by Malla Nunn
The creek had receded and the main road to Roselet was two stepping-stones away. Shabalala cleared the water first and Emmanuel followed. By now, keeping dry didn’t matter. They both looked ragged as hobos in stolen suits.
“No Mr. Insurance Policy,” Emmanuel said, and crossed the grass verge to the Chevrolet. It was two p.m. and Zweigman’s examination of the body was probably finished by now. The results might yield some answers.
“No one has heard of him, Sergeant. He is not a Zulu from the valley.”
“We’ll ask in town, but it feels like that lead is going nowhere.” He fished out the car keys and inserted them in the driver’s-side door. The angle was wrong, the keyhole at a lower level than normal. He stepped back to look.
“Little bastard.” Emmanuel now knew how Sampie Paulus felt when the Reed boy stole from the homestead and escaped without punishment. “The front tire’s been slashed.”
“Huh . . .” Shabalala crouched down to examine the damage. “One cut with a small knife. The tire must be changed.”
Another delay, Emmanuel thought. It was no wonder he hated the country. Dirt, flies, cow dung and now a thieving schoolboy with a malicious streak and a knife.
“I’ll check the spare.” He opened the boot, praying the police motor pool was up to standard. It was—this time, at least. He removed the tool bag and lifted the spare from the well. Shabalala unpacked the jack and wrench and set to work. Despite not having the authority to drive a car, at some stage the black detective had learned to change a flat.
11
TOWN WAS QUIET. A wrinkled white woman and her bulldozer of a black maid trundled past two farm trucks parked outside Dawson’s General Store. A spindly yellow dog trotted at the side of the road with its nose to the ground.
“Three main stores,” Emmanuel said. He’d filled Shabalala in on Amahle and her payday purchases. “The café is Europeans-only, so she didn’t go there. That leaves the farm supply depot, the general store and the spaza shops hidden in the backstreets. A couple of hours’ work at best.”
“I will ask at the spaza shops,” Shabalala said. These hidden businesses operating out of back rooms and side windows were the lifeblood of the black community. Spaza shops traded without a license and remained out of sight of the authorities. “Maybe the chief’s daughter bought a Fanta or some other small thing.”
“Very possible.” Emmanuel turned left and into the doctor’s driveway.
“Sergeant . . .” Shabalala’s fingers gripped the dashboard. “Look out.”
Zweigman and Daglish appeared out of nowhere, running full-pelt toward the car like two escapees from a demented physicians’ home. Emmanuel slammed on the brakes and the tires kicked gravel into the air. The Chevrolet stopped inches from Zweigman’s outstretched hands.
“Quickly.” The German doctor was sweating heavily, a raised lump swelling at the center of his forehead. “He’s still inside.”
“Who?” Emmanuel cleared the driver’s seat in seconds. Shabalala was one step ahead of him, surveying the garden and the side path for signs of danger.
“We tried to call the police station from inside the house.” Margaret Daglish’s cheeks were red, her words tumbling out. “There was no answer, so we ran.”
“Tell me what happened,” Emmanuel said.
“Shhh . . .” Shabalala raised a finger for quiet. He said, “Footsteps splashing in water.”
“The creek,” Margaret Daglish guessed. “Thank God for that. He’s running back to the valley.”
“Hamba!” Emmanuel said to Shabalala. “Let’s move.”
They hit the side path and broke out of the rear of the property in less than thirty seconds. Another thirty seconds brought them to the shallow stream crowded with stones. Across the water and too far in the distance to make a clean identification, a black speck sliced across the veldt at incredible speed.
“Wait.” Emmanuel placed a hand on Shabalala’s arm before the Zulu detective could jump the stream. “Reckon you can catch up?”
“Yes,” Shabalala said, then added, “Eventually.”
“Let him go.” That was the only option. It would take precious time to close the gap, with no guarantee of capture or an interview at the end. The speck melded into a rock outcrop and disappeared into the landscape. “Let’s find out what happened to Daglish and Zweigman.”
“A moment, please.” Shabalala crouched down at the edge of the stream and examined the faint indentations in the sandbank. Next he doubled back on the path leading to the cellar, stopping every few feet to examine the crushed grass and disturbed soil. Emmanuel held his breath. Shabalala only stopped when he thought he had something valuable.
“It is he,” Shabalala said. “The same man who stayed with Amahle on the mountain.”
“Dr. Daglish knows who made these prints,” Emmanuel said. “We may have a suspect.”
The path back to the doctor’s house sloped upward but the climb was easy. Answers waited at the top of the rise: a name for the man at the crime scene and a clear direction for the investigation.
A loud thump drew them more quickly along the path. Dr. Daglish stood outside the cellar entrance, while Zweigman slammed a stooped shoulder against the door, trying to force entry.
“We shouldn’t have left her.” Daglish was distraught. “It was cowardly.”
“We had no choice in the matter,” Zweigman said, and pounded both fists against the locked door in frustration.
“Let us take a look.” Emmanuel stepped closer and examined the door: a solid slab of wood strong enough to keep a maiden safe from dragons. Ironic, given the present circumstances.
“Think we can kick it in?” he asked Shabalala.
“No,” came the short answer. “Even together, we are not strong enough.” The lock was solid brass weathered by the elements. Green threads of moss spread across the pitted metal surface.
“Get the crowbar from the boot of the car, Constable.”
Shabalala held out his hand for the keys. A perfectly normal interaction, but one that Emmanuel found intensely embarrassing. The keys to the car, the office filing cabinet and station gun locker would never be in Shabalala’s pocket . . . Not in this lifetime.
“There’s a crowbar in my toolshed,” Daglish said, eager to help. “Just here.” She rushed across the grass to a rectangular outbuilding and pushed open the rusting door. The sound of soft curses and clanking bottles was followed by a triumphant “Aha!” She emerged with the crowbar and gave it to Shabalala, clearly the strongest of the three men. He hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. Protocol demanded that European officers go first in all things.
“Be my guest,” Emmanuel said, and moved aside to give Shabalala access to the lock. Trying to match the Zulu’s power-to-weight ratio was a waste of time.
“What do you think he did in there?” Daglish whispered to Zweigman. “Something bad?”
“The bad thing has already happened. The girl is dead,” the German doctor replied with cold logic. “No more harm can come to her.”
Wisdom gained from war, Emmanuel knew.
“Haaa . . .” Shabalala breathed out and pulled hard on the crowbar. The lock snapped, sending metal and wood fragments into the air. The door creaked open to darkness. A chill emanated from the interior.
“With me, Constable.” Emmanuel ducked under the low eaves and stepped inside. He flicked the light switch. Loose bandages and surgical instruments littered the floor, evidence of a paroxysm of rage or grief. He noticed the disarray in passing. Shabalala fell into step and they moved deeper into the room.
The white sheet covering Amahle was tucked under her shoulders and pulled over her bare legs and feet. Karin Paulus’s stolen gray and yellow blanket was neatly rolled up beneath her head.
“Gabriel Reed,” Emmanuel said.
Zweigman picked up scattered probes and steel scalpels and arranged them next to each other on the side table, systematically reordering his thoughts and his emotions in the process.
“It happened fast,” he said. “One moment Dr. Daglish and I were alone, finishing up the examination. The next, he was inside shouting and throwing instruments to the floor.”
“I didn’t think to lock the door,” Daglish said quietly.
“Understandable. There was no danger.” Zweigman bent to retrieve a wad of cotton wool and tottered sideways. The lump on his forehead was egg-shaped and getting larger.
“Sit down before you fall down.” Emmanuel caught Zweigman by the elbow, ready to lead him to a chair.
“No. Thank you.” The German doctor patted Emmanuel’s hand. Emmanuel let him go. Zweigman continued sifting through the medical debris. “I’m looking for something very specific.”
“Of course . . .” Daglish crouched next to Zweigman and joined the search. “I almost forgot.”
Each piece of equipment was held up to the electric light and examined, every inch of floor raked over in detail. Emmanuel and Shabalala moved back and gave the doctors room.
“Aha . . . there you are.” Zweigman fell to his knees and leaned close to the floor. “Tweezers and a bowl, please, Doctor.”
Daglish handed over the items. It took a moment for Emmanuel to make out the tiny object held in the tweezers’ grip, a finely sharpened fragment of white and brown organic material. He had no idea what it was.
“A porcupine quill,” Shabalala said, and Daglish smiled.
“That was my guess,” she said. “I’ve found them in the garden and on walks across the river.”
“Where did this one come from?” Emmanuel asked. The Zulu women guarding Amahle’s body had translucent quills decorating their head coverings, a privilege reserved for married women. Chief Matebula’s pouting little wife also had them woven through her hair.
“It was buried deep in the puncture wound on the girl’s back. We probed the wound this morning and found nothing. After lunch we decided to try again—for luck,” Zweigman said. “The mad schoolboy broke in right after we found it.”
“We were laughing,” Daglish confessed. “Not because the situation was funny. It’s just that we didn’t expect to find anything, and there it was—a sharpened quill. It was a surprise.”
“The situation must have appeared ghoulish to a child.” Zweigman dropped the quill into the metal dish. “Two grownups laughing in the presence of a dead body.”
“Yes, it might have looked that way to Gabriel. He was furious. Told us to get out of the cellar.”
“I declined the offer,” Zweigman said with characteristic dryness. “He bounced my head against the wall and said he’d cut us both with a knife, the way we had cut the girl. So we ran.”
“Then I called the station and nobody answered,” Daglish said. “I didn’t want to abandon the cellar and leave the boy with the body but I was afraid. And he’d already hit Dr. Zweigman.”
“You did the right thing,” Emmanuel assured her, and noted again the white sheet tucked under Amahle’s shoulders and the blanket rolled snugly under her head. After vandalizing the room and violently assaulting Zweigman, the boy still took time to care for Amahle. He was a contradiction, aggressive one minute, gentle the next.
Emmanuel had witnessed that paradox a few times at crime scenes, a tender act following a sudden, horrific act of violence. Making the body comfortable with a pillow or a blanket, closing its eyes, pulling down the hem of a dress or arranging the limbs just so allowed the murderer to express love or remorse one last time.
“Is that what killed Amahle?” Emmanuel pointed to the quill fragment lying in the bowl. About two inches in length with a sharp tip, it didn’t look capable of harming anyone.
“Not on its own,” Zweigman said. “Left in the flesh it might eventually have led to an infection. Or it could just as easily have worked its way to the surface of the skin and been expelled without any real harm being done.”
“Constable?” Emmanuel prompted Shabalala for ideas based on intuition and bush skills rather than medical facts.
“The quill did not get so deep by accident,” the Zulu detective said. “It was stabbed into the flesh, like a needle.”
“Interesting.” Zweigman peered at the hollow body of the quill, open at the far end. “Any needle made from a strong enough material can be used to inject medicine into the bloodstream. Or toxins.”
“She was poisoned?” Emmanuel said. An internal attack on Amahle’s vital organs would explain the lack of broken bones and serious bruises on her body.
“That’s an educated guess, Sergeant Cooper,” Zweigman said. “A test on the quill tip would confirm the use of poison, but only a full autopsy can provide a definite cause of death.”
That was not good news for the investigation or for Amahle’s family crying out for her return home. Results from the autopsy and the toxicology test could take weeks, depending on the backlog of cases.
“Any other educated guesses on the cause of death?” Emmanuel could not hide his frustration at the inconclusive result of the examination. Gabriel Reed would be easier to crack in an interview if they had leverage—such as a definitive idea of how Amahle was killed, for a start.
Zweigman placed the specimen dish onto the side table and retrieved a sheaf of papers. He thumbed his glasses higher on his nose and peered at his own chicken-scratch writing. “The victim is a native female aged between sixteen and nineteen. She was in good health at the time of her death, with no evidence of physical abuse. She was well nourished and well groomed. The only visible injuries to the victim were a small bruise on her inner left thigh and a puncture wound on the lumbar vertebrae. A red swelling runs from the wound to the base of the neck. Cause unknown. Estimated time of death between six p.m. Friday night and eight p.m. Saturday.” Zweigman stopped reading and set the papers aside. “Much as it grieves you, Detective, neither Dr. Daglish nor I can give you what we do not have. Speculation is not science.”
“If you did have to speculate.” Emmanuel used a gentler tone: it must sting for a man of Zweigman’s stature to admit he’d come up empty. “What would the most likely cause of death be?”
“I’ve never seen symptoms like these before. Not in Germany and not in South Africa.” Zweigman returned to the steel dish, fascinated by the destructive power of such a small object. “If the tip was poisoned and then stabbed into the body, the wound and the swelling along the length of the spine make sense.”
The hollow in the quill could hold only half a teaspoon of liquid. “Powerful stuff,” Emmanuel said.
“Indeed. No known compound springs to mind,” Zweigman said.
“Maybe not to a European mind.” Dr. Daglish leaned closer and spoke in a whisper. “The Zulus have witch doctors who use the plants and the animals in the valley for medicine and for magic. The potions are secret.”
Emmanuel did not believe in the mystical powers of these traditional healers, who threw animal bones to diagnose and treat ailments. He caught Shabalala’s eye. The Zulu policeman was clearly trying to ignore the whispered conversation.
“What do you think? Could a witch doctor mix up a poison strong enough to kill?”
“I cannot say. All sangoma are different.” Shabalala spoke the word with a mixture of fear and respect. Sangoma meant not just a healer but also an individual with the ability to cross from the ordinary world into the supernatural one. Witch doctor was a missionary term adopted by Europeans and educated Africans. Shabalala’s use of the proper title reminded Emmanuel of a major difference between them. His partner allowed himself to believe in the possibility of magic and spirits, although he’d never admit to it in front of two medical professionals.
Zweigman traced his fingers around the swelling on his forehead. “What treatment do you recommend for my injury, Dr. Daglish? The pain is getting worse.”
“A cold compress, two aspirin and a cup of tea. In that order,” Daglish said.
“An excellent prescription.” Zweigman proceeded to the broken cellar door. “I’m sure Detectives Cooper and Shabalala will be ready fo
r a break in a few minutes.”
“Of course.” Daglish paused at the door on her way out. “A drink for you both?”
“Tea,” Emmanuel said, and wondered if the old Jew really needed aspirin or if he was just giving Shabalala the room to talk freely. Zweigman’s ability to read a situation was uncanny—another product of wartime, when the slightest pause in a sentence could mean the difference between going home for dinner or ending up in a cattle car headed east.
“Tea also, thank you,” Shabalala said, and the two doctors filed out of the cellar. Footsteps sounded on the stairs leading to the back door of the house.
“It’s not a muti killing.” That much Emmanuel knew from years of living side by side with Zulus, Tswanas and poor whites in the chaos of Sophiatown. Muti was the Zulu word for “medicine,” but when used by cops it referred almost exclusively to the dark spectrum of traditional medicine, which relied on harvested body parts to increase the strength of spells and to effect cures: a severed hand incorporated into the doorway of a shop to attract customers, a fetus cut from a pregnant woman and buried in a field to increase crop yield, the intestines of a young child eaten to give strength and success. The grim trade continued in the cities and the countryside, nourished by an ancient, unshakable belief in the power of witchcraft.
“Not muti,” Shabalala agreed. “The blood and the organs of a young girl are very powerful. Amahle is intact.”
“A sangoma could be involved in the making of the poison, right?” Emmanuel asked.
“Yes. Every sangoma must learn how to heal and how to cause harm. What they do with this knowledge after they finish is for them to decide.”
“So any traditional healer would know where to look for naturally occurring poisons, not just the healers who use black magic.”