The Water Man's Daughter (13 page)

Kholizwe adjusts his T-shirt. The rim of the cloth is dark brown from sweat and days of wear. The material is soft and almost thin enough to see through.

“Fuck you.”

Zembe doesn’t move. The officers step closer. She sees Kholizwe consider his options, look to the door, now blocked by a man with a gun. Finally, he takes his fingers and pulls the neck of his shirt down, revealing muscled skin and a black tattoo.

He is adorned with a line of ink with numerous slashes across it, like the image of a cartoon scar. Each slash represents a body: a man or woman Zembe’s team dredged out of the stream that runs behind the shantytown, a prisoner who ended up hanged in his cell when his friends were all conspicuously absent, a fellow gang member who got out of line and then was “transferred” to another location. Kholizwe documents his kills religiously. The station has pictures of that tattoo’s development from before he even entered Sun City. It cannot be used as evidence in court, it’s not helpful
when pinning crimes on him, but it tips them off, tells them they are looking at the right guy, the right organization. Zembe remembers the four raw lines, red from the recent injections of ink, that he showed her the day after the four girls were murdered. The smile and the raised tattoo skin. Those images haunted Zembe for the full two years of investigation and trial.

Zembe looks at the tattoo now. Her surprise at the lack of red, raw marks causes her to step back, forgetting for a second the showdown she is in.

“Looking for something, officer?” Kholizwe’s voice is a whisper.

“There’s nothing here,” Zembe yells to her backup.

“I would leave now, pig. If you know what’s good for you.” Spoken like an observation.

Zembe stares at him, using every ounce of prayer and restraint to avoid hitting him. But eventually, grudgingly, she does as she’s told.

The rest of the gang will be harder to pin down. If Kholizwe has no new tattoo he didn’t order the kill. Zembe backs away from Kholizwe’s eyes and worn shirt and lazy grin.

“You came here to pin another on me?” he yells to her. “You can’t frame me again.”

The door shifts behind him and a small boy peeks out. There is a large welt over the left side of his face so that he looks almost like a younger version of his boss. He doesn’t try to hide the fear all those guns cause and quickly disappears back inside the building.

When Zembe is back in the car and driving towards the station, Sipho launches into her.

“What was that?”

“He didn’t do it.”

“How can you know?”

Zembe pulls the car over now that they are a few blocks away from Kholizwe’s corner. She faces Sipho. “Every time he orders a kill, or someone dies on his watch, he marks it on his shoulder. There’s nothing there. No new tattoo.”

“So maybe he didn’t get one this time. Or he hasn’t done it yet.”

“Listen.” Zembe hesitates for a moment, unsure about talking to her superior in this way in front of the other officers. Sipho’s belligerent face eggs her on. “I know this guy. I followed him for years. There are no exceptions to this rule. And he doesn’t wait.”

Zembe turns back to the road, ignites the engine, and drives the full way back to the station in silence. She assumes that Sipho is thinking of ways to circumvent her on this and bring Kholizwe in for questioning. She doesn’t care. If Kholizwe wasn’t involved in the murder it must have been a rogue member, or another gang copycatting the 28s’
M.O
.

Or it wasn’t a gang murder at all.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Z
EMBE FINDS A NOTE ON HER
desk written in the curly cursive of the girl who watches the front in the morning.

Sipho

Zembe is not sure why Sipho hasn’t been given this information already. But knowing her own difficulty in getting Dadoo to talk about anything but the gang investigation, she’s sure the national office has been reluctant to press the water company for any information that indicates a shift in focus.

Before she heads back downtown she puts four officers on a search for other men connected with the Soweto gang system. What crimes the gangs don’t commit themselves, the members generally hear about after the fact. It’s been over two weeks since the water man landed in Phiri, and still, gang members, who congregated like skin spots on every corner before the murder, are nowhere to be found. Zembe’s sources tell her they went underground when the news of the murder got out. She could have figured that one out on her own.

Zembe doesn’t like the idea of returning to Dadoo’s office. She drives into the business district, passes by the Regal Hotel, and realizes that Dadoo’s office is not far from where the Matthews kid is staying. She makes a mental note to remember to check in with Nomsulwa.

Inside the building, the same four guards are squished up against the marble walls. One grins at Zembe as she waves her hand to get the attention of the receptionist. This time the woman urges her into the elevator on her own after getting permission from upstairs. Zembe presses
the button for the fourteenth floor and hopes she has recalled the number correctly.

On her first visit, she hadn’t noticed that the reception area of Dadoo’s floor is covered in the Amanzi logo. A friendly personified water tap adorns the front desk. Water posters, like the ones Zembe sees every day near her house, line the walls. She takes time to absorb the office itself. “Water Is Precious” is written on the wall over the front desk in all eleven languages of South Africa. The phrases follow each other in a line down to the floor. A small mound of water brochures sits on the coffee table in between chairs. She flips through them while she waits for Dadoo.

Over thirty minutes later, a tall woman in a black skirt and matching jacket approaches her.

“Captain Afrika?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Dadoo is in a meeting. Is there something I can do for you?”

“I need some more information concerning Mr. Matthews’s stay here. I was hoping Mr. Dadoo could help me.”

“He asked me to fulfill any request you might have.”

“Fine. I want a list of everyone Mr. Matthews saw while he was here.”

“I will see what I can do. Please wait here.”

The woman waddles back into the office, leaving Zembe with the brochures. She flips through the same one she’s already read twice. It details the new, improved tamper-detection system on the “Atlantic” water meter.
The meter itself looks much like the ones already installed in the township. It is white and small. But the computer screen is larger and the plastic casing, according to the ad, is lined with wires. Any movement of the casing and all water is cut off.

It is nearly an hour before the woman returns.

“Mr. Dadoo can see you now.”

“Oh, great.” Zembe follows the woman back to the offices. She pretends a heartfelt thank you and sits in the same room she met Dadoo in before. He slides into the office almost immediately after the woman leaves.

“So sorry to keep you. I had a meeting I couldn’t avoid. Perhaps if you had called beforehand –”

Zembe cuts him off. “I needed the information right away. Our deadline is very tight.”

“I understand.” Dadoo is just as grim as always. “Have there been any developments?”

“Yes, we have decided to expand the investigation slightly. We need more information about other people who might have come into contact with Matthews while he was here.”

“I heard that the new theory was that this was a copycat murder, someone pretending to be part of a strong gang.”

Zembe silently curses Sipho. She knew he wouldn’t trust her to follow up with the gangs on her own. “It could be that, but I’m looking to cover all of our bases. I need to see whether there are any other avenues to explore. While the gang investigation continues.”

Dadoo picks up the only piece of paper on the desk. “Here is the list you requested. I’ve excluded hotel staff, I assume you can look into them on your own.”

“Thank you.”

The list is short, about fifteen names. Many of them are familiar to Zembe. She is confused and looks to Dadoo.

“There are at least five city councillors on this list.”

“Yes. We meet with the local politicians to ensure a safe delivery of our services.”

“But the services were not being delivered safely. Pipes were being stolen, some right in Phiri.”

“That was one of the things we discussed.”

“How did the councillors respond?”

“Well.”

“Meaning?”

“They listened to our concerns and suggested some alternative solutions.”

“Alternative solutions?”

“Means by which the opposition could be controlled.”

“What means?” Zembe presses, an idea already forming.

“We like to incorporate public appeal strategies into all our projects.”

“They asked for money, didn’t they?”

“We give a large amount of money to local infrastructure, including some to the councillors for ad campaigns aimed at increasing support for the new water system.”

“How much did they ask for this time?”

“It wasn’t a fixed amount. More like a discussion of the funds we would need to get the job done.”

“So it wasn’t the usual cash grab. The bribes the councillors expect …” Zembe lets her voice trail off.

“Our company does not engage in criminal activity. And I resent the suggestion, Ms. Afrika. Unless you have other questions, I must get back to work.”

Zembe can see Dadoo tapping his pencil impatiently. She stands up and holds out her hand. “Thank you very much, Mr. Dadoo.”

“My pleasure.” Dadoo’s handshake is weak and he barely takes time to drop Zembe’s hand before showing her out the door.

In the lobby, the guards have changed their shift and the grinning man has been replaced by a lanky kid, no older than eighteen, with acne plotting a course around his chin. He keeps his hand on his gun while scanning the room.

Zembe nods to the security quartet and ducks into the sun.

M
IRA IS YELLING AT
N
OMSULWA LOUD ENOUGH THAT
the small children playing outside of the house have moved a little farther down the street. When he gets angry, the vein in the centre of his forehead sticks out, splitting his head in two. Nomsulwa focuses on the vein because the mouth is contorted and frothing.

“Mira, this is not up for discussion. I can’t do it. I can’t be around her.”

“You can’t afford not to follow her. Next to the white girl you’ll be able to find out things Zembe wouldn’t dream of telling you herself – where the gang investigation is going, who the suspects are, who they’ve arrested. Can’t you see how important that is?”

“I get it. But we know what’s important. Zembe told you herself. They’re after the 28s. Warn who you want to.”

“One stupid meeting doesn’t give us the information we need,” Mira says.

“It will have to.”

Mira swings around violently and punches the wall. The plaster splinters and caves. A hole larger than his fist opens. He retracts his hand, the knuckles now split and bloody.
Nomsulwa is momentarily stunned. The boy she loves and the man punching walls don’t reconcile.

“Look what you’ve done.”

“Forget the fucking wall.”

“You’d better be on your way out the door to get plaster to repair it.”

Nomsulwa turns her back on Mira and walks towards her couch in the far corner of the room. Mira clamps down on her shoulder, he whips her around. “Don’t walk away, sis. I need this. We need this. You have to go back. Things could change. We need to know if they find anything else.”

Face to face, Nomsulwa can see the panic in her cousin. He really believes that Nomsulwa’s time with the white girl, overhearing bits and pieces of the investigation, will help. He’s not necessarily wrong. But it’s not an option.

“I can’t be around her any more. I can’t look at her eyes, be near her.” Nomsulwa sinks into the living room chair. “It’s too much.”

“It’s hard. I know.”

Nomsulwa lets out her breath. She waits a second before looking at Mira, now sitting next to her. He is quiet. The sunlight falls in through the living room window and lands at their feet. Dust plays games in the air, darting in and out of swirling patterns.

“She is different from him. I thought it would be easier to hate her but –”

“Do you remember who her father is? The monster she is here to mourn?”

“Yes. Which is why I need to get out.” Nomsulwa collects herself. “I need to wash my hands of this altogether. It’s too much. She’s … she’s too much. Too easy to take care of, to be around.”

“You mean she is too nice?” Mira snorts. “All the better. Use it. Use her.”

“I can’t,” Nomsulwa finally admits, letting the weight of it fill with the words. It feels like a confession. Mira puts his arm around her, but he doesn’t let the argument go.

“This is not a vacation, not the beginning of a grand love affair. Everything is at stake – our lives, the township. I’m not going to let one charming white girl stand in our way.”

The room is silent. The kids on the street yell as one hits the ball past a fielder. Nomsulwa leans on Mira’s bony shoulder. He holds her. The phone rings.