by Malla Nunn
‘Daglish?’
‘Gone, but not with the impi,’ Shabalala explained. ‘She did not leave the house till after the men took the body and crossed the stream.’
‘Thank Christ for that,’ Emmanuel said.
The National Party loved an interracial crime with sexual overtones. They would turn it into headline news to ensure that liberal whites and redneck farmers alike got the message: your women and children are in danger from savage forces. Only We Can Save You.
‘And Zweigman?’
‘Gone with the town doctor.’ Two shoe tracks led down the gravel drive. ‘Both running to Greyling Street.’
‘Let’s find them, make sure they’re safe.’
‘This way, Sergeant.’ Shabalala walked to the road and swung right past the closed café and then Dawson’s General Store, already open for trade, a cream-coloured cat sleeping on the threshold. Three white farmers in khaki pants and worn cotton shirts stood outside the farm depot smoking their first cigarettes of the day. They marked the strangers moving through their town, stone glances passing judgement on the black and white men who appeared too close, too intimate for a baas and his servant. Emmanuel walked on. Righteous farmers held power over the boy he once was, not the man he’d become. Let them think what they wanted.
The police van was out in front of the station, tyres splattered with mud, dead insects smeared across the windscreen and on the grille. Smoke drifted from a side window of the station and a pyramid of spent butts lay beneath the sill. Voices came from inside.
‘The girl was taken by force and it is your job to retrieve her, Constable.’ That was Zweigman in full steam, his German accent shredding the English language to a pulp. He was angry.
‘I know my job.’ That was Bagley, not taking any shit from a foreign stranger. ‘You’ve reported a criminal activity and I will take the appropriate action at the appropriate time.’
‘After your cigarette?’ Zweigman snorted. ‘Or after your afternoon nap time, perhaps?’ The doctor would argue the point no matter how many enemies he made.
‘Out!’ Footsteps slapped the floor, a prelude to action. ‘Get out of my station or I will arrest you for disturbing the peace.’
Emmanuel stepped through the front door and walked behind the long counter. Margaret Daglish, still in nightdress, gown and slippers, sat in one of the interview chairs, trying to make herself as small as possible. Zweigman and the station commander stood face to face, neither backing down.
‘Sergeant Cooper.’ Zweigman was grey with fatigue. He looked as if he’d slept in his clothes. ‘You saw what happened?’
‘Yeah. How long ago?’
‘One hour.’ The German looked at Bagley, who’d returned to the windowsill to finish his Dunhill. ‘We waited until the men crossed the river and then came here to report the crime. No action so far.’
‘Unlike you to stay indoors and not try to stop them from taking the body,’ Emmanuel said. He was aware of Shabalala hovering in the doorway.
‘Dr Zweigman tried to leave the house but I stopped him.’ Daglish loosened her hold on the chair arms. ‘The leader said he’d spear anyone who came into the garden. I believed him.’
‘Good call.’ Surrender was the only option for two unarmed physicians pinned down by a Zulu impi. Constable Bagley’s foot-dragging was another matter. ‘Why are you still here, Constable?’ Emmanuel asked. ‘Your native police probably have a good idea where Mandla is headed.’
‘Got a message for you.’ Bagley scratched the bristles on his throat. He was haggard, with black smudges under his eyes and nicotine stains on his fingertips. Probably up at dawn, marooned on the back steps again, smoking to forget whatever plagued him.
Fuck, the sergeant major growled. The bastard has something, Cooper.
Emmanuel waited out the station commander in silence.
‘Colonel van Niekerk said to call.’ Bagley flicked ash out of the window. ‘It’s urgent.’
Don’t answer him, Cooper, the sergeant major said. Don’t even look at him. Just make the call, soldier.
Emmanuel followed orders and rang through to Durban on a static-free line. The sweet scent of bruised sagebrush crept in through the open window, dampening the smell of burned tobacco and of leaf litter clinging to his shirt. He turned to face the broken filing cabinet, blocking out Zweigman’s anxious expression and the blank imprint of Shabalala’s face.
‘Colonel,’ Emmanuel said when the phone picked up at the other end. A photo portrait of Queen Elizabeth on the far wall smiled down at him, beatific in pearls and a diamond tiara.
‘Do you know what it’s like being pissed on from a great height by an English general, Cooper?’ van Niekerk asked with chilling calm.
‘No, sir. I do not.’
‘It’s scalding hot and smells of defeat.’
‘Sorry to hear that, sir.’ Emmanuel retrieved his notebook and pen from his pocket, determined to appear calm. ‘What happened?’
‘A call from General Hyland at seven last night, half an hour before my wedding rehearsal dinner. Have you met Hyland?’
‘Never, sir.’
‘He’s an old boy from Kings Row College. Life member of the Durban Club. Still calls England home. You get the picture, Cooper?’
‘I do, sir,’ Emmanuel said, even though the question was rhetorical. The windowsill creaked under a weight: Bagley settling back to watch the show.
‘This fucking Englishman called me to say he’d received a complaint about my boy. That’s the phrase he used, Cooper. “My boy.” Like I was a dumb Boer with an even dumber kaffir working for him.’ The colonel paused. ‘Because the complaint was made by Thomas Reed, an old boy of Kings Row College and a personal friend of the general’s son, he was obliged to take swift action.’
‘Meaning?’ Emmanuel knew the answer to that question, knew it down to the bone.
‘You’re off the case, Cooper. Effective immediately. General Hyland’s replacements will get there in a few hours.’
‘Is that final?’ Emmanuel bent forward, easing the tension from his body, stretching the knots from his neck and shoulders. Ripping the broken drawers clean from the filing cabinet and sending them in Bagley’s direction could wait till he was absolutely sure that working the case was out of reach.
‘Yes, it is. The general is not open to negotiation or persuasion. Both the mortuary vans you ordered have already been cancelled.’
That was it. One phone call and he and Shabalala were back on sanitation duty for the Durban detective branch. Only now they had to shoulder the added burden of van Niekerk’s humiliation.
‘Who’s being sent out to replace us?’ he asked.
‘Detective Sergeant Benjamin Ellicott and Detective Constable John Hargrave.’
‘Bad cop. Worse cop,’ Emmanuel said. ‘They’ll turn over a rock, find nothing, then drink the local pub dry and leave the next day.’
‘Not our problem, Cooper. Not any more.’ There was a tight pause before the colonel added, ‘Bullying helpless women and destroying police property. Doesn’t sound like you.’
‘There’s no truth in it, Colonel.’ Not in the fine details. He’d spoken to a fragile white woman in the presence of her daughter and, yes, he’d broken into the police files, but for good reason.
‘Pack up and come home, Emmanuel. There’ll be other opportunities to break out of police purgatory.’
The colonel’s use of his first name opened an escape hatch from the situation. He sat up straight, fingers tight on the receiver. ‘Did the general mention Detective Constable Shabalala, sir?’
‘No. Just you. My boy.’ That term, reserved almost exclusively for natives, still rankled. Bowing to an English general reminded van Niekerk that despite his education and blue blood, he’d always be the equivalent of a black in the eyes of some British settlers.
‘I’ve been ordered off the case but not Shabalala.’ Emmanuel needed official clarification.
‘That’s technically correct.
Why?’
A deep silence permeated the interior of the police station. Everyone, including Bagley, was listening in, trying to determine the direction of the conversation.
‘Native detectives aren’t allowed to drive police vehicles, Colonel. If Shabalala is technically still on the case he’ll need someone to drive the Chevrolet. Police policy.’ Emmanuel heard the uncomfortable shuffling of feet on the concrete floor and the sharp intake of Zweigman’s breath. He knew he was stepping into uncharted territory and didn’t much care about the consequences.
‘You as driver,’ van Niekerk said. ‘I don’t buy it, Cooper. No-one else will either, least of all General Hyland. You can’t make it work.’
‘I’ll plead ignorance and wear the consequences of my actions, sir.’
‘Jesus Christ, you’re a hungry beast, Cooper,’ the colonel said. ‘First you fuck my girlfriend and then you fuck the case and now you expect me to look the other way while you disobey a direct order from a general. Have I got that right?’
Adrenaline shot through Emmanuel’s chest. Van Niekerk knew about Lana . . . of course he knew.
Hold steady, soldier. The sergeant major gave the order. There’s only one thing to do when a superior officer has you by the short and curlies. Bend over and smile.
‘Yes, Colonel,’ Emmanuel said. ‘That’s correct. With your permission, sir.’
Van Niekerk’s laugh was soft on the line. ‘Now that’s my boy, always running ahead of the pack.’
‘Is that a yes, sir?’
The colonel was silent a long while. ‘You can stay on as official driver for Detective Constable Shabalala, but undercover operation rules apply.’
‘I understand.’ The rules were simple. A positive result in the murder case belonged to the colonel. A bad result belonged to him. If he were caught disobeying an order from a general, van Niekerk would deny all knowledge of his activities; would call him a rogue policeman and a disgrace to the uniform. ‘You ordered me to leave. I disobeyed the order.’
‘You have till Friday night, Cooper. I expect to see you, the old Jew and Shabalala at the church on Saturday morning. Clear?’
‘We’ll be there, Colonel.’ Emmanuel held on to the heavy plastic receiver long after the line went dead. He kept his back to the room. He needed two minutes to think.
First order of battle. The sergeant major took control. Be nice as a Quaker’s wife to Bagley. Extricate Daglish from the room and send her home. Don’t say a word to Zweigman or Shabalala till you’re well outside the constable’s hearing. You’re good to go, soldier.
Emmanuel replaced the receiver and stood up. He turned to the station commander and smiled. ‘We’ll leave you to it,’ he said. ‘Good luck with the rest of the investigation and pass my greetings on to Ellicott and Hargrave. Fine chaps, the both of them.’
Bagley flicked his cigarette butt into the yard and frowned. ‘You’re off the case. General’s orders.’
‘That’s right.’ Emmanuel kept smiling. ‘But I’ve decided to stay in town for a couple more days. See the sights. Take in the mountain air.’
‘What sights?’ Bagley’s face turned red.
An activity from the ‘things to do while in Roselet’ list read out by the hotel receptionist came to Emmanuel’s mind. ‘The bushman paintings at the game shelter pass in Kamberg Reserve,’ he said. ‘They’re supposed to be the Rosetta Stone of rock art. Worth a detour.’
‘You’re disobeying a direct order, Cooper.’ Bagley straightened up from the windowsill and tried to assert control.
Christ above, Bagley was a fool. Years of ruling this backwater station had given him a false sense of his own power. ‘Did you go to Kings Row College, Constable?’ Emmanuel asked. The station commander was the servant of an elite social institution, not one of its members.
‘No.’ The question threw Bagley. He couldn’t figure out how where he went to school was relevant to lodging an official complaint.
‘In that case you should contact Thomas Reed with the complaint and he’ll phone General Hyland on your behalf. I doubt the general would take your call.’ Emmanuel made for the door and waited for Zweigman and Daglish to follow. ‘That’s how the chain of command works in Roselet, right?’
Shabalala opened the station door for the two doctors and kept it open for Emmanuel. They moved into the yard without speaking. Shabangu, the native policeman, was cleaning up the spent cigarette butts with a metal rake and depositing them in a bucket. From his expression, he might have heard the entire conversation with Bagley or nothing at all.
‘What next, Sergeant Cooper?’ Zweigman asked. ‘I assume, perhaps naively, that you have a plan.’
‘Home and rest for you, Dr Daglish. We’ll walk you back.’ Emmanuel stuck to the sergeant major’s basic instructions. ‘I’ll think up a strategy on the way.’
Zweigman lifted an eyebrow but kept quiet. They walked along Greyling Street, cutting across the threshold of Dawson’s General Store. The sight of the town doctor flanked by three strange men stopped pedestrian traffic. That she was still in a nightie and dressing-gown added a titillating element to the story. Black and white, Indian and coloured, by late afternoon theories on the doctor’s bizarre outing would unite the racial groups in gossip. After supper and with the children safely in bed, the adults would whisper, ‘And true as I stand here, one of the men was a Zulu big as a sycamore tree, the second was a small foreigner with gold glasses, and the third man looked white but walked down the street like a township gangster.’ Three men, one woman; they imagined the permutations.
Daglish greeted each stare with a cheery, ‘Hello. Lovely day.’ She was worn thin by the time they reached the cottage and fled indoors with a quick wave goodbye.
Emmanuel led Shabalala and Zweigman to the back of the house and found a shade tree to stand under. They were out of sight of the police station and the people on the street. ‘I’ve been ordered off the Amahle Matebula murder investigation,’ he said.
‘And yet here we stand,’ Zweigman said. ‘Making plans to find her, I imagine.’
‘I’ve been removed,’ Emmanuel stated. ‘But not Shabalala. He stays on active duty.’
‘That cannot be right, Sergeant.’ The Zulu man was visibly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking. ‘A native constable cannot lead an investigation. It is against the rules.’
‘Ellicott and Hargrave will lead the investigation. You’ll work parallel to them, taking statements and interviewing suspects. I’ll drive.’ Now that it was said aloud, he realised the idea was ridiculous. Colonel van Niekerk was right. He was a hungry beast, never satisfied.
‘What are you really saying, Sergeant?’ Shabalala studied the drift of low clouds crowning the hills and avoided eye contact with his superior. This was a tricky situation, asking for the plain truth from a white man.
‘Technically we’re both off the case. But the general who gave the order didn’t mention you specifically. That’s the loophole. We stay and continue the investigation with van Niekerk’s unofficial approval.’
‘If we fail and are caught?’ Shabalala asked. The clouds were moving fast, throwing shadows over the fields and wildflowers.
‘The colonel will wash his hands of me and look the other way.’ The next part was difficult to say. ‘You’re a native policeman. That will keep you safe. If you’re questioned by a disciplinary board, pretend ignorance and tell them you had no idea of General Hyland’s order.’
‘Play the stupid native, you mean.’ Zweigman was offended on Shabalala’s behalf. ‘Confirm everything that the National Party government preaches about lower intelligence and lack of initiative being bred into black people.’
Emmanuel said, ‘That’s right.’
A tense silence followed. Zweigman fumed while Shabalala dug the tip of his sandshoe into the dirt. Minutes ticked by. Emmanuel said nothing. The sun broke through the clouds and he stepped out of the shade to warm his face. He needed Shabalala and Zweigman. Withou
t them, the clandestine investigation was guaranteed to fail.
Shabalala pushed his toe deeper into the soil and said, ‘If we are caught, I must keep myself small and quiet and say only, “I don’t know, ma baas”?’
‘Yes. Can you do it?’
‘Easily.’ Shabalala stepped out of the shade and into the sun. The chill from the night spent on the mountainside was still in his bones. ‘The new detectives will not be happy to see us.’ That was the polite way of asking how they were going to avoid a physical confrontation with Ellicott and Hargrave when they arrived.
‘Two black murders out in the sticks. They won’t rush.’ Emmanuel checked his watch. Seven thirty-five a.m. ‘Earliest they’ll get here is this afternoon. Hargrave looks like a beer barrel and Ellicott has the brains of a sardine. If we stay more than five miles from the pub, we won’t see them at all.’
‘These men will not find out who killed Amahle and Philani,’ Shabalala said with bleak acceptance. It was impressive, the many ways that white men found to win a battle. They fought with telephones and people they knew, not with spears and shields.
‘Ellicott and Hargrave won’t find a thing.’ Emmanuel snapped a branch of sagebrush and rubbed it between his palms. ‘That’s the point.’
‘This is to protect the schoolboy, Gabriel.’ Shabalala’s tone was one of understanding. A father must fight for his children and a chief for his clan. The English and the Zulus had that in common.
‘When Amahle is buried,’ Emmanuel said, ‘her secrets will be buried with her.’
Shabalala turned to face Greyling Street, which ran all the way to the valley and the foot of the mountains. ‘We must tell this to the chief and to Mandla,’ he said.
Zweigman stepped out of the shade. He had his hands thrust deep into his jacket pocket, his fingers curled around an object. The leather wallet, Emmanuel thought, the one with the photographs he could not see. The images must be powerful; Zweigman clutched the wallet as if it were a lucky charm.