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Hugo Swart, faithful churchgoer and respected citizen, is found stabbed to death on the floor of his kitchen just before Christmas, on the hottest night of the year. If Mr. Swart's Reverend is to be believed, no one in the world could have a reason to kill him; the murder was most likely a robbery gone ugly, and the chief suspect is Swart's black servant, Shabalala, who has fled to the countryside. But Lieutenant Kramer suspects that not everything is as it seems. While Zondi pursues Shabalala in what turns out to be a treacherous tour of miserable outlying Bantu villages, Kramer tries to wring the truth out of some of Swart's acquaintances in Trekkersburg and Cape Town-it seems not everyone liked the victim quite as much as the Reverend did. But danger lies at every turn-what will this investigation cost the duo?
McClure's merciless depiction of 1970s South Africa, its many layers of racism, and the gaps between rich and poor make this perhaps the most devourable book in the Kramer and Zondi series yet. Praise for James McClure:
"The pace is fast, the solution ingenious. Above all, however, is the author's extraordinary naturalistic style. He is that rarity-a sensitive writer who can carry his point without forcing."-The New York Times Book Review
"More than a good mystery story, which it is, The Steam Pig is also a revealing picture of the hate and sickness of the apartheid society of South Africa."-Washington Post
"So artfully conceived as to engender cheers.... A memorable mystery."-Los Angeles Times
"A superior story by any yardstick."-Portland Oregonian James McClure (1939-2006) was born in Johannesburg, South Africa, where he worked as a photographer and then a teacher before becoming a crime reporter. He published eight wildly successful books in the Kramer and Zondi series during his lifetime. The first two books in the series, The Steam Pig and The Caterpillar Cop, are available in paperback from Soho Crime. 1
HUGO SWART ENTERED purgatory just after nine o'clock
on the hottest night of the year. It came as a complete surprise
to him, as it did to his several acquaintances, who, knowing
him for a pious young bachelor, were unable to reconcile this
with the thought of his brutal murder.
His surprise, however, was of a different order-owing
nothing to assumption and everything to sudden agony as real
as the improvised weapon with which it was inflicted. And in
his final flare of consciousness, he acknowledged an inexplicable
oversight.
This had been to presume that once inside his house, with
the front door bolted and the back door locked, he was alone.
He really should have considered the possibility of an intruder
stealing in while he was away at Mass. Even just made the
routine check carried out by any householder upon arrival
home, let alone a man in his circumstances. Then he might
have noticed a shadow flinch as he tossed his Missal across the
darkened study onto his desk. But he did not. Nor did he actually
go into the study, pausing only at the door.
Instead, with much that was pleasing on his mind, he went
straight on through to the kitchen, humming to himself. His
African servant had left the light burning in the ceiling and
his dinner burning in the oven. The sharp smell of the ruined
steak registered immediately, yet the only thought he gave to
it was to switch off the stove. Thirst, rather than hunger, was
his dominant drive.
He opened the refrigerator door and found everything he
needed for a long, very cold drink. Vodka was his choice, for
he believed it left the breath untainted-vodka and orange
and plenty of ice. The simple procedure totally absorbed him.
He measured out the spirit first, returning the bottle to its
hiding place in the vegetable tray. Next came two fingers
of fruit juice from a can, then three ice cubes, and finally a
topping of chilled water. Instantly the ta
McClure's merciless depiction of 1970s South Africa, its many layers of racism, and the gaps between rich and poor make this perhaps the most devourable book in the Kramer and Zondi series yet. Praise for James McClure:
"The pace is fast, the solution ingenious. Above all, however, is the author's extraordinary naturalistic style. He is that rarity-a sensitive writer who can carry his point without forcing."-The New York Times Book Review
"More than a good mystery story, which it is, The Steam Pig is also a revealing picture of the hate and sickness of the apartheid society of South Africa."-Washington Post
"So artfully conceived as to engender cheers.... A memorable mystery."-Los Angeles Times
"A superior story by any yardstick."-Portland Oregonian James McClure (1939-2006) was born in Johannesburg, South Africa, where he worked as a photographer and then a teacher before becoming a crime reporter. He published eight wildly successful books in the Kramer and Zondi series during his lifetime. The first two books in the series, The Steam Pig and The Caterpillar Cop, are available in paperback from Soho Crime. 1
HUGO SWART ENTERED purgatory just after nine o'clock
on the hottest night of the year. It came as a complete surprise
to him, as it did to his several acquaintances, who, knowing
him for a pious young bachelor, were unable to reconcile this
with the thought of his brutal murder.
His surprise, however, was of a different order-owing
nothing to assumption and everything to sudden agony as real
as the improvised weapon with which it was inflicted. And in
his final flare of consciousness, he acknowledged an inexplicable
oversight.
This had been to presume that once inside his house, with
the front door bolted and the back door locked, he was alone.
He really should have considered the possibility of an intruder
stealing in while he was away at Mass. Even just made the
routine check carried out by any householder upon arrival
home, let alone a man in his circumstances. Then he might
have noticed a shadow flinch as he tossed his Missal across the
darkened study onto his desk. But he did not. Nor did he actually
go into the study, pausing only at the door.
Instead, with much that was pleasing on his mind, he went
straight on through to the kitchen, humming to himself. His
African servant had left the light burning in the ceiling and
his dinner burning in the oven. The sharp smell of the ruined
steak registered immediately, yet the only thought he gave to
it was to switch off the stove. Thirst, rather than hunger, was
his dominant drive.
He opened the refrigerator door and found everything he
needed for a long, very cold drink. Vodka was his choice, for
he believed it left the breath untainted-vodka and orange
and plenty of ice. The simple procedure totally absorbed him.
He measured out the spirit first, returning the bottle to its
hiding place in the vegetable tray. Next came two fingers
of fruit juice from a can, then three ice cubes, and finally a
topping of chilled water. Instantly the ta