Roots of Outrage. John Davis Gordon
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He shook his head sadly. ‘Treason, Mr Mahoney. And that’s not just the Immorality Act, hey – that’s the gallows, man.’
Mahoney scrambled to his feet and smashed his hand on the desk. ‘You know I had nothing to do with explosives and treason!’
The colonel smiled. ‘You’ll have to convince the judge, not me, Mr Mahoney. And,’ he added, ‘so will Miss Gandhi.’
‘She had nothing to do with that farm!’ Mahoney roared.
The colonel said softly: ‘Sit down, Mr Mahoney. You make the place look untidy.’
Mahoney glared, aghast, shaking. He rasped: ‘I refuse to answer any more ridiculous questions!’
The colonel sat back. ‘Ninety days, Mr Mahoney? We can detain you ninety days for questioning. An’ if we’re not satisfied you’re telling the truth we can detain you another ninety days. An’ so on, indefinitely. Now, be a sensible chap and sit down, hey.’
Mahoney stared, heart pounding. And, oh God, he was terrified. Ninety days and ninety days and ninety days… He slowly sank back into his chair.
The colonel nodded encouragingly. Then hunched forward, hands clasped. ‘Mr Mahoney, where was Miss Gandhi when you were working on the story on Lilliesleaf Farm?’
Mahoney closed his eyes, his mind frantically racing. They’d said nothing about her fingerprints… ‘I don’t know. She wasn’t present.’
‘So you just got in your car and drove out to the farm to write the story because it was your other office, hey? That proves you were one of those terrorists! Good! Thank you!’
Anger rose through the fear. ‘I had no idea the farm was an ANC base! And Miss Gandhi didn’t even know of the farm’s existence – she thought I was writing the story at Drum!’
‘I see.’ The colonel nodded. ‘So how did you come to write it on the farm?’
Oh Jesus. ‘I decided not to write it at Drum in case Drum got raided. The same applied to my apartment. Then I met a guy who rented a cottage outside town but hardly lived there. He offered it to me. I grabbed it. Writers do that, you know – we need to get away to work.’
‘Of course,’ the colonel said, and the other detective snickered. ‘Artists are like that. So?’
‘So this guy said I could use his empty cottage whenever I liked. He took me out there. And, it was ideal.’
‘How kind of him!’ the colonel beamed. ‘And so you rented it?’
‘No. Well, I gave him a case of wine. It was just a favour.’
‘I understand,’ the colonel nodded earnestly. ‘And the Olivetti typewriter?’
‘It was already there.’
‘Ah … So it was absolutely ideal, hey? An’ tell me – what’s this kind guy’s name?’
Mahoney had managed to think this far ahead. ‘Mac’
‘Mac what?’
‘Not sure. I just knew him as Mac, like most MacGregors or Mackintoshes. I did know, but I’ve forgotten.’
‘So easy to forget funny names. And where is this Mac now?’
‘I don’t know – I heard he’s left the country.’
‘Oh dear! So we won’t be able to meet him – an’ such a nice guy too! An’ what did he do in this country?’
‘He was looking for a job. But he seemed to have quite a bit of money – always enough to stand his round.’
‘An’ that’s where you met him, of course – in a bar?’
‘Yes. In the Elizabeth Hotel. The so-called Press Bar, opposite the Star. But I ran into him in several other places too.’
‘The Press Bar. So he was looking for a job as a writer?’
‘Yes. He said he’d done some writing – freelance. Recently arrived in Jo’burg. Been all over the world.’ He added: ‘Told me he had this cute cottage, but he really wanted a place in town.’
‘I see. A globe-trotter, hey. Very hard to find him. Pity. An’ what other friends did this friendly Mac have?’
‘I don’t know. I only ever bumped into him alone.’
‘So who told you he’d left the country?’
‘He told me he was thinking of leaving last time I saw him.’
‘An’ what arrangements did you make about the cottage?’
‘None. He’d only said he was thinking of leaving soon. No job. I presumed he would tell me about that when he left.’
‘And Miss Gandhi? She never went to the cottage?’
Oh Jesus, had they found any of her fingerprints? ‘Only once.’
‘Once? And why?’
He waved a shaky hand. ‘Just to … show it to her. We’re friends. We went for a picnic there one Sunday.’
‘A picnic? Agh, how nice.’ Colonel Krornbrink shook his head. ‘Not for the purposes of sexual intercourse, of course.’
Oh God, why not admit it for the sake of credibility, the Immorality Act was peanuts compared to treason. He heard himself say: ‘Perhaps that was my purpose. Even you will admit that Miss Gandhi is extremely attractive. But unfortunately it never happened.’
Colonel Krornbrink burst into a wide grin. ‘Mr Mahoney, I like your cheek, hey. You expect us to believe that?’
And suddenly Mahoney had had enough of terror. He crashed his hand on the desk. ‘I don’t give a shit if you don’t believe me – it’s the truth! Now, are you charging me under the Immorality Act or not? If not, I’m going home!’
The colonel grinned. ‘Mr Mahoney, we’ve got a very nice cell for you, provisionally booked for ninety days. In fact, we took the precaution of putting your name down for the following ninety days too, so don’t worry about accommodation, hey.’
Mahoney stared at him, unnerved. ‘Provisionally’? And, oh God, he wanted to say something, to do something to ingratiate himself.
Colonel Krornbrink said: ‘An’ tell me, Mr Mahoney, as neither you nor Miss Gandhi knew anything about the farm, how come we found your story – her story – buried on the farm?’
Oh Jesus, Jesus … Then he heard himself say: ‘It was stolen.’
‘Stolen?’ Colonel Krombrink looked taken aback for a moment.
Why hadn’t he thought of it before? ‘Yes. When I finally finished the job I put the story in my briefcase. I drove back to town. I stopped to buy milk. I thought I’d locked all the car doors. But when I came out – the briefcase was gone!’
Colonel Krombrink made big eyes. ‘Got, man, you must have been horrified, hey!’
‘Yes. And so was Miss Gandhi. Imagine – the whole story and those pictures of her falling into … wrong hands.’
‘Got, yes, man. How embarrassing! An’ you rewrote the story?’
Mahoney had stumbled ahead to this one. ‘No. Miss Gandhi was so horrified she just wanted to forget the whole thing. And the story was no good without the photographs to prove it was true.’
Colonel Krombrink nodded deeply. ‘And, of course, she had destroyed all the negatives?’ The detective snickered. Colonel Krombrink sat back. ‘Mr Mahoney, you expect us to believe