The Blood of an Englishman Read online

  “Salad?” speculated Colonel Muller, jovially.

  “A water plant, sir—portion of its leaf. Moreover, from the condition of this specimen, we are confident that it was alive and growing within the last forty-eight hours. Had the period been any greater, then.… Well, it wasn’t.”

  “And you are certain of that?”

  “Totally.”

  Colonel Muller bit a chunk from a piece of cheese, studied the even grooves his teeth had made in it, and willed himself to proceed with great caution. “They’ve got wattle-bark chips down at the show ground,” he said. “Horse manure is used on a lot of gardens, and soil—well, soil lies around everywhere. Is this water plant special to the stream by the race course?”

  “It’s very common, Colonel—found in streams, dams and rivers all over the province. But, when all these things are taken in conjunction.…”

  “They suggest Hookham was down at the racecourse on Tuesday night—the night he got murdered?”

  Galt closed his eyes and opened them again.

  “Well, there were one or two reports of gunfire around the course,” said Colonel Muller, digging back into a stack. “No, I’m wrong: three reports. A single shot heard in each case, and attributed at the time to some kid with a two-two after wood pigeon.”

  “The ground on that side is very uneven, Colonel. We might have a little acoustic problem there.”

  “Ja, but.…” Colonel Muller frowned at his plate. “I can’t understand what would make Hookham go there at that time of the day. Nobody has reported seeing his car or anything.”

  “After dark,” replied Galt. “Has Lieutenant Kramer picked up anything that might make this seem more likely?”

  “He could’ve done, I suppose,” Colonel Muller replied, getting up to pace restlessly. “I’ll just see if his car’s in the vehicle yard.” He peered out of the window. “No, dammit! Still not back. But I’ll grab him the moment he comes in.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’d like to think my hunch is justified.”

  Colonel Muller waited at the window for a little longer after Galt had left. Then, taking a grip on his impatience, he went back to finish his lunch. The curry and rice were excellent, the bowl of fruit salad wasn’t bad, but hunt as he might, he couldn’t find his piece of cheese anywhere.

  The honorary secretary of the Trekkersburg Flying Club was a very businesslike young man. His name was Robert du Plooi, and when he wasn’t flying a Tri-pacer at the weekend, he managed a firm that hired out “bleepers” to people who were still on the long Post Office waiting-list for telephones of their own.

  “Our phone number is their phone number, in effect,” he explained, as he took Kramer through into his air-conditioned office. “If somebody wants them, the call comes into our control room, which is manned twenty-four hours a day, and we ‘bleep’ the client. After we have passed on the caller’s number, the client then uses a call box or the neighbors’ phone or what have you. Couldn’t you blokes use something like it?”

  “Ach, not really, Mr. Du Plooi.”

  “But surely it’s time the South African Police started carrying personal radios?”

  “Ja, there’s a pilot scheme going on up in Johannesburg, but I sort of prefer my freedom.”

  Du Plooi barked a short laugh. “I’m with you, Lieutenant! End of sales-talk. You want this list of names given their addresses?”

  “If possible, hey?”

  “Find a seat then, and I’ll run through it.”

  Kramer sat down and watched Du Plooi pick up a gold Parker ballpen and start to write. He was a good-looking young Afrikaner; sandy hair, bottle-green eyes, dimpled chin, new suit, and his left ankle had a creak in it. The chrome-framed photograph on his desk showed a very pretty girl holding a baby.

  “There, Lieutenant,” said Du Plooi, briskly, handing the list back. “They’re all our ex-RAF members, I notice. This can’t be connected in some way with poor old Bonzo Hookham, could it?”

  “Why leap to that conclusion, Mr. Du Plooi?” asked Kramer, checking the addresses and finding that three men lived in outlying districts.

  “Why not? Blokes with something in common, up to a point.”

  Kramer looked up. “Up to what point, exactly?”

  “Well, Hookham was one of the glory boys we always hear about. You know the kind of thing: operating from an airfield in the English countryside, back to base in the morning, beer in the pub at lunch-time, a WAAF in a haystack before supper, cosy billets, all the home comforts. Four of the five on your list—that’s excluding old Ernie Wilson—were with 104 and 142 Squadrons of 205 Group. Not in Lancasters either, but Wellingtons.”

  “Oh ja?”

  “Sorry, I’ll explain properly. They carried on their offensive from Africa, lived in tents, had quite a rough time of it while they hammered away at Italy, Greece, places like Hungary and Yugoslavia, not touching Northern Europe. Ja, I’m sure I’m right in saying they never went anywhere near Germany, for instance. They did a fantastic job but, as you’ve shown yourself, hardly anybody seems to have heard of them.”

  “Uh huh, that’s often the way,” murmured Kramer, tightening up. His mind had just been infected by the germ of an idea, and he needed a moment to run tests on it. “You’ve seen some service yourself?”

  “A little. I flew a helicopter gunship in Rhodesia for a while, donated a foot to the cause and landed up here. If you’re wondering why we have this gang of 104 and 142 blokes on our doorstep, there’s a little story to go with that. They all seem to have got a taste for Africa, like lots of people do, and—”

  “This Ernie Wilson,” Kramer broke in, “where was he based?”

  “Scotland, I think.”

  “But bombing Germany as well? A ‘Terrorflieger?’ ”

  Du Plooi laughed. “Good God, where did you pick that one up? Have you been reading Deighton’s novel?”

  “I got it from a man,” replied Kramer, “who told me that Germans would butcher a ‘Terrorflieger’ on sight.”

  Young Du Plooi was no fool; he sat forward in his chair and the lobes of his ears went white. “All right,” he said, “Ernie flew over Germany, and so did Hookham and Bradshaw. But if you’re trying to tell me that there’s a link between that fact and what’s happened—”

  “Since your club social?” said Kramer.

  There was a bemused silence while Du Plooi tried to adjust. A copy of that morning’s Gazette lay on his desk, and he turned it round to read the main headline: WAR HERO SHOT BY “MAD GIANT”—Random Killer At Work, Warns Police Chief. Then he sank back into his black leather, executive’s swivel chair and shrugged.

  “You obviously know far more about all this than I do,” he said apologetically. “I just thought it was a bit of a fluke, that’s all. Perhaps you’d better just ask me questions—if you’ve got any more to ask.”

  “Can we start with the social, Mr. Du Plooi?” said Kramer, more certain than ever now that no fluke was involved.

  “I didn’t see much of that. As secretary, I’m organizing a lot of the time—seeing the drinks don’t run out, that sort of thing.”

  “Ja, I can appreciate that. But what about Mr. Hookham? Have you any—?”

  “Hardly said a word to him, which I was sorry about—and I’ve been even sorrier since I read this. They can be a bit of a pain, his type, but he struck me as a nice guy and I’ll always listen to their stories once. The first chance I got was when Bradshaw was monopolizing him. They were talking about the best places to take dogs for a walk, comparing notes on it, and I tried then to break in. But Bradshaw was soon off on one of his amazing yarns about how he’d shot down half the Luftwaffe single-handed and I gave up.”

  “So they spoke about the raids they went on?”

  “Naturally! With sound effects and all the usual trimmings.”

  “People standing near them could overhear this?”

  “When the band wasn’t playing, they must’ve done. Both were ticking quietly by this time, of
course.”

  “They’d been drinking for how long? Was this near the end of the evening?”

  “Oh no,” said Du Plooi, “about halfway through. I tried again on my way back from the bandstand, where I’d been making some announcements, and by then they were swapping Stalag numbers. That could have been quite interesting, because I’d already heard that Hookham had escaped from his POW camp and made it right back to England, using disguises and all sorts. But Bradshaw was holding the floor about his own escape, and—”

  “So that’s something else they have in common?”

  “Well, yes and no,” said Du Plooi, grinning. “Archie didn’t tell you he’d been a POW? I’m not surprised, really, because it wasn’t one of the more glorious pages in his history! He can’t avoid the subject quite so easily among the sort of people the club collects, so he tries to make a joke of it. His bunch were picked up in France in about two minutes flat, when one of them, he alleges, dressed up as a nun, let go a fart in a railway carriage. If that’s true, I think we’ve all got a shrewd idea who that might have been!”

  “Ja, no prizes for that one,” laughed Kramer.

  “And I’m pretty sure Hookham didn’t miss it either! But after the laugh had died down, I could see Bradshaw’s never-ending blah-blah-blah was making our guest of honor’s smile wear a bit thin, so I found an excuse to take him across to meet Ernie and the others. On the way over, I suggested to Hookham that he should come out and meet the family some time, and he seemed very grateful, so we left it that he’d give me a call when he had a Sunday free. Then Ernie and the others took over, practically carried Bonzo back to the bar, and they all had such a fantastic time that there were complaints from two of the ladies that I had to cope with. Ja, I suppose if I must find a silver lining in all this, then it’s how over-the-moon Hookham looked when Ernie and his pals carried him out and took him home.”

  Kramer frowned. “He didn’t appear excited? Nervous?”

  “I defy anybody to look nervous after what he’d put away that night!” chuckled Du Plooi. “He was gurgling like my young son over there.”

  Drank very heavily, Kramer added to his notes. Obvious reaction to stress.

  “But if you’re trying to push this ‘things in common’ business any further, Lieutenant,” said Du Plooi, “you come unstuck when you get to Ernie Wilson. In a literal sense, he never set foot outside England.”

  “No, that non-active service side is irrelevant, thanks. What I want to know is, did you see Hookham speaking to anyone else, apart from his RAF colleagues, at any stage in the evening?”

  “Umm, no, I can’t say I did. But as I’ve already explained, I was running about and—”

  “Fine. Now these guests were a mixed bunch?”

  “To a degree—club members, regulars at our socials, parachute club kids trying to fix up free drops, one or two strange faces—but all loosely connected with flying, I’d imagine.”

  “Different races?”

  “Hey?” said Du Plooi, baffled.

  “Ach, I meant nationalities, different nationalities,” said Kramer, then decided to cut a corner by being less subtle. “Any Germans or people of German origin?”

  Du Plooi reddened. “That could depend—my mother’s family are from the Lutheran community at Leeukop.”

  “I’m making a fool of myself, hey?” said Kramer. “So I might as well go the whole hog: any ex-Luftwaffe belonging to the club or at the social?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” replied Du Plooi, losing his look of annoyance and smiling. “I see the line you’re taking, but again I think you could come unstuck. The Luftwaffe dropped a few bombs themselves, you know—think of the Blitz, Liverpool, Coventry—and could have some, er, sympathy? Flying is its own brotherhood in a way.”

  “Okay, but you agree it’s feasible that this conversation could have provoked someone listening in?” persisted Kramer.

  “It might have done, Lieutenant. I’ve known similar sorts of talk start a punch-up, but here I’m thinking more of rivalry between different air forces, that kind of thing. What I’ve certainly never come across is someone being provoked into—”

  “A bad war experience could do permanent damage to the mind,” Kramer pointed out. “Who knows how long it might simmer away inside until something goes snap?”

  Du Plooi reached for his memo pad. “What you want the committee to do is draw up a list of people at the social—am I right?” His quick, efficient mind was a tonic.

  “Please, man, and as soon as possible.”

  “Can’t be done before tomorrow, I’m afraid!”

  “Oh?”

  “The chairman, John Hill, is crop-spraying in Zululand, and Dawie van Niekerk, he’s the treasurer, is negotiating a deal in Port Elizabeth overnight. We do have a club guest book, of course, because of the license, but—between you and me, and don’t tell the Liquor Squad—things tend to get a bit sloppy on these occasions. The three of us will have to put our heads together, and even then you may find one or two names missing.”

  Kramer stood up. “I’ll be grateful for anything. But how about a short list meantime? Leaving out people you are sure of?”

  “Would that be wise, Lieutenant?”

  It was a sound observation and, despite his extreme frustration, Kramer settled for the best list they could manage by two o’clock the next day. There were, of course, plenty of other things he could do in the meantime, including trying to cheat the killer of his next victim.

  “Not so fast,” objected Colonel Muller.

  It seemed the most ludicrous thing anyone could think of uttering after nearly two hours had been squandered in bringing the old stick-in-the-mud up to date with the investigation.

  “But, sir,” said Kramer, who had just looked up Ernie Wilson’s telephone number, “I feel there’s some urgency involved here! By five o’clock, Wilson could have left his work, and it might be difficult to contact him with our warning.”

  “Your warning, Lieutenant.”

  “Sir?”

  “For a whole two hours I have listened to your theory and the evidence you claim supports it. A marathon session which began, let me make it quite clear, with me having no strong views one way or the other. Perhaps I was even a bit biased in favor of this hunch of yours, because a detective always likes to find a pattern.”

  “Then surely, Colonel, you—”

  “One moment, please! It is my turn to talk. Everything you learned from Mr. Digby-Smith, give or take a few details, can be dismissed as background.”

  Kramer bristled. “Really? Are you dismissing the man’s demeanour in that? The diary entry when he says he’s feeling so alive? The man on the phone with a strange accent?”

  “Hookham’s reported demeanour was always in keeping with the straightforward and sympathetic explanations offered by two people who knew him well, his brother-in-law and his old girlfriend,” replied Colonel Muller, firmly. “It is only when passed through the sieve of your personal theory that they take on qualities that are no longer humdrum.”

  “What sieve?” began Kramer, growing angry.

  “This idea of yours with all the holes in it, Tromp. The man goes out, has a hell of a thrash at the flying club, comes back so drunk that his writing in the diary is all over the place when he does his ‘comment,’ as you call it, and you can’t accept he’s just alive with happiness. Do you see? A piece of logic is missing there. And another piece then goes missing when we come to speak of the ‘strange accent.’ Which is more likely? Digby-Smith’s belief that it really was an old school chum wanting to surprise Hookham? Or your processed version, in which we are meant to believe that a killer rang up to talk to his victim?”

  “Perhaps he was just trying to discover Hookham’s whereabouts that night, Colonel.”

  “Ach! There you go again!”

  “But what about Mrs. Westford and what she had to say?” asked Kramer, digging his heels in. “What about those ‘jokes’ of Hookham’s? Many a true
word is spoke in—”

  “Tromp, Tromp, Tromp,” sighed Colonel Muller. “I’ve already touched on all that. Mrs. Westford thought she understood both remarks—and so she probably did!—until your RAF obsession started twisting them for her. Tell me, after you reached that point in your interview, did she come out with anything else which seemed of importance?”

  “Er, not that I remember, Colonel.”

  “That proves my point. Don’t get me wrong, hey? I listened to all that in high hope of hearing something to our advantage—I was on your side! But I ended up very disappointed. There was always a reasonable explanation for everything.”

  “Which proves my point,” countered Kramer. “I can’t see how my deductions could be anything but reasonable, given the facts, and—”

  “Lieutenant!” snapped Colonel Muller. “Now don’t you start trying to twist my words! Your explanations are nowhere near reasonable—they exist on a plane of total fantasy!”

  “Oh ja? What’s so fantastic about—?”

  “Germans taking revenge on these ‘Terrorflieger’ blokes? The Second War World still going on in Trekkersburg? You seriously have to ask me that?”

  Kramer shrugged. “It was your idea in the first place, Colonel. You started off this case by saying the killer had to be mad, and what world do the mad live in, if it isn’t a fantastic one?”

  That put Colonel Muller back in his seat, but his head came up again just as quickly. “That I admit,” he said. “But I’ll bet you right now that his fantastic reason for shooting these two is nothing so fantastic as the one you’ve dreamed up! Honestly, I find it embarrassing.…”

  “Embarrassing?” Kramer echoed in total disbelief. “And that’s why you don’t want me to alert Ernie Wilson to the fact he could be next for the chop?”

  “Do you want me to look a complete laughing stock in Pretoria? First we have bloody giants, next it’s Germans on the warpath—what next? Homicidal gorillas from Mars?”