Read The Satanic Mechanic Online
Authors: Sally Andrew
The Satanic Mechanic
Also by Sally Andrew
Recipes for Love and Murder: A Tannie Maria Mystery
The Satanic Mechanic
A Tannie Maria Mystery
SALLY ANDREW
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Published in Great Britain in 2016 by Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE
This digital edition first published in 2016 by Canongate Books
Copyright © Sally Andrew, 2016
Lyrics by Kurt Darren, Don Keilly, Robin Keilly and Marc Brendon reproduced by kind permission of KvN Publ. (Pty) Ltd.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Although Ladismith is an actual place in the Klein Karoo, South Africa, this is a work of fiction. Descriptions of people and places are imaginary; any resemblances to reality are coincidental.
The recipes contained in this book are for entertainment purposes only. The author and publisher make no representations or warranties of any kind, express or implied, about the completeness, accuracy, reliability, suitability or availability with respect to the recipes contained here for any purpose.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.
ISBN 978 1 78211 650 9
eISBN 978 1 78211 651 6
Typeset in Sabon LT Std by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire
I dedicate this book to my beloved, Bowen Boshier
.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
Have you ever wanted something really badly? You can't just wait till it lands in your lap, but if you chase it too hard you might chase it away from you. Or catch something you didn't expect. I was maybe too hungry for love and ended up with murder on my plate.
It was a warm Saturday afternoon in March, and I was getting ready for dinner with Detective Lieutenant Henk Kannemeyer. A bokmakierie shrike sang out in my garden, and a bird replied from a thorn tree in the veld.
I put a bowl of salad onto the porch table. âAg, you look beautiful,' I told the salad.
I had made three salads and two puddings, for just two people. I guess that shows I was trying too hard.
Henk was bringing the potjie food for the fire. The potato salad and coleslaw were in the fridge; the rocket salad with Brie, red figs and pomegranate pips was on the stoep table. There had been some gentle rain the day before that made the air so clean that I could see the red rocks on the Rooiberg mountain and the purple folds of the Langeberge. But now was not the time to enjoy the view. There were still the butter dumplings to make, as well as the icing for the peanut-butter coffee chocolate cake.
Tonight was a special date because Henk was going to spend the night. We had discussed where Kosie, his lamb, was going to sleep. The lamb was a gift from Henk's uncle Koos, the sheep farmer, and was not meant to be a pet. But although Henk loved roast lamb, he didn't have the heart to do that to Kosie. In his own house, the lammetjie slept
in the kitchen, but Henk agreed it was time the lamb learnt to be an outside animal, and it would sleep in the little hok behind the house with my chickens. It got on well with my chickens.
The idea of Henk spending the night made me nervous. I ate some of the potato salad with its cream-and-mint dressing. The bokmakierie was still singing in my garden. Most birds have just one hit single, but that shrike could make a double album with all its tunes. My favourite song is the one where it throws its head back, opens its beak and pumps its little yellow breast. It was singing that very song as I iced the cake with melted chocolate and coffee. Another bird that sings with such feeling is the fiery-necked nightjar. When there's a full moon, it sometimes sings all night. It makes a beautiful bubbling sound that is filled with such pleasure it can make you blush.
I cleaned the icing bowl with my fingers. Now I would need to scrub my hands before putting on my lacy white underwear. White, like it was going to be my first time.
It would be the first time since my late husband, Fanie.
Henk arrived in his Toyota Hilux bakkie just before sunset. He came with a bag of wood for the fire, a three-legged potjie pot, a lamb and the lamb's blue blanket. Kosie wandered over to join my chickens at the compost buffet. Henk put the cast-iron pot by the braai spot in the garden. I stood on the stoep, watching him as he brushed his hands together and then wiped them on his jeans and looked up at me. He smiled that big smile of his, and the sun caught the tips of his chestnut moustache. He wore a white cotton shirt with some buttons undone, and his chest hairs glowed silver and copper. What had I done to deserve someone like him?
âHello, Henk,' I said, smiling. I stood with my hands on my hips, in my cream dress with the blue flowers.
He did not answer but walked up the stairs onto the stoep. He cupped my chin in his hand and tilted it up to him. He bent down (he is big and tall, and I am round and short) and kissed me. He smelt like fresh bread and cinnamon, and honey from the beeswax on his moustache.
He held his large hand in the small of my back and pressed me to him. I wanted to lead him inside there and then, and if I'd followed the wild blood of my father (who was English and a journalist), I would have done just that. But my mother was a respectable Afrikaans housewife, and she had fed me her morals along with all her good meals.
âI should light the fire,' said Henk, his voice warm in my ear.
âYes,' I said.
The best potjie needs a few hours simmering on a low heat.
CHAPTER TWO
The frogs and toads were making music like an underwater marimba band. There's a spring near the Swartberge, the Black Mountains behind my house, and a stream with little pools, where the frogs sing love songs to their mates.
The potjie was delicious. The meat and onions at the bottom were sticky and brown, and the layers of vegetables had that fire flavour.
âLeave some room for pudding,' I said. âI have a special chocolate cake, and botterkluitjies with brandy sauce.'
âJinne, I haven't eaten those butter dumplings since I was a boy. My brother gave me a black eye once, fighting over the last kluitjie.'
We sat side by side on the stoep, listening to the frogs, holding hands and looking out across the veld. His hand was warm, and wrapped all the way around mine. The moon was not yet up, so the burning stars filled the sky.
âThe sky gets so big at night,' I said.
âIt's big in the day too.'
âJa,' I agreed. âBut I don't notice it so much. Now it's so full and busy. All those stars. And planets.'
âLook there, on the hilltop. That's Venus rising.'
âSo that one's Venus. When I can't sleep, I sit and watch it setting, early in the morning.'
Henk's lamb butted at his thigh with its little horns, and he fed it a piece of rocket. He wasn't bottle-feeding Kosie any more.
âYou still having nightmares, Maria?'
âI'll go make the coffee.'
âWhat that man did to you . . .'
âJa,' I said, thinking of Fanie. But Henk was talking about the murderer who'd tried to kill me. Henk and I had first met when we were investigating a murder, a few months ago. He didn't know the whole story about Fanie.
âYou can get help, you know,' Henk said. âCounselling or something.'
The problems I had were bigger than Henk Kannemeyer knew about. The kind of problems no one else could help me with.
âI'm fine,' I said.
âBut sometimesâ' His phone rang. âSorry,' he said, answering it.
I went to the kitchen, to prepare the dumplings and brandy sauce. I could hear him talking on the stoep.
âSjoe . . . They got her? . . . She didn't run? . . . Ja, they'll keep her in Swellendam now. Maybe send her off for psychological assessment . . .'
When I came back with the kluitjies, he was looking out into the darkness.
âWhat happened?' I asked.
Henk shook his head again. He didn't like to discuss work with me.
âWas it that woman?' I asked. âWho stabbed her boyfriend in the heart?'
Jessie'd written about it in our
Klein Karoo Gazette
. I did the âLove Advice and Recipe Column', and she wrote the big stories. The woman was from our town, Ladismith, but the murder had happened in Barrydale. The man had been eating supper in the Barrydale Hotel with a friend, and his girlfriend had walked up to him and stabbed him in the heart. While they were trying to save the man's life, the woman had just walked out.
âThey've caught her?' I said.
âJa. She went back to the Barrydale Hotel, had supper at the same table . . .' He shook his head.
âYou think she wanted to get caught?'
âShe must be mad,' he said. âStabbing him like that, in front of all those people . . .'
âI wonderâ' I said.
âAnd then going back . . .'
âI wonder what he did to her,' I said to the pudding, as I dished it onto our plates.
âI'm sure her lawyers will have a story,' he said. âBut it's over now. The Swellendam police cover Barrydale. Let's not talk about it on a night like this.' He swept his hand out, to show the flowers on my dress and the stars scattered across the soft dark sky.
The botterkluitjies put an end to the conversation anyway, because all that you can say when eating those cinnamon brandy dumplings is âmm mmm'. Then there was the cake. I didn't think my buttermilk chocolate cake could be improved, but then I invented another version with a cup of coffee in the dough, a layer of peanut butter and apricot jam in the middle, and an icing of melted coffee-chocolate. It was so amazing you would think it had come from another planet.
âJirre,' said Henk, after a long time of speechlessness. âWhat kind of cake is this?'
âA Venus Cake,' I said, wiping a little icing from his lip with my finger. Henk licked my fingertip.
âKosie,' Henk said. The lamb was now lying under the table, resting its head on his foot. âIt's time for you to go to bed.'