Bonds of Death (eBook)

A Fabel Retief Thriller, Book 6

Meiring Fouche, Pieter Haasbroek (Autoren)

Pieter Haasbroek (Herausgeber)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
118 Seiten
Pieter Haasbroek (Verlag)
9780000923011 (ISBN)

Infos

He had no enemies, only friends.

So why is Alwyn Colenbrander dead with a strange dagger in his chest?

In a town where secrets can't hide, a killer has vanished without a trace.

In the dusty, isolated town of Swartrand, where murder is a foreign concept, the local police are stumped. When the brilliant but unassuming detective Fabel Retief arrives undercover, he finds a community paralyzed by fear and a crime scene with zero clues.

Retief's hunt for a ghost leads him to a dangerous newcomer with combat skills and a hidden connection to the victim's grieving widow. This is no simple killer; he's a former commando, a man who learned to love blood in the war, and his vengeful mission is far from over.

The electrifying chase explodes from the small town into the vast, brutal wilderness of the Fish River Canyon. To stop his quarry, Retief must make an unthinkable choice, one that binds him to the murderer in a final, desperate battle for survival. Now, there are no laws, no backup, and no escape.

This action-packed mystery is a must-read for fans of classic pulp thrillers and relentless adventure fiction.

The adventure doesn't just continue, it culminates. In the most shocking and unmissable installment of the series, Fabel Retief must confront the one enemy he can't outfight, his own destiny.

Textauszug

6. BONDS OF DEATH

Chapter 1

MURDER

The unexpected and ghastly death of Mr Alwyn Wilhelm Colenbrander two weeks ago deeply shocked the small town on the railway line in the southern part of South-West Africa. Not only the town but the entire surrounding area, where farmers and shopkeepers and others still speak fervently about the bloody incident.

For Mr Alwyn Wilhelm Colenbrander was murdered in cold blood. He was murdered in a manner entirely unknown in these parts. He was killed by a short, sharp dagger that was driven into his heart.

His attractive wife, Renske, found him dead in his armchair in his study one night after midnight. Mrs Colenbrander was hysterical for a week, and it is only in the past day or three that she has become calmer and is speaking to people again.

Not only is the fact that a murder took place in this small and peaceful community, and that it happened in such a cruel and extraordinary manner, of importance. The case is also sensational because it happened to Alwyn Colenbrander of all people. Alwyn Colenbrander was an upstanding, friendly, helpful, and particularly respected and affluent resident of the town of Swartrand. As far as was known, he had no enemies. Only friends. He was the unofficial mayor of the place and a lawyer of repute. His wife, Renske, is known for her hospitality and the pleasant receptions she hosts from time to time in their spacious home. They have only one son, actually Mrs Renske Colenbrander’s son. Alwyn Colenbrander was her second husband, and with him, she had no children.

What makes the murder even more shocking is that virtually nothing ever happens in the little town of Swartrand. Those who usually drink in the small pub can recall only a few events that have occurred in Swartrand over the past six months. A new teacher arrived at the primary school, the tennis club got a new chairman, and then a new barman arrived from the Republic. That is about all. Except that the water threatened to give out a while ago, causing the gardens to suffer.

The town of Swartrand has no claim to attention or fame. It is the centre of a perfectly ordinary, barren farming region where it can become exceptionally hot, where the rain sometimes stays away for two years, and where everyone knows something about everyone else’s business. The total population is only a few hundred souls.

That is why the death of Alwyn Colenbrander at the hands of a murderer has shocked the town of Swartrand to its foundations. Murder simply does not belong in the town of Swartrand.

“It must be some scum from outside,” the good citizens of Swartrand insisted after they had laid Alwyn Colenbrander to rest with due respect and interest in the small cemetery. Mothers brought their children indoors before sunset, and men made sure they were home on time in the evenings. Some thought it superfluous, as the murderer had surely departed that very same day.

The police sergeant in Swartrand, Sergeant Terblanche, was just as dumbfounded. He and his constable had initially turned everything upside down in an attempt to find the murderer. But in vain. They had informed the district commandant in time, and he had arrived to begin an investigation, but in vain. They had two detectives come from Windhoek, and they turned the whole town inside out. But in vain.

Not a single clue could be found as to the precise circumstances of Alwyn Colenbrander’s demise. The body was thoroughly examined. The apparent cause of death was a deep wound in the chest that had penetrated into one of the heart’s chambers.

About the murder weapon, there was no doubt. Sergeant Terblanche himself removed the short, sharp dagger from Colenbrander’s chest. He did it with the utmost care, but although the dagger was examined from top to bottom, not a single fingerprint was found on it. Never had a murder weapon been as clean as this dagger found in the heart of Alwyn Colenbrander. There was simply nothing on it. Not even indications that the dagger had been held by a gloved hand. They had practically turned Alwyn Colenbrander’s study upside down in their search for the slightest sign of a footprint, perhaps, or a piece of furniture that had been moved, or something of that nature. But in vain. Everything led to a dead end in the study of Alwyn Colenbrander. Not a single lead could be found.

Sergeant Terblanche would never tell anyone, but his first impression was that he should suspect Mrs Renske Colenbrander of her husband’s murder. The sergeant had learned in his career that a woman can sometimes be so calm and good and attractive on the surface, but that there are many dark corners in her heart. He had therefore subjected her to a meticulous cross-examination, but when he was finished, he was convinced that Renske Colenbrander had nothing to do with the whole affair.

And rightly so. The sergeant’s entire theory was a mistake, because Renske Colenbrander was exceptionally attached to her late husband. They were always a picture of love and pleasant interaction with each other. They never looked at each other askance or spoke a little harshly.

And so it came to pass that the investigation into the death of Alwyn Colenbrander locally reached a dead end. In the quiet little town, there was no indication of any kind. The sergeant and his constable, and the two detectives from Windhoek, came to one conclusion. That the net must be cast wider and that the murderer must be sought in another place. They assumed that the murderer had returned to the Republic after his bloody deed.

What baffled them most was the lack of any conceivable motive for the murder. Alwyn Colenbrander was a man of Dutch origin who had arrived in South Africa as a small child and had in the meantime become completely Afrikanerised. He had settled in Swartrand years ago, where he had built up a profitable and exemplary practice.

Colenbrander, as far as was known, had no enemies in the town or anywhere else. He led a normal and quiet life, without any shadows in it. He enjoyed his game of tennis or a hand of cards with friends. Sometimes he enjoyed a brandy in the pub and would then chat cheerfully with everyone there, for to Colenbrander there was no distinction between rich and poor. To him, they were all people, and he was interested in all of them. Every year he went to the coast with his wife and stepson for a holiday. And so it was that no shadow ever fell over the life of Alwyn Colenbrander.

It was this bewildering fact that made the local police decide to call for help. They did it quietly, without fanfare or anyone knowing about it, except themselves. And so it came to be that a tall, slender man with dark hair and striking blue eyes in a light summer suit, with one suitcase in his hand, now alights from the passenger train here at the station of Swartrand.

On the small platform there is virtually no one, except for a few station workers and one or two newspaper vendors.

The tall man does not linger on the platform. He walks past a station worker and asks him if there is a taxi. The station worker laughs in his face.

“We don’t have such things here, sir. Here we just walk where we want to be.”

The tall, slender fellow smiles under his hat, picks up his suitcase and walks into the town.

The small, flat hotel lies near the station, and it is visible to anyone who keeps their eyes open.

This tall, slender man is a very particular man. That is why he came by train, and that is why he gave the local police the strictest instruction that no one was to meet him at the station.

It is hot and quiet now that he is walking into the town, because it is shortly after noon. The heat dances on the roofs, and the sun scorches one’s neck. The tall fellow lifts his straw hat for a moment and then puts his hand in his inner pocket to feel if the photograph is still there. Yes, the photograph is still there.

He sees the cool veranda of the hotel, but he does not go there. He turns towards where he sees the only movement in the town. The movement of a flag of the Republic on a long flagpole. That is where the police station is, he knows that. It is not on the main street, and for that, he is grateful.

There is sweat on his hair and his hand feels numb from the heavy suitcase as he steps into the police station.

He puts his suitcase down, wipes his forehead with a handkerchief, and then says to the young constable behind the counter. “Sergeant Terblanche?”

“Who is it that wishes to see him?” asks the constable.

“It doesn’t matter,” says the tall man. “Just tell Sergeant Terblanche there is a visitor who wants to see him.”

The constable looks curiously and a little condescendingly at the stranger. “It is our custom here to say who it is that wants to see the sergeant.”

“I don’t care what your local customs are,” the tall man says sharply and irritably. “Please tell Sergeant Terblanche that I want to see him.”

The constable goes in and he comes out. “The sergeant says you may come in.”

The stranger goes around the counter and through a door. Behind the desk, he sees a somewhat portly man with a bald head and two eyes that do not look very intelligent. The sergeant remains seated where he is, and the tall man can now understand why the man is a sergeant in a place like this. Without introducing himself, without greeting him, the tall man takes an envelope from his inner pocket addressed to the station commander of the town of Swartrand.

The sergeant tears it open and reads the short letter, and then he is on his feet.

“So,” he says, “then you are the detective who has come to help us? Welcome,...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 18.9.2025
• Übersetzer: Pieter Haasbroek, Ai
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Fantasy / Science Fiction ► Fantasy
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
• ISBN-13: 9780000923011 / 9780000923011