Extract: Death on the Limpopo by Sally Andrew

This entry was posted on 18 May 2021.

Tannie Maria might be the Karoo’s favourite agony aunt, but when it comes to matters of her own heart, she doesn’t have all the answers. Why is she having trouble telling her beau – the dashing Detective Henk Kannemeyer with the chestnut moustache – that she loves him? Ladismith’s famous crime fighter is back – with a tin of buttermilk rusks in hand – to restore peace from the Klein Karoo to the great Limpopo River.

 

 


 

“‘THE LETTERS,’ A MAN’S VOICE WAS SAYING. ‘Give us the letters.’

I was awake now, the tent dark.

I propped myself up on an elbow, and felt around for the pepper spray beside my bed. I heard a zip opening, and torchlight shone in my eyes.

‘Don’t move, or we’ll shoot,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘As you know, this is not a walking stick.’ She brought the tip of the stick into the light. ‘I’m giving you one chance,’ she said. ‘Where are the letters?’

Her torchlight moved around my tent like an unwelcome rat, hunting.

‘I don’t have them,’ I said.

‘So, we’re going to do this the hard way, are we?’ she said, the light blinding me. ‘Where are they?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, blinking.

‘Sit up slowly, keep your hands in the air.’

I tried to get up with my hands raised, but it didn’t work. I’m not the sit-up type.

‘I can’t,’ I said.

‘Show me your hands,’ she said. I waved them in the air. It was cold out of the sleeping bag.

‘Outside,’ she said. ‘Now. Move slowly.’

I saw my pepper spray in her torchlight.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said.

I climbed out in my pink flannel nightie. I could see the woman now, in the starlight. She had a slender body and wore tight black pants and a long-sleeved top, black gloves and a balaclava. Zaba had also been forced out of her tent. She was walking naked towards me, and behind her was a slim man with a torch and a gun. All in black, too. Above us were the Swartberge, their slopes also dressed in black.

‘Zaba, you okay?’ I said.

She no longer had bandage on her leg, and I could see the grazes.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Everything’s fine.’

But it didn’t feel fine. It was really cold out of the tent. My nightie was made for winter, but for inside a bed. I wrapped myself in my arms. Zaba stood relaxed as if it was a sunny day on a nudist beach.

‘This auntie says she doesn’t have the letters,’ the woman said.

‘Ms Zabanguni says the same,’ the man said.

‘We might have to hurt the white woman – to get Zabanguni to talk,’ she said.

‘You told me you had instructions not to hurt us,’ said Zaba, turning towards the man, her voice less relaxed than her body. In the torchlight I could see the bump on her head where this man had hit her the day before.

‘Unless necessary,’ he said. ‘If we don’t find the letters, we’ll do what we have to.’

He held his gun in a black-gloved hand, and pointed it at the centre of Zaba’s chest. To the woman, he said, ‘I’ll watch them, you search the tents.’

‘Give me my clothes,’ Zaba said.

They ignored her.

The woman went to Zaba’s tent. I was shivering and shaking now, and it wasn’t just the cold. Zaba looked at me and winked.

‘Hey,’ called the woman. ‘Look what I found.’ She came towards us, carrying Zaba’s backpack, moonbag and gun pouch, as well as her leather trousers and jacket. ‘These weren’t in the car at the caves.’

She unzipped and searched every pocket on the jacket and pants, then she handed them to Zaba.

‘Tannie Maria needs something warm,’ said Zaba as she dressed. ‘Her jacket’s on the car seat.’

The woman went to get my jacket. She checked the pockets before handing it to me.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

The sheepskin jacket helped, but the ground was icy, and my feet were freezing. I wiggled my toes to try and keep them alive.

‘And our shoes,’ said Zaba.

‘I’m not your mommy,’ the woman said.

The man searched my tent, but found nothing that interested him. The woman emptied the stuff from Zaba’s bags onto the camping table, one thing at a time. A rope, a knife, a torch …

‘So you’re an Indiana Jones type,’ she said to Zaba.

‘Are the letters there?’ the man said, walking up to the table.

‘It’s best to be thorough, Jack,’ the woman said.

‘Just hurry it up, Jill,’ he said.

‘Nice little revolver. Ruger, stainless steel,’ she said, aiming it at the stars. The stars, like Zaba, were not intimidated by a gun pointing at them.

‘Lucky we caught her sleeping,’ said Jill. ‘We keep it?’

‘Not a good idea,’ said Jack. ‘But we could use it now. A shot in the foot, maybe?’

He pointed his gun at my feet, but looked at Zaba. My feet tried to bury themselves in the earth, but it was too hard.

‘Too noisy,’ said Jill, aiming the Ruger at Zaba.

 


“‘One more chance, Auntie,’ he said, lightly touching the tip of his knife with a gloved finger. ‘Where are the letters?’”


 

‘Good,’ said Jack. ‘A chance to use my knife …’

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Jack?’

She fiddled with Zaba’s gun, taking the bullets out. She threw them into the veld. Then she flung the revolver in the opposite direction.

‘The letters aren’t here,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to search the car again. Remember to check the spare wheel this time.’

‘That’ll take too long,’ said Jack. He handed his gun to Jill and pulled a knife from his belt. ‘My little friend here can speed things up.’

Waving the knife at a camp chair, he said, ‘Sit down, Auntie Maria.’

I sat.

‘Let’s have a look at those toes of yours,’ he said. ‘And then we can move on to your fingers.’

The man’s knife looked very sharp. Although I was warmer with the sheepskin jacket on, my shivering got worse.

‘One more chance, Auntie,’ he said, lightly touching the tip of his knife with a gloved finger. ‘Where are the letters?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘I promise.’

He picked up my right foot and brought the blade to my big toe. I tried to pull my foot away, but I think it had fainted. It lay limp in his hand.

‘Stop,’ said Zaba, taking a step forward. ‘I’ll tell you where the letters are.’

‘Oh. What a pity,’ said Jack, letting my foot drop as he stood up.

‘I gave them to the police,’ she said. ‘The Prince Albert police. For safekeeping.’

‘Lies,’ said Jack. His eyes were framed by the holes in the balaclava. He was looking at Zaba like he wanted to cut off her toes and fingers.

‘I knew you were after them,’ said Zaba, folding her leather arms across her chest. ‘You think I’d be sleeping peacefully if I had those letters to guard?’

‘We’ll search the car,’ said Jack. ‘And if you’re lying to us, I’ll cut off her toes. One by one.’

‘He will too,’ said Jill.

My eyes opened wide and Zaba said, ‘You won’t find them.’

‘Sit down,’ said Jack, and Zaba sat in the camp chair that was on the other side of the fireplace.

He put his knife back on his belt, and Jill gave him his gun. Then they took turns, one of them searching the car while the other watched Zaba and me. They emptied everything out onto the stony ground. Zaba and I sat in our chairs. I kept looking at her, waiting for a sign. My feet were shivering with cold and fright, but my brain was still hoping for an action plan. What should we do when they found the letters?

I rubbed the top of my foot against my calf, but it was too cold to help my toes. Jack and Jill kept searching. No green tin. No letters. Maybe Zaba really had given them to the police. I hadn’t seen her do it, but I’d left the station before her. It would’ve been a clever thing to do.

The stars were getting fainter. Dawn was not far off.

‘They’re not here,’ said Jill, walking from the bakkie to stand beside Jack.

‘I told you,’ said Zaba, ‘they’re with the police. Ask Lieutenant Jantjies.’

‘Fuck it,’ said Jack. He tucked his gun into his pants and pulled out his knife.

‘No,’ I said. ‘We aren’t lying.’ My heart was beating hard under my nightie.

‘The police have the letters,’ Zaba said, standing up.

Jack glared at her, and raised his knife in the air. Zaba took a step towards him. Jill aimed the walking stick at Zaba’s head.

‘Stay in your chair,’ Jill said.

Zaba stood still, but didn’t sit down.

Jack came towards me, his knife in his right hand.

‘Wait,’ said Jill. ‘I have a plan.’

‘What is it?’ he said, squatting next to my chair. He looked at my toes like a cat watching little pink mice.

‘Come here and I’ll explain.’

He reached towards my foot with his left hand, and my toes scurried under the chair. He grabbed them, and I squealed.

Zaba made a growling sound.

‘Jack!’ said Jill. Her voice was even sharper than his knife.

He let my toes go, and stood up. He went over to Jill and she whispered in his ear. He sighed, and then he grunted.

‘Till we meet again, ladies,’ he said, walking backwards, his knife in one hand and his gun in the other.

Jack and Jill disappeared into the darkness.”

 

Extracted from Death on the Limpopo by Sally Andrew, out now.

 


 
by Sally Andrew
 
 

 

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