “Er, okay if I feels your tomatoes?”

  “Really, Droopy!”

  And from there it had gone from bad to worse. Much worse. Until Droopy had finally fled, clutching a free cucumber and two oranges, while Mavis Koekemoor had collapsed, helpless with laughter, into the arms of her unscrupulous niece.

  “The boss is sick?”

  Droopy had emitted an involuntary groan. “Ach never! Isn’t it about time you fetched my tea?”

  “Sorry, boss.”

  The next day, of course, which seemed like a million years ago but was only yesterday, Droopy had avoided the little fruit shop like the plague, seeking to augment his landlady’s idea of a packed lunch by a visit to the cake shop. Ordinarily, the three girls in there seemed to take no notice of him whatsoever, but sold him his confectionery without pausing in their conversations together. A tense silence had fallen the moment he reached the counter, the first giggle had come from behind his back, and then the house had come down when he’d asked, rather crossly, if they had any lemon tarts.

  “We never imagined,” said the blonde one, as she handed him his change. “Still waters run deep, hey, Droopy?”

  It was enough to make anyone feel confused, baffled and bewildered, and soon it brought on a nasty headache. So, on his way back to Sam’s Garage, Droopy had slipped into the chemist shop. The two girl assistants had clung together behind a case of sunglasses, sniggering loudly, and then one, prodded forward by her colleague, had said, “Just hang on a sec, Droopy, and I’ll fetch the manager to serve you!”

  “What can he sell me you can’t sell me, hey? All I wants is a thingy of Disprin.”

  Her plucked eyebrows had gone up. “You’re sure? You’ve not run out or anything?”

  “Of course I’ve bloody run out!” Droopy had snapped, adding immeasurably to their merriment. The last straw had come when, on his return to the garage, the scatty receptionist had looked on him with twinkling eyes and said, “Oh, Droopy—where have you been all lunch-time? What have you been up to?”

  Joseph’s gape-toed shoes scraped to a halt beside the Land-Rover. “Excuse, boss. Boss Sam he say does the boss want Boss Sam to put stuff in his tea?”

  “What ‘stuff’?”

  “Ungasi, boss. I go ask him?”

  “No, just bring me my bloody tea and stop fooling around, man! I’ve got work to do!”

  “Sorry, boss.”

  But still the No. 8 ring spanner lay inactive in his hand. Enlightenment had come on his way home, when little Miss Brooks, who ran the Dolls’ Hospital round the corner, had beckoned him into her shop and said, “I just want you to know, Mr. Stephenson, that no matter what that hussy is telling everyone, I shall never be persuaded you’re a—you’re a dirty old man.” Droopy had thanked her humbly, and returned to his lodgings, whe
re he’d tossed and turned on the small divan all night, trying to think of ways of killing Glenda Koekemoor stone dead. By the morning, he had admitted to himself that all he could do was brazen this whole thing out, and so, before arriving at the garage, he had called at the cake shop, the chemist shop, the travel agency, the film rental place, and several other businesses, including the little fruit shop. Glenda, Mavis Koekemoor had told him, would be coming in later that morning, and he left a message saying he’d like to see her. Actually, although he had dreaded the idea of doing the rounds, Droopy found that he had enjoyed himself.

  In the cake shop, the usual crowd of apprentices and virile young office workers, buying their sticky buns for eleven, had gone ignored the moment he walked in. The girls there had hung on his every word, and he had no need to say anything more than half-funny for them to shriek with laughter, and flaunt their charms at him. Much the same had happened in the chemist shop until the manager had intervened, and Droopy had marched out with the first packet of sheaths he had owned in forty years. As for the red-head in the travel agency, she had titillated him beyond words by insisting that, for a man of his reputation, there was nowhere in the world he should sooner go than Gay Paree—and she would, given half a chance, accompany him. Even walking back down the street had been excitingly different; whereas Droopy had been accustomed to pass by, shabby and unseen, now his progress was the focus of almost limitless attention.

  A pair of grease-soaked moccasins came up to the Land-Rover. “Morning, Droopy!”

  It was his fellow mechanic, Boet Swart.

  “Morning, Boet. How goes it?”

  “So-so, hey? But tell me, how do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Ach, come on, Droopy—don’t play games with me, hey? The word is out—let me tell you that, the word is out!”

  “I know,” said Droopy, and surprised himself by quite liking the idea; some of the titillation he’d received this morning was still having a residual effect. “I heard it off Miss Brooks last night.”

  “Oh ja?”

  The misgivings in Boet’s voice pressed a needle point against the bubble of Droopy’s elation. “Why say ‘Oh ja?’ in that fashion? Surely you would be glad if all the popsies—”

  “But Miss Brooks, hey?”

  “She calls me into her shop, and she—”

  “Hell.”

  “She was doing it out of kindness, and what’s so wrong with that?”

  “Hmmmm.”

  Droopy crabbed his way out from under the Land-Rover, and got up off the crawler board. “That’s a funny expression, Boet—best tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “Well, maybe you haven’t heard about Miss Brooks, Droopy old friend. There could be another reason she’s suddenly so interested in you.…”

  Droopy cocked his head to one side, waiting. “What could an old woman like that want with me?” he said.

  “Man, it’s a question of what kind of old woman,” said Boet dolefully, “and she won’t be the only one after you, now the word is out. You’ll have them coming for you from every direction.” Then he spun on his heel and walked very quickly away, while the scatty brunette grinned at them from Reception.

  Panic rooted Droopy to the spot. Fantasies with nubile young popsies had been one thing, but not for a moment had he considered the possibility of dirty old women getting the hots for him. His brother had been a policeman, and he’d often said he would rather face nine kaffirs armed with cane knives than one determined woman—especially the posh sort, like Miss Brooks, when they were hysterical. Given another second or two, Droopy might have been able to laugh the whole thing off, but he didn’t get the chance.

  A high, cultured voice rang out from the open workshop door. “I don’t see what the difficulty is! Why can’t I have that one? He doesn’t appear to be doing anything at the moment.”

  And when he turned round, Droopy saw a tall, skinny woman, with white hair and very red lips, pointing her finger at him.

  “Can you come over for a minute?” Sam asked, waiting until Droopy had shuffled over before going on. “It seems that this lady has a problem you can help her with.”

  “Yes, lady?” said Droopy, ignoring Sam’s wink and the snorts coming from behind him at Reception.

  “My boot’s stuck—it’s absolutely infuriating. I’d just bought a mountain of things to put in it, but I simply can’t get the key to work. It won’t even go in.”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” said Sam, turning away to his office.

  “Here,” the woman said, handing over her key-ring. “I’ve left it over there, and now I must dash, or I’ll be late for my hair appointment.”

  Droopy wandered out and down the road a short way. The first thing that struck him about the car was that dogs had been peeing all over the back tires and the back bumper. This was a bit strange, but shouldn’t have affected the lock. Then he crouched down and inspected the keyhole.

  “Hi, Droopy!”

  He jumped. It was Glenda, bursting forth out of a thin blouse and quite unrepentant. His grip tightened on the shaft of the No. 8 ring spanner, which he still had with him.

  “You wanted to talk to me, Auntie says. I hope it’s not going to be so embarrassing like the last time!”

  “Look!” said Droopy, before words failed him.

  It was no good, his common sense insisted. There was nothing he could say that would change what she’d done. All he could pray was that something else would come along to take people’s minds off it, although that was the trouble with a back street, nothing ever happened.

  “Forget it,” mumbled Droopy.

  Glenda crouched beside him, nudging his left shoulder with her right. “What’s the problem?”

  “You’ve got eyes, haven’t you?”

  “Ja. There’s a bit of matchstick stuck in there.”

  Droopy hadn’t noticed that. He squinted, put down his spanner and felt in his pockets.

  “Hairpin,” said Glenda, handing him one of her own.

  “That’s no bloody good.”

  “You haven’t tried it.”

  He tried it. The matchstick only became wedged more firmly. “Bloody kids!” he grunted. “Trust them to.…”

  “Oh ja, it’s always kids—blame the kids! How do you know?”

  “Who else?”

  “Let me try, Droopy.”

  “You can push off, as far as I’m concerned!”

  Glenda stayed right where she was. She sniffed. She wrinkled her nose and made a face. “Hell, there’s a horrible smell around here,” she said, disgustedly. “Where does this car come from—a farm? Must be stuck to the wheels.”

  “I said, push off!”

  “Ach, Droopy man, you mustn’t be like that, hey?” She laid her soft hand on his gnarled fist, and a tingle shot right through him. “You must learn to take a joke!”

  “What joke?” he scoffed. “Since when is what you did a joke?”

  “You mean me telling everyone about the tomatoes?”

  Her audacity took his breath away. “You need your panties pulled down and your bottom spanked, young lady!”

  “Are you offering?”

  “Glenda Koekemoor!”

  “But naturally it was a joke,” she went on blithely, taking the hairpin from his nerveless fingers and trying her luck with the lock. “It wouldn’t have been funny if you was really a dirty old man, would it? But you’re not—in fact, you’re probably the most unsexy man in the whole of Trekkersburg.”

  “Hey?”

  “Do you think anyone would dare to play up to you if you weren’t—you know, sort of a nice nothing? They’d run a mile first!”

  “I—I—”

  “My boyfriend could open this easy—he just gives it a boot, and the thing flies up.”

  “I—”

  “Mind you, it’s got him in trouble with the cops before!”

  “God Almighty,” gasped Droopy, hurt as he’d never been hurt before, “who are you ca
lling a ‘nice nothing,’ hey? Who are you to judge a man—?”

  “Ah!” Glenda laughed delightedly. “So you’re admitting now that there was some guilty feeling in the way you blushed red as a beetroot?”

  That did it. Droopy found the No. 8 ring spanner back in his grasp, and all he wanted to do was hit her and hit her, to hurt her just as she was hurting him with every lash of her wicked tongue. More than that, he wanted to smash her whole head to pieces, splattering the brain that could think such things, penetrate so deeply into him, all over the road.

  “Droopy!” cried Glenda, jumping up in alarm.

  And he struck, delivering a terrible blow to the lock. The boot of the car sprang open, a frightful smell choked the air, and there before them lay what was undoubtedly the dirtiest old man either of them had ever seen. He was covered in mud, excrement and blood, and he had his hands tied behind him in a knot tightened by some hideous strength, for the bones were broken. Lastly, he was dead.

  Glenda screamed and screamed and the whole street rushed to her rescue.

  2

  NEWS OF THE horrifying discovery in Gillespie Street, momentous as it would prove, did not reach CID headquarters in Boomplaas Street as quickly as it might have done. There were several reasons for this. When uniformed officers of the South African Police first arrived on the scene, they were faced by a considerable public order problem. And then, once they had brought the crowd under control, one of their dogs had disgraced itself by biting the sergeant in charge, whose over-excited manner apparently aroused its suspicion. So for a time, while all this was being sorted out and a new chain of command established, it was a case of the status quo in the CID building. Some detectives grumbled over their paperwork, others chatted up the typists, and a few doggedly pursued enquiries.

  He must have been sitting there so long and so still that the fly thought it would be okay to come and lay some eggs in him. What the hell else was it doing, poking its nose up his left nostril? And then having a dither, none too sure if the other nostril wasn’t the better bet. It was in his right nostril that Lieutenant Tromp Kramer, of the Trekkersburg Murder and Robbery Squad, had his cold, and there was certainly less of a draught in there. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t breathed through that particular nostril in three days. The fly moved across.