Just a Dead Man (19 page)

“Earlier this week. He came to see me, he and his sister, who had come back with him from Pondoland … he said he had been to see you as well, told you what he had found out there.”

Adam ignored that. “He came here? Exactly when was that?”

“Wednesday, I think. Or Thursday. Yes, it was Thursday. He said he'd been to see you.”

Adam nodded. “I thought you understood me when I said to keep out of this investigation, Mrs Marsh. I hope you said nothing to Mr Ndzoyiya about it.”

“Well, we talked about it. It was his
father
who was murdered. Of course he wants … wanted …” I swallowed against a lump that had suddenly caught in my throat. “He wanted to see whoever had killed his father caught.”

Adam, who understood the value of silence, stood looking at me with a sombre expression. The light was behind him, so his face was shadowed, but I got the sense that he was disappointed. Not angry with me, unlike the grim sergeant at his shoulder, but saddened.

I took a breath and cleared my sudden hoarseness. “I did ask whether he had ever heard of Flash Funerals, down in Pondoland. After all, no one here seems to know about them. But that was all. He told me about the people he had talked to when he went to the funeral, about plans for the
Mendi
memorial, and about the mining as well …”

Before Adam could respond, Sergeant Dhlomo took a step towards me. Mike scrambled to his feet, standing between me and the obviously angry policeman. But his slender frame was no match for the sergeant who sidestepped him and then loomed over me, making it impossible for me to get up from the sofa.

“So you told him something that could have put his life at risk. You expected him to do your dirty work for you. You couldn't even do your own meddling! You're safe here, with your friends, your food and drink, your comfortable life. But you ask a man, a man whose father has just passed away, to go and put his life at risk because
you
, a stupid white woman, feel you can do a better job than the professionals. And so he gets murdered. And what may well be the murder weapon is in your garden. And you have blood on your clothes. I would like to arrest you: my God I would! Even if your story about broken flower pots and rubbish like that is true, it would be good for you to see where your stupid interference has led.”

As Sergeant Dhlomo paused for breath, Vanessa put one arm round me and reached for Mike's hand with the other. But she didn't manage to say anything. Adam stepped to Dhlomo's side and put a hand on his arm.

“That's enough, Sergeant.” He said it quietly, but it was enough to make the bigger man step back a pace. “Mrs Marsh may have made a mistake, but I do not think she had any criminal intent. Nor do I think she is involved in this second killing. However, I will have questions for her. But not tonight. I'll come back in the morning. We are all tired – it's been a long day for everyone. Leave the mess outside exactly as it is. I doubt if there is anything to be discovered from it, but please disturb it no further. Miss Govender, are you staying the night here?”

For once, Ness had nothing to say. She just nodded, and
Adam went on: “Good. When we have left, Mrs Marsh, lock up securely. Set your burglar alarm. If anything should happen – and I stress that I do not expect it to – phone me. Sergeant Dhlomo, we'll leave now.”

And with that, they were gone.

I
DIDN'T SLEEP, BUT IT WASN'T
fear or pain that kept me awake. It was guilt. Had I sent Paul Ndzoyiya off on a hunt for information that led to his death? I hadn't said he shouldn't talk to anyone about Flash Funerals: perhaps I should have. I kept seeing his troubled, tired face as we talked about his father. If I hadn't made contact with him in the first place, would he have left the whole investigation to the police? But if he had, would they have looked beyond Daniel for the killer?

I stared up into the dark, the faint greyness that edged the curtains doing nothing to dispel the night or its terrors. My hand throbbed steadily, incautious movements shooting pain up my arm, but at least it was a distraction. I had tried to clean the wound again before I went to bed, but the cut was deep, running from below the top joint of my thumb into the palm of my hand. It was hard to dress it, and I had finally called Vanessa, who claimed to have first aid among her skills. She had made a neat job of bandaging my whole hand, but went on about it needing stitches. Maybe it did, but I had other things on my mind.

I had achieved nothing. Okay, Dan was out of jail, but the police would surely have realised in the end that he was innocent. And now Paul Ndzoyiya was dead too. My mind raced in hamster circles. Sergeant Dhlomo had
done his work well: it was somehow my fault. The blood on my clothes, the mallet in my garden did not mean I had struck Paul over the head. But nonetheless, I was guilty. The sergeant had a knack for getting under my skin, making me feel responsible for something, even if it was only my whiteness. But this time, he was right.

At around half past five, I couldn't stay in bed a minute longer. The sheets and blanket were tangled together, the duvet on the floor. There was a bloodstain on the pillowcase and more on the sheets: my hand was still bleeding. I stumbled to the kitchen, feeling like death. I put the kettle on to make a cup of tea.

I jumped when Ness appeared behind me. My nerves were jangling and I felt like crying.

“Hey, girl. Calm down. What's up?”

“Hi Ness. You gave me a fright, that's all. Couldn't you sleep either?”

“Strange bed. It's probably fine for Rory, but I'm used to something bigger and softer. I heard you in the kitchen so I came through. How's the hand?”

“Bloody sore. But it'll be fine.”

“I'm taking you to Casualty just as soon as we've had that cup of tea. Here, let me do it.”

I stood back while Ness made us tea. I muttered something about not being able to go out as the police were coming back to see me. Ness gave a snort. “Get real. If you need a doctor, you need a doctor. The cops can wait. Unless you don't want to miss Adam?”

“Not funny, Ness. Not today.”

“No. Okay. But you're still coming with me to get that sorted out. It's a mess, and if you've got earth or something in it, you'll need an anti-tetanus shot. Make no mistake. If the police want you, they'll find you. It's what they do.”

On that comforting note, we took our tea to the studio
and sat together on the sofa, watching the garden come to life as sunlight began to spread across the garden. Hadedas strutted across the lawn, poking their scimitar beaks into the earth in search of insects. The door was closed, and the mess on the step was hidden from sight as long as we stayed sitting down.

I turned to Vanessa. “Ness, do you think I'm responsible for Paul Ndzoyiya's death? Honestly?”

“No, of course not. Sure, you asked him about the Flash Funeral thing. But he didn't have to do anything about it. Anyway, what could he have done? Phoned someone down there? So what. Unless he happened to phone the murderer – and that's not likely. You're just beating yourself up because of what that stupid sergeant said.”

“But he has a point. At first I was doing stuff to get Daniel out, and because I thought he was being victimised. But once he was released, I suppose I thought I was being clever, asking questions … and getting Paul Ndzoyiya to make more enquiries.”

“Stop it, Laura. You're just brooding on what Sergeant Stupid said! Come on, drink your tea and get dressed. I'm taking you down to the hospital. Got your medical-aid card and stuff?”

Ness was getting into steamroller mode again, and there wasn't anything to be gained by trying to stop her. Anyway, my hand was sore and throbbing, and it struck me that as it was my painting hand, I had better do something about it.

Casualty was quiet: too late for the Saturday-night disasters, too early for the Sunday-morning ones. The doctor who was called seemed about Rory's age, and the incorrigible Vanessa flirted outrageously, but he did manage to find the time to look at my cut, give me an excruciating injection of local anaesthetic, clean and
dress the wound and put three stitches into the fleshy base of my thumb where the gash was deepest. He then gave me an anti-tetanus shot – I was beginning to feel like a pincushion – plus five days' worth of antibiotics and a blister pack of painkillers, telling me cheerfully that I would need them when the anaesthetic wore off.

He then smiled warmly at Ness, and told me that she would look after me. Fat chance. The first sexy young doctor to come along and she would probably leave me in a ditch. I wasn't being fair, but then, I wasn't feeling fair. I was feeling sorry for myself.

When we got back into the car, Ness remarked on how cute the doctor had been.

“You're old enough to be his mother, Ness! Cool it.”

She laughed. “Don't be such a misery. Come on! I know things are a bit rough at the moment, but you need to enjoy life more.” As advice to someone who was looking like a good bet in a murder investigation, and who, even if not technically guilty, was feeling morally responsible, it had its limitations.

By the time the cops came to the gate, the anaesthetic had worn off and the painkillers had kicked in. Mike had gone off for a mountain-bike ride with a group of friends, and had promised me faithfully to keep his cellphone on and not to go off anywhere alone. Vanessa had virtually force-fed me breakfast, and was now happily working on my laptop, sorting out the list of people I should be inviting to the exhibition opening. I was feeling sufficiently spaced out and relaxed not to care what else she might be looking at.

The sight of my two policemen – I was beginning to think of them as mine – at the door dented my drug-induced wellbeing, but it couldn't be helped. The doctor had given me a sling, a padded object, held together above
the wrist with a large safety pin. It was not glamorous, but there was no doubt that if my hand was kept still and up, it was less painful. And it probably looked more dramatic than it needed to.

Not that the sight of my arm in a sling evoked the slightest bit of sympathy from Sergeant Dhlomo. He gave me his good-morning glare, refused coffee on behalf of both himself and the inspector and marched us through to the studio where he looked pointedly at Vanessa. Not one to take a hint unless it suits her plans, she stared back until he firmly asked her to leave. She made a lengthy show of unplugging the computer and carting it through to the kitchen where she could carry on with what she was doing. I had no doubt she would continue to listen from there, but the sergeant seemed to feel he had made his point by evicting her.

I sat down on the sofa. In a lame effort to establish control, I asked them to sit as well. Adam did; the sergeant pulled out a notebook in time-honoured fashion, but continued to stand at his superior's shoulder. I half expected to see him lick the point of a pencil, but he merely clicked on his ballpoint and resumed his morning's activity of frowning at me.

Adam spoke for the first time since they had arrived. “How is your hand, Mrs Marsh? Have you seen a doctor?”

“It's not too bad, thanks. I've had a couple of stitches, and an anti-tetanus shot. And I'm on an antibiotic.” At that, there was a grunt from the sergeant. It was hard to tell what he meant by it, but it didn't sound sympathetic.

Adam nodded. He put the slender briefcase he was holding down on the table, and unzipped it. “I'm going to show you photographs of the scene where we found Paul Ndzoyiya. They're not pleasant, I'm afraid. But I think you should see them, nonetheless.” This time, the noise from
the sergeant signified obvious approval.

“Why? Why do you want me to see them?”

Adam took his time. “Because there's something in them I want you to see. I'm not trying to upset you, or to make you feel guilty, I can assure you. But there was something at the crime scene that I need you to look at. Will you do that for me?”

If he had said, “for us”, I might have refused. I didn't want to look at a photograph of Paul's body, and I didn't want Sergeant Dhlomo to be in a position to enjoy my discomfort. But I did feel I owed it to Adam Pillay. I took a breath. “Okay.”

Adam slid a series of around half a dozen glossy prints out of his briefcase and fanned them out carefully on the table. I moved forward so that I could see them, taking care not to knock my hand. I felt clumsy and awkward. The sling didn't simply mean I could use only one arm: it upset my whole sense of balance.

There was only one that showed Paul Ndzoyiya's body. Mercifully, it was lying face down, but the back of his head was a mess, smashed by some heavy object. For a sickening moment, I had a flashback to the mallet I had found in my garden and picked up. He had fallen onto a dark-coloured rug, but blood had pooled beyond it as well, shockingly bright against a pale tiled floor. On the periphery of the picture was an overturned chair. But there was nothing that meant anything to me.

Adam was watching me closely. He took the photograph of Paul's body away (I was glad about that), and slid the next one forward. It showed a shattered door, fragments of amber-coloured frosted glass strewn around it. It looked as if someone had taken something heavy to the glass, and then smashed the lock as well. I assumed it was Paul's back door, where an intruder had tried to get into
his house once before. I asked Adam, and he nodded.

The next two photographs showed a devastated house: a broken mirror, the door wrenched off a microwave, a smashed telephone. But again, nothing that showed why the police had wanted me to look. I raised my eyes, questioning, to Adam, but he shook his head and placed the final two prints side by side on the table, motioning me to look at them.

They showed the coffee table in what must have been Paul's living room. The first one took in the whole surface: the morning paper still folded; a couple of magazines; a book, lying face up so that the title was hidden; a window envelope. And carefully placed, or apparently so, in the middle of the table, a card. It looked like a typical white pasteboard business card, but from that distance it was hard to see what was printed on it.

The photographer had zoomed in on it for his final shot. And there it was: “Flash Funerals”, with the double helix logo in its ugly shades of harsh royal blue, chocolate and gold. I stared at it, transfixed for a moment, and then I gulped. Still looking, I said to Adam: “So. Did the killer leave it, or was it there before?”

“I think we have to assume that the killer left it.”

Suddenly, I felt anger well up inside me: I was angry at the police for showing me, making me feel even more guilty than I did already; angry at myself for getting mixed up in this; angry at Paul for getting himself killed; and, above all, angry with the murderer for taking another gentle, useful human life. I swung round to face the policemen, jarring my hand as I did so. The white-hot pain that surged up my arm left me momentarily nauseated and probably saved me from saying something I was going to regret.

Instead I leaned back against the sofa cushions, taking a deep breath. From what seemed like a long distance
away, I heard Adam asking me if I was all right, and then saying something else. A moment later, someone put a glass of water in my left hand. It was Sergeant Dhlomo, not looking any friendlier, but presumably working on the principle that if I passed out, there wouldn't be any further opportunities to needle me that morning.

I took a sip of the water. “Sorry … it wasn't the pictures. I jarred my hand, and it's still pretty sore.” I looked at Adam, who was watching me with concern. “Take your time. We can come back later, you know.”

I doubted if the sergeant thought that would be a good idea. “No, I'm fine. So you think the killer left the card there? Doesn't that prove that these Flash Funeral people are the key to the whole thing?”

“Maybe. But that logo. Is that exactly what you saw on the bakkie that came down the road on the day Phineas Ndzoyiya's body was found?”

I leaned forward again and looked at the photograph. “Yes. That's exactly it. Isn't there a phone number on the card?”

Adam nodded. “It's a cellphone number.” He didn't say whether he had tried to phone it, or what the outcome had been, and I didn't ask.

The silence expanded and filled the room. I half expected Ness to come bursting in to find out what was going on. Then Sergeant Dhlomo walked over to the garden door and opened it, turning to beckon me over. “All of this exactly how it was when you got home yesterday?”

“No. I told you. I picked up the hammer or mallet, or whatever it is, and then you took it away. And I touched the broken tree and the pot.” I indicated my bandaged hand. “And I suppose I may have moved stuff, walked on the earth. I remember I trod on the little lime.” To my horror, I heard my voice shake.

The sergeant went out and stood on the step. Adam spoke into his phone, calling a forensic team to come and look at my garden. He then asked me to show him where we had thought someone might have got over the front wall. We went out through the kitchen so as not to disturb the mess outside the studio any further. Ness cheerfully joined in the procession, telling the policemen exactly where she and Mike had found the scuffmarks on the wall and the indentations in the earth on the inside. The sergeant seemed mildly impressed with her detective work, so I left them to it, peering down at the ground as if expecting an identifiable footprint to materialise in the dry soil. I moved away, back towards the house, looking for something to lean or sit on.