pulled his latchkey out of his pocket, and made for his front door.
“Goodness,” said Amanda’s mother, looking at Kramer. “Is there something the matter?”
He nodded. “Mickey,” he said, “scoot after Mr. Kennedy and give him his car-keys—tell him we’ll be in touch.” And then Kramer murmured very softly, trying not to let the child hear: “The ‘something’ is that his mother was murdered last night.”
“His
mother …
?”
“Ja, and so he’s naturally a bit—”
“Oh God, how dreadful! Are you the police, then?”
“CID. We’ve just brought him back from the scene. Tell me, how well do you know Mr. Kennedy, Mrs.… er?”
“Stilgoe, Vicki Stilgoe. I’m afraid I’ve hardly ever exchanged more than the odd word with him. It’s been Amanda, you see, and of course Bruce, but as far as—”
“Bruce?”
“My brother. He and Mr. Kennedy both tinker with their engines out here at the weekend, and—”
“Does Bruce know him well enough to drop in tonight, maybe take him a few cans of beer? I’m a bit worried about—”
“Him being left on his own? Oh, I agree! Don’t worry, we’ll—well, Bruce will know what to do. He should be home any minute.”
“Excellent,” said Kramer, noticing that Amanda had become all ears.
“But if only I’d
known
. There was me, carrying on as if—”
“A bloke in his position,” said Kramer, “needs normal things happening around him more than anything, I promise you, Mrs. Stilgoe. Can I have your phone number?”
“Pardon?” she said, as though startled by sudden propositioning.
Kramer smiled. “Ach, no, it’s just that I’ve advised him to take his phone off the hook—I suppose you know his ma was a famous writer?”
“Oh, yes, everyone in the flats knows that.”
“Then the press and television will get here all the sooner, and I’d like some way of being able to contact him after the siege begins. I’m not asking you to go to too much trouble?”
“Don’t be silly! Our number’s 444893.”
It wasn’t until a few minutes later, while Zondi was driving him back to CID headquarters, that Kramer began to question the purity of his inspiration regarding Trekkersburg 444893. There had been something about Vicki Stilgoe that had excited him in an oblique, tantalising way and, on reflection, he was sure he’d sensed a reciprocal excitement, hidden behind that timorous exterior.
“That will be two rand fifteen cents,” said the bored brunette behind the cash register. “You don’t want a bag for them, do you?”
Ramjut Pillay did want a bag for his purchases, being somewhat sensitive about their nature, but obligingly shook his head as he paid over the money. He could always find himself a suitable container in the litter-bin down the street.
“Your change,” she said, placing it on the counter for him to pick up, avoiding any chance of their fingers touching.
And yet, mused Ramjut Pillay, as he returned to the street, had she the slightest idea of what was pinned under his jacket lapel, then it would have been a very different story. One touch of his hand, and she’d probably not have washed for a week. Poor common shopgirl, he went on to think kindly, how drab and dull your life must be, when compared with the glamorous, excitement-filled world of the private detective. Which somehow led him on to wonder exactly how often the averagecommon shopgirl
did
wash in a week, and he finally came to a conclusion which, while charitable enough, still had a deeply depressing effect on him.
So much so that he walked right by the first litter-bin in the street, his eyes downcast, and he might have missed the second one had it not been directly in his path.
“Ouchy ow.…” said Ramjut Pillay, rubbing at his barked shin.
Then he picked out a crumpled shopping-bag, used a screw of newspaper to wipe the melted ice-cream off it, and carefully stowed away the labels, lemon, pen nibs, notebook and twelve plastic sandwich-bags
“Goodness,” said Amanda’s mother, looking at Kramer. “Is there something the matter?”
He nodded. “Mickey,” he said, “scoot after Mr. Kennedy and give him his car-keys—tell him we’ll be in touch.” And then Kramer murmured very softly, trying not to let the child hear: “The ‘something’ is that his mother was murdered last night.”
“His
mother …
?”
“Ja, and so he’s naturally a bit—”
“Oh God, how dreadful! Are you the police, then?”
“CID. We’ve just brought him back from the scene. Tell me, how well do you know Mr. Kennedy, Mrs.… er?”
“Stilgoe, Vicki Stilgoe. I’m afraid I’ve hardly ever exchanged more than the odd word with him. It’s been Amanda, you see, and of course Bruce, but as far as—”
“Bruce?”
“My brother. He and Mr. Kennedy both tinker with their engines out here at the weekend, and—”
“Does Bruce know him well enough to drop in tonight, maybe take him a few cans of beer? I’m a bit worried about—”
“Him being left on his own? Oh, I agree! Don’t worry, we’ll—well, Bruce will know what to do. He should be home any minute.”
“Excellent,” said Kramer, noticing that Amanda had become all ears.
“But if only I’d
known
. There was me, carrying on as if—”
“A bloke in his position,” said Kramer, “needs normal things happening around him more than anything, I promise you, Mrs. Stilgoe. Can I have your phone number?”
“Pardon?” she said, as though startled by sudden propositioning.
Kramer smiled. “Ach, no, it’s just that I’ve advised him to take his phone off the hook—I suppose you know his ma was a famous writer?”
“Oh, yes, everyone in the flats knows that.”
“Then the press and television will get here all the sooner, and I’d like some way of being able to contact him after the siege begins. I’m not asking you to go to too much trouble?”
“Don’t be silly! Our number’s 444893.”
It wasn’t until a few minutes later, while Zondi was driving him back to CID headquarters, that Kramer began to question the purity of his inspiration regarding Trekkersburg 444893. There had been something about Vicki Stilgoe that had excited him in an oblique, tantalising way and, on reflection, he was sure he’d sensed a reciprocal excitement, hidden behind that timorous exterior.
“That will be two rand fifteen cents,” said the bored brunette behind the cash register. “You don’t want a bag for them, do you?”
Ramjut Pillay did want a bag for his purchases, being somewhat sensitive about their nature, but obligingly shook his head as he paid over the money. He could always find himself a suitable container in the litter-bin down the street.
“Your change,” she said, placing it on the counter for him to pick up, avoiding any chance of their fingers touching.
And yet, mused Ramjut Pillay, as he returned to the street, had she the slightest idea of what was pinned under his jacket lapel, then it would have been a very different story. One touch of his hand, and she’d probably not have washed for a week. Poor common shopgirl, he went on to think kindly, how drab and dull your life must be, when compared with the glamorous, excitement-filled world of the private detective. Which somehow led him on to wonder exactly how often the averagecommon shopgirl
did
wash in a week, and he finally came to a conclusion which, while charitable enough, still had a deeply depressing effect on him.
So much so that he walked right by the first litter-bin in the street, his eyes downcast, and he might have missed the second one had it not been directly in his path.
“Ouchy ow.…” said Ramjut Pillay, rubbing at his barked shin.
Then he picked out a crumpled shopping-bag, used a screw of newspaper to wipe the melted ice-cream off it, and carefully stowed away the labels, lemon, pen nibs, notebook and twelve plastic sandwich-bags
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