Murderous David Hickson (best thriller novels of all time TXT) 📖

“I would like you to speak with him,” said Andile.

“Speak with who?”

“Nqobeni.”

Fehrson cleared his throat. “I regret,” he said. “We are not in a position to do that.”

“I am aware of your suspension,” said Andile. “It will be a police matter. I will arrange it.”

“Speak to him about what?” said Khanyi.

“About your man Fourie, and what happened that night.”

“Why don’t you speak to him about it?”

“We have. I want you to try something different. No questions, make it a conversation.”

“A conversation?” said Fehrson. “How will that help?”

Andile turned to me.

“I believe Freddy might have some experience in an approach called non-accusatory interrogation,” he said.

Fehrson looked at me as if trying to remember why I was in the room with them.

“It’s all the rage now,” said Andile. “It’s the way the Americans do things.”

“And the British military,” I said. The only way that Andile could have known about my connection with the British military would have been if Khanyi had told him about it. I noticed that she looked down at her papers to avoid my eyes.

Andile turned back to Fehrson. “I need to throw out Nqobeni’s confession before they lock him away and we all sit around waiting for act two. I am running out of options.”

Fehrson looked at me, then at Khanyi, as if wondering if we had been planning an ambush.

“Let us discuss this,” he said eventually. “Alone. We will see what we can do.”

Andile gathered up his papers. Khanyi looked up and asked if she could help him find his way out of the building. He said she could. We stood up, smiled a little, performed the secret handshakes, and then Khanyi lured Andile down the stairs with her fox fur to escort him off the premises in the nicest way possible.

Fehrson stood like Quasimodo at the big arched window, looking down at the common people as they scuttled about their business in Greenmarket Square as we waited for Khanyi to return.

“It is still there,” said Fehrson, after several minutes of deep thought.

“It is?” I said.

“Too damn expensive,” said Fehrson. “Daylight robbery, that is what it is.”

“Ah,” I said. Greenmarket Square was occupied by an overcrowded collection of flea market stalls that moved in at dawn, then retreated at sunset so that the tourists could sip their martinis in peace on the terrace of the five-star hotel across from the Warehouse. I didn’t need to ask what was too expensive. Fehrson had an interest in old clocks that sometimes struck me as more of an obsession.

“Perhaps they’ll bring the price down?” I suggested. “If no one’s buying it.”

“Shouldn’t be standing out there in the sun,” said Fehrson. “It is Georgian, for goodness’ sake. You don’t leave a Georgian long-case exposed to the elements like that. I have got a mind to pay his outrageous figure as an act of conservation.”

“Absolutely,” I said. We’d had this conversation in various guises before, and my role was not a speaking one. I was there to provide corroboration as Fehrson constructed his argument for making the purchase, a role his wife had fulfilled until their marriage had finally fallen apart several years ago. “You should save it,” I suggested.

“Whatever is taking her so long?” He turned to me accusingly. Perhaps he had also noticed the frisson of tension between Khanyi and Andile, and didn’t like to think what might be happening in the marbled entrance foyer of the building.

“The lift is particularly slow today,” I said.

Fehrson looked at me with displeasure. “You have not explained why you are dressed like that,” he said.

I knew I should have changed. But the photographer had been running late and by the time he had captured the optimistic dawn shots of Colonel Colchester and his business colleague Freddy Moss on their company yacht, I’d hardly had time to get into town to catch Khanyi. I removed the tie and undid the top button of my shirt.

“Imposing a little order on my life,” I said.

Fehrson grunted. He knew there was a nefarious reason behind everything I did, he just couldn’t prove it. His pale blue eyes searched me for a moment. Fehrson didn’t hold it against me that I had been discharged from the British army. And he never actually said anything about whether it had been an honourable discharge, but I knew he had seen the psychologists’ reports. And he often watched me in this way, as if trying to find visible signs of the damage.

Khanyi’s return was heralded by a clatter of high heels on the steel stairs. She arrived at the top level like an actress arriving on stage.

“That man has such a cheek,” she declared, and hesitated, slightly flushed and out of breath, as the spotlight operator tried to find her.

“I never thought I would see the day,” said Fehrson, “that we would be getting into bed with the men in blue.”

“Hardly getting into bed with them,” said Khanyi, her face still flushed. “Holding hands, maybe. We’ve agreed to work together. Exchange information. That’s all there is to it.”

“We’ll send Gabriel in,” said Fehrson in response to that, and he turned back to the window and peered down to see how the Georgian long-case was faring.

“Gabriel doesn’t work for us,” Khanyi reminded him. “In any case, what could Gabriel get out of him that the police haven’t?”

“That man Q has not met Gabriel yet,” said Fehrson ominously. I opened my mouth to challenge that comment, but Fehrson continued. “You go along with him, Khanyisile. The two of you can do it together.”

Khanyi sat down at the table, folded her legs away and looked at me, but spoke to Fehrson.

“Do what together, Father?” Khanyi had a way of using the word ‘father’ that seemed inappropriate and mischievous. At times the coquettish Lolita, then the faithful Cordelia to Fehrson’s Lear. Or perhaps she only spoke like that when I was around because she could see that it irritated me.

“Do?” said Fehrson, gazing out of the window. “You need to interrogate