Free The Gooseberry Fool by James Mcclure Page B

because he would have liked to retrieve such a delectable trophy, but searching for it would take up too much time.
    So he drove on again, making the gearbox howl for mercy as he wrenched the most from each ratio before shifting to the next. This occupied him for the best part of a kilometer before he thought of looking at his watch. The truth was he had made very good time. And there was the possibility that a guinea fowl would make a first-class enticement if he had to resort to bartering with Shabalala’s neighbors for a tip-off.
    Yet another kilometer went by before he made up his mind to turn back. It seemed much farther than it should be, but finally the skid marks showed up on the slope ahead. He left the Anglia well off the road and began looking for the dead bird, anxious now that some passing predator had not beaten him to it. He was crouched low in the rocks, mourning a mangled, quite inedible mess, when he heard the whine of a Volkswagen engine.
    And looked up to catch no more than a glimpse of NTK 4544 diving down in the direction of Jabula.
    It was a touching sight. Two angels knelt before McDonald’s desk and sang loudly of a Silent Night. Their voices were sweet if their diction was terrible. Kramer paused in the doorway, highly amused.
    “That’s enough. Lovely, happy Christmas,” said the embarrassed McDonald, hastily handing them each some change, which was snatched away into the engulfing bed sheets.
    Then the angels, whose wings were pinned-on pages of newspaper carefully torn, tried to make their exit.
    “Not so fast, you skelms,” said Kramer, barring the way. “Is that you inside there, Ephraim?”
    “Hau, Boss Kramer!”
    The slightly taller of the two African children pulled back his sheet and grinned up at him.
    “Doing good business?”
    “Lambele, lambele,” Ephraim chanted mischievously.
    “Like hell you’re hungry. Go on, bugger off.”
    “Christmas box, Boss Kramer?”
    “Give you a kick up the arse, if that’s any good.”
    The other angel fled and Ephraim spat scornfully after him.
    “My cousin,” he explained. “No damn respect. I must go catch him.”
    Kramer closed the door.
    “You surprise me, Lieutenant. I must say, I never for a moment thought I was entertaining friends of yours.”
    “Hey?”
    “Just joking, you understand.”
    McDonald tried a chuckle and coughed on it.
    “Most people know Ephraim,” Kramer said, intrigued by the man’s agitation. “Smartest seven-year-old in Trekkersburg. Pa killed ma and we got him, but Ephraim can look after himself.”
    “Certainly novel, a change from the sods making a hell of a row with guitars out of tins. Beats me, though, why coons think they’ve got to black their faces! Seem to be more of them every year, a bloody pest, get them at home as well as the office. Not that they usually get past Pat Weston. Er, is she back?”
    “No,” said Kramer. “There’s some old dame at the counter.”
    “Miss Godfrey? That surprises me even more; she’s a right battle-ax. Look, wouldn’t you like to take a seat?”
    “Ta.”
    McDonald tried to find something to arrange on his desk top, but it was bare apart from the blotter. So he took out his key ring and jangled it.
    “Let’s say I know now, Mr. McDonald. Was it really worth all the fuss?”
    Jangle, jangle.
    “Come on, man.”
    Jangle, jangle.
    “Don’t play games with me or—”
    “That’s what I’m interested in, Lieutenant. I mean what can you do?” McDonald said, trying to sound tough. “My brother’s a solicitor.”
    “And mine is in the Special Branch.”
    What a lovely fib. It put a stop to those bloody things jiggling about.
    “Shall we start again, Mr. McDonald? Tell me what’s on your mind.”
    “Simply this: you’re going to find that there was nothing sinister about Mark’s death. He had more to drink than was good for him—and he hardly ever drank, as it was—then did something bloody silly.”
    “How do you know he had been