Just a Dead Man (13 page)

M
ONDAY MORNING: FRESH BEGINNINGS
. I would be sensible and leave Daniel's predicament to the professionals: Robin and the police. If I pretended my call to Thabo Mchunu hadn't happened, maybe it would go away. Chantal phoned during break: obviously the kind of efficient person who knows when to phone teachers. She asked if I had heard anything more about the bail appeal, or whether the police had been to see me again. I said no, but told her I would phone Robin and see how things were going.

She said Sergeant Dhlomo had visited them again, asking all kinds of questions about who could have known that Dan planned to visit me. All she and Verne knew was that when Dan arrived from Joburg he said he would be coming round, probably the next day, but had given them no specific time. And she couldn't think who else he might have told – why would he?

She sounded accusatory, as if the sergeant bugging them was my fault and as if she thought she and Verne were suspected of something. I commiserated, and said it was one of the things that puzzled me too. If the bakkie I thought I had seen had been following Dan – unlikely though it seemed that anyone would follow someone with a corpse in the boot – then I couldn't have seen it
before
Dan arrived. The whole thing made no sense. And unless Dan had fortuitously run into the murderer and told him what he was planning to do with his afternoon, how could he, or possibly she, have known where and when to dump the body? It was pure chance that Dan had been walking my dog. Nothing seemed to add up. Chantal and I agreed to keep in touch, and she rang off.

When I called Robin, he had little to tell me. He was “working on” getting Dan bailed, and following up various leads, but he was vague about specifics. I spoke to Chantal again and, forgetting that I had opted out of detection, told her I was hoping to see Dan this week if I could. She had some clean clothes for him, and asked if I would take them. So I did, visiting Dan during the official visiting hours at the holding cells. I again castigated myself for being a wimp as I cringed away from the grimy walls and the people I saw, but it was an experience my run-of-the-mill suburban life had not prepared me for, and I hated every minute of it.

Dan looked drawn, but insisted he was okay. He was still alone in his cell, and while he complained of being lonely, he knew that, as a Zimbabwean, at least that way he was safe from any xenophobic impulses of other prisoners, although not from the police. He was convinced the sergeant resented his status as a refugee, and said he had made a couple of disparaging remarks about freeloading Zimbabweans the last time he had been to question Dan. But at least he had kept it to remarks: there had been no overt violence or threats. I disliked Dhlomo, but it seemed he stayed within the boundaries. His presence, however, was threatening enough.

I handed over the clothes, and the sketchbook and pencils I had brought him. He seemed delighted, and offered to contribute a drawing of the interior of a prison
cell to my exhibition. So at least he could still make a joke, albeit a rather feeble one.

My good intentions of Monday were wilting further in the reality of Daniel's position. I asked if he could possibly have mentioned to anyone, apart from Verne and Chantal, that he was coming to see me. Unless whoever had dumped Phineas Ndzoyiya's corpse had known Dan was going to be in the vicinity, why on earth would they have dumped him there? As far as I knew, the police had not yet worked out where he had been killed. He had left Paul's house on the morning of the day of his death, ostensibly to visit the Archives, according to Paul. And had vanished into thin air – until he was found dead later in the afternoon at the top of my road. Paul had said the police told him his father had never arrived at the Archives. All researchers have to sign the register, and his name was not listed. Nor had anyone working there seen him.

“Think, Dan. On the day of the murder, did you tell anyone …
anyone at all …
where you were going that afternoon?”

Dan sank his head into his fists, elbows on the greasy table. For the first time I noticed a few wiry grey hairs among the black curls on his head. Finally he straightened his neck and looked wearily at me.

“The sergeant has already asked me, Laura, and I honestly don't think so. I went up to the university in the morning to see a few people, and I had coffee with Verne at the cafeteria. I did say to him that I would probably go over to your place later, but he knew that anyway – and we can't suspect Verne, surely? There were a few people around, but I didn't know them. Though, wait a minute, one was that fellow Martin – Martin Shongwe, I think he is. He was on campus when I was a student, but he became SRC president at some stage and dropped a year.
I didn't know him well. He's back there – I think he's now doing some kind of postgrad work on curatorial policies.”

He sat up. “Hang on, Laura. Curatorial policy. Heritage. I was probably talking to Verne about my ideas – I've been banging on to anyone who would listen about colonial wars and how to present a fair picture in artistic terms. We were in the cafeteria, so Martin, or anyone else, might have overheard us. Do you think Martin Shongwe might have told the killer? Or even
been
the killer?”

“I don't know. I can't imagine why he should be. I think I know who he is, though. Isn't he that brash, tough-talking guy with dreads? Tall? I thought he had gone up to Joburg, but he must be back. But I can't see what connection he could possibly have had with Phineas Ndzoyiya, or Thabo Mchunu for that matter.”

“Thabo Mchunu? Hold on – isn't that the guy who gave me Phineas Ndzoyiya's name, the man Rhoda Josephs introduced me to. Why him?”

I realised that Dan, stuck away in his cell, knew nothing about my getting Mchunu's name from Rhoda, about his interactions with Phineas Ndzoyiya or about my much-regretted call to him. I gave Dan a brief rundown, playing down my concerns, but he looked worried.

“Laura, for God's sake, don't take risks. Whoever killed Phineas Ndzoyiya, or had him killed, is not someone to mess with. If you're worried, go and talk to the Inspector. Anyway, I'll tell him that I've remembered talking about my exhibition and saying I was off to see you while I was in the Fine Arts Department, and that Martin Shongwe was around. I honestly don't think he could have anything to do with the murder, but for all we know he may be a friend of the murderer and may have mentioned something, however innocently. It's the only thing I can think of. After I left campus, I went back to Verne and Chantal's,
had a sandwich, made a couple of phone calls and then came to see you.”

“One more thing, Dan. When you were at my place you parked outside, and when Sergeant Dhlomo and Adam Pillay asked me about it, I did wonder why. I mean, you usually bring the car in.” I felt awkward. It wasn't that I suspected Dan of anything, but it was niggling me, and the happenings of the past few weeks had jolted me out of mindless acceptance of superficial appearances. My own recent past should have made me realise I am no great judge of character, and I was coming to see that most of us are chameleons, taking protective colour from our surroundings, making an effort to blend in and wanting to be as seen as just another leaf on the tree, nothing threatening, nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps I had previously been too willing to accept what I saw at face value.

Dan looked surprised. “I dunno. I hadn't been there for a while. I know Rory has a car, and I didn't know if he was at home. I suppose I didn't know if you were in, so I parked and then got out of the car and rang the bell. When you answered, I just came in. There was no reason to get back into the car and bring it in. Why do you ask?”

“I didn't think about it until the cops raised the issue. And then it seemed … well, odd. Did they ask you about it?”

“I suppose they did. I didn't really think about it.” Dan gave me a thoughtful look. On one hand, it was a relief. His explanation made sense. But on the other, I sensed him wondering. Didn't I trust him? However, all he said was: “The sergeant says forensics found nothing in my car. It's in the clear. Verne fetched it yesterday.”

I felt depressed as I left the cells, and it wasn't just my surroundings. That sad, shattered body at the top of
the road had set in motion a whole slew of events and emotions that I didn't want in my life. But, with Dan in jail, I couldn't just walk away. And my own actions had left me floundering in a quicksand of mistrust, unhappiness and potential danger.

I
MADE A SPECIAL EFFORT
that week, teaching my classes to the best of my ability, smiling in a manic fashion every time I passed Mrs Golightly in the corridor and cooking tasty and nutritious meals for Mike. He was beginning to show signs of working hard and I offered what support I could. His stitches were out: to his great disappointment, they had not been removed by the well-endowed Dr Naidoo, but by a battleaxe of a nurse who went about the procedure with brisk efficiency. As for the scar, for now at least it looked more like a shaving disaster on his sparsely haired chin than the sexy cicatrice he had, I'm sure, been secretly hoping for.

There were no more mysterious vehicles or phone calls. I had no contact with the police, and Paul Ndzoyiya was in Pondoland for his father's funeral. Despite a nervousness that rose regularly to the surface of my mind when I was alone, I tried to forget my idiotic remark to Thabo Mchunu. I did, however, make a call to Verne to ask him what he knew about Martin Shongwe. He was cagey, said Martin was doing a master's degree but that he was not Martin's supervisor, and that he couldn't think of any reason why he would have reported anything he had overheard to anyone else. I got the feeling he was beginning to find my questions and investigations an irritation and that the
repeated visits from the cops were getting on his nerves. Short of trying to contact Martin myself – and I was very reluctant to do that – I didn't see what else I could do.

 

On Saturday afternoon, I once again walked in the plantations with Grumpy. Mike had played his hockey match in the morning, and I had dutifully attended, standing on the sidelines with other parents, cheering on the home team and making sure we did nothing to embarrass the sensitive young players working off their aggression on the pitch. He was now somewhere with his mates.

Grumpy and I set off up the hill towards the old Voortrekker road that runs along the top. I have never been sure which path it actually is. Although the ruts gouged by the ox-wagons are supposed to be visible as indelible scars in the rock, I have never managed to make them out. One rut in a rock looks much like the next to me. Either way, it was a steep climb, shaded much of the way by tall trees and dense vegetation, now dying back and drying. It was a beautiful afternoon, and to my delight I saw a hoopoe on the track in front of us, its spectacular tan, black and white plumage highlighted in a patch of sunlight. It watched us, moving with jerky, offended steps before it flew off with its curious, uneven flight. Just around the corner, I came across a scattering of porcupine quills – perhaps the owner had had an encounter with a predator and shed some of his protection, including three of his long, thin, curved spines. I picked them up: I would take them home and they could join the others I have found over the years in a faded, pot-shaped basket that stands on the windowsill of my studio. I love their elegant shape and banded colour, the way they bridge a boundary between defence and decoration.

As I rose to my feet, I sensed Grumpy stiffening, his head up and the soft black hair between his shoulders raised in his best imitation of hackles. In the same moment, I saw a movement on the path further up the hill where someone was jogging down. It is not unusual to see joggers and cyclists out in the plantations, and even in my current state of heightened nervousness, I was not particularly concerned. I put a hand on Grumpy's collar, and waited.

A slight figure emerged from a bend in the path, a little way above me, and slowed down. He raised a hand: “Good afternoon, Mrs Marsh.”

It was Adam Pillay, dapper in blue running shorts and a plain white T-shirt. Now that
was
a turn-up for the books.

“Inspector. Uhm … Is this your usual jogging route? And how's your knee?”

“It's fine.” He perched on a fallen tree and unceremoniously wiped his face with the hem of his T-shirt, giving me a glimpse of a well-toned six pack. Nice. He turned to me and smiled, a relaxed and charming smile.

“Since your spat with my sergeant, I thought I might try out these ‘amenities' of yours.” He gave a soft laugh. “Very nice they are, too. I've been coming up here with my usual running mates this week, but this afternoon they had family commitments, so I came alone. We come in from the other side, on the dirt road, and then run over the top.” He paused. “I've been half expecting to meet you, though I didn't know you usually came up this far.”

“I don't often. Grumpy and I are both getting a bit ancient for the hill. But it was a lovely afternoon, and not too sticky, so up we came. I've been watching hockey all morning, and felt I would like to stretch my legs.” I could hear myself babbling, and stopped, suddenly feeling
rather hot. Grumpy on the other hand, delighted to see someone he had met before, was cheerfully nosing into the inspector's crotch and licking the sweat off his thighs.

“Grump! Stop it, you monster.” I grabbed at his collar, and nearly overbalanced onto Adam Pillay's lap. He put out a hand to steady me, and I decided to sit down myself, out of harm's way, on another tree covered with moss that was soft and cool under my legs.

“Actually, I was hoping to see you,” said Pillay. “I wanted to talk to you informally.” He looked at me. “Mr Moyo has told me you asked him whether anyone could have known he was coming to see you on the day he found the body.” He stopped, fiddled with a shoelace, and then straightened up, looking firmly at me. “Laura – you have to be careful. Don't think for one moment that you can solve this case on your own. Whoever killed Mr Ndzoyiya is dangerous, and if you get in his way, I don't doubt that he would be prepared to remove you too.”

I recognised the sincerity of the warning, but something else struck me, forcibly. “Hang on, are you saying you don't think it was Dan? And he's rotting there in jail while you go jogging? So your sergeant can pop in on him and make nasty, xenophobic remarks?” Even as I spoke, I knew that I wasn't being fair. Although Dan was obviously not having a wonderful time, he was hardly rotting – and Adam Pillay was perfectly entitled to a Saturday-afternoon run. I tried to back off a little. “Look, I don't mean you shouldn't have time off. Obviously. But it seems pretty rough on Dan. I mean, surely you can see that?”

Adam Pillay looked unoffended. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his face, but other than that he was quite at ease. “You, Paul Ndzoyiya and Mr Moyo would all do well to stay out of our investigations. Mr Moyo still has questions to answer: personally, I don't think he killed
Mr Ndzoyiya, but we need to know more about what he was doing on the day of the murder, what he wanted from Mr Ndzoyiya and why he behaved as he did when we first questioned him before there is any question of withdrawing the charges. Our investigations are continuing: there are leads to follow. I do understand that you are concerned for Mr Moyo, but you need to accept that we are investigating this with all the resources we have. And rest assured, Mr Moyo is in no way compromised by being a foreigner.”

I wasn't so sure of that, but it seemed futile to go on about Sergeant Dhlomo. Adam Pillay trusted him, and even if Dhlomo disliked Zimbabweans, whites, the middle classes, artists, women and most of the other people he met on his daily round, I suppose it didn't mean he wasn't a conscientious cop. I had my doubts, but there it was.

And if Adam Pillay wanted to chat informally with me, even if it was to warn me off, I would return the compliment and chat back. After all, he could hardly leap to his feet and jog off, and maybe I would get some answers. He knew I was doing what he called interfering with his investigation: so, now was my chance to tell him just how much interfering I was doing.

I settled myself comfortably on my cushion of moss and began to talk. I told him about my contact with Paul Ndzoyiya, how I had got Thabo Mchunu's number from Rhoda Josephs and, reluctantly, that I had phoned him. I could feel myself blushing as I told him what I had said, naming Flash Funerals. I had been looking down at the ground, but I sensed Adam Pillay shift on his perch, and I glanced up, my face hot. He was looking at me with deep frown lines etched between his brows, but he said nothing.

I went on, telling him about the car the boys had seen parked outside the gate, about the strange phone calls. Talking about it on a warm afternoon, among the trees
with only birdsong to disturb the peace, it sounded pretty feeble, but I ploughed on.

I explained how I was puzzled that anyone could have known when Dan was going to come and see me. I told him about my last visit to the prison, and how Dan had told me he and Verne had been chatting in the cafeteria, and could have been overheard, possibly by Martin Shongwe, though I had no reason to suppose Martin had anything to do with it. Only that his subject was curatorial policy, which in a way tied in with Dan's contact with the dead man, or at least with Phineas Ndzoyiya's apparent differences with Thabo Mchunu. And then I stopped. Adam Pillay was watching me.

I felt as I had as a schoolgirl, embarrassed by my own stupidity, and therefore putting on a defiant face. “Well, Inspector. I don't think I've been very clever, but it's done now. And the only reason I did anything at all was because of my concern about Daniel. And, although you say his being a foreigner doesn't make his situation worse, I
saw
the way your sergeant looked at him and spoke to him on the day the body was found. And … have you found out anything about Flash Funerals? Do they exist? And are they involved with Thabo Mchunu? Or even with Martin Shongwe?”

There was a long silence. Grumpy, who had wandered away to nose in the undergrowth, emerged from among the trees, stopping to cock his leg on a fine old yellowwood that overshadowed the path. Maybe it had been standing there when the Voortrekker wagons came, or didn't come, along this way. Adam Pillay straightened up, flexing his shoulders and spreading his fingers on his thighs.

“Look, Laura. We're all on the same side here. We all want to see Mr Ndzoyiya's murderer caught. I'm beginning to agree with you – and so, believe it or not, is
Sergeant Dhlomo – that Mr Moyo is not the killer. Maybe the
Mendi
connection does have something to do with the murder, maybe it doesn't. There are other issues we are looking into. Mr Moyo has told us that other people could have overheard him talking to Mr Peterson, and Sergeant Dhlomo has spoken to Mr Shongwe.”

He got to his feet, dusted off his hands, and offered to help me up. We began to walk slowly back down the path, moving between patches of afternoon sun and deep shade where warmth seldom penetrated and the air felt cool and damp against the skin. He went on talking, his voice soft and slow, giving a sense that every word he said had been considered. Not like me, then.

“I‘m probably going to tell you things I shouldn't. And I need your promise that you will not, in any way, try to investigate this matter yourself. It is dangerous: to you, potentially to Mr Moyo, and to the police investigation.” He paused. “I want your word, Laura.”

I noticed that this was the second time he had used my first name. Perhaps he did it to emphasise the informal nature of our conversation. I decided to respond in kind, though I was not so sure of my own reasons. “Okay, Adam, I'll stop playing detective, if that's what you think I've been doing. But I want Dan released from jail if you guys think he's innocent.”

“He will be. Just give us a few days. There are still some loose ends to tie up.”

We walked on, and I began to think that, despite his warning and my promise, that was the end of the conversation. But the inspector was marshalling his thoughts.

“I am worried about what you tell me you said to Mr Mchunu. About Flash Funerals. More than worried, actually.”

I opened my mouth to apologise again: I have seldom wished words unsaid as much as I wished those. But Adam held up his hand.

“No. I understand. The heat of the moment. And what's done is done. But I'm afraid you may have alerted him to something he didn't know we knew about. And that, if he
is
involved in the murder, makes me concerned – very concerned – for your safety.

“Is there any way you could move out of your house? Go stay with friends, or your parents? I know you have your son with you, and it might be complicated, but if – and I stress
if
– you have inadvertently alerted the killer, or killers, to something they didn't know we knew, you could be at risk. I don't want to frighten you, but we're dealing with ruthless people here.”

“So, you
do
think Thabo Mchunu is involved. And what about Flash Funerals?” I didn't really know if he was going to answer that one, but it was worth asking. I might have promised not to interfere, or even go on detecting, but I'm only human. I knew … I had found out … some of the story, and had no wish to be excluded from the rest.

“Laura!” I could hear that Adam was trying not to laugh. “Please. You promised your Sherlocking days were over. I'm not going to give you details of what we are doing and what we know, or don't know. But to give you some kind of answer, no. I think it is very unlikely that Mr Mchunu killed Mr Ndzoyiya. For a start, he's …” Adam stopped. “Maybe you
should
be a detective. You're making me tell you things.” He put out a hand, and touched me lightly on the shoulder. “But we are of the opinion that he may be involved in some way, or at least know something.”

“Have you questioned him?”

To my surprise, Adam answered. “Briefly. He knew the deceased, and we know they quarrelled. But …”

“But?”

“He's connected, politically well connected. A senior civil servant, with wide business interests as well. We have to be careful – there's more to this than a memorial to people who died in the First World War. We're investigating various angles.” He paused. “Including the whole issue of titanium mining contracts on the Wild Coast. I probably shouldn't have told you that, so please say nothing – to anyone. And Mr Shongwe does know Mr Mchunu – they are related in some way. I'll tell you that much.”