Salamander Cotton - Softcover

Richard Kunzmann

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1405041005 ISBN 13: 9781405041003

Publisher: Macmillan, 2006

Synopsis

A wealthy ex-farmer has been found beaten and burned to death at his home in suburban Johannesburg. Why does his estranged wife not seem particularly surprised by this cold-blooded murder, and insist that the killer will be found in the Northern Cape? That is where the victim’s plantations were located – a desolate landscape of extreme poverty, and with a very dark mining past. Police-officer Jacob Tshabalala persuades his former colleague Harry Mason to accompany the woman there as a private investigator, and the moment they arrive in the near-abandoned mining town of Leopold’s, Harry senses that dangerous secrets are resurfacing.

To add to this dark menace is the supposed existence of a local demon, and when Harry’s little daughter is viciously attacked, he realises here is a mystery that he must resolutely unravel.

About this title

About the Author

Richard Kunzmann is a native South African whose passion has always been African myths and mythologies. He majored in criminology, and worked as a bookseller in London while writing his first novel BLOODY HARVESTS.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1
Bernard Klamm sits in the sumptuous study of his Parkview home, deeply engrossed in a book by Sir Laurens van der Post. He is not expecting any visitors, least of all expecting his life to end this night.
The large stuffed armchair he is sitting in is upholstered in polished oxblood leather, secured to its heavy wooden frame with brass studs. On a small table by his left hand stands a snifter of cognac beside a green banker’s reading light angled to cast its full glow over Klamm’s lap. A quilted blanket, thrown over his seventy-nine-year-old knees, provides some comfort against the cold May wind that blasts autumn leaves over the lawn outside. Blue flames whisper amongst fake coals in the large open fireplace, which is flanked by red-oak shelves filled with books. Two of the other walls are lined with numerous black and white photographs.
The man’s brow is furrowed and under bushy white eyebrows his expression is one of either anger or scorn. He inhales regularly in shallow whistles, although he quit pipe smoking more than twenty years ago.
As something in the fireplace crackles loudly, Klamm looks up and glances at the window, noticing how raindrops are collecting on the glass. It is unusual weather for May, indeed.
He does not notice a face staring at him from the darkness beyond, and turns his attention back to the volume he is reading: a detailed study of the Khoisan, who were not only master hunters and survivors but also great historians who documented on cave walls their everyday activities and encounters with other tribes and cultures.
From the kitchen door there is the faint sound of duct tape being torn from a roll. Four strips are neatly applied to one door pane, before an elbow smashes through the glass without any fragments spilling over the floor. This break-in goes unnoticed by the old man in his study. Moments later the door behind Bernard Klamm opens, and soundlessly a figure approaches him over the thick beige carpet.
Reaching for his snifter, the old man suddenly realizes he is not alone. His glass raised halfway to his lips, Klamm fixes his gaze on the mantelpiece. ‘I thought I already told you to bugger off. I’ve nothing more to say to you.’
‘Really?’ replies a deep voice.
Klamm glances sharply over his shoulder.
‘How—?’ His eyes widen as his book slips to the floor.
The first heavy blow hits Klamm square in the mouth, breaking teeth and rupturing lips and gums. He slides helplessly out of his chair, sprawling close to the fireguard. Klamm spits out a mouthful of blood on the carpet, then slides an arm under his torso and tries to push himself upright, but the intruder quickly moves around the armchair and sharply boots him twice in the ribs. The old man tumbles back again, his legs caught underneath him at an awkward angle.
Kneeling down beside him, the assailant is panting heavily. ‘What goes around comes around, you old son of a bitch.’
The green dressing gown Klamm wears has come loose, exposing his bony chest covered in scraggy tufts of white hairs. Roughly shoving the two armchairs aside to make more space in front of the fireplace, the intruder goes to fetch the petrol can and coil of rope he has left ready outside the study door. On his way back, he picks up a straight-backed chair from in front of the bureau.
Klamm’s eyes widen in horror as he tries to get words out of his slack jaw.
‘No,’ growls his assailant. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’ Pinning his victim to the floor under his knee, the intruder yanks Klamm’s arms back and up, and binds them tightly with duct tape. Next, the weakened old man is quickly strapped with cord to the upright chair then doused with petrol all over till the green robe is soaked through. Klamm yelps pitifully as the pink liquid splashes into his eyes.
An ugly smile suddenly spreads over the assailant’s face as he detaches the petrol can’s funnel. ‘Open your mouth,’ he orders.
Klamm’s eyes bulge as he tries to clamp his injured jaw shut. Tears well up in his eyes as he bobs his head this way and that in an effort to evade the other man’s hands.
‘Open your fucking mouth.’ Finally the attacker manages to clamp a hand over Klamm’s cheeks. Squeezing them under his fingers and thumb, he forces Klamm to open his mouth. The funnel is rammed deep down his throat, partially blocking a scream. Holding the plastic cone firmly in place, the intruder stoops for the container of petrol and pours the rest of it down his victim’s throat. The elderly prisoner bucks violently in the chair, his nose flaring as he gasps for breath. A Lion match is struck and sent tumbling into Bernard Klamm’s lap.
The flames blossom like a rare blue rose opening up its petals. Klamm jerks this way and that, till the funnel jammed in his mouth is thrown clear. Screams now escape him and resound in the confines of the study. His green robe steadily turns black; his facial skin blisters and cracks. Grabbing hold of the chair, the intruder heaves it with all his might straight into the fireplace.
Finally, as silently as he arrived, the intruder departs—fading into the cold rainy night like a bad memory.  Copyright © 2006 by Richard Kunzmann. All rights reserved.

About this edition

• Publisher: Macmillan
• Publication date: 2006
• ISBN 10: 1405041005
• ISBN 13: 9781405041003
• Binding: Paperback