mortuary porter. Niko retired from the force about eight years ago.”
“Uh-huh, but why nobody from over the road? I thought the whole cop shop would be here—can’t be many white murders to come and have a gawk at.”
“You’re forgetting how people felt about the deceased,” said Terblanche. “I, er, suppose we’d better go in now?”
“Lead the way!” said Kramer, and followed him into the postmortem room.
A moment later, he was standing stunned, unable to believe what met his eyes, and so shocked even his hearing seemed to go, making any sounds seem very distant.
“Tromp?” prompted Terblanche, possibly for the second or third time. “Doc’s just said how pleased he is to meet you …”
Kramer looked first at the wrong person, as he realized an instant later. Niko Claasens, the mortuary porter, still had cop written all over him, from his short, grizzled grey hair to theway his hard, steel-grey eyes deflected an inquiring glance, making it ricochet.
No, Doc Mackenzie was the smaller man, as toothy as a neighing horse. Life had trodden hard on him, giving him a bald patch like the lobby carpet in a cheap rooming house, and the rest showed in the burst blood vessels of his face. His high color was repeated in his jazzy tie, which had been cut—by the look of it—from a cafe’s curtains.
“Welcome to Zululand, Lieutenant!” said the district surgeon. “This is an unexpected honor!”
“Ta,” said Kramer, then forced his gaze back to what had shocked him so deeply.
Like the very worst sort of backyard mechanic, Mackenzie had plainly been working away with cheerful abandon, removing every part he could find some means of dismantling, undoing this and undoing that, until he’d finally ended up surrounded by more bits and pieces than he probably knew what to do with—or indeed, understood. Not a flat surface remained that hadn’t some component or other heaped on it, coiled on it, or balanced on it, while the floor appeared, in motoring terms, as though someone had forgotten to drain the sump first, making it hazardous to move about.
“Ooops!” said Terblanche, correcting a slight skid as he advanced farther into the room. “You certainly don’t waste any time. Doc! Tell me, how far have you got?”
“I’m on my second, and all I’ve got left to do now is take a look at the lungs.”
“Goodness, that was quick!”
“Not much to the first PM, to be honest, Hans,” said Mackenzie, picking up a clipboard that held a bloodstained postmortem report form. “Female, blah, blah, virtual disintegration, blah, blah, gross disruption of tissue, blah, blah—all of which naturally set certain limitations on any examination that could be usefully conducted. Conclusion: death consistentwith large quantity of high explosive detonated in close proximity to deceased.”
“There!” Terblanche said to Kramer. “Didn’t I say Doc would come up with all the answers?”
“Unbelievable,” said Kramer.
“Ja, and I know what you meant by that disintegration business, Doc,” said Terblanche. “Man, we had a hell of a time chasing the sea gulls off, and then looking for the smallest pieces by listening for where the flies were buzzing loudest. Malan was really good at that.”
“A good fellow all round,” agreed Mackenzie. “Is his athlete’s foot any better?”
“Ach, as you know, CID’s not really my department …”
I don’t believe any of this, thought Kramer, I just
don’t
. Then, to distract himself, he turned and went over to come face-to-face, as promised, with one of the best, Maaties Kritzinger.
The late detective sergeant had been reduced to little more than a chassis and some flapping bodywork, making it difficult to decide where the effects of the explosion had ended and the postmortem begun. Even so, through half-closed lids, it was still possible to glean an impression of a broad-shouldered, stocky individual of above-average height, well-muscled but running a
“Uh-huh, but why nobody from over the road? I thought the whole cop shop would be here—can’t be many white murders to come and have a gawk at.”
“You’re forgetting how people felt about the deceased,” said Terblanche. “I, er, suppose we’d better go in now?”
“Lead the way!” said Kramer, and followed him into the postmortem room.
A moment later, he was standing stunned, unable to believe what met his eyes, and so shocked even his hearing seemed to go, making any sounds seem very distant.
“Tromp?” prompted Terblanche, possibly for the second or third time. “Doc’s just said how pleased he is to meet you …”
Kramer looked first at the wrong person, as he realized an instant later. Niko Claasens, the mortuary porter, still had cop written all over him, from his short, grizzled grey hair to theway his hard, steel-grey eyes deflected an inquiring glance, making it ricochet.
No, Doc Mackenzie was the smaller man, as toothy as a neighing horse. Life had trodden hard on him, giving him a bald patch like the lobby carpet in a cheap rooming house, and the rest showed in the burst blood vessels of his face. His high color was repeated in his jazzy tie, which had been cut—by the look of it—from a cafe’s curtains.
“Welcome to Zululand, Lieutenant!” said the district surgeon. “This is an unexpected honor!”
“Ta,” said Kramer, then forced his gaze back to what had shocked him so deeply.
Like the very worst sort of backyard mechanic, Mackenzie had plainly been working away with cheerful abandon, removing every part he could find some means of dismantling, undoing this and undoing that, until he’d finally ended up surrounded by more bits and pieces than he probably knew what to do with—or indeed, understood. Not a flat surface remained that hadn’t some component or other heaped on it, coiled on it, or balanced on it, while the floor appeared, in motoring terms, as though someone had forgotten to drain the sump first, making it hazardous to move about.
“Ooops!” said Terblanche, correcting a slight skid as he advanced farther into the room. “You certainly don’t waste any time. Doc! Tell me, how far have you got?”
“I’m on my second, and all I’ve got left to do now is take a look at the lungs.”
“Goodness, that was quick!”
“Not much to the first PM, to be honest, Hans,” said Mackenzie, picking up a clipboard that held a bloodstained postmortem report form. “Female, blah, blah, virtual disintegration, blah, blah, gross disruption of tissue, blah, blah—all of which naturally set certain limitations on any examination that could be usefully conducted. Conclusion: death consistentwith large quantity of high explosive detonated in close proximity to deceased.”
“There!” Terblanche said to Kramer. “Didn’t I say Doc would come up with all the answers?”
“Unbelievable,” said Kramer.
“Ja, and I know what you meant by that disintegration business, Doc,” said Terblanche. “Man, we had a hell of a time chasing the sea gulls off, and then looking for the smallest pieces by listening for where the flies were buzzing loudest. Malan was really good at that.”
“A good fellow all round,” agreed Mackenzie. “Is his athlete’s foot any better?”
“Ach, as you know, CID’s not really my department …”
I don’t believe any of this, thought Kramer, I just
don’t
. Then, to distract himself, he turned and went over to come face-to-face, as promised, with one of the best, Maaties Kritzinger.
The late detective sergeant had been reduced to little more than a chassis and some flapping bodywork, making it difficult to decide where the effects of the explosion had ended and the postmortem begun. Even so, through half-closed lids, it was still possible to glean an impression of a broad-shouldered, stocky individual of above-average height, well-muscled but running a
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