Murderous by David Hickson (best ereader for comics .txt) 📕

“DNA match,” said Andile. “That’s all we have. They’ve been matching blood samples. Looks as if he took a fall. Hair and blood on one of the pews as if he struck his head against it. Didn’t match any of the victims, but all the lights went on when we ran Q’s sample.”

“What is the problem then? Perhaps you want to get to the bit that explains why you asked to speak with us,” Fehrson suggested, through teeth that were only gritted together because he was smiling.

“There are a few anomalies, in my opinion,” said Andile. He put the biscuit aside and took a sip of coffee, which he also regretted.

“What anomalies?” asked Fehrson.

“Your message on the wall, for one. Handwriting expert says there is no chance that he did it.”

“Spray painting on a wall is very different to writing, surely?” said Khanyi.

Andile went through his papers and found a collection of roughly drawn triangles. “The handwriting guy can tell you all about it. Something about stroke order. The suspect draws the lines of the triangle in a different order.”

“Seems a little inconclusive,” said Fehrson, and he reached for his coffee and stared into the mug sadly. There were small brown and white globules floating on the surface, and it looked as if he was wondering whether it was going to be worth trying to drink any.

“There is also a problem with his height,” said Andile. “Nqobeni is not a tall man.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“We can determine the height at which the gun was held. The firing was done from a level that implies a taller man.”

“Or he put the gun to his shoulder,” suggested Khanyi.

Andile shook his head. “The difference is not that great. The Interpol guys say there was a taller man.”

Fehrson looked as if he was about to say something about what he thought of Interpol guys, but he caught Khanyi’s look so he expressed his feelings with a facial expression instead.

“Another anomaly has to do with the Van Rensburgs’ aeroplane.”

“Aeroplane?” said Fehrson querulously. “There’s more?”

“Let’s allow the captain to finish,” suggested Khanyi.

“Of course,” said Fehrson, and he took the plunge with a small sip of the coffee. There was an awed silence as we watched to see what effect it had. He puckered his lips and then smacked them, winced a little, and looked down to confirm that it had been the coffee mug he had drunk from. “Of course,” he repeated, and sighed. “Go ahead, captain.”

“Freddy’s discovery as to why the Van Rensburgs were not in the church.”

“The pitted tube,” said Fehrson.

“Pitot,” said Khanyi. “It’s a silent ‘T’ at the end.”

“You’re going to tell us Q wouldn’t know the pitted tube from the landing gear lever. The person who bent that tube had to know a bit about flying?”

“More than a bit,” said Andile. “And yet again, Nqobeni is not that man.”

“Well,” said Fehrson, and he cleared his throat. “All this handwriting and aeroplane tube business is fascinating. And I am delighted young Ben here could do something productive.” He didn’t bother to conceal the surprise that accompanied his delight. “But what does this have to do with us?”

Andile opened the pink file sitting before him on the table and spread a collection of computer-generated diagrams and photographs across the table.

“I’ve been doing this for many years now,” he said. “Arriving too late at scenes like that church. But it is not often that we have members of the secret service arrive. I’m a little naïve about matters of state security, so you’ll have to forgive me if I get your titles wrong or confuse your names. But if the secret service is involved, that means to me that there is something bigger going on.”

“I see,” said Fehrson after an uncomfortable pause.

“I am proposing that we work together. Before we start having repeat performances of Minhoop.”

“Absolutely not,” said Fehrson. “Absolutely not the kind of thing we can be involved with.”

Another pause. Andile paged through his papers. “There is also the puzzle of a friend of the younger Van Rensburg,” he said. “More of an acquaintance, really.” He found what he was looking for and looked up at me and said, “Dirk Fourie.”

I did everything I could to suppress any reaction, but the body is a treacherous instrument. A tightening of the pupils, a change in the rhythm of the breath can give away surprise, and I wondered whether Andile was watching for those signs.

“Puzzle?” I said.

“One of the deceased. He’d been attending church services off and on for a few months. It seems he knew the younger Van Rensburg. Went to the same school here in Cape Town. Van Rensburg was a boarder at the school.”

“What does he have to do with it?” said Fehrson. It was an innocent question, but he spoke too soon, and with too much anxiety. He should have let Andile finish. Andile turned his gaze onto him.

“There were three magazines left behind in the church. Empty magazines. Two of them had been wiped clean, and the third had been wiped almost clean.” Andile paused. We said nothing and so he said: “There was a print on it. Dirk Fourie’s print.”

We sat in silence for a moment longer. This dishevelled police captain was either turning the tables on us, or unknowingly stumbling into something he knew nothing about. I suspected the former.

“I am not understanding,” said Fehrson. “What are you saying?”

“It was an old print,” said Andile. “so this Fourie might have handled the magazine prior to the shooting. Which suggests that there is a connection between Hendrik van Rensburg and the weapon used in the church. It is possible that the weapon belonged to Hendrik van Rensburg. Also possible that Fourie was involved. A docket has been opened to investigate Fourie.”

“I see,” said Fehrson, with little conviction. He raised his coffee mug to his lips but remembered at the last moment and withdrew it again. “It is not really our bailiwick,” he