. . .”
“You don’t remember, Rabie? Didn’t you ever see your guest?”
“Not often. He kept to himself, didn’t mingle. I think he was growing a beard.”
“He didn’t drink at the bar, watch the bare bums on the poles?”
“No. He asked for a room far from the music and the noise. Said he wanted peace and quiet because he wasn’t feeling so great.”
“A room near the fire escape, to come and go unnoticed,” said the constable.
“Could you describe him for an Identikit?” asked the sergeant. “In case Forensics find something that points to a crime?”
“How about all the blood?” Rabie replied wryly.
“Well, suicide isn’t a crime. Slashing your wrists in the bath.” The sergeant inspected the tiles again. “That could explain the blood on the walls. Maybe he came looking for a quiet place to end his life. Debt, divorce, terminal disease, who knows?”
“So where’s his body?”
“Maybe halfway through he decided he didn’t want to end it after all. It’s not unusual for people with suicidal tendencies to have second thoughts.” The sergeant turned to the constable. “Forensics on their way?”
“I phoned. They said they’d be an hour or two – when they’re done with the scene at Judith’s Paarl.”
Rabie threw his hands in the air. “He could be in Timbuktu by then!”
“Hey, Rabie, do you know how many murders take place in this country every day? How overworked the police are? Get the crime-scene tape in the car, Constable, seal off this door.”
The sergeant turned back to Rabie. “Don’t let anyone in here. It could be a few days before Forensics get the results back. Until then it’s a crime scene. It’s after twelve – what’s on your menu? How about some lunch while the constable does his job? You can tell me about your guest, Mr Formal . . .”
“Fomalhaut.”
“Dutchman?”
“Afrikaans.”
“And you, Rabie? What’s that accent?”
“South African. Born at the old Marymount in Kensington. My father came to this country after the Battle of al-Malkiyya in 1948. Lost a leg against the Israelis. He opened this hotel. We speak Lebanese at home. That’s where my father’s from, Baalbek.”
“So you’re an Arab?”
“What the hell does it matter, Sergeant? What are you?”
“Sgt. Mfundisi – amaZulu. And my colleague is Const. Xala, amaXhosa. What did you say is on your menu today?”
“This isn’t the Ritz, Sergeant – it’s the Sleep Inn in Bez Valley. We have a pub lunch and cold draught.”
“And this Mr Formalhaut, did he look sick to you when he rented the room? I mean, was he pale, feverish . . . or did he just say he was sick and you believed him?”
“How was I supposed to know whether he was feverish? Should I have stuck a thermometer up his arse? He had injuries from an accident. He looked sick.”
“What kind of injuries?”
“Cuts all over his hands and face, lots of plasters, one eye swollen almost shut. I told him he looked like he’d been in a train smash. He said: ‘Funny you should say that. It was an accident with a train – that level crossing near Magaliesburg. Car stalled, right on the tracks.’ Said he was looking for a room for two months; he’d pay in advance.”
“Plus the deposit.”
“Plus the deposit.”
“How old did you take him to be?”
“Fifty, maybe. Said he’s from the Cape. In the antiques business, drives around buying old furniture. Strange surname of Fomalhaut. That’s how he wrote it in the register.”
“And you verified it in his ID book, checked his photo?”
“Er . . . not exactly.”
“Not exactly? What do you mean?”
“Sergeant, I don’t look at every guest’s ID. How can I ask every guest, ‘Show me your ID’? The guests who rent my rooms are . . .”
“You mean the escorts and pole dancers – Candi, Mandi, Randi and Sandi . . . who don’t want their customers to know they’re actually Barendiena or Fransiena. Who wants to watch Fransiena swinging from a pole, exposing her Koekemoer arse to the world? Yes, I get your drift. So, how did Mr Fomalhaut manage to stick plasters on his face if he was growing a beard?”
“He didn’t have a beard the night he arrived. He grew the beard while he was here.”
“So you did see him sometimes? I’ll have a hamburger, by the way, with cheese and chips. And lots of onions, well fried.”
Rabie phoned the cook, then followed the sergeant out to the passage. He watched as Const. Xala shut the door and sealed the lock and doorknob with yellow crime-scene tape. He watched Sgt. Mfundisi roll back his big head, fat neck bulging over his shirt collar, his eyes on the camera mounted high on the wall next to the fire escape. The camera had a view of the entire passage, right up to the lift door.
“Constable, bring a chair,” the sergeant called over his shoulder.
“I’ve just sealed the door, Sarge.”
“Open it again and bring me a chair. You can seal it again, or are you paying for the tape yourself?”
“I had the CCTV installed last year,” said Rabie. “After a guest was molested in her room. One on every floor, and one in the bar. You never know what a drunk will get up to. Tomorrow he denies everything, says he never visited the Sleep Inn last night. You know what it’s like, Sergeant. Now I have it on camera.”
“Get up, Constable,” said Sgt. Mfundisi. “Can you reach that lens?”
The constable stood on his toes, stretched his fingers. “Yes. Looks like old paint, Sarge. Lens is covered with black spray paint, the graffiti kind.”
“Thought so,” said the sergeant. “You want a burger too, Constable?” He turned to Rabie. “Another burger. When last did you look at this camera’s footage on your monitor?”
“Er . . . last week?”
“And the camera was working then? Could you see this passage – guests going in and out of your escorts’ rooms – so you could claim your commission?”
“It was working.”
“It was working? Constable, come here. Rabie, look at the man’s finger
