by Mark Graham
“Living less.”
“Maybe.” She faced him at last. “But sometimes expecting less leaves you stronger, I think. Sometimes opening up too much leaves wounds that never heal. But I’m tired of expecting less.”
“Sure.”
“I need to move, Nigel. I need another place. Away from Port Elizabeth. Away from street riots and murder investigations. Away from . . . all the memories.”
And away from me? Mansell wondered. Yes and no. But he said, “I know. Tell Harriet we’ll be down Friday morning sometime.” “Okay. Will you be home tonight?”
“Late. “
“Me too.”
Recalling a mind game that said creating a diversion would take one’s mind off other diversions, Mansell switched on a portable radio in hopes of drowning out the cacophony in the streets. Classical. Someone’s been playing with the dial, he thought. Joshua. Mansell recognized Ravel’s Bolero and upped the volume a fraction.
He sat down at the computer. “Daily report. Subject: Homicide Investigation, Sylvia Mabasu.” Mansell detailed the discovery of the Honda Civic and the pathology report on the poison. He mentioned the source of the chiffon scarf and the investigative team again combing the train station in search of the scarfs owner.
He dialed the captain’s office upstairs and transferred the report via telephone modem. While he was printing copies for himself and the district prosecutor, Joshua entered the office.
Together, they studied the sketch of John Martyn. A face of extreme detail stared back. Transposed by colored pencils, it exuded life and emotion. Or rather, Mansell thought, a lack of emotion. Sunken cheeks and pronounced cheekbones gave the face a cadaverous look that thick, jutting eyebrows and a Grecian nose tended to balance. The hair was fine, short, and light brown. Mansell yearned for the forensic report on the Honda.
“Assuming we’re on the right track,” Joshua said, watching Mansell’s eyes widen, “then the killer wasn’t in the country when the rope was purchased from The Outdoorsman. So either we have the wrong rope, or someone else is involved.”
“His employer.”
“Or the woman with the scarf.” Joshua shrugged. He said, “I
think it was Holmes who said, ‘Assumptions are a risky business.’ “ “Holmes? Really? Would that be Sherlock or Oliver Wendell?” “Mm. Maybe I was thinking of Hesse.”
“Maybe we should wait until we hear from Forensic in the morning,” answered Mansell, smiling. Ravel gave way to Bach. Mansell passed a copy of his daily report to the detective. “We have a new murder weapon.”
“Remarkable.” Joshua tugged on his ear. “But why poison?”
“If he was setting Anthony Mabasu up the entire time, then he’d want something that wouldn’t show up in autopsy. Obviously, he didn’t figure the organ review into his plans. True, Mabasu wouldn’t have used poison, but then the killer didn’t want to risk strangling Elgin outright. Too much noise on the one hand, and on the other, considering Elgin’s size, he might not have gotten the job done.”
“That’s damn elaborate. Why not a gun with a silencer?”
“You can’t hide a silencer from ballistics. The gun Mabasu could acquire, yes, but not the silencer.” They pushed it around for another minute, and then Mansell jumped up. “I’m starving. Joshua, take your sketch over to Research Bureau. Send a copy over the wire to Interpol headquarters in Paris, and attach a copy of Martyn’s passport and driver’s license information. Maybe we’ll get lucky. I’ll have a word with someone from NIS about the ricin-atropine mixture.” NIS was the abbreviated moniker for South Africa’s National Intelligence Service. “It sounds like something covert and underhanded, doesn’t it? Maybe it’s in their files someplace. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria in thirty minutes.”
****
The framed houses of Freetown, Sierra Leone, reminiscent of old New England homes, were clothed in darkness by the time ARVA II docked alongside one of the harbor’s modernized piers.
Its cargo, ten pallets of precut lumber, baling material, and packing foam, was already dockside. While diesel fuel and fuel oil were pumped from bunkers into the freighter’s hungry belly, the pallets were hoisted onto the main deck and covered with tarp.
A review of ARVA’s papers took no longer than ten minutes, and by 9:00 P.M., it was under way again.
****
Mansell ordered fish-and-chips. Joshua settled on pastrami and French fries.
They found a booth, and Mansell said, “If you were a black lady, a pretty black lady who owned an expensive chiffon scarf, would you wear it to work, or around the house, or just for nights on the town? Special nights?”
“Hell with that, I’d wear it everywhere. Why not?”
“And chances are good that, if Elgin gave you a fifty-rand neck scarf, he also gave you other things, other clothes, maybe jewelry.” “And if you’re native, that’s going to set you apart.”
“And people would take notice,” said Mansell. “Tomorrow, we’ll start over with Elgin’s old haunts, where he played, where he worked. She’s out there. Maybe she’s just a loose end. Maybe.”
They saw Merry enter the cafeteria. His normally buoyant face looked haggard. The toothpick was missing.
“You passed up the pastry cart,” Joshua needled. “What’s wrong with you, man?”
Merry drew up a chair. He stole a french fry from Joshua’s plate. “John Martyn bought a round-trip ticket on Air Africa out of Heathrow Airport in London on July first,” Merry said. “He paid cash, twelve hundred pounds. The plane landed at Jan Smuts International in Jo’burg at eight-thirty A.M. on the second. He booked a South African Air flight to Verwoerd Airport here in R E., and arrived at one forty-five P.M. So far so good. His return flight, number 618, was scheduled to leave Verwoerd on the fourth of July at nine thirty-eight in the morning. Martyn never checked in.
“I checked with Johannesburg. Martyn didn’t meet his connection at twelve twenty-five that afternoon. He never rebooked. I checked with the railroad. No one using the name John Martyn has purchased a ticket on any outbounds in the last week. That leaves car or boat.”
“He could have been out of the country already. Why would he leave town in a car or by boat?” asked Joshua rhetorically.
Merry stabbed another french fry. “He wouldn’t.”
They both glanced across the table at Mansell, who said, “He’s still here.”
Chapter 6
The night passed in relative peace.
Police arrested twenty-three demonstrators. Four others were injured and taken to St. Anne’s Hospital. No dead. The news was good, Mansell thought. The crowd dispersed at midnight under its own failing momentum. The funeral in New Brighton on Wednesday, he knew, would be a different story.
Mansell parked his Impala in the police garage and began the trek back to the station. Riot police still patrolled the streets. Maintenance crews used street sweepers, fire hoses, and push brooms to erase the evidence.
Struggling with fatigue, he mounted the station’s granite steps, smoking half a cigarette before going inside. Another marathon session had busied Mansell until two this morning, when he had released a nationwide alert for John David Martyn. The circular, he knew, would be on the streets in 84 police districts, 931 stations, 4 black homelands, and the cooperating states of Lesotho and Swaziland by nine.
Mansell was more concerned about John Martyn’s next target. The man had forsaken legitimate passage from the country, and from the chief homicide inspector’s perspective, there could be only one reason.
Inside, Mansell proceeded directly to the basement. Chas du Toits was humming something from Verdi’s Don Carlos and scrutinizing a series of black-and-white photographs.
“So, it’s our chief inspector,” he said smugly. “I’d expected you earlier.”
“Expectations are a dangerous affair at this time in the morning, Chas.”
“We labored late into the night for your benefit, my friend. Our little Honda Civic proved an enlig
htening challenge.”
“I’m holding my breath.” Forensic reminded Mansell of a futuristic dentist’s office. Du Toits’s assistants moved with robotic stiffness and smiled lacquered smiles. The lab radiated blue light and gleaming tile.
“Yes, well. Let us start with the dashboard.” Du Toits led the way to a long table covered in sterile paper and hosting a row of neatly labeled specimens. Druggist’s paper held two fingernail fragments. A plastic bag contained shredded rubber. “You were right. The fingernails here belonged to our second victim, the Mabasu woman. The plastic rubber was gouged from the dashboard on the passenger side. She died quickly, but . . . not without pain, I’m afraid.”
Du Toits shook his head. He moved on, saying, “Next, the seat covers. We found eleven hair samples on the headrest, all from the same man, all from a man thinning quite rapidly on top, I’m quite sure.”
“Really.”
“Hm. Average length, five centimeters. Light brown. Very dry. And an exact match to the ones found on Ian Elgin’s sweater. These are the SEM results.” Du Toits handed Mansell the printout. Then he held up a transparent bag containing wool fibers. “The black-and-gray fragments found on the first victim’s sweater and on the driver’s side of the Honda. One and the same.”
Mansell felt a pulsing in his veins. “We’ve got him.”
“There’s more.” The forensic chief passed Mansell an enlarged black-and-white photo. He switched on a fluorescent screen highlighting the corresponding negative. “This shows the carpet in the Honda’s backseat. The crusted material is a reddish clay, one not indigenous to this area. Our friend stepped in a puddle of mud and then reached into the backseat. In doing so, he left a single impression from his left shoe. A shoe with a crepe sole, and the impression matches exactly those left outside the ladies’ lounge Friday morning.”
“We can—”
Du Toits raised a hand. He gestured across the room at one of his assistants and said, “Please note the sleepy lad there toying with the spectrometer. His fatigue, I confess, is due to a bit of a journey we sent him on last night. To Peddie, in Ciskei.”
“The red clay.”
“Indeed.”
The chief inspector nearly smiled. “Careful, Chas, I may be forced to hand out a compliment.”
“Do tell,” he replied, inserting a specimen sample beneath the lens of a high-powered microscope. “And finally, the trunk. If you look closely, Inspector, you’ll see that we detected fibers of nylon and rayon, the exact consistency of the ligature found around both victims’ necks.”
Mansell pushed strands of gold hair off his forehead. He bent over the microscope. Magnified two hundred times, the fibers looked like eager sperm cells.
“Fingerprints?”
“Sylvia Mabasu’s and one other set, still unidentified.” “Probably the gas station attendant’s.”
****
From the presidential stateroom, the Voortrekker Monument was a squat mass set atop the browning hills of the highveld.
Seated in velour armchairs, they gazed out at the scene through beveled windows. They smoked pipes and sipped English tea. It was the prime minister who broke the silence, saying, “I was surprised at the cabinet’s support for the idea.”
“It is a difficult step, isn’t it?”
“You’ve been lobbying, Cecil.”
“Yes, some, I admit it. But I think the time has come, Minister. I think it’s that important.”
“And dangerous.” The prime minister turned in his seat. Eyes the texture and hue of an irreverent shark’s locked in on his justice minister. “Dangerous to me.”
“Still in all, the situation continues to deteriorate. As your justice—”
“If an unrestricted state of emergency is declared, how do you suppose the opposition will react, I wonder?”
“The opposition is not blind, Minister. And we can weather any—
“We?” asked the prime minister coolly. “ ‘We,’ you say. And if it blows up in our faces? Will it still be ‘we,’ Cecil? Who would be in line for my job, I ask myself, if—worst-case scenario—if our Western allies balk at such a pronouncement, if talk of disinvestment and economic sanctions erupts with increased vigor, or if Suzman and Tutu and the rest of the progressives finally get their heads together? Who, I ask myself?”
“Minister, you and I have been aligned for far too long, you know that. Your fate and mine are—”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Be that as it may, we’ll give this state-of-emergency idea another week. The turn of the tide will be clearer by then, I would think.”
****
There are times, he thought, when half an hour makes all the difference.
Mansell bounded up the stairs, two at a time, to the main floor. The Pit was a myriad of paper-strewn desks, abject work cubicles, ringing telephones, overworked holding cells, and incessant racket.
Joshua’s feet were propped up on his desk top amid a collage of pastry crumbs, Styrofoam cups, paper clips, and pencils. He cradled a telephone between his ear and shoulder while constructing a paper airplane from last week’s station-house newsletter. Mansell found an empty chair. He saw steam rising from Joshua’s tea and helped himself. He held up a copy of the forensic report on the Honda.
A moment later, Joshua slammed the receiver down. He clapped his hands and said, “John Martyn has a name. Over the telex.”
They were on their feet and out the door.
Crime Research Bureau was located on the sixth floor of the Hall of Justice. Air-conditioning hummed at an undisturbed tempo. Eggshell-white and watered-down lavender enhanced the coolness of the room, like vanilla icing on white cake. Proficiency and quiet oozed from every corner.
A tight-lipped woman with straight brown hair pulled off her face and held in a neat bun at the back monitored the international desk. She wore a blue-jeans skirt, midcalf, and a pullover sweater. Her face was scrubbed an ivory white. She wore a trace of red lipstick. Her last fling with rebelliousness, thought Mansell. And yet, despite every effort to the contrary, she was still pretty. Joshua recognized this, and he flirted, openly, but without success.
“Your readout,” she announced conclusively, “will be up in sixty seconds.”
True to her word, the CRT screen and the printer reacted simultaneously.
INTERPOL—DATA RESPONSE
INQUIRY—IDENTIFICATION ANALYSIS
Port Elizabeth, Cape Province, South Africa
SAP District #32, Police Station #291,
Criminal Investigation Branch
Authorization: N. Mansell CIH, J. Brungle D 1st
RESPONSE—Name: Fredrik Willem Steiner
Known alias: Peter Franks, John David Martyn
Date of Birth: 8/3/1948
Nationality: East German
Previous Residence: Dresden
Current Residence: East Berlin [address unknown]
Physical description: Male, Height 1.83 meters, Weight 69 kg,
Hair Brown, Eyes Gray, Blood type A+
Physical I. D. characteristics: tattoo on left tricep—i. e. , Stone Brigade;
Abdominal scar: vertical, appendectomy
Steiner was arrested in West Berlin on April 25, 1985,
by West German police in connection with the assassination
of West German Defense Minister Adolf Boll. Detained three
days. Released due to insufficient evidence. Deported
May 1, 1985. Current status, unknown. Steiner is reported
to be an active member of the Stone Brigade, an East
German terrorist organization headquartered in Leipzig.
[inconclusive]
Photo and Print File to follow
INTERPOL Paris, France
The officer of the day, a thirty-year man named Sergeant Earlie Chandler, caught Nigel Mansell by the arm as he worked his way through the Pit.
Sergeant Chandler leaned close and said, “You got a call twenty minutes ago. A woman. Nice voice but a little stuffy
. You know what I mean? Says her name is Mrs. Blackford. Mean anything? Anyway, I listen. Says she has something about the Elgin case for you.”
Mansell shook his head. “The Elgin case is a closed book, Earlie, you know that.”
Chandler nodded in return: procedure. “Sure. Why else would I tell you face-to-face?” he said. The chief inspector returned the nod somberly. “Mrs. Blackford says she’ll be at the Egg Hatch at ten-thirty if you’re interested. So?”
The Egg Hatch occupied a corner at Rodney and Main; no restrictions. An Asian family named Dali owned the restaurant. They specialized in ground coffees from around the world and the best apple strudel Mansell had ever tasted. Checkerboard tablecloths and fresh-cut flowers adorned each table.
Mansell held his enthusiasm in check. A glass of champagne and a thank-you note, he told himself, don’t add up to a thing. And when he saw the black girl seated at the table with Delaney, he congratulated himself.
Delaney stood up, extending her hand. “Hello. Thanks for coming.” Her handshake was firm and warm, and Mansell held her hand a moment longer than necessary. “This is Lea Goduka. Inspector Nigel Mansell.”
“Good morning, Lea,” he said. “It is still morning, isn’t it? Are we having coffee?”
Mansell ordered Costa Rican for himself and Lea. Delaney chose cappuccino. When they were served, she said, “Lea’s employed at the docks by the Harbour Association. She works at the port control tower for the port captain’s office. She’s also the secretary for the stevedores’ local number twenty-one.”
Mansell tipped his head. Lea Goduka appeared to be twenty-six or twenty-seven. A bright scarf tied off black hair and highlighted large eyes and a taunting smile. She wore a string of pearls over a cashmere sweater. Her positions at the docks and with the union spoke well for a black, but they didn’t explain pearls and cashmere.
“Lea and I have known each other for a couple of years. We ran into each other at Ian’s funeral yesterday in Jo’burg.”