Just a Dead Man (11 page)

T
HAT EVENING
, M
IKE WANTED
to know all about the hearing. I didn't want him involved, not in any way, so I kept to the bare facts. After supper, when he was studying in his room with the door shut and the music loud, I sat down to consider my options.

If this Thabo Mchunu was involved, then contacting him would be a stupid thing to do. On the other hand, if I
didn't
ask him about Phineas Ndzoyiya's plans and his objections to them, I couldn't see any other avenues to follow. Of course, Ndzoyiya might well have been killed by a random mugger who didn't take anything from the body, and then decided to dump it up the road from my back gate, but it seemed unlikely. And Thabo Mchunu might know who else's toes Ndzoyiya had stepped on regarding memorials to the victims of the sinking of the SS
Mendi
, or anything else. He had Pondoland connections, after all. And then there was Rhoda Josephs: where did she fit in, if at all?

I went to the phone, and called Paul Ndzoyiya. He didn't strike me as the patricidal type, so phoning him should pose no danger – to me or him. He said he would come and see me before he went to Pondoland for his father's funeral, and here the practicalities of combining detection and a private life began to intrude. With Mike
at home, I wasn't particularly keen to have Paul come to the house, unless he could come when Mike was at school, or out. Both Paul and I worked, so that was going to be tricky too. Eventually we decided that all that was left to us was a speedy lunchtime meeting the next day. I would rush home and he would come and join me. Fortunately, I had a free Friday afternoon, and thus had a legitimate reason not to go back to work. I was hoping to work on my paintings, which were falling behind schedule.

He arrived just after I did and I ushered him in quickly. If he was afraid of being followed, there was no point hanging around where he could be seen. I told him about Rhoda Josephs being at the bail hearing and he nodded. He had seen her, too, and worked out who she was. When I told him she had given me a phone number for Thabo Mchunu, he looked alarmed.

“Are you going to phone him? I don't think you should.”

“Well, I am. After all, there's no secret that I'm concerned about Dan, and I can say Dan told me where he got your father's name. So I reckon I can ask if he has suggestions as to what might have been behind the killing. He knew your father, after all, and I can ask if he knew of any enemies he – your father – might have had. I can't believe it has anything to do with memorials – I mean, why? I'll leave you out of it, I promise. And I won't say anything about knowing that the two of them had quarrelled.” I then asked Paul how the police had reacted when he told them about the attempted break-in and the phone call.

“It's hard to know what they thought. Inspector Pillay seemed concerned: he told me to be very careful, and to report any other suspicious incidents straight away. Sergeant Dhlomo – well, he was initially inclined to dismiss the break-in as the work of kids, but he did seem
to take the phone call more seriously. But nothing else has happened. I don't know what to make of it. Things in this country are not good. The police are overworked and understaffed. And my father was not an important man to them.” He shrugged, weary and dispirited, mourning his father and afraid for himself.

There wasn't much I could say. I agreed to keep him up to date with anything I found out, and he promised the same. He was heading to Pondoland that evening, and said he would keep an ear to the ground, try to find out if anything more had been done about memorials, or if anyone knew anything about Mchunu's other plans in the area, or whether his father had annoyed anyone down on the Wild Coast. I showed him out, nervously scouting the street for any unusual cars or sinister watchers before he drove out of the gate.

In an effort to restore some sense of normality, I did my usual Friday-afternoon chores and put away the ironing Doreen, my two-mornings-a-week domestic worker, had finished that morning. I felt bad that I had hustled her out of the house when Paul arrived, but the fewer people who had any idea that we were meeting and what we were discussing, the better. I then headed up the road with Grumpy, feeling absurdly nervous.

Of course, we saw nothing. Grumpy didn't even manage to see the bushbuck that was there on the side of the track once again, dematerialising against the trees as I watched it. It was a fresh afternoon, and I welcomed the whispers of autumn.

I decided to nip out to fill up my car – I had noticed on my way home from school that the petrol gauge was hovering above empty – before the Friday-afternoon lemming rush to the shops kicked into full gear and, heading down the hill into town, I found myself behind
a hearse. The days when they went at a walking pace are long gone, and this one was bowling along cheerfully. And not black and gloomy either. It was gold-coloured, with “KZN's top funeral directors – Bond Street Burials” emblazoned over the back window, with an address in one of the older townships outside the city. I was pondering the choice of name … presumably Bond Street referred to the West End of London rather than something local, and as a reference I wouldn't have thought it would exactly resonate with its community. And then suddenly I had a visual recall, so sharp and clear that I almost drove up Bond Street Burials' exhaust pipe. The white twin cab outside the court, and the one I had seen but not properly noticed the day Phineas Ndzoyiya was killed. I could visualise the logo and the writing as clearly as if someone had shown me a photograph.

I filled the car, and made my way back home as soon as possible. Once there, I phoned Adam Pillay. “Inspector? I've got it. The name on the side of the bakkie I saw. And the logo. I could draw it for you. I've remembered.”

“Okay, Mrs Marsh. I'll come round – I wanted to speak to you anyway. I tried to catch you yesterday after the bail hearing, but you rushed off.”

“Yes, sorry. I had to get back to class. But I'm home now.”

When he came, he was inevitably accompanied by Sergeant Dhlomo. I let them in and we went to the studio, where I handed Pillay the sheet of paper on which I had drawn with coloured koki pens the double helix logo I had remembered. Chocolate, gold and a harsh, ugly royal blue. And underneath I had lettered the words “Flash Funerals”.

“I think there was more writing, or maybe a phone number, but I can't remember, or even be sure. But it was definitely Flash Funerals, and that was the design, or
something very like it. The colours are right, I'm certain.”

“And this was on the bakkie that went up the cul-de-sac the day Mr Ndzoyiya's body was found? Or the one you saw from the court window?” Pillay was watching me carefully.

“I think both. The one that went up the road certainly had the logo – I'm pretty sure of that, though I didn't take in any writing. And I think that's what I saw on the one outside court. I mean, it may have been the same bakkie, but I can't be certain. I suppose the double helix shape is common enough, but the colour combination is unusual.”

Sergeant Dhlomo cleared his throat. He spoke to Adam Pillay rather than to me, but I felt there was something almost conciliatory about him. “That shouldn't be too hard to track down. Flash Funerals. I have never heard of them, or seen a sign anywhere. There are so many undertakers springing up these days … so many burials. And not all funeral parlours are registered. But someone will know. I'll get onto it.” He turned his head and looked thoughtfully at me.

Adam Pillay thanked me, congratulating me politely on remembering, even though I couldn't help feel that my memory was behaving rather oddly lately, coming up with bits of information at strange times. Still, they seemed to believe me, and neither found my delayed and rather patchy recall particularly odd. Maybe all witnesses are like that.

There was an awkward pause. At least, it felt awkward to me. I had told them about my light-bulb moment, and – quite frankly –  had nothing more to offer. They had declined tea and coffee on their arrival, and I half expected them to get up and take their double act off on a search of unregistered funeral parlours. But they didn't move.

Finally, Adam Pillay sat up a little. “Mrs Marsh. I
believe you have been in contact with Paul Ndzoyiya.” He paused, and feeling absurdly guilty, I nodded.

“He came to see us, to report an attempted break-in at his home, and a threatening phone call. He said he had told you, because he was concerned that if he was at risk, so might you be. And Sergeant Dhlomo says that, when he helped you to change your tyre earlier this week, he got the impression you were concerned that it might not have been an accidental puncture.”

Sharp old sergeant. I exchanged a look with him. “Well, not really. But after what Paul said to me, I suppose it did cross my mind that someone might have slashed it, as a warning or something. But I wasn't really worried.” I smiled, I hoped convincingly, at the sergeant, and again thanked him for his help.

“We obviously take what Mr Ndzoyiya told us very seriously. And the reason we wanted to talk to you is to check whether you have received any threats, or whether anything unusual has happened – anything to cause you concern.”

I wasn't going to let them get away with that. “But you opposed bail for Daniel. If you think someone else is behind all this, why did you do that? Surely you should be out looking for whoever is threatening Paul! And drop the charges against Dan. Did you find anything in his car?”

The sergeant's familiar frown and glare were back in place. No sign of those sparkling teeth now. “You may think this is a game, Mrs Marsh, but a man was killed. Your friend Mr Moyo lied about his contact with him. So far, apart from the unsubstantiated word of the dead man's son, who is understandably upset by his father's death, we have no other evidence and no suggestion that other people were involved. Okay, you say you saw a vehicle coming up this road on the day Mr Ndzoyiya
was killed. But only today – only now, this minute – have you told us anything that might lead to the vehicle being identified. And it may well have had a perfectly innocent reason for being here.”

He was looking angrier by the minute, seeming to swell with rage, and he certainly wasn't going to answer my question about Daniel's car. I felt my original fear of him return. “You live in a comfortable, quiet neighbourhood, but there is no law I know of that says a black undertaker cannot drive along
your
road! Maybe it was his afternoon off and he wanted to enjoy the amenities up there that you seem to think are yours.”

This was getting nasty. I opened my mouth to try to say something, but Inspector Pillay got to his feet, holding up a hand. “Hang on, Sergeant. I don't think Mrs Marsh sees this as a game at all. But of course we can't release Mr Moyo, Mrs Marsh. He has to account for his behaviour, and so far he hasn't. I don't want to see tempers become heated here. This is an unpleasant case, and we are doing all we can to solve it. You are obliged under the law to pass on any information you have to us, and I am sure you are doing that. But if you were to take things into your own hands and try to investigate yourself, I hope you see that you will not only put yourself at risk. You will also be interfering with an official police investigation.”

“And that is a criminal offence,” muttered Dhlomo under his breath. If Pillay heard, he gave no sign. Maybe he thought it just as well if I absorbed that warning.

I drew a breath. “Look, I'm not criticising. Really. But I'm worried about my friend. And, well, if there's someone out there who
did
kill Mr Ndzoyiya, and is now threatening his son, who has spoken to me, then I'm worried about that too. Surely you can see that? And, just so that you know, Sergeant, I do
not
consider the ‘amenities' as you
call them
mine
. That may be your interpretation, but it is simply not true.”

We looked daggers at each other across the studio. The inspector intervened, asking me again whether anything suspicious had happened. I said no. Apart from Sergeant Dhlomo doing his Sir Galahad impersonation, life had been going along in a pretty predictable manner.

As I walked with them out to their car, Inspector Pillay turned to me. “Many happy returns for tomorrow, Mrs Marsh,” he said with a smile. Sergeant Dhlomo was far enough ahead to legitimately pretend he hadn't heard.

“Thanks. But … how on earth did you know?”

“Sherlock Holmes, Mrs Marsh. Elementary. You told me that the combination of your back gate padlock was your birthday. I remembered.” He looked pleased with himself, his attractive face, which could be sombre in repose, lit up. “You take care now.”

But despite the easing of tensions, when they left, my hands were shaking. I was both angry and afraid. And I was still no closer to knowing who had killed Phineas Ndzoyiya, or even why.

N
EXT MORNING
, I
WAS TOUCHED
to be woken by Mike with a cup of tea. Saturday is my favourite lie-in day, in theory at least, though it doesn't often happen. Mike is a reasonable hockey player, and was a second-team regular, with occasional promotions to the firsts. I didn't always go to watch, though as Simon was not around, I tried to make it to the home matches at least. The match today was an away game, so, pleading the urgency of my much-delayed exhibition work, I asked to be let off the hook. And it was my birthday, after all.

Along with the tea came presents. Rory had sent a DVD up from Cape Town to add to the classic film collection I was trying to build up.
The Third Man
: the atmospheric look of black-and-white Vienna and the subtleties of a damaged society struggling with the aftermath of war in an atmosphere of cutting corners and shady morality fascinate me. And, if the truth be known, I could perve at the young Trevor Howard by the hour. Mike had found a beautiful copper-wire-and-bead bangle, in my favourite blue and green colours. It was a gift that had obviously been given some thought, and even though it came disguised in a hideous coffee mug emblazoned with a bad print of the
Mona Lisa
, I loved it.

Mike perched on the side of my bed and grinned,
revelling in my pleasure. Last year, both boys had forgotten, and although my parents' arrival with their offerings had reminded Mike, who had rushed off in a panic to phone Rory, I had felt like King Lear, abandoned by my children. This year, probably with a bit of grandparental prodding behind the scenes, things were better. Rory, astonishingly for a university student on a Saturday morning, phoned while I was still drinking my tea, and my parents' call followed hot on his heels. They said they would come round during the morning and take me out for coffee – we were due to have lunch with them the next day. Philippa and Vanessa both called during breakfast, and by the time I dropped Mike off at school, I was feeling very loved. Even Inspector Pillay had remembered.

Mum and Dad swept me off to a local garden centre with a nice line in cream scones and a range of fine coffee. They – of course – asked about Dan's case. I had no wish to worry them, so merely explained that as far as I knew, although Dan hadn't got bail this time round, the police were also looking into other angles. I told them I had remembered a bit more about the bakkie I had half seen on the day of the murder, and that I had passed the information on to the police. I didn't say I had googled “funeral parlour Pietermaritzburg” and scoured the
Yellow Pages
looking for Flash Funerals, who were conspicuous by their absence. Or had phoned Directory Enquiries to see whether they had any phone numbers listed, but as I wasn't entirely sure where they were based, that hadn't got me much further either.

After our coffee, Dad went off to pay, while Mum kept me in conversation. I knew they were up to something, so I played along. And when we went out to the car, sure enough, there was my present: a pair of beautiful little lime trees, in matching terra cotta pots, with blue ribbons
around the rims. One of the trees even had two tiny green limes. The cheerful lady from the till was there, and a couple of men who were lining up to lift the pots into Dad's bakkie. They all wished me a happy birthday. I had wondered why Dad had come to fetch me in the truck, where the three of us had to squash together into the front seat.

When we got home, Thando, my Saturday-morning gardener, was waiting to help unload, a big grin stretching from ear to ear. He was obviously in on the plot as well. We positioned the pots on either side of the French door, just outside the studio. I waited until Mum and Dad had gone before I took the ribbons off, and then I stood back and admired them. They really did look lovely, and I was already planning the Thai curries and other delights I could concoct with the limes. Perhaps not this year – two tiny fruit wouldn't take matters culinary very far – but in the future. I stroked their glossy leaves, and urged them to flourish and be happy: I'm a believer in talking to my plants. Even if they don't listen, it makes me feel like a gardener, and it's much more fun than digging and weeding.

I was feeling better than I had the night before. My family loved me; my friends had remembered me and, in a mighty bout of overconfidence, I was sure Paul Ndzoyiya and I would be able to find his father's killer and see Dan safely out of jail. I put Sergeant Dhlomo and his scathing remarks out of my mind and decided, right then and there, to phone Thabo Mchunu.

I dug in my handbag to find the number Rhoda Josephs had given me. I knew it was in there somewhere, but I had disinterred endless till slips, a disgusting lipstick that had lost its top and was covered in a mysterious patina of fluff, hair and a disintegrating peppermint, a favourite
ballpoint that I was convinced had gone forever and, best of all, three five-rand coins, before I found it. It seemed to have had an encounter with the lipstick. I smoothed out the paper, transferred Mr Mchunu's number onto my own phone, and made the call.

It went straight to voicemail. Never mind, I would leave a message. And so I did: the usual “You don't know me but my name is Laura Marsh and I am a friend of Daniel Moyo” kind of thing, and then asked him to call me as I believed he had put Dan in touch with the murdered man. It wasn't very adequate, but it gave me a sense that I was at least doing
something.

I headed into my studio, not bothering with lunch. I was still full of coffee and scones. The apple and mango paintings were now side by side, on two easels. They were all but finished, though I did a few tiny finishing touches to the mango one, and then signed and dated both. I had decided that, for my final piece, I would do another still life, arranging a group of objects on a table just inside the studio window, and then painting it from outside, making the still life small, framed by the window and a corner of the wall, where sunlight would touch the creeper, its leaves picking up the colours of autumn. I had still to decide what to place on the table: I needed something that would suggest the interior of a life. Perhaps an open book, a glass, maybe even a hairbrush or something personal and domestic. I tried various ideas, absorbed in what I was doing.

I was standing outside the window, leaning in and moving objects around on the table – a jam jar with paint brushes, a sketchpad with a rough sketch on it – when the phone rang. I came in through the French door and took the receiver off the wall, only to hear a dialling tone. But the ringing was still going on, and looking round, I saw
my cellphone on the table. I grabbed it and said hello, but there was nothing. Either I was too late, or it was a wrong number. The display merely showed “private number”.

My concentration had now been broken, so I left what I was doing and started to prepare a canvas. I wanted this final painting for the exhibition to be bigger than the others, but I had everything I needed, and I enjoy the practicalities. I had music on and was feeling relaxed and cheerful when the phone rang again. This time, it was the wall phone.

“Laura? It's Dave Mason.” Dave Mason was Mike's hockey coach. Oh God.

“What's happened? What's wrong?”

“Don't worry. It's really okay. Just that Mike has had a bit of a bash on the chin, and we think he needs a couple of stitches. I'm getting him into the car, and I'll bring him into town. Can we meet you at MediClinic in, say, 40 minutes?”

“Dave – just how bad is it? Can I speak to Mike?”

“Of course – hang on.”

He put Mike on the phone. He sounded pretty much his usual self, though a bit muffled through whatever he was holding to his chin. He said his jaw was fine, but he thought he might have chipped a tooth. “Their centre forward's a bloody thug. He missed the ball, and collected me full on the chin. He got penalised, and we scored, but what a loser!” It didn't sound too bad. I said I would phone the doctor, and meet them at Casualty.

It is at moments like these when I hate being a single parent. Although in this instance it didn't sound as if I needed to panic, some company would have been good. I phoned our GP's after-hours cellphone and got hold of his newest partner, Dr Samantha Naidoo, who was on duty this weekend.

She sounded calmer than I, the worried mother, felt was appropriate, but agreed to meet us at Casualty. She lived nearby and it would only take her a couple of minutes to get there, so I should phone her when Mike arrived. My next job was to find Mike's medical-aid card. Simon had both boys on his medical aid – part of the divorce settlement – but it meant that they had separate cards. They were supposed to live in a wallet in my desk, or at least, Mike's was. These days, Rory had his in Cape Town. Mercifully, the card was where it should be. There had been occasions in the past when there had been something of a hunt for it.

I now had time to kill: there wasn't much point rushing off to hospital to cool my heels while Dave and Mike made their way back to town. I phoned my parents and told them what had happened. My mother was ready to meet me at hospital, but it hardly seemed necessary. My father sounded as relaxed as Dr Naidoo. I promised to phone as soon as we had finished and was just getting ready to go when my cellphone rang again. I snatched it up: maybe it was Mike. Instead there was silence; a silence that seemed to grow. A loud silence, if such a thing is possible. And then a soft click. Who had phoned? And why the silence? I had said my name: from force of habit, I always do. Surely a wrong number would have said sorry? A gossamer of fear brushed the back of my neck. Once again, the only information was “Private number”.