Just a Dead Man (5 page)

A
FTER THE INSPECTOR LEFT
I felt a deep uneasiness, unable to settle, waiting for further interruptions. At around five o'clock the phone rang and, as my hand went out to pick up the receiver, I was aware of a peculiar sensation – as if a storm was about to break, the smell of sulphur in the air. I'm not usually one for premonitions, but sure enough, the caller was Daniel, his voice panicky.

“Laura! The cops are here. They're taking me in! Dhlomo wants to take me to the Loop Street police station. So I'm phoning you, but they may take my phone. Verne and Chantal are out – I need some help here.”

“
What?
Why are they taking you in?”

“They want to question me about the murder. Dhlomo seems to think I killed that guy. Please, Laura. Can you do something?”

Oh God. What on earth could
I
do? Why would they take Dan in? They couldn't have any evidence, surely? I thought about lawyers, bail. There had to be something. “Okay, Dan. Hang in there. I'll see what I can do. Loop Street?”

“That's what he said. God – he's coming.” Dan cut the connection. I felt sick. He could not be a killer. But the cops seemed to think they could tie him to Ndzoyiya. What the hell was I to do?

My brother is a lawyer, but in a big corporate kind
of firm in Johannesburg. He wouldn't be much help in trying to get bail in Pietermaritzburg for an impecunious Zimbabwean immigrant artist, accused of killing an elderly and seemingly respectable schoolteacher. Put like that, it wasn't going to be easy to find anyone queuing up for the job.

Then I thought of Robin Watson. He is a lawyer in town who asked me out a couple of times not long after my divorce, or his. We got on fine, but there had been no spark, and while we're still friends and occasionally help the other out when one of us is asked to something that would be more palatable with a partner, romance is not part of the deal. He had, however, been involved in all kinds of human rights and political cases in the old days, and still did various what he referred to as “public interest” cases. Even if Daniel's problem wasn't the kind of thing he dealt with, he could perhaps suggest someone who could help.

Time was important. Lawyers, like the rest of the world, would be knocking off around now. If we wanted to get Dan out, I had to move quickly.

I phoned Robin, and cut through the pleasantries. “Robin, I'm afraid I've got a problem, and I'm hoping you can help. I know it's a cheek, but I need a lawyer fast.”

“What's wrong – what have you done?”

“Not me. A friend. He's been picked up by the cops … they seem to think he's murdered someone. And Robin, he isn't a killer. It's all a horrible mistake. What can we do?”

“Slow down, Laura! Who's he supposed to have killed? And where is he?”

I took a deep breath, and began to explain. It was a long story, and Robin kept stopping me, asking questions and, presumably, making notes. When I got to the end of my
saga, I asked whether Dan would be granted bail.

“Well, it all sounds a bit thin, but
if
they charge him, murder's a big one, a Schedule 6 offence. And you say he's been in some trouble in Joburg, for some vigilante group? For sure, we wouldn't get bail tonight if they do charge him. At least it's only Tuesday: people who get picked up on Fridays have to sit in the cells until the following week – the cops have 48 hours to get them to court, but weekends don't count. So he should be in court tomorrow or Thursday – possible Friday morning, depending on when they book him.”

“Oh God, poor Daniel. But Robin … can you do this? It's a helluva thing to ask you. It's not as if you even know him.”

“I know you and – most of the time at any rate – I'd trust your judgement. You believe he's innocent?”

I'm ashamed to admit that when Robin asked me that, I had a hideous qualm. Can we ever really know anyone? Really know what makes them tick? Even my own children as they have grown up have become less predictable, less
obvious
, doing and saying things that seem to me to be out of character –  or at least the character I think is theirs. They are no longer extensions of me, and they are often mysterious to me, despite our closeness. Someone who was a friend based on a shared interest but whose experience as a man who had had to leave his family, country and old life, and struggle with refugee status and poverty was so remote from my white, middle-class, safe, female background that he was inevitably a stranger in many ways. Despite this business of vigilantes, I couldn't believe he would ever bludgeon a fellow human to death. Not Dan. He was way too gentle, too imaginative.

I tried to articulate some of this to Robin, but even down a phone line I could sense it was, to him, irrelevant.
He began to get impatient.

“Okay, okay. Now, what's Daniel's status? Is he legal? Does he have a fixed home? And does he have an income? Those are the questions that will be asked in a bail hearing, if we can get one.”

“
If!
You mean he mightn't even get a hearing?

“Laura – we're talking a murder charge. We don't know what the cops have got. It sounds pretty circumstantial to me, but they may have more evidence than you know about. Look, let me get off now. I'll go down to the police station and try to see Daniel, explain you phoned me and offer my services. And I'll see if I can talk to the investigating officer. Adam Pillay, you said? I know him. He's a good cop, and a decent man – which, I'm afraid, does make it a bit strange if he's arrested Daniel without more evidence than what you've told me about.”

“I told you. This Sergeant Dhlomo made the arrest. And I'm sure he's got it in for Dan because he's a foreigner. You hear about xenophobic cops all the time.”

“Well, okay … maybe. Anyway, I'll see what I can do, and I'll get back to you a.s.a.p. Hang in there.”

The sun had slipped behind the hills that give my house its backdrop – something I love about it and have loved from the moment I saw it, but do not intend to mention to Simon as we fight over swimming pools and safety – and the garden was in deep shadow as I pulled the studio door shut behind me. Grumpy came with me: he knew it was too late for a walk, but was ever hopeful I would open the gate and take off up the road. “Fat chance, mate. Remember yesterday's walk,” I said, running my hand across his velvet head and sliding my fingers into the warm crease behind his ears. He gave a soft grunt of affection, and turned his head to lick me.

For the first time this year, there was a foretaste of
winter. The breeze that carried the scent of some night-flowering plant from next door was cool and sharp. I stood by the old lemon tree where the green, rough-skinned fruit was beginning to shade to yellow. Later, they would turn almost orange and would be full of juice and pips. Grumpy would roll the windfalls down the slope of the lawn, playing endless, mindless games with them until they burst. I walked round the corner of the house, past the plumbago that mounded on the bank by the pool. Its blue flowers had a special intensity in the fading light, as if they had retained something of the sun even after it had left the rest of the garden.

I saw with a miserable jolt of reality into what had been a few moments of relative peace that dead leaves were beginning to dot the surface of the pool. I would have to do something about that, I supposed, instantly reminded of Simon's phone call yesterday.

God, I hoped Robin could do something for Dan. And if bail was a possibility – surely it had to be – how much would it be, and where were we going to get money for it? I could put some up, but not much. I doubted if Dan had any: he never seemed to. Would Verne and Chantal be able to help? That reminded me. They had been out when Dan had called me to say he was being arrested. I had better try to get hold of them and let them know what was going on.

C
HANTAL IS TOUGH AND
capable and manages an NGO office working with abused women. She picked up the phone on its first ring. Her Cape accent was sharpened by concern.

“Laura! Thank heavens it's you, man. What's going on? I just came in now and there's a scribbled note from Dan saying: ‘Been arrested'. Where is he? Has he spoken to you? I tried his phone, but it's switched off.”

I told her what I knew, and that Robin had gone to the police station. I then asked if Verne was there.

“No. He was meeting some postgrads this afternoon and he's not back yet. Should we go to the cops when he gets in? See if there's anything we can do?”

“As soon as Robin gets back to me, I'll phone you. I don't think there's much we can do before then. But Chantal … if it comes to bail … do you know if Dan's got any money at the moment?”

“Shouldn't think so. Look, between Verne and me, we could probably scrape something together …”

“So could I, but not if it's going to be thousands.”

“Well, let's worry about that when it happens.”

I didn't know Chantal all that well. She and Verne both came to Pietermaritzburg from the Cape, about five years ago. Verne had supervised Daniel's master's degree, and I
knew him from the Fine Arts Department, but I wouldn't have described either him or Chantal as friends of mine. Just reasonably friendly acquaintances. But I asked Chantal if she knew anything about Daniel's connection with the dead man. Maybe she knew something I could tell Robin.

All she could tell me was that Dan had phoned a week or so ago, saying he wanted to come down as he had arranged to meet someone who lived in Durban and who might have information he could use, and that while he was here he would do some research in the university library. She said she hadn't talked to him about what it was: he might have spoken to Verne but she didn't know. I said again that I would get back to them when I heard anything, and hung up.

Waiting for Robin to phone was horrible. I was too restless to work, or to read, and I wasn't hungry. I didn't want to tell the boys that Dan had been arrested until I had a better idea of what would happen next. I switched on the television and surfed through the channels, but there was nothing to hold my attention. I roamed the house, straightening cushions, moving a couple of earth-toned Zulu baskets I had picked up over the years to see whether they would look better somewhere else. But my heart wasn't in it. I've often felt I can handle a crisis when I'm in the middle of it, but I'm not cut out for the times when there is nothing concrete to be done and the imagination takes over. Waiting is the real test.

Eventually, at around 8 o'clock, Robin rang. The news was not good. “They've booked him, Laura, and he's due in court on Thursday morning.”

“Oh God – why not tomorrow, Rob?”

“Be grateful. It could have been Friday. I saw Pillay there, and Dhlomo. I did get the feeling he's got it in for
Daniel, though I don't know why. He seemed to resent the fact that I was there and wanted to know who had contacted me. So he's probably got it in for you too now. Anyway, Daniel will appear in the District Court, and we'll get it remanded to the Regional Court for a bail hearing, probably around the end of next week. I can't see it happening before then, Laura. I've explained to Dan that he'll be kept in the holding cells until Thursday anyway, and probably until the second court date as well. He'll be okay. Don't worry too much about that.”

But I did worry. Dan was Zimbabwean, and there were always terrible stories about what happened in police cells, especially to people who might not fit in with the other inmates. It seems it doesn't do to be different even, or particularly, among the criminal classes. And the police and warders either can't or won't help. But Robin did say that, for the moment anyway, Dan was alone in a cell.

“I asked Pillay on what basis they were arresting him, what their evidence was. He was pretty cagey, and I don't think they've got a hell of a lot to go on. But Dan
had
been in contact with this Ndzoyiya guy, and he
did
deny any knowledge of him when he found the body.”

“But he had never seen him! He had no idea who he was!”

“I know, I know. But it doesn't look good. And Pillay confirmed he had been in some kind of trouble with the police in Joburg – not arrested, but questioned about something that happened when foreign traders were roughed up and their supporters took on the thugs. The guys here are waiting for more details on that. But it does mean Dan's name is known to the police, and in connection with a violent incident. Still, if the evidence for this killing
is
purely circumstantial, we can make a good case for bail. There'll be conditions. He'll probably
have to stay down here, not go back to Joburg. And report to the police station, etc. Though as he's an immigrant, and doesn't own property, it may be tricky.”

“Rob, what kind of money will we be talking? I mean, I don't think Dan's got much at the moment, and while I can help a bit, and probably some of his other friends, it's not going to be easy to find big bucks.”

“I would hope we could keep it to under ten grand – maybe even less than that. But it might depend on the magistrate. I'll find out who the prosecutor is beforehand, and if it's someone reasonable, we can try to make a plan. I know most of them, and over the years I've made a point of establishing working relations with them. Don't worry yet, Laura. I don't think the police have much of a case, at least at this stage. We'll do what we can.”

“Thanks so much, Rob. I really appreciate this. But the money thing …” I kind of trailed off. I had no idea how I was going to raise the bail, let alone pay Rob. Ten grand was not the sort of cash I had lying around. I could ask my father for money, and he would probably help, but I didn't like the idea. I'm a middle-aged adult: asking the folks for handouts is something I go a long way to avoid. A very long way.

“Hey, don't worry. We'll sort things out. Relax. Daniel was pretty calm when I left, and he's given me a bit of info about his contact with this Ndzoyiya. Come into my office tomorrow afternoon and I'll show you what I've got. We can see if there's anything we can do, or find out. It's too soon to worry.”

And I had to be satisfied with that. I sighed, and called Verne. He answered straight away, and I told him what Robin had said. I asked if he knew anything about Phineas Ndzoyiya, and he said he thought Dan had been given his name by someone working for some heritage body: Verne
could shed no further light on who Ndzoyiya was or where he worked. Daniel had told him what he had told me, that his contact was the grandson of a
Mendi
survivor, and apparently was keen to see the tragedy remembered in a practical way. Dan had spoken to him over the phone about the exhibition and arranged to meet him. But more than that, Verne didn't know.