Just a Dead Man (4 page)

I
T SURPRISED ME, BUT
I slept that night. Maybe the effects of a large whisky and a row with Simon were soporific. But when I woke, I felt guilty. A man had died, but he hadn't disturbed my rest, though I had woken once to a night-filled room, thinking of Inspector Pillay's questions about my afternoon and sure that I
had
seen something going down the road. But it was like waking after a dream: the more I tried to pin it down, the more it edged away.

In the morning, I did minimal housework and then dashed out to get some stuff from the supermarket: all I had been able to find for supper last night were eggs and cheese and a part-eaten Woolworths snoek paté whose sell-by date was nearly as long ago as the sinking of the
Mendi
. Not that I had been hungry, but a cheese omelette had not proved to be an exciting meal and I needed to stock up with some other options. I took Grumpy for a quick walk, taking the hard road that skirted the plantations and keeping him on a lead all the way, much to his displeasure. I didn't want to go near the scene of yesterday's discovery. That done, I headed into the studio. I wasn't in the mood for painting, but I could think about the other pieces I needed for the exhibition. But before I got going I flipped through the morning paper.

The murder made it onto page three, though there
wasn't a great deal to be said: the victim had not been identified at the time of going to press and all the reporter had been able to go on was the police statement. There were a couple of paragraphs, but all they succeeded in saying was that the body of a man had been found by a member of the public on a popular dog-walking path – the name of our road was misspelled – and that police investigations were ongoing. I was glad that neither Daniel's nor my name had been mentioned.

Daniel phoned me mid-morning. I was pleased: he had been angry and upset yesterday and I wanted to talk to him. He asked if he could come round, and said he still wanted to model for my next painting. He turned up at lunch-time, and we had a sandwich together but conversation remained stilted. I remembered he had been about to say something when the police had come into the garden yesterday afternoon, and wondered if I should ask him about it. But I didn't want to push. He obviously had something on his mind.

I did, however, ask him about Johannesburg and how things were going there. He admitted there had been some trouble a couple of months ago: a group of Zimbabwean and Somali traders had been beaten up by locals, and he had got involved with a group of immigrants who patrolled their area. There had been a couple of scuffles, and he had been among those taken in for questioning. No one had been charged, and it all seemed to have died down. I got the feeling he wasn't telling me the whole story, but maybe it went some way to explaining his reluctance to have anything to do with the police.

“Come on, let's see if we can do a photograph. What fruit have you got?” he asked, changing the subject. I had found mangos in the supermarket that morning, and I showed him.

“They're quite nice big ones, and they're tropical. And the colour's good. I like that green and red. Stronger colours, deeper than on the apple, but in the same palette. And the inside should be a good contrast. What do you think?”

“Let's see once they've been bitten into.”

We took the mangos and camera and went into the studio, positioning Dan against a wall to catch the light. It was the same spot where Mike had photographed my hand, but while the apple had been in my right, we put the mango in Dan's left to create a mirror image. I had a piece of orange-coloured, hand-printed cloth, which we hung as a backdrop.

Dan sliced into a mango, then took a bite and we contemplated the result. The colour was good, a vibrant orange, a more powerful shade than the background cloth. The fruit was ripe, and the juice began to trickle out of the bite.

“Great. That looks luscious and you can exaggerate the drip. Go for it.”

I got the camera, and fired off various shots. “Just try another one, Dan. See if the colour's different.”

We photographed three of the mangos, with different-sized and angled bites. For a while, we managed to put yesterday out of our minds and worked together for the best part of an hour. Then I switched on the computer and began to download the pictures. Dan lounged on the sofa, and picked up a guava from the fruit bowl, taking a bite. I had bought a couple of early ones in case they worked better than the mangos, but the colour was too muted, the fruit too small.

“Yeuuch!”

I turned. “It's got a worm.” Dan spat the flesh of the guava into his hand as we contemplated the maggot
jerking up and down in the fruit he was holding.

“Don't worry. It's a whole worm. It's when you see half a worm that you need to worry.”

Dan gave me a dirty look, and got up to wash his hand. But somehow the mood had soured. The maggot had made me think of the corpse, and Dan too seemed to be preoccupied as he sat down again.

“Laura, you know that photograph the cops found on the body?”

He stopped. I nodded, but for a long moment he sat, looking at his knees. Then he got up. “I didn't know the man – never seen him before. But I wonder if he was looking for me.”

“Why? Why would he be looking for
you
?”

“I told you I was thinking about this exhibition of colonial stuff. Well. I had been trying to make contact with descendants of
Mendi
survivors. I wanted to hear the stories, see if there was something I could use. I had heard of a man originally from the Eastern Cape, the Pondoland area, who was a teacher in Durban. His grandfather had been on the
Mendi
, and had been rescued after the sinking, gone on to the war, and had come back to South Africa at the end of it. I contacted this teacher chap on the phone, and he said he would like to talk to me. I told him I was coming down here, and if he was around, coming up to Pietermaritzburg at all, maybe we could meet. So … I suppose that could have been him. When I saw the photograph of the man with the bicycle, just before we walked back up here, then I began to wonder. And when the sergeant asked about the
Mendi
, well, it seemed too much of a coincidence.” Dan turned to look at me.

“But why didn't you say anything to the cops yesterday? I mean, if you think he might have been the guy you were going to meet, it could help them to identify him.”

“I don't want to be involved. Not in any way. Look, Laura, you have no idea how tough it is to be an immigrant here, a refugee. You saw that man, Dhlomo, yesterday. He obviously wanted to have a go at me. Just because I'm not South African. It's easy for you to say, ‘Go to the cops.' But no, I want nothing to do with it. The cops don't like Zimbabweans any more than anyone else does. And anyway, in Joburg recently … I just don't want to have anything to do with them again.”

“But, Dan, for God's sake, a man is dead. If you think you know something about him, you have to say so.”

“It may just be a coincidence. If they find out who the body is, and if it's the same man … then maybe I'll say something. But not unless. He was probably carrying ID anyway. They just didn't tell us. And if it
was
him, why was he here, in this road? I never told anyone I was coming here, except Verne, in passing. And he wouldn't come looking for me: we were going to set up a meeting. He was coming to Pietermaritzburg for other stuff as well.”

We stared at each other. Dan had articulated exactly what I was thinking: why here? If it was the same man, and Dan told the police now, they were certainly going to wonder why he hadn't said anything yesterday. He was making all this worse for himself. They had already picked up on the
Mendi
connection: our reaction to their questions yesterday had made sure of that.

“What was the name of the guy you contacted?”

“Phineas Ndzoyiya. That's all I know.”

“Daniel, I really think you have to tell the police. Say you were shocked yesterday, and the
Mendi
thing came out of the blue. But that this man had said he wanted to talk to you about the survivors' stories. There can't really be a connection. I mean, no one would be killed because he was going to repeat stories his grandfather had told
him of things that happened in the First World War. It's nearly a hundred years ago.”

Daniel shrugged. “I'll see. I'm sure the cops will be back anyway. Look, thanks for lunch. I'm going to head off now.”

He left, rather abruptly. I went back to the computer and started fiddling with a couple of the photographs in Photoshop, cropping and highlighting until I got the effects I wanted. But my heart wasn't really in it. What the hell was going on?

I
PRINTED OUT A COUPLE
of the photographs, and was comparing them with my apple painting when the doorbell rang again. I had been half expecting it and, sure enough, there was Inspector Pillay, on his own this time, for which I was grateful. I hadn't much taken to Sergeant Dhlomo, but then he also seemed not to have taken much to me either. Or Daniel. Either way, his was a presence I could do without.

Pillay came in looking rumpled and even wearier than yesterday.

“Tea, Inspector?”

“That would be lovely. If you're having some.”

“Sure. Go through to the studio and I'll bring it now.”

As tribute to the might and dignity of the law, I made the tea in a pot rather than follow my usual teabag-in-a-mug regime. But I did stick with the mugs. Somewhere in a cupboard are teacups and saucers, but in the five years since my divorce and the merciful end of visits from my ex-mother-in-law, they have stayed there.

When I carried the tray through, Pillay was staring out of the window. No art criticism today. He turned as I came in, and waited until I had sat down before he moved to an upright chair facing me.

I thought I might as well take the bull by the horns:
“Do you know who the man is … was?”

“Oh yes. He was carrying his ID. We didn't say anything until we had contacted his family. His son identified the body this morning.” If anything, Pillay looked even sadder. “His name was Ndzoyiya, Phineas Ndzoyiya. He lives in Durban, but he's originally from the Eastern Cape.”

I said nothing, but I felt ridiculously guilty all the same.

“His son, who works here in Pietermaritzburg, has told us his father was staying with him for a couple of days. He had come to the city to meet an artist: Mr Moyo, in fact. Did you know that?” Pillay was looking hard at me. His appearance was deceptive: he was neither submissive nor sleepy; he wasn't missing a thing. And he hadn't missed a thing yesterday either.

I took a deep breath, and a mouthful of tea while I tried to collect my thoughts. “Look, Inspector, yesterday, when Daniel found the body, he had absolutely no idea who it could be. It was only when you showed us the
Mendi
photograph that he realised there might be a connection with his research.” I spoke slowly, trying to tell the absolute truth without putting Dan into a more difficult situation than the one he seemed to be in already.

“I was surprised by the photograph. It gave me a shock, I suppose, when the sergeant asked about the
Mendi
. After all, just before Dan found the body, we had been talking about it. It was a crazy kind of coincidence. We told you, remember, that it had been mentioned when we were talking.”

“Yes, you did.”

“It was only earlier today that Daniel said he had begun to realise that it might not be just a coincidence. He had been trying to contact descendants of the survivors of the
Mendi
, and had arranged to meet a man from Durban this week.” There. That shouldn't put Dan into a bad light.
“I'm sure he's going to contact you and tell you.”

“No need. Sergeant Dhlomo has gone to see him.” Pillay was watching me, waiting for a reaction.

“Well, that's okay then. Daniel can tell him what he knows.”

Pillay nodded. “Had Mr Moyo arranged to meet Mr Ndzoyiya here, at your house?”

“No … I don't think so. I mean, why would he? Dan had just dropped in to see me. We're old friends, but he's staying with someone else and probably doing his research at the university. I'd imagine they were going to meet there.”

“But Mr Ndzoyiya's body was found here.”

“Well, yes. But you said you thought he had been killed somewhere else.”

“Did I?” Pillay looked surprised. “Well, it's a possibility. We don't know yet. But if he was, then why dump the body here?”

“
I
don't know. I know nothing about all this, really. I know it must look odd, but it's just a coincidence.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I do! You're not suggesting Daniel killed this man, brought him here, dumped him, came round to the front of the house, rang my doorbell, offered to take my dog for a walk and then came rushing back saying he had found a body? I mean, that's just insane!” I was beginning to sound shrill.

Pillay ran a hand over his face, as if trying to smooth away his weariness. When he took it away, his skin had reddened, but the colour faded quickly.

I went on. “Surely you're investigating what else Mr Ndzoyiya was doing here; what he did in Durban; who his enemies were? I simply cannot believe that Daniel had anything to do with his death. Or that his death is any
way connected to the SS
Mendi
.”

“We have to investigate everything.” The inspector looked hopefully at the teapot, and reluctantly I poured him another mug. I wanted him gone. Surely they couldn't be suspecting Daniel? It was completely crazy.

The inspector spoke again: “How did Mr Moyo arrive yesterday? Did he have a car, or a bicycle, or was he on foot?”

He must have known the answer to that. They had seen Daniel here, and had watched him go. “He has a car – an old Golf. I suppose he came in that. I didn't go and look for it, but I imagine he must have brought it. He came round in it this morning.”

“Oh. He's been here today, then?”

“Yes. We worked on some photographs.”

“Did he bring his car into your drive, inside the gate?”

“Yes.”

“And yesterday?”

I stared at Pillay. “I suppose so. I don't remember.” And I didn't. Which was odd. This morning Dan had come in the gate and parked his red Citi Golf behind my garage. There was a dent on the back, just below the boot lid, which I had noticed when I opened the front door. Had he done the same yesterday afternoon? I somehow didn't think so, but if not, why not? A whisper of concern, insubstantial but troubling, drifted into my mind. But whether he had parked in the drive or in the road, what did it matter?

Pillay got up. “Mr Moyo
did
have his car here yesterday. Both Sergeant Dhlomo and I saw it when we arrived. It was parked outside your gate. Now, why would he do that?”

“I don't know. Maybe he didn't mean to stay long. He didn't know the boys were away and so perhaps he thought Rory might be coming back with
his
car. It was only when he came in and saw I was working that he offered to take
Grumpy out.” At the sound of his name, Grumpy, who was sprawled in a patch of sun on the tiled floor, thumped his tail and gave a contented groan.

“We'll be asking him about that.” Pillay paused, and looked down at me. “Mrs Marsh, I know you're a friend of Mr Moyo, but I must tell you he could be in some trouble over this.”

I started to protest, but Pillay held up his hand. “How long have you known him?”

“Five, six years. He was studying at university and we got friendly. He's a Zimbabwean: he was in a difficult situation, trying to get his documents in order and short of money. It's tough for refugees, as I'm sure you must know. Locals, officials, even the police, are resentful. He stayed here for a while. He's a friend of my sons as well, and I trust him completely. He's one of the gentlest people I know – he couldn't do anything violent.”

“He's been in some trouble with the police in Johannesburg, part of a vigilante group that got mixed up in a violent altercation. Did you know that?”

“He mentioned it – it was nothing. Just a scuffle, he said.”

Pillay said nothing. He shrugged his shoulders and then asked me if I had walked the dog in the plantations today.

“No. At least, I went up the road and took a lane that runs alongside my neighbours' house. You can walk along the edge of the trees. It's a bit steeper, but I didn't want to go to where … you know.”

“Of course. I'm not sure that walking there alone is a good idea, Mrs Marsh. Nothing to do with this case, but as a general rule. You should be careful.” He looked at me with concern in those deceptively gentle brown eyes. “Well, I must be going. Thank you for the tea. I may
need to speak to you again, and if you think of anything, anything at all that could be of help, please phone me.” He handed me his card, and I watched him leave, flicking it backwards and forwards between my fingers. I couldn't help liking him, though at the same time, my concern for Daniel was growing. Why on earth would someone he was planning to meet have been murdered, and then left here for him to find? And was there more to that “scuffle” than he had told me?