Just a Dead Man (7 page)

A
S WE STOOD THERE TRYING
not to watch Mr Ndzoyiya staring at the ground, there was a soft, rustling noise in the earth-smelling leaf litter under the trees. Birds or small creatures of the forest feeding, hunting and going about their inscrutable business. If only they could talk, tell us what they had witnessed on Monday afternoon. In the distance, I could hear a police siren, far enough away not to intrude, and somewhere a dog barked: the sounds of urban life that we seldom stop long enough to hear. Verne dug into the softer earth at the edge of the path with the toe of his shoe while Chantal, always restless, made a faint clicking noise with her tongue against her teeth. Eventually, Mr Ndzoyiya straightened up with a sigh.

“Thank you. Shall we go now?”

We shuffled back into our two-by-two crocodile, but this time Verne and Chantal led the way while I walked with Mr Ndzoyiya.

“The police tell me my father was not killed here. The killer brought his body here and left it under the trees. They say they don't know why.”

Well, that was news. Or, at least, the confirmation of what Adam Pillay had originally suggested.

“It's strange,” I said. “They don't seem to have even tried to hide him. People use these paths: cyclists, walkers,
joggers and people taking short cuts. He was always going to be found quickly.”

My companion nodded, and stood politely aside to let me get to the garden gate and spin the combination. We filed back into the house, and I offered everyone a cup of tea. Mr Ndzoyiya accepted, but Verne said he had to get back to university. He and Chantal shook hands with Mr Ndzoyiya, and left.

I made the tea, and carried the tray through to the studio.

“You are a painter?” Mr Ndzoyiya asked, gesturing to my easel. With a jolt I realised that the hand beginning to take shape on the canvas was that of the man accused of murdering his father.

“Yes. That's how I met Daniel … Mr Moyo. You know, Mr Ndzoyiya, I can't believe he had anything to do with this. I don't know quite how to put this … but can I ask you? Did your father have any enemies? Could anyone possibly have wanted him dead? I suppose the police have asked you all of this, but I'm very worried about Mr Moyo. He's a Zimbabwean refugee, and things haven't been easy for him. And, of course, many foreigners have had very bad experiences in this country. Even at the hands of the police. And Mr Moyo's only contact with your father had been on the phone, a request for information.”

I felt uncomfortable: I had no idea what Mr Ndzoyiya's feelings about foreigners, or anything else, were. But I ploughed on. “I feel I must try to help Daniel. If you have any idea who might have killed your father, who his enemies were, could you tell me?”

Mr Ndzoyiya reached for his tea. Considering that the accused was a friend of mine, he seemed relaxed in my presence and, if not exactly friendly, certainly perfectly amiable. Looking down into the mug, he began to speak.

“Mrs Marsh, my father believed deeply that the sacrifice his grandfather and others made for their masters in war should be recognised. Perhaps particularly in the First World War, which he felt was not the business of African people but where they went willingly, from a sense of duty. And that is, in itself, not a contentious opinion. But the way that recognition is given and by whom is, like so many things, not as readily resolved.

“When Mr Moyo contacted my father, and told him, as I understand it, that he wanted to do some paintings about soldiers fighting for their colonisers, he was interested. He had many stories and felt he could share some of them, maybe give Mr Moyo some ideas. He did not believe memorials should be the property of governments, the kind that are officially opened with fanfares and expensive celebrations and then ignored. He felt they should be everywhere – in schoolbooks, in art, in everyday life.”

“That seems a good idea,” I said. It was a feeble response, but I wanted to say something to keep Mr Ndzoyiya going as he seemed to have reached a natural pause.

“Many of the people on the
Mendi
, including my great-grandfather, were from Pondoland, as I am. I know my father sometimes felt other people were trying to take over our memories, use them for their own ends. But I don't really know if he had had any specific quarrel with anyone about it. Though I do remember …” Mr Ndzoyiya trailed off, and looked up at me. “Maybe these are things I should rather be telling the police.” He stood up and thanked me formally for the tea, and for taking time to show him where the body had been found.

“Mr Ndzoyiya, look, I don't want to interfere, but I do feel the police are targeting Daniel. If you know anything, or if you feel you could tell me anything, please won't you? Or if you would rather not talk to me – and I quite
understand – will you tell Inspector Pillay? But if you feel you can, will you tell me too?”

He looked straight at me, for the first time. “Maybe I will. I believe what you have told me.” I scribbled my cellphone and landline numbers down, and gave them to him. He offered me his hand, and then he was gone.

I
RECEIVED A TEXT MESSAGE
from Robin just as I was climbing out of bed on Thursday, telling me to be at his office at eight sharp – early for my holiday timetable. I had just enough time to grab a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, and promise Grumpy a proper walk later. He subsided with a sigh, his whole being exuding offence as he mooched off to his kennel. I would phone Philippa, and we could walk together this afternoon. I was suddenly nervous about being alone in the plantations.

Robin was waiting for me. He picked up a gown that was greening with age, and had a jagged tear in the hem. I wondered if I should offer to mend it, except that I don't really do mending. But maybe I could swing it as part payment.

“We can go down to the cells and see Daniel before he comes to court. He knows this will just be a remand, but I need to talk to him.”

“Will he get bail?”

“We'll get him a bail hearing. I've spoken to the prosecutor, and she's agreed to get that set down for next week.” I started to say something, but Robin interrupted. “No ways we can get it before then. I think she's a bit concerned about the lack of evidence she's seen so far, but we have to apply for bail in the Regional Court. If we get a
date next week, we'll be doing well.”

A little nervously, I told Robin about Paul Ndzoyiya's visit and that I had asked him if his father had enemies. I also told him what I had remembered as I walked down the road, and he suggested I should talk to Inspector Pillay about it.

“He'll be in court this morning. What you remember is pretty vague, but it might help. But keep in mind, Laura, that this is a murder case. Leave it to the police – don't do anything stupid.”

I actually thought that that was rather offensive, but said nothing. After all, Robin was helping Daniel, and if he thought I was a pest, well … so be it. Then, again, maybe I was?

I don't suppose – apart from the day I got divorced, over which my mind has drawn a comforting veil – I had ever set foot in a courtroom before. The divorce must have been in the High Court anyway; maybe marginally less unpleasant than the magistrates' end of the process. There was a guard who eyed us with disfavour but let us in when Robin said we were going down to the holding cells to visit his client. The place smelt of stale urine with a curious metallic tang that made me think of railway stations but was probably no more than the odour of institutions. There was another smell that took me a moment longer to identify: dagga. Everything seemed to be covered in a layer of grime so ingrained that no cleaning could ever remove it: it had become part of the fabric of the building. As Robin led the way down to the cells, we passed a series of battered benches, the floor beneath them scuffed by thousands of waiting feet, and I felt myself cringing away from the people we passed, the walls and the whole experience.

A policeman let us into a room and went off to fetch
Daniel. There were hard plastic chairs, but I didn't want to sit down. Coward that I am, I didn't want to be there at all. To my surprise, Daniel looked calm when they brought him in. He was wearing clean jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and I realised guiltily that Chantal, practical and organised, must have brought him a change of clothes, something that had not even crossed my mind. I supposed she was used to dealing with people who found themselves at the mercy of the police, but even so, I should have thought of it.

Daniel gave me a hug, and shook Robin's hand. When I asked if he was okay, he nodded. Robin then sat him down and told him exactly what to expect, and said he reckoned the bail hearing would be set for next week. Dan nodded again. He told us Sergeant Dhlomo had been in yesterday to question him, had asked all kinds of questions about his life in Johannesburg and said that he was taking Dan's car in for forensic examination. “Not that he's going to find anything,” said Dan. Again I wondered why he had parked outside on Monday. But I didn't want to ask.

I told him about Paul Ndzoyiya's visit, and what he knew of his father's interaction with Dan. “That's right. He told me on the phone he felt public memorials were not the answer, and would cost far too much. Rather spend the money on developing materials schoolkids could use. Stuff to tell them about the country's history rather than more statues or memorial plaques that just get vandalised – and are anyway something inherited from the colonisers. He talked about the coloniser and the colonised quite a bit. I didn't get the feeling he was
involved
in any kind of activity to promote one kind of memorial over another, but remember I never met him: just spoke to him a couple of times. Though he did say there were plans for a memorial statue, which he thought a bit pointless.”

There didn't seem to be much more that Dan could tell us, and Robin was on his feet, heading for the door. I still could not believe the
Mendi
connection and Phineas Ndzoyiya's views on how to commemorate it could have had anything to do with his death. It simply made no sense, almost a hundred years after the event, to kill someone because of a dispute over statues or worksheets. But we were out of time.

We left Daniel, and headed up to court. It was not imposing: just a grimly functional space where lawyers in gowns and other people with files in hand were milling about. I caught sight of Verne and Chantal sitting in what I supposed served as the public gallery and, touching Robin on the arm and pointing to where I was headed, I moved across the room to join them. On the way, I bumped into Inspector Pillay and Sergeant Dhlomo.

I approached the inspector, trying to steer as far away from Dhlomo as I could and speaking softly so that the sergeant wouldn't hear what I had to say. Not that it was a secret, but I didn't want to have to deal with him. Antagonism seemed to waft off him in waves: to be honest, he frightened me.

“Inspector, I've remembered something about Monday afternoon, before Daniel came. I don't know if it's significant, or anything.”

“Good morning, Mrs Marsh. I'm afraid I can't talk right now – the magistrate is coming, and we have to go straight after this hearing. But I'll call on you later today, if I may.” And with that, the magistrate swept in, and the formal proceedings began.

It was all over before I had even got my bearings. Robin got up and stated he was representing Mr Daniel Moyo: Hannah Bhengu, who I had been introduced to just outside the court, identified herself as the prosecutor.
She was older than I had expected, probably in her early forties. It was arranged that Daniel would appear in the Regional Court a week from today for a bail hearing, even though Ms Bhengu said the police would be opposing bail. And that was that. Robin went to Daniel and spoke to him, and then Daniel was led away. Verne, Chantal and I looked at each other. Verne shrugged.

“At least he doesn't have to wait too long for the bail hearing. Laura … you talked to Paul Ndzoyiya yesterday after we'd gone. Does he have any ideas?”

I told Verne what Mr Ndzoyiya had said, and that I was more and more convinced that the
Mendi
connection was a red herring. What I didn't say was what had been worrying me the last couple of days. Why had the body been found at the top of my road? If Phineas Ndzoyiya had been killed somewhere else, why dump him there? Was someone trying to frame Daniel? And if they were, then presumably they knew that Daniel knew me, and was planning to visit me. Surely I couldn't suspect Verne or Chantal, so someone else must have known? I needed to speak to Dan again.

I looked around for Robin and, muttering my apologies to Verne, went over to him.

“Rob, any chance I can go back and speak to Dan again. I need to ask him a question?”

He looked irritated, but he arranged it nevertheless, and I was back again in the little room with its plastic chairs. The walls were institutional two-tone: an ugly shiny dark green below dingy cream. There were marks on one, brownish smears I didn't want to look at or think about, but that kept drawing my eyes as I waited for Dan. There was a small, barred window on the opposite wall, and by way of a distraction, I went to look out – onto a view of a dusty space, probably once a garden but now
used as a car park. The cars were a strange mixture: huge, shiny 4x4s with tinted windows and vanity plates cheek by jowl with beat-up old Toyotas and Opels, scraped and dented and one with a non-matching door. The car was old and red but the driver's door was a matt grey colour.

I looked at the two nearest cars. One was a big black Pajero with some kind of stupid slogan instead of a number. My view of personalised plates is that they are moronic in inverse ratio to the size of the owner's penis. A flaw had emerged in that thesis when the boys told me Ms Tits had one. Simon had got it for her for her thirtieth birthday, and it said “SONIA 30”. Like she would be 30 forever – though maybe he could solve all his future present-buying problems with a yearly update. In my day he had not been an inspired present giver.

The car alongside it was a white twin cab, with some kind of logo on the side. And what I had half-remembered from Monday suddenly sharpened. But at that moment the door to the room opened, and Daniel was brought in.

“Laura … Hey, don't worry about me. This could be worse. At least I'm being held on my own in the police cells. And it looks as if I'm going to stay there until the bail hearing anyway.”

“Dan, listen. Who, apart from Mr Ndzoyiya, did you talk to about the
Mendi
? Before you came down, when you made contact with Mr Ndzoyiya, who else knew anything about your ideas? Who put you onto him? And who knew that you would be visiting me when you were down here from Joburg? Apart from Verne and Chantal, I mean.”

Dan looked at me, questioning.

“I reckon you were framed. Someone dumped the body there when they knew you were going to be at my house. It was pure chance you found it, but I have a feeling that if you hadn't, it would have been found while you were there
and you would have been involved somehow. Your finding it was a bonus.”

“That sounds a bit paranoid. Why me? I hadn't even met Phineas Ndzoyiya. And I don't suppose anyone knew I was coming to see you.”

“I don't know. But who did you talk to?”

Dan sank down into one of the awful chairs, put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. I noticed a fine tremor: he was doing his best, but the whole situation seemed to be taking its toll. “I talked to a whole bunch of people at some heritage exhibition opening in Joburg one evening. There was a civil-servant type … He gave me Phineas Ndzoyiya's name, said he was a great fund of stories about the
Mendi
. Then he talked about plans for a memorial in Pondoland somewhere, on the coast, near where many of those serving in the labour battalion came from. He was saying they were raising money to put up a statue or something. Develop some kind of park.”

Dan pushed the chair back and looked up at me. His glasses had slipped, and he looked very young, very vulnerable. “I've also talked to some of the other artists I've been working with, told them about my ideas. Some of them knew I was coming down. And when I spoke to Phineas Ndzoyiya, I said I would be staying with Verne, and that I would be visiting other friends as well. I may have mentioned your name – Ndzoyiya was a teacher, so I may have said you were a teacher.”

That wasn't much help. Phineas Ndzoyiya hadn't murdered himself to frame Daniel.

“Can't you remember the civil servant's name? I mean, if he gave you the contact, he must have known Phineas.”

Dan took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked tired. “Hang on. There were two people. One was Rhoda Josephs. She works in the Premier's office down here, I
think. I've known her for a long time. She seems to be in Johannesburg a lot, and is a regular at exhibitions and has some heritage connections – you've probably met her too. She didn't give me Phineas's name, but she was with the guy who did … I think I've probably seen them together before. But maybe they just know each other. I don't know him.”

He looked up at me. “He's a smooth guy – big, well dressed. I think he might be something in government, but I don't know what. I suppose Rhoda would know. She knew I was coming down. I bumped into her at the gallery in Joburg the week before I left. Told her I was going to come down to KZN to do some research. She asked if it was for the exhibition I had talked about it, and I said it was. I said I was going to see Phineas. She did ask if I was staying with friends, and I told her I was. She knows Chantal from somewhere. I think I said I would come to see you as well.”

Daniel looked at me. “I haven't given it any thought really. It was just a chat. She said that if she could help with anything when I was here, I should call her – she was just in Joburg for a couple of days. But, Laura, I can't imagine Rhoda was involved in any way. I mean, why should she be? It was nothing to do with her, not in any way.”

To be honest, I couldn't really see any connection either. But at least it was
something.
At that moment the guard came back and told me I had to go. Despite his impatience, I asked Dan to look out of the window, at the twin cab I had seen. But when I looked again, it had gone. There was nothing more to say. I gave Dan a kiss, which earned me a glare from the man holding the door, and I left, again trying not to take in too much of my surroundings.