me of anything, Benny. We have a few hours before the cellular data and consular information comes in. I want to ask you to go home, take a shower, and speak to your sponsor. Would you do that for me, Benny?’
‘Yes, sir. But I want to—’
‘Please, Benny, just do that for me.’
He didn’t want to go home. As he drove, he phoned Alexa.
‘You must be totally exhausted,’ she answered with a voice full of sympathy.
‘I’m just coming for a quick shower and change,’ he said.
‘Ay, Benny, I understand. Is it the Franschhoek murders?’
‘It is.’
‘I heard about it over the radio. Do you want something quick to eat?’
‘Thanks, Alexa, but there won’t be time. See you in half an hour . . .’
And then he phoned Doc Barkhuizen, his sponsor at Alcoholics Anonymous.
‘Doc, I want to come and talk to you.’
‘Now?’
‘Around six o’clock, Doc.’
‘Come to my consulting rooms. I’ll wait for you.’
Doc, who never reproached him. Was just always available.
But he would have to lie to him too.
The garden gate of Alexa’s large Victorian house in Brownlow Street, Tamboerskloof, didn’t squeak any more. Nearly seven months’ worth of restoration work completed, and the garden had been redone. Now it looked like the home of a veteran pop star.
She must have been waiting at the window, because she opened the door for him and hugged him.
‘I don’t smell good,’ he said.
‘I don’t care.’ She squeezed him tightly. ‘I’m just so glad you’re safe.’
‘Alexa . . .’
‘I know, I know . . .’ she let go of him, pulled him by the hand. ‘But that’s the way it is if you love a master detective. I made a sandwich, come and eat quickly.’
He didn’t like being called a ‘master detective’. He had at least persuaded her to stop introducing him that way to her friends.
‘Thank you very much,’ he said.
‘Pleasure. I will keep the surprise for later, after you’ve showered.’
The pickpocketing week has a very specific pattern. Fridays and Saturdays are prime time, people take to the streets, their thoughts are los and casual, Uncle Solly used to say, and they are flush, cash in pocket.
Tuesday,Wednesday, and Thursdays are OK, no great shakes, but you can work. Especially now that the clubs are pumping way into the night, lots of young people with lots of money, and you might argue you are helping, taking the money that would have been spent on cocaine.
The seventh day is for rest,Tyrone, because Lord knows da’ ga’ niks aan nie, nothing at all, not even in the malls, except before Christmas, that was another story.
And Mondays were also basically kak , thank you.
So he made a loop through Greenmarket Square, just to check whether there might be a lost tour bus full of Europeans ooh-ing and aah-ing over the cheap merchandise with ‘African fl avours’ that actually came all the way from China.
There wasn’t.
He bought a meat pie on the corner of Long and Wale. Walked up Longmarket, past the home-made Frederick Street sign, probably not smart and grand enough a neighbourhood for the DA government to hang an official street sign. As bad as the ANC, they were ammal useless. The northwester was blowing kwaai , it was a long steep hike to his little outside room, in Ella Street, up in Schotsche Kloof, which he rented in the back yard of the rich Muslims’ grand house for four-fifty a month. One wall was kitchen counter and sink. One wall was built-in cupboards. He had a single bed and a bedside table. Tiny bathroom. At the outer door hung the intercom, a reminder that this was once the servants’ quarters. And now and then the eldest twenty-something daughter of the rich Muslims would buzz him. Nag him about the garbage, or because he hadn’t closed the front security gate properly. She hung around the house all day. She was a little fat, and lonely.
Shame.
He would listen to his 32GB iPod touch, the one he had stolen from a German backpacker in December,
‘Yes, sir. But I want to—’
‘Please, Benny, just do that for me.’
He didn’t want to go home. As he drove, he phoned Alexa.
‘You must be totally exhausted,’ she answered with a voice full of sympathy.
‘I’m just coming for a quick shower and change,’ he said.
‘Ay, Benny, I understand. Is it the Franschhoek murders?’
‘It is.’
‘I heard about it over the radio. Do you want something quick to eat?’
‘Thanks, Alexa, but there won’t be time. See you in half an hour . . .’
And then he phoned Doc Barkhuizen, his sponsor at Alcoholics Anonymous.
‘Doc, I want to come and talk to you.’
‘Now?’
‘Around six o’clock, Doc.’
‘Come to my consulting rooms. I’ll wait for you.’
Doc, who never reproached him. Was just always available.
But he would have to lie to him too.
The garden gate of Alexa’s large Victorian house in Brownlow Street, Tamboerskloof, didn’t squeak any more. Nearly seven months’ worth of restoration work completed, and the garden had been redone. Now it looked like the home of a veteran pop star.
She must have been waiting at the window, because she opened the door for him and hugged him.
‘I don’t smell good,’ he said.
‘I don’t care.’ She squeezed him tightly. ‘I’m just so glad you’re safe.’
‘Alexa . . .’
‘I know, I know . . .’ she let go of him, pulled him by the hand. ‘But that’s the way it is if you love a master detective. I made a sandwich, come and eat quickly.’
He didn’t like being called a ‘master detective’. He had at least persuaded her to stop introducing him that way to her friends.
‘Thank you very much,’ he said.
‘Pleasure. I will keep the surprise for later, after you’ve showered.’
The pickpocketing week has a very specific pattern. Fridays and Saturdays are prime time, people take to the streets, their thoughts are los and casual, Uncle Solly used to say, and they are flush, cash in pocket.
Tuesday,Wednesday, and Thursdays are OK, no great shakes, but you can work. Especially now that the clubs are pumping way into the night, lots of young people with lots of money, and you might argue you are helping, taking the money that would have been spent on cocaine.
The seventh day is for rest,Tyrone, because Lord knows da’ ga’ niks aan nie, nothing at all, not even in the malls, except before Christmas, that was another story.
And Mondays were also basically kak , thank you.
So he made a loop through Greenmarket Square, just to check whether there might be a lost tour bus full of Europeans ooh-ing and aah-ing over the cheap merchandise with ‘African fl avours’ that actually came all the way from China.
There wasn’t.
He bought a meat pie on the corner of Long and Wale. Walked up Longmarket, past the home-made Frederick Street sign, probably not smart and grand enough a neighbourhood for the DA government to hang an official street sign. As bad as the ANC, they were ammal useless. The northwester was blowing kwaai , it was a long steep hike to his little outside room, in Ella Street, up in Schotsche Kloof, which he rented in the back yard of the rich Muslims’ grand house for four-fifty a month. One wall was kitchen counter and sink. One wall was built-in cupboards. He had a single bed and a bedside table. Tiny bathroom. At the outer door hung the intercom, a reminder that this was once the servants’ quarters. And now and then the eldest twenty-something daughter of the rich Muslims would buzz him. Nag him about the garbage, or because he hadn’t closed the front security gate properly. She hung around the house all day. She was a little fat, and lonely.
Shame.
He would listen to his 32GB iPod touch, the one he had stolen from a German backpacker in December,
Similar Books
