Free The Sunday Hangman by James McClure Page A

through the wispy blond grass, and supported a wide range of aloes and other hardy succulents, as well as dustings of wild flowers in oranges and purples. The sky, too, had a vivid quality, a deep varicose blueness, and Kramer was pleased that he had brought his sunglasses.
    They were making the final dusty descent of the journey, with loose stones rattling loudly off the underneath of the car, and Zondi dodging the biggest potholes whenever possible. Witklip now lay before them in its eleven or so distinct parts: four of these—a trading store, butcher’s, garage-cum-smithy and another trading store, in that order—were lined up on the right; the small police station stood behind a hedge of Christ thorn on the left, its faded flag not quite at the top of the pole;and the rest of the buildings, all presumably residential, were visible as brush strokes of whitewash between the cool, dark-green daub of wattle trees up ahead. As for the hotel described by W/O Henk Wessels, it was represented by a large hoarding, nailed to a blue gum and streaked with bird droppings, that read: SPA-KLING WATERS—HAPPINESS RESORT—ONLY 800 METERS .
    Kramer motioned for Zondi to ignore the arrow and to make the cop shop their first port of call. He had not, as he’d assured Wessels he would do, contacted Witklip about Erasmus after that little chat in his office. On second thought, it had occurred to him that too much hindsight on the sergeant’s part might introduce too many red herrings, and so, in the interests of an open mind, a small lapse of memory had seemed perfectly in order. This did mean, of course, that Frikkie Jonkers wasn’t expecting them.
    The white constable on duty behind the charge office counter, who said his name was Boshoff and had a face like Elvis Presley’s, tried a stall when asked where the station commander could be found. Then he contrived to elbow some stolen property to the floor—to wit, a trussed chicken—and its owner added her own squawks to the lament. For just a few seconds there, it was all very noisy. While Zondi brought the prisoner back from the verandah, Kramer followed Boshoff to a door, had it knocked for him, and then went into the small office alone.
    Tubby Frikkie Jonkers rose at once from his chair behind the desk, where he had been apparently checking the station inventory, and responded to Kramer’s introduction with jerky alertness. His smile, beneath a hairline mustache, was most welcoming, and the bright, wide-awake glint of his slightly poppy eyes impressive. What betrayed him was the impression of his tunic cuff button, as plain as a dimple, in his right cheek.
    “Is this a social,” he asked, as they sat down, “or are you here in some way we can help you?”
    “I’m trying the whole area for information about a bloke we found hanging from a tree. We can’t get hold of the next of kin because he didn’t leave any papers, and the car number plates are causing some problems. You know how it is these days with computers.”
    Jonkers laughed, holding up his fingers. “That’s the only kind of computers we have got in Witklip, Lieutenant! For the really heavy stuff, we take off our socks as well.”
    “Have a look at this description anyway, and see if it means anything to you.”
    Kramer had heard somewhere that intelligence was curiosity mixed with an urge to join things together in patterns. If that was so, then Jonkers had just proved the other side of the argument, by grasping only what concerned him personally. It was fascinating to watch, but probably uneventful to live with.
    “Almighty God,” said Jonkers. “This is Tommy!”
    “You know him?”
    “Certainly! He’s been staying at a pal of mine’s place right nearby here. I tell you, this is a real shock to me. Only this morning I phoned Henk for a check because I was worried about him—which reminds me, he hasn’t called back yet.”
    “We’ll, here’s your answer,” said Kramer. “Will you be able to