Roots of Outrage. John Davis Gordon

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СКАЧАТЬ you did use somebody else’s, Mr Mahoney. But not at Drum, hey? In fact,’ he smiled, ‘you used the Olivetti we found at Lilliesleaf Farm. In the cottage.’

      It was another blow in the guts. He heard his ears ring. ‘That’s impossible.’

      The colonel sighed. ‘Experts have compared the typeface of the Olivetti with your so-called story. And they match one hundred per cent.’ He raised his eyebrows pleasantly. ‘And if that’s not enough evidence – which it is – fingerprints were found all over the machine, hey. And those fingerprints – ’ he held up the note the detective had brought in – ‘match yours.’

      Mahoney stared, heart pounding. Before he could say anything Colonel Krombrink continued: ‘So you were at Lilliesleaf Farm, Mr Mahoney. Where you wrote the whole –’ he flicked the typescript – ‘long story, over three or four long visits.’ The detective at the window grinned, fixing Mahoney with a cheerful glare. Colonel Krombrink went on: ‘An’ before you come up with some cock an’ bull story, let me advise you that your fingerprints were found on many of these, which we seized in the cottage.’ He waved his hand like a showman and the detective held up a beer bottle triumphantly.

      Mahoney’s mind stuttered. And all he could think was – oh God, what about Patti’s fingerprints? He looked desperately at Colonel Krombrink.

      ‘Got, man, Mr Mahoney, you’re in big trouble, hey? Exactly the same as the guys we arrested red-handed at the farm, hey. Treason …’ He let that hang, then asked earnestly: ‘You know the penalty for treason?’

      Mahoney was ashen, dread-filled. ‘You know bloody well I haven’t committed treason!’

      The colonel sighed. ‘What I know is that you frequented the underground headquarters of the banned ANC and Communist Party, where the most-wanted terrorists in this country were arrested in possession of thousands of documents planning armed revolution to set up a black communist government supported by Moscow – and caught with a supply of weapons and explosives, hey. And I know that you wrote this –’ he flicked the file – ‘disgusting story for them with the intention of blackmailing the police – and you wrote it on their typewriter in their headquarters, drinking their beer, and that you left the story and pornographic pictures in their possession – we found it buried in a box. An’ I know that this Gandhi woman is a member of the ANC, an’ that she’s your girlfriend, an’ that you went on numerous trips with her to kaffir countries which are known ANC bases where these weapons and explosives come from – an’ you and Miss Gandhi had every opportunity to bring in those explosives and weapons.’

       ‘Bullshit! You know it is!’

      ‘And you’re a known troublemaker, always writing –’ he waved his hand in distaste – ‘crap about apartheid.’ 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 СКАЧАТЬ